I know I'm paying too much for a mediocre coffee, but "too much" in this country is two euros. And as I get to sit in one of the main squares and watch the hustle and bustle of the market, I don't mind paying the extra fifty-odd cents.
Only people over sixty sit at the cafe with me this morning. Newspapers, gaudy sunglasses, pearl earrings and cigarette smoke.
Always with the cigarette smoke. Can't you have another vice that doesn't smell so awful?
The elderly woman to my right puts out her cigarette, picks up her plump, fawn colored purse, pays the bill and heads out.
I'll be happy when this road trip is finally over. Not because I haven't loved this crazy adventure through Northern Italy -- because it's been four months since I've stayed in one place for more than a week. Four months since I've unpacked Ellie. Four months since I've not had to constantly ration clothes because I didn't know when I'd be in a place long enough to wash laundry.
If I wear my blue yoga pants today and tomorrow, then if it's not too cold, I can wear my white shorts the next day so that I'm not so smelly I stink my poor hosts out of their homes... then maybe when I'm in Trieste for three nights, I can wash my clothes so that I won't be horrendously smelly when Andrej comes to pick me up.
I've surfed with eight different hosts since Boy and I parted ways in Geneva on September fifteenth. Fabrizio, Massimo, Davide, Elisa, Salvo, Marco, Denis and Ariele.
I was so nervous about this trip. After Boy boarded the bus for the airport, all I wanted to do was a) jump on the bus after him like a ninja, or b) jump on a plane to Slovenia and the comfort of my community there. Spending two weeks traveling alone through Italy was the last thing I wanted, but probably the first thing I needed.
I hadn't traveled alone since I flew to Guanajuato to celebrate Day of the Dead last November. And that was only for a few easy days. One bus ride. Two hosts. Endless supply of tacos and harem pants.
Living in Grand Junction for nine months and then vagabonding with a partner for four months has left me a bit rusty. My solo adventure boots have gone and gotten all stiff and I feel like I need to break them in all over again.
But I feel like I'm always breaking something in all over again. My life is one big warm-up. I'm like a runner who spends half an hour stretching, jogging and preparing for a race. The starting pistol goes off, I sprint for a few feet, then trip and fall flat on my face.
I spend a few weeks nursing my injured body and bruised pride, then find another race and begin all over again.
I haven't felt the sensation of being "in my stride" since teaching yoga at Akumal hostel in La Punta, Mexico. Then I fell off a cliff in San Jose del Pacifico and lost my stride. I was starting to run a new race in Grand Junction, teaching yoga and practicing massage. Then I tore my ACL, had surgery, and lost it all. Boy and I were starting to discover a stride together....
Then he went home, and here I am, warming up for yet another race.
At least I can be sure that in this life, there will always be new races to join. Always new opportunities available for me to find a stride, if only for a few paces. A few breaths of feeling like I'm expressing my best self.
I'm just running frighteningly low on the kind of energy required to pick myself up and start over again. That motion takes a special kind of energy. The stubbornly optimistic energy that I often see in Boy, but rarely see in myself.
Maybe some people find this sort of thing like riding a bicycle. So what if you haven't pedaled in years? You shrug your shoulders, hop on your bike and your body dutifully remembers the motions.
My body doesn't seem to remember the motions.
After a two week warm-up of struggling through loneliness, anxiety and frustration, I feel like I'm starting to find my stride again. Slowly settling into it. Rebuilding my eroded confidence. Nurturing my atrophied ability to reminisce with and work through problems with myself instead of with Boy.
My train arrived in Padua around eleven o'clock on the 28th, but since Ariele wouldn't be available to meet me until one, I walked Ellie to a nearby park and plopped down in the grass with podcasts and Twain.
One o'clock rolled around, and I trudged back to the station to meet Ariele. Her couchsurfing profile had appealed to me because of her love of mountains and climbing. The more time I spend outside of Colorado, the more I realize how desperately I want mountains in my life forever. And then some. So when I find people on couchsurfing who enjoy mountains, I want to introduce them to my own. And I tell them that even if I'm not actually in Colorado when they happen to visit (which would more than likely be the case), I could connect them with friends and family who'd give them a proper tour (right, mom?).
We walked the twenty minutes to Ariele's apartment, stopping at a grocery store to purchase some aubergine for that night's dinner. Then we shared a lunch, some yerba mate (Ariele's boyfriend is from Argentina) and my host gave me some suggestions on what to do in Padua while she worked for the rest of the afternoon.
