Turkish Family -- Istanbul, Turkey

I’m starting this post from the living room. Again. The place is the same, but the time is different. Umit types on his laptop on the other end of the L-shaped couch. I can’t tell for certain (I’m an observer, not an eavesdropper), but I’m guessing he’s either researching plane tickets to Canada or planning activities for his English program. Seher’s mother sits on a cushion to my left, relaxing against the wall and watching a Turkish talent show. It’s good and unusual to see her relax. A version of “twinkle, twinkle little star” plays from Öykü’s room further down the hall and to the right. I’m sure Seher is busy somewhere. Seher is always busy. She is either teaching English to her middle-school students, taking care of Öykü, preparing meals, taking care of Öykü, cleaning up after meals, taking care of Öykü, vacuuming, taking care of Öykü, doing laundry, taking care of...

Seher never rests. Ever. I don’t know how she has the energy to keep moving the way she does. I’m endlessly impressed by her stamina and my resolution to remain a single lady is affirmed by the knowledge that I am not physically capable of that kind of endurance.

Kids.

I love kids, but kids are hard.

Thursday was Thanksgiving and my first night in Istanbul. I made a silly joke about spending my morning with an Indian in Naples and my evening with a Turkish family in Istanbul. Where there would be no turkey.  It was my first day out of the Schengen Area in 86 days and my first time in an Islamic country since Morocco.

On the way home from the airport, we stopped to pick up Seher, Urkuh, Seher’s mother and Madeline (the sparkling Canadian volunteer who thoroughly embraced her “ehs” and “boats”). We all squeezed into the pint-sized car and rumbled home.

Seher is beautiful, Umit is warm, Seher’s mother (Ayse) is the sort of woman who fills a room with good smells and good feelings, Öykü has the biggest eyes, chubbiest cheeks and most riveting smile, and Madeline is bursting with positive energy and helpful advice.

This is going to be another good one. Oh, yes.

I was disappointed to discover that Internet connection within the flat is limited, but ecstatic to learn that a gorgeous café is a short stroll down the road. Yes. Please and thank-you. I’m so excited about the prospect of making a café mine again. This will be my Istanbul Main Street Bagels.

The first day in the city was spent chatting with Madeline about her travels and asking for advice on teaching English through this particular program. She gave me loads of helpful suggestions as we walked and as we sipped salep at the café.

Salep. I think I like you almost as much as Oregon Chai. You are made or orchid tuber flour, hot milk, cinnamon, vanilla and sugar. 

Salep. You are extraordinarily delicious. I could drink you all day.

The negative aspect of this new café is that the staff doesn’t close the doors. Ever. Not while customers are inside, anyway. Madeline and I shivered in our seats for as long as we could stand before speed walking back to the flat to meet Seher and her friend for dinner. Rice, lentils, potatoes, soup and chai waited for us. The other workawayer finished packing her bags for Canada and I sat down to dinner with the family.

Madeline made a final Turkish coffee for us and I stood in the kitchen with her while she brewed. To make Turkish coffee, you add one spoonful of coffee (ground a specific way), half a spoonful of sugar and one shot of water for each person. Vigorously mix three components over medium heat and then step back. Do not mix again. Watch and wait patiently until the edges of the pot start to simmer and foam and fluster. Then remove from heat and put a dollop of foam into each glass. Then fill halfway. Then fill to the brim and serve with Turkish sweets.

After we’d arranged the tray and carried it into the living room, we passed around the coffee and I impatiently brought my cup to my lips first. Turkish coffee is strong, has great texture, superb flavor, and I was excited to drink it. I took a sip, expecting velvety, rich –

“ACH!” I slammed the coffee onto the table. Everyone watched my face curiously as it contorted into a myriad of horrified, bewildered and pained expressions.

What... what...?

“SALT!” I finally managed to sputter. I swiveled towards the confused Madeline, “You used salt instead of sugar!”

“No!”

“Yes!” I frantically bit into a chocolate hazelnut candy. “SO SALTY.”

Seher started laughing. Madeline started laughing. Seher’s friend explained the situation to Ayse (who doesn't speak English), and they both joined in the laughter.

“Now I have to tell you a cultural story,” Seher’s soft voice interrupted the final giggles. “Before a man marries a woman in Turkey, they have a dinner so the man’s family can meet her. She makes her best coffee -- really good -- for the rest of the family, but she pours in salt, pepper – everything really bad – for her future husband. He has to drink the salty coffee without saying anything.”

