I'm writing this post from a very popular cafe in Dublin, Ireland. It's called "The Queen of Tarts", and it is popular for a very good reason. I don't believe I've ever seen such beautiful cakes before, and they even have a marvelous gluten-free selection. They serve scones, biscotti, sandwiches, tea, and caffeinated beverages in very elegant glasses. The music is good, the atmosphere is pleasant, and the waitresses are all very friendly. Like everyone else in Ireland. The weather outside is wet and dreary, and I'm looking forward to my bowl of warm, homemade soup and my slice of gluten-free bread.
My last few days in Italy were bittersweet. After I started partici ting more actively in the working life of the agritourismo, Carla, Piero, and Laura really welcomed me into their family. Laura invited me to have a capucchino with her at her favorite cafe,* Medea asked me back to help make more cheese, and I was able to interview Laura, Carla, Massimo, and Fredericko. Massimo was a local fisherman and Fredericko was a local farmer. They mostly let me interview them because they thought I was pretty -- not because they I had helped out so much at the farm. But whatever works.
The interviews were really interesting. I translated my questions into Italian via google translator. Despite google's general genius, it does not do a very good job at translating. Most of the questions were terribly muddled, and there are several minutes of mime during the interview wherein I tried to communicate with Carla just what the question meant. The interviews were also interesting because they were not private affairs. In the states and in Spain, all my interviews have been conducted in private. In Italy, everyone in the restaurant had to be present to contribute their two cents. After I interviewed Carla, she helped me translate my questions as I interviewed the rest of the lot. This was a little awkward for me, but the Italians of the Po Delta seemed comfortable enough. When Fredericko didn't know what to say for "What is your favorite guilty pleasure?" Carla piped up, saying "You know -- sex, drugs, rock and roll!" in english. It was priceless.
Saying goodbye on Wednesday was hard. Laura and I had become very good friends, and I am going to miss her big personality and excellent cooking. Everyone told me that I should study Italian and then come back next year for three months. I would love to visit them again -- I'm not sure about the whole three months thing, but I definitely made some friends in the Po Delta that I would like to keep a part of my life.
I took the train from Loreo to Venice without a hitch. Paolo met me at the train station again, and it was like meeting an old friend. I was so happy to see him. I showed off all the bad Italian I had picked up, and he told me about his recent trip to Spain. He gave up his room for me again, and it was SO nice to have a real bed to sleep in. I weighed my suitcase and discovered that due to all the marmalades and preserves Laura and Medea had given me, it was a few kgs too heavy. So I had a couple bites of each (they were delicious, as usual), and left them with Paolo to enjoy. I managed to bring one small jar of melone marmalata and one small jar of three month old, raw sardines. But I am very happy to know that Paolo will enjoy the rest.
After I had settled in, I asked Paolo if he would let me interview him. After a few moments of hesitation, he graciously agreed, and we conducted the interview right there in his living room. After the interview, we headed out for some more of Venice's best gelato - something I had been looking forward to for weeks. We walked around Mestre for a bit, and then headed back to his apartment. I talked to Alex for a few minutes, and then collapsed into my first mosquito-free sleep in four weeks.
It was a beautiful thing.
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| Last picture with Paolo |
The next morning, Paolo bought my bus ticket and made sure I got on the right bus for the airport. He told me to come back to Italy again so that he could show me southern Italy, and I eagerly promised to do so.
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| Statue of justice in Dublin |
My flight was perfect. Left on time, only one crying baby, and it was refreshing to hear so much English being spoken after my somewhat isolating month at the Agritourismo. My demise was the chocolate Carla had bought for me as a going away present. I ate far too much of it and drank no water. This, added to the stress of travelling left me with a raging headache by the time I reached the Dublin airport. But it was assuaged greatly by the cool weather and the legendary friendliness of the Irish people. Getting through customs was a breeze. I had expected a bit of difficulty due to my extended stay, but I merely presented my letter from WWOOF Ireland and my proof of insurance, and the customs officer let me through with a smile and a comment about how my life was worth much more than 25,000 dollars (in reference to my insurance).