One doesn't need suggestions on what to do in Padua, though. One can just walk and be amazed.
Ariele and her boyfriend invited a friend from Oregon to join us for dinner, and it felt fabulous to sit and chat with someone without worrying about any kind of language barrier, cultural barrier or potential host/surfer barrier to worry about.
Sometimes I forget what it feels like to have an easy conversation. An easy conversation doesn't mean a good conversation and a hard conversation doesn't mean a bad conversation by any means. But sometimes easy is nice. Like reading Neil Gaiman after reading Dostoyevsky. And I'm the one who gets to speak my native language the whole time. I wonder what it's like for them. Sheesh.
Conversation flowed easily from topic to topic, but the one that piqued my interest especially was immigration (as Boy and I would like to find jobs working with immigrants in France next year).
"I agree that immigration is good for Italy," Ariele said to Allen, the Oregonian guest. "But most countries in Europe have a period of two or three months for immigrants to wait while it's decided whether or not they can seek asylum as refugees. In Italy, that period of time is one year. That's one year that these refugees need to receive free housing, food, and pocket money. A year that they can't work because they have no status, so they're not contributing anything to our economy. And the economy in Italy is really bad right now. There are a lot of Italians who are poor and are not receiving this kind of help from the government. So there's resentment building towards the refugees because they're receiving support that is denied to citizens."
The next day, I strolled to the morning market and purchased some yarn, grabbed a coffee, read in a park and snapped some final photographs.
I boarded my train for Trieste at 18:21, wishing I'd had more time with Ariele and Padua.
I'd say that this is my favorite city in Italy so far. And I had the least amount of time in it. But that's life. Now I'll get to bring Boy here and show him the squares, the church so beautiful that I forgot to hate it, the park surrounded by a moat and statues, the markets with fresh fruit and umbrellas and just about everything else, the cinnamon ginger gelato...
Michele, my final host, picked me up from the train station in Trieste and drove me to his home about three kilometers from the city. Michele is a doctor in Trieste and currently studying to become a psychologist.
He would also like to move to France next year. But for different reasons than me, because he's vegan and doesn't eat cheese.
After taking the elevator to the fifth floor of his apartment building, Michele introduced me to his two shy cats, showed me how to feed them properly and then we shared a vegan dinner on his balcony with the city lights glowing and twinkling below us.
"I leave at four am tomorrow morning and won't get back until Sunday evening, so this is the last I'll see you," Michele said to me before bed.
"Maybe I'll meet you in France," I smiled.
"Maybe so. Let me know if you need anything while I'm gone -- just give me a call, okay?"
"Okay. Thanks so much."
I woke at seven the next morning, to find that Michele had woken up extra early to prepare the coffee pot for me, set out three chocolate bars on the table and other bits and bobs for breakfast.
What a sweetheart.
I took the coffee to the balcony and sat with the view and my thoughts.
I'd really hoped there would be internet during my stay here. So that I could spend my time writing blogs, Skyping family and researching other opportunities in Malaysia, since the yoga gig doesn't seem to be working out. For the next two days, I'm in an apartment with two shy cats, no internet and a forty minute walk from the city center.
I have yarn. So much yarn. And podcasts.
I knit a hat that morning and listened to This American Life. Then I walked into town, found some internet, downloaded a map of Trieste and contacted my family and friends to tell them that our Skype dates were off.
I didn't like Trieste. A few broad walking streets, a very crowded dock with too much traffic, a smattering of interesting buildings.
I wish I'd stayed in Padua...
On the forty minute walk back to Michele's, I stopped by a supermercado to buy some aubergine, red wine, cheese, milk and yogurt.
I refuse to be vegan in Italy.
I didn't write at all during my two days alone in Trieste. I knit five hats, fed the cats, walked around naked, tried (unsuccessfully) to play with the cats, listened to about twenty hours of podcasts, watched two and a half films and sat quietly for two sunsets.
At least I got my introvert time.
But I'm so ready to go to Slovenia. Andrej picks me up tomorrow around ten. That's fourteen hours from now.
I wish I had more yarn. I can't believe I blew through four skeins in less than 48 hours.
The race of couchsurfing and new cities is finished for now. These whirlwind adventure boots will sit in the corner for two months before I have to break them in again.
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