“Madeline, did you just propose to all of us?” I asked the culpable Canadian.

She had a witty response to my adolescent question, but I don’t remember what it was.

Madeline made us proper Turkish coffee afterwards, but even though I watched her spoon the sugar into the water and grounds, I still waited until Ayse had taken a sip of hers before tasting mine. 

Turkish coffee is significantly better with sugar.

Walking through Naples -- Naples, Italy

I’m starting this post from the large living room/dining room of my new Turkish family. The cream walls are bare except for six small mirrors breaking up the bare by the door broken up by twelve smaller windows. A classic walnut table with six soft lavender chairs takes up the first part of the room and a luxurious lavender L shaped couch appropriates the second. The window behind me is hung with whimsical gauzy curtains and helps illuminate the brightly colored baby toys resting by a shaggy rug the color of the cream walls.

I’m in Istanbul.

My last few days in Napoli, Italy were quiet, contemplative, cold. Even though I haven’t done a moment of real “work” since my volunteer situation with the alpacas culminated on October 28^th, I felt shattered.

Why? Why am I so tired? I forced the wheels of my lethargic brain to creak to a sullen start. This last month, I have eaten and walked and slept and talked and imbibed many a bottle of wine. These are the activities that usually refresh and restore. The stuff idyllic vacations are made of.

But I just feel drained. The constant stimulation of meeting new people and presenting the best Aimee has sucked my energy. The constant stimulation of packing my bags and finding new places on new streets reading signs in different languages has made me crave some sort of stability. I need a rest. I also need to work. People are generous and seem to enjoy being generous with me, but I need to become independent enough to take care of myself. Being dependent limits my choices and makes me feel like a child. A child mature enough to know she should take care of herself, but who is unable to do so.

Leonardo told me that the “real life” is about making choices. Upon hearing this, I defensively and firmly insisted that I could make loads of choices within the life I lead. I choose where to stay, which inexpensive cheese to buy, which one museum I can afford during my trip to that particular city in which I’ve chosen to stay... etc, etc.

“Okay. Any life is real as long as you are making choices.”

Lives are shaped by limitations and the choices we make therein. No limitations is like creating a piece of art where you have infinite choices of color, canvas, brushes and oils. It would be like taking a photograph without a frame and a lens that captures every minute detail of life. The ability to focus is what makes our perspective unique and what ultimately makes us artists.

We are all artists. Why?

Because we’re limited. We choose blue and not yellow. We choose the ten-inch frame and not the fourteen. We choose to paint hands and not noses, these and not those (bet you thought “thoses).

We choose our limitations.

I’m beginning to understand that a different limitation might be healthier for my relationships and me. I need to stay in places for longer and I need to be more specific about the volunteer work in which I engage. 

Hence, my new limitations will be:

·      I will only volunteer at places where I can teach English, study art or practice/teach yoga consistently.

·      I will only travel if I can afford to buy myself a cup of coffee and not feel guilty about it.  If I can’t buy myself a cup of coffee, I need to reevaluate what I’m doing (this is about the idea, not the caffeine. I swear upon the Italian mocha I love so much).

·      I will only travel if I can afford to stay healthy. Fantasizing about plane tickets has caused me to sacrifice my health upon many occasions (frostbite in Ireland, raging psoriasis in France) and I would like to be gentler with myself. I can allow myself luxuries like moisturizer. If I need to spend money on quality boots to keep my feet warm, that’s okay. If I need to buy the expensive toothpaste to keep my enamel from decaying any further, that’s dandy.

·      I will direct myself in ways that will lead to being a paid traveling yogi. So that I can buy a cup of coffee for myself and for my host. 

These limitations will give me more direction and purpose. The colors and strokes I use within this frame will create a piece of art that honestly and lovingly reveals the life I long to lead.

I want to be an independent beginner. That would combine the best of both worlds.

Back to Napoli...

Walking through Naples, I encounter fewer tourists, and the few tourists I encounter I generally enjoy more than those who ogled Rome. They’re a tinge more considerate with their umbrellas and aren’t as loud. Or perhaps Neapolitans are louder than Romans and drown out the tourist chatter of, “Oh. My. God. This pizza is like, so f*cking good. And like, it’s totally authentic, you know? Look at all the Italians. Only Italians eating here. Right? Did you know this is like, where, you know – pizza was born? Wicked.” 

More Italian street art.

Raman told me that Italians imagine this island as the silhouette of a woman. I squinted and told him that it looked more like a crocodile. Raman asked where my sense of romance was. I said, "all I can see are hips. There's no head." "Yes, and that is what's romantic to Italians." "Fair play."

Italian parking

Walking through Naples, I pass endless lines of pizza places selling their freshly cooked, cheesy specialties for a euro. I pass cafés with glass displays bursting with luscious pastries and fried meats and vegetables. I love and hate that I can’t eat any of them. I hate it because they look and smell divine and I want them in my mouth. I love it because if I started eating them, I would eat nothing else and leave Naples with extra baggage that has nothing to do with the weight of my carry-on. I pass Bangladeshis selling roasted chestnuts, scarves, umbrellas and Neapolitan paraphernalia.  Limoncello beckons and spicy red peppers hang alluringly in doorways, calling to mind images of mistletoe at Christmas.

Walking through Naples, I see young people. Young people smoking cheap cigarettes and drinking expensive cappuccinos (adolescents seem to frequent the exorbitant cafés). Young people walking hand in hand down Via Toledo, girls dragging boys into one of the frequently occurring shoe shops and boys dragging girls into the more frequently occurring lingerie stores. Boys pressing girls against brick walls, wet lips against wet lips, legs entwined, all manner of subtlety thrown to the wind. Lovers curl and kiss on fountains and by the sea. A lady lover in a trim peacoat chases a gentleman lover with angry words on the walk by the hazy Mediterranean.

Walking through Naples, I feel the cold seeping through my red coat, infiltrating the threads of my grey sweater and laughing at the flimsy defense of my smartwool undershirt. “It gets cold in Naples for two weeks a year,” Antonio had told me. “That is how we know it is Christmas. You came at the bad time.” Everyone wears scarves and hats to protect themselves from the wind and the cold.  They are as decked out in their winter garb as American Christmas trees are with their gaudy ornaments. Hands are thrust into pockets and chins are tucked into collars.

Yes. That is hail.

Walking through Naples, my feet are finally warm. Timberland, I despise how prohibitively expensive you are, but damn, you make a fine boot. A fine, wide boot that perfectly accommodates my castle toes.

My favorite part about staying with Raman was listening to his stories about Indian culture. During my four-day stay, I learned enough about Indian food, religious beliefs and social structure to make me desperate to visit his home country. There’s a three-month yoga-training program in Rishikesh that I will jot into my dreams for 2016 (don’t roll your eyes, I’m allowed to dream about 2016).

I had no idea such a selectively lazy group of people existed. Raman told me story after story about the marvelous to behold carefree nature of his countrymen.

He shared his flat with another Indian researcher for 6 months. Their company paid for their room and for a maid to keep it clean. All they had to do was open the door to let the poor woman in every morning, but at her abrupt, unwelcome knock, they would look at each other, vigorously shake their heads, pull the blankets back over their eyes and fall fast asleep. Their flat wasn’t cleaned for six months. They were supposed to be at work by nine every day. Raman woke up at ten. His colleague got to work around three.

But this same colleague who continually showed up late for work made it to the temple every Tuesday at seven am. When it comes to religion and family, Indians are timely and give their everything.

“Raman, your apartment is spotless,” I looked around the glistening living room after hearing his story.

“Yes, only because you were coming. I really hated you for a few minutes,” my host threw back his head and laughed.

The clock on Raman’s wall is an hour fast. This made me nervous for the first afternoon because I thought I’d made him wait and that I’d been late. After triple checking all of my clocks (phone, kindle, laptop), I felt fairly certain it was his clock at fault.

“Did you set it fast so that you won’t be late?”

“Aimee...” Raman reproached, “You’ve been staying in my home for 3 days and still you do not know me?”

“You were too lazy to reset it after daylight savings?”

“Of course.”

Religion and family are of paramount importance to Indians, and although Raman doesn’t seem religious, he feels guilt about not being around to support his mother and father. He sends them money, but as a son, it is his “duty” to physically be there. Because of this, Raman will take three months of vacation every year to spend with his parents. This sense of duty is not commonly felt in the states and we put more emphasis on work and career than Indians would ever dream of doing. Or perhaps they might dream of doing it, but only because they sleep so much that the chances of having a nightmare about being sucked into the workaholic American way of life are greatly increased.

Indians do not drink alcohol, an unusually large percentage of the population is vegetarian and they don’t date. Arranged marriage is still a popular method of landing a spouse and not all Indians practice yoga. Relatively few can summon the energy to practice the physical variety and some are famous for spending their entire lives staring out of windows.

Bollywood films were also discussed. Raman says that they’re so vivid and unrealistic because people in India use them to escape – perhaps even more than we do in the western world. He said that I wouldn’t like going to a popular Bollywood film in India because Indian audiences... well... are a bit more enthusiastic than Western audiences. From the way he explained it, I got the impression that an ordinary day in Bollywood is comparable to a rowdy performance of Rocky Horror.

Dating was another aspect of European life to which Raman had to adjust, and dating in Southern Italy would put even the most accomplished Casanova in the US on edge.

“To get a girl in this city, you must take her from someone else.”

“What?”

“Girls do not leave boyfriends until they have a new one. So you have to go to discotheques to meet and take girls. Even if they are unhappy, the stay in relationships until they find someone else.

So like how people in the US view jobs. They won’t leave unsatisfying jobs until they have new ones lined up.

“In the US, you can meet people at bars, right?”

“Yeah, that’s a major reason people go.”

“You don’t meet people at bars here – only at the discotheque. Even then you have to know someone who knows someone. You can’t just go up to a girl. You tell your friend, “I like this girl.” Your friend says, “My ex dated her brother’s friend. Maybe we could arrange a dinner.”

No wonder this arranged marriage thing is so popular in India, I don’t voice my thoughts but I’m sure my expression communicates my egocultural distaste on its own just fine.

Teaching Raman how to make bananas foster

My flight for Istanbul departed at 13:55, but since it was a new airport and I prefer long waits at gates as opposed to frantic dashes through terminals, I lugged my bags to the Alibus stop at 10:25. I handed the bald Italian driver four euros to get to the airport, stamped my ticket, stuffed my green bag underneath me and took a seat. We rolled into Terminal 1 thirty minutes later and I serenely walked into the bustling airport.

I’ve got all the time in the world.

I quickly found Turkish Airlines check in and dropped off my backpack. I’m always nervous to part with it (most of my life lives in there), and I was especially nervous this time. Baris had lost his bag on the flight from Napoli to Nice and even though it was returned to him intact a few days later, the thought of my bag ending up in Bucharest instead of Istanbul added extra weight to my steps as I walked away.

Please make it. I know I could live without you, but I’d really rather not. Á bientot.

I grudgingly galumphed towards the congested security line. After the beautiful efficiency of German airports, this miasma made my head spin. Round and round the security line, “hurry up already!” goes the Aimee. 

After waiting in line for 20 minutes, I was able to place my hefty boots, jacket, sweater and laptop in one box, carry-on rolling along independently. My first box went through no problem. I laced up my boots, zipped my two coats and picked up my laptop.

What’s taking my green bag so long this time?

“Questo?” a beefy guard pointed to my bag.

“That’s mine,” I responded timidly. “Is something wrong?”

“It is forbidden.”

“What?”

“Open it,” the guard thrust the bag towards me.

I opened the harmless bag and saw my camera, a few cords, my external hard drive and my tripod.

Surely he can’t want me to –

“Big metal object. It is forbidden. You must check in.”

“You take it,” I removed the formidable weapon from my suitcase and handed it over.

“No check in?”

“No.”

“Sure?”

“Yes,” I bit my lip. Parting with one of my final few possessions was hard. Especially since I’d carted it around for a significant period of time and it had made my life uselessly difficult already. Was it for nothing? “Yes, take it,” I resolved.

The guard shrugged and I repacked my bag.

I’ve taken that tripod on SO many flights. Why this one? Oh well. I guess I need a smaller tripod, anyway. I’m going to interpret this as a sign that it’s time for me to get down to one bag. I can do it. I can travel long term with all my interview equipment in one bag.

Challenge accepted.

The flight was fantastic. It was only two hours long, but I was served Turkish Delight immediately after finding my spacious seat, given ear buds that I might listen to music (they played some pretty fantastic jazz), a delicious Turkish meal (best airline food I’ve ever had) with an unexpected glass of Merlot and a cup of coffee that was only halfway bad.

Turkish airlines, I’ll give you more than halfway great.

I was nervous about immigration. After what happened in Ireland, I’m consistently nervous about immigration. I think about immigration and my fingers go numb, my cheeks flush and I feel the familiar pounding of a migraine headache behind my left eye.

It’ll be okay, Bourget. Que sera, sera and all that, right?

I’d researched American requirements for Turkish visas, and the process seemed pretty straightforward.  Find someone in the terminal who will sell me a visa before I go to passport control. Should cost about 25 dollars for 90 days within every 180 days. Easy-peasy.

But my fingers were still going numb.

If they ask what I’m doing in Turkey, what will I say? Staying with friends and spending LOTS of money. If they ask how I know Umit and Seher, what will I say? They’re friends of a friend. And I’m here to spend LOTS of money.

But the visa fellow asked no questions. He simply took my 20 euros, gave me 5 back, and put a visa sticker in my card. I didn’t even have time to hold my breath before the “ordeal” was over.

Wow... that was too easy. The hard part must be coming. I approached passport control with a plastered smile and confident stride. I handed the officer my identification, “I’M STAYING WITH FRIENDS!” on the tip of my tongue and ready to produce addresses and –

“Visa?”

“What?”

“Visa?” the officer asked again, not even bothering to look through my passport.

“Yes, I just bought it,” my smile turned sincere. Is this all there is?

The officer stamped my passport and motioned me through.

That was all there was.

My eggplant bag (I’ve fondly and unimaginatively named her Aubergine) was the fifth bag to tumble onto the belt circulating Napoli luggage, so I happily hauled her off, strapped her onto my crickety-rickety back and exited the terminal.

My plane landed just before five and I met with my warm, friendly Turkish host before five thirty. I have never experienced such an easy, timely transition.

Istanbul, of all places. I am continually surprised.

Of Indians and Italians -- Naples, Italy

I'm starting this post from the rooftop of Antonio's luxurious, unique, beautifully designed home in Naples, Italy.

"How do you like my apartment?" my host asked over dinner last night.

"Your apartment is the kind of place that makes me want to settle down. So I can make one like it."

Antonio has a kitchen/dinning room on his roof and a perfect patio for yoga. The view of Naples is stunning by day and the lights from the apartments built into the hillside are romantic by night.

Cactus and various shrubbery decorate the tiled patio. A basketball hoop is drilled into the laundry room wall to my left. Reclining patio chairs with a wooden table take up the space behind me.

Honestly speaking, I had been a little nervous about my one day stay with Antonio. Due to my negative experience in Munich, I've become much more wary about couchsurfing and more skeptical about certain motivations. I decided to stay with Antonio because I liked the look of his profile picture (pictures tell a LOT) and because he sent me a personal message wherein he expressed enthusiasm for my trip. However, I was a smidgeon uneasy because he didn't have a lot of references and I didn't really know what I was getting myself into.

But I was lucky and ended up getting myself into something wonderful. A cheerful Antonio met me in front of 6 Small Rooms a couple minutes after 18:00 and led me through the historical district to his apartment.

This is going to be one of the memorable experiences. 

Antonio went far out of his way to help me feel comfortable in his home. After dropping off my bags and giving me a brief tour, we strolled through Naples in search of gluten-free pizza. I was sure it didn't exist (because I'd already looked for it online and had only found gluten-free pizza in Naples, FL), but after over an hour of popping in and out of restaurants, we finally found our dinner.

And it was divine.

Raw tomatoes, fresh buffalo mozzarella and basil. Olive oil. Italian magic.

Antonio was an energizing person to be around. The ghastly weather and incessantly cold feet had left me feeling drained and sick, but one gluten-free pizza, two pieces of fresh mozzarella, a glass of wine and an evening with Antonio completely rejuvenated my spirits.

Sunday was wet. Again.

"It is only wet like this in Naples once a year," Antonio told me when I commented on the weather.

"I picked the best time to visit, then," I flashed a wry grin.

We had hoped to be able to practice yoga on the patio, but the rain forced us to the living room downstairs. It was a brief, introductory lesson, but it felt affirming and revitalizing to be able to share yoga again.

Breakfast was yogurt, fruit, milk and a perfectly prepared coffee. We listened to Italian music and I let my gaze linger on the world map posted on the wall over Antonio's DVD collection.

So many places. 

After clearing the table, we climbed into the car and drove off to a nearby spa. Antonio pointed out a few famous landmarks and gave me advice on places in Italy to visit in the future.

The spa consisted of several sauna rooms, a very hot indoor pool, a relatively hot, man-made outdoor pool, and a mildly warm pool shaped by the Romans thousands of years ago. The pool shaped by the Romans contained very bold baby fish that busily nibbled my skin. It was a bizarre sensation. I felt like I was being attacked by hundreds of adorable piranhas and I behaved like such a kid -- scooping them up in cupped hands and letting the cute man-eaters jump through my fingers back into the lukewarm water.

Antonio walked with me to Piazza Dante, where I met my next host.

Raman.

I'd decided to stay with Raman because he had dozens of positive references and I'm really interested in Indian culture. He's a biologist who's lived in Italy for the last seven years, and spends his life studying how proteins enter and exit cells. His English is impeccable and it's refreshing to be understood even when my tongue gets lazy and I substitute ds for ts.

I asked him about some of the cultural differences between Italy and India.

"People in India are more relaxed. Things aren't such a big deal. Europe is much more competitive," Raman told me in his singsong accent.

I wondered what he would think of Germany.

"Mockery. People mock in Europe. We would never do this in India. We fight, but we do not mock."

"In Europe, it seems to be a game. People "take the piss" out of each other for fun. If all parties present know the rules, people just have a great time."

"But if people don't know the rules, it can be used as a form of domination."

"That's true. I never know how to play this game. I just watch." 

We went on a walk down to the coast and continued the cultural conversation.

"The food was hard to adjust to. When I first came here, I thought it had no flavor --"

"Yeah, because you have so many different spices in Indian food!" I rudely interrupted as I caught on, thinking about the beautifully simplicity of Italian food when compared to rich, heavily flavored Indian food.

"I am a vegetarian and asked for the vegetarian option on the menu. The server brought me a plate of four cheeses. I said, "what is this?" and had to cover the plate with salt and pepper to give the cheese taste. They were so offended."

I nodded slowly, understanding how completely Italians would be offended by this unforgivable effrontery, "I bet."

"Now I appreciate the food."

Raman told me joke after joke about Indian philosophers and we settled into an easy stride and an easier conversation. I was disappointed when we had to turn around and walk back so that he could keep his Skype date with his parents (family is supremely important in India), but thrilled at the thought that I'd get to keep picking his brain for the next few days.

As I hadn't had time earlier to cook bananas foster for Antonio, we met at 19:30 in Piazza Dante for dinner together. He prepared dorado with olive oil, white wine, tomatoes and parsley (a dish that translates into "crazy water") and served mozzarella with carrots, balsamic vinegar and olive oil.

We drank local white wine, and as Antonio is well-versed in wine and enjoys pairing it properly, the meal melded beautifully. Roasted chestnuts followed (only one exploded in the oven), and then I prepared my bananas foster.

Everyone loves it when I light the alcohol on fire.

Bananas foster finished and extra bites of ice cream guiltily consumed, Antonio poured the sweet dessert wine from (if I remember properly) the Umbria region of Italy. As I'd told my new Italian friend that Limoncello and Grappa were both on my challenge list for Italy, he followed the dessert wine with shots of both. As I'd expressed an inordinate enthusiasm for chocolate earlier in the evening, he finished the meal with a shot of chocolate liqueur. Which was even better than Nutella.

I will be coming back to Naples. I will SO be coming back to Naples.

6 Small Rooms and Pompeii-- Naples, Italy

I'm starting this post from the common room area of the Six Small Rooms hostel in Naples, Italy. The chair in which I snuggle, feet tucked under and knees squished against the worn arms, is the color of pigeon shit and the perfect amount of broken down. Like jeans washed and then worn for a day, it's stretched to accommodate whosoever dares plop himself down upon its dubious looking cushions. A dart board decorates the wall in front of me (and many small holes in the wall behind), a mural of a man tied to the mast of a boat and cazing longingly at a naked woman climbing a cliff face decorates the wall to my left. Upon first glance, I assumed it was a painting of Odysseus listening to the sirens, but the woman is definitely climbing that cliff -- something that would be challenging (at best) when equipped with only a slippery fin for feet.

A small Philips TV sits upon a DVD shelf in the corner, filled with classics such as Donnie Darko, Monty Python, Borat, Zoolander and American Pie.

My old theatre professor (and World's Greatest Films instructor) would be thrilled to pieces to see Nuovo Cinema Paradiso on the bottom shelf.

An acoustic guitar is propped against the left of my pigeon shit chair and what looks like an an acoustic guitar case leans against the right arm.

The wall behind me is cream, the wall to my right is plastered with a map of Europe and pictures from around the world, and the wall to the front lets in light through a a tall and narrow window.

I could live here. I love all of this. Great common area, perfect kitchen, real Italian mocha...this place is so much nicer 

than the last.

Our hostel in Rome was a miserable excuse for accommodation.  In four days, our two towels were never changed, our breakfast consisted of artificial juice boxes, saltine crackers, packaged baguettes and instant coffee, hot showers lasted five minutes, and management was astonishingly unhelpful and curiously absent.

I had a wonderful few days with Baris and his Greek/Parisian friend in Italy's capital city, but I am quite content to be in Naples. Rome didn't surprise me. I was awed its age and struck by its splendor, but all those gorgeous monuments, massive pillars and gilded ceilings were anticipated. I saw the Coliseum, the Pantheon, the Spanish Steps, the Trevi Fountain, the Forum and many other spectacular sites... but part of me would have preferred they stayed alive and well in my imagination and not the cold, dead ruins of life.

Baris. The way I like him.

This is the street art of Italy

My favorite things about Rome? Going on walks with Leonardo and his bouncy old dog, visiting my friend in Calcata and spending three hours entranced by a photography exhibition in the Macro gallery with Baris and the "Greek".

Natalia making her wish.

This bustling café by the Pantheon served phenomenal cappuccino. For a euro twenty.

The most expensive Italian mocha I have ever seen

When the Greek was with us, Rome experienced moments of respite from epic deluge and even hungrily soaked in a few timid rays of sunshine. As none of us were well-versed on the ins and outs of Rome's confoundedly chaotic public transport system, we ended up walking just about everywhere. We walked past the Coliseum and the Pantheon so many times that I started using them as ho-hum landmarks. Like Main Street Bagels on 6th and Main and the particularly yappy dog on 2nd and Gunnison.

We ate and ate and ate. Although finding decently priced, good food in Rome was far more exigent a task than I'd imagined possible. I mean, it's Rome, right? Mouthwatering food should be jumping out at you from behind each and every rugged 2000 year old corner, like rabbits hop from behind sage in Colorado. You should be avoiding galloping hordes of oddly flavored gelato and fresh balls of mozzarella di bufala.

Alas, I do believe we spent even more time looking for restaurants than we did eating in them. This was a very novel sort of experience for me because I usually stay with locals who know what's delicious, what's economical, and the best way to get to what's most delicious and economical. As Baris, the Greek and I were all tourists, we spent a good deal of time aimlessly wandering, backtracking and arriving at restaurants right after they'd closed. Most of this was my fault, because although Italians are sensitive and understanding to those suffering from Celiac's disease, gluten-free foods are difficult to find at the fast, cheap pizza/pasta joints.

After spending ten days in Rome, I have to admit that I don't much like the city. This may have had something to do with the abysmal weather, it may have had something to do with our woebegone hostel, or it may have had something to do with the fact that I'm terrible at being a tourist. My tour with Terril was fantastic, but that's most because Terril is fantastic and I had so much fun catching up and listening to her stories. Being in a city and feeling compelled to visit all the "must see" monuments and museums just stresses me out. I like living with families, working, cooking, eating -- not forcing my way through throngs of inconsiderate women wielding lethal umbrellas.

The Greek left on Monday evening, so Baris and I walked her to the Termini Station and saw her off on Terrabus to the airport. She had been a lighthearted, easy-going travel companion (and the only one of us who had done any research whatsoever on Rome) and I was unhappy that work in Paris called her back so soon.

Alone and with the entire evening ahead of us, Baris and I commenced the titanic task of finding me boots.

For those of you who don't know, I have very odd feet. My father used to call them clubs, my best friend's mother told me they looked like fruit (which was much more complimentary), a complete stranger said I had "castle feet", and I think they resemble shoe boxes. Thus said, they are wide, tall, small and have toes that are all the same size.

My feet are of the German variety, but with the big toe hauled into line with the rest. Italians seem to wear a shoe designed to fit the Greek foot. Hence, Italian shoes and my feet are not on friendly terms.

I'd passed a Merrell shoe store whilst struggling through umbrellas on my own before Baris arrived, but couldn't quite remember where it was. So we searched. And searched. And found a whole lot of nothing.

My feet were cold. So. Damn. Cold.

We grimly gave up the boot hunt for the night, ate dinner (after another fruitless search for gluten-free pizza) and took the metro back to our hostel.

We awoke to the sound of rain pounding on the roof and pouring into the garden.

Shit, I mournfully curled my toes under the sheets and contemplated my barefoot flats. It's going to be a tough day. My black Jambu boots had proven to be pathetically flimsy (popped seams) and hardly even water resistant (were soaked within minutes), so barefoot flats and teva flip flops were my only options. I need to get new boots before Istanbul. There's no way I can survive there without proper footwear. Well... I'm sure I could survive. I'd just be tremendously unhappy. It's incredible how the comfort of your feet affect the quality of your trip. 

We didn't leave the hostel until nearly noon (when the rain had partially relented). Before returning to our boot hunt, we stopped for breakfast at a small cafe/bar near the Spanish steps.

I drank a Bellini. For breakfast. I checked off one of my challenges and felt very Italian indeed. I was somewhat scandalous drinking alcohol before noon (something I haven't done since recovering from hangovers in Ireland), but at least I had company. Poor Baris just wanted to drink a coffee, but the waitress was confused and served him an americano cocktail (perhaps she didn't want me to drink alone). This was the exact opposite of what he wanted/needed, but he slowly sipped the strong beverage anyway.

Baris does not waste food. Or drink.

We found the Merrell store after getting caught in another downpour and taking refuge in an art gallery (which closed shortly after we'd sat down and a stern, unsympathetic woman kicked us out), but they didn't have any boots in my size.

"Do you have a 7 1/2?"

"Here is 8 1/2. The only size."

"I'll try..." I doubtfully eyed the massive shoes and slipped them onto my box feet. "They're way too big," my feet felt lost inside. About as lost as I feel in Rome.

"No, that's how they're supposed to be. To leave room for the foot while walking."

"No... I think these are too big."

"We have no other size. There are these, though," the coldhearted woman picked up a pair of hideously ugly boots and held them out to me.

"I'm not interested in those," I insisted as she shoved them towards me. Toes tingling with cold, I desperately asked the woman working whether or not there were any other Merrell shops in Rome.

"No, there are no other shops in Rome."

"Are there any in Naples?"

"No, we have no shops in Naples."

"Istanbul?"

"No, no monostores in Istanbul."

"Well."

And we left.

As Baris needed shoes as well, we popped in and out of a few other shops and eventually made our way across the Tiber and into a beautiful section of the city near Travestere. The art galleries we wanted to browse were either MIA (only in Rome) or too expensive, so we finally found our way to a gluten-free pizzaria and I got to enjoy a delectable pizza in Rome.

Celiacs reading this post? Go to "Mama eat!" for superb pizza

One of my food challenges was to compare Italian pizza to American pizza. As all I can eat are the gluten-free versions, take my comparison with many grains of salt.

American pizza generally has a much thicker crust and is more generous with its toppings. When I take a bite of American pizza and begin to chew, no ingredient really stands out. The tomato sauce (which is always there) has loads of spices and preservatives and probably comes out of a can. The cheese is usually mixed and has probably been grated months ago and stored in a plastic bag. Probably. If you make extra effort and purchase some homemade hipster pizza, the quality will be much better -- but there will still be an abundance of toppings.

Italian pizza is simple. Tomato sauce (which is not always there) is simple and probably homemade. When I take a bite of Italian pizza, I taste the specific flavors. There are so few ingredients and they are of such good quality that I'm able to pick out each one. Olive oil. Tomato. Garlic. Mozzarella. Prosciutto, Zucchini. Period.

C'est bonne ça.

We took the slow train to Naples at 10:50 the next day. I stared through the window between reading chapters of a book in the "Aimee's to read sooner (rather than later)" folder in my kindle, and enjoyed watching the Italian countryside roll by.

I'm so lucky that I have time to take the slow train. 

Baris and I slept and read and watched our way to Naples. We arrived at their Centrale station at 14:30 and immediately fell in love with the city. It was chaotic, loud, exciting, vivid. Upon stepping out of the train station, we instantly spotted an intimidating dog with a massive piece of meat in front of him.


"He is deciding vhether or not he vants us or the meat," Baris jested as