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| Last sight of Venice |
As soon as I stepped out of the airport terminal, I was struck by the cold. After spending two months in Spain and Italy, anything under seventy degrees feels chilly. It was probably between fifty-five and sixty, so I was definitely a little uncomfortable. I lugged my suitcase to what I thought was my bus stop, and waited there in confusion until another very friendly Irish pointed me in the right direction.
That's a difference between Italians and Irish. With Italians, all you have to do is ask and they'll bend over backwards to help you. With the Irish... all you have to do is look a mite confused.
I spent about ninety minutes on the airport bus and the city bus, but I managed to reach Lochlan's (the fellow I'm couchsurfing with) house just fine. Lochlan is a very lanky, retired Irish man who has been hosting couchsurfers for the past six years. Some stay with him for up to three weeks in one of his extra rooms. He has maps available and all sorts of tips for those of us surfers lucky enough to stay with him. He gave me some time to settle in, and then we rode bicycles into town for coffee with two of his friends. On cobblestones, through the rain, on the left side of the road.
Welcome to Ireland, Aimee.
My raging headache was reignited. Bicycling in Dublin in the rain is NOT easy -- especially when you're doing your best to follow someone who doesn't signal properly. I nearly careened over my handlebars on several occasions, due to unanticipated stops and swerves on the part of my guide. But no one in Dublin seems to signal, so I guess Lochlan's careerning cycling style wasn't an isolated phenomenon. I wonder what biker mortality rate is like in Dublin.
Back at his house, Lochlan made me a hearty Irish dinner. I feasted on warm, heavy, carrot/potato soup, followed by a very filling risotto. Due to my headache, I went to bed shortly after. I talked to Alex for a few minutes, and then drifted off into a sickly sleep, tucked snugly into my sleeping bag in one of Lochlan's spare bedrooms.
I headed downstairs at nine this morning, and Lochlan was putzing around in his tattered slippers and morning robe. He made me tea and offered me a few apples for breakfast, as I couldn't eat the bread and jam typical to the Irish cuisine. We talked for a bit, and then I headed out into the city. My headache was (and is) still pretty nasty, so I decided to really take it easy. The only goals I had were to participate in one of Sandeman's free walking tours and purchase a power converter. The tour was grand, the power converter is in my bag, and I'm about ready to head back to Loch's. There's a free performance of Romeo and Juliet in the park tonight, but I'm too sick and cold to want to go. It's been raining on and off all day, and all I want is to curl up in my sleeping bag at Loch's with a cup of tea and some Oscar Wilde.
So I think I'm going to go do that. I have plenty of time to come back to Dublin and enjoy the extremely active theatre scene here.
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| The most photographed building in all of Dublin |
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| Lochlann's trinket cabinet |
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| A sign in Lochlann's bathroom |
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| Dublin castle |
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| A beautiful park in Dublin |
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| One of the many humorous pots in Lochlann's kitchen |
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| A park in Dublin |
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| The Famine Memorial |
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| The Famine Memorial |
*There was a miscommunication as to where exactly Laura's favorite cafe was. This resulted in me bicycling up and down the town of Oca Marina for about half an hour. I finally trundled to Medea's and awkwardly asked, "Laura... dove Laura piache bevere cafe?" I'm sure the Italian was atrocious, but Medea seemed to understand. She loudly pointed (yes, Italians do point loudly) me in the direction of the center of Oca Marina, and bid me adieu with a series of "Ciao, bella! Ciao, ciao, ciao, ciao bella!"
So I set off once again. I'm sure that all the fifty residents of Oca Marina had seen me make the rounds several times by that time, and I was feeling a bit red behind the ears. I stopped at what I thought was the cafe where "Laura piache bevere cafe," and headed inside. After looking around and NOT seeing Laura, I asked the very nice barista whether or not she knew Laura. She did. As did the men playing cards right outside. As did the woman pouring a shot of grappa. As did the man drinking the shot of grappa. As did the two raggazzi licking their gelato in the booth behind me. Everyone knew Laura, no one knew where she drank her coffee, and everyone insisted on helping me find out exactly "dove Laura piache bevere cafe?"
The barista looked up Laura's phone number and one of the card players called her up. Apparently, Laura likes to drink coffee at a little cafe two km outside of Oca Marina.
So with half the town of Oca Marina loudly pointing me in the right direction, I hopped on my bike and headed to meet Laura for my morning capucchino.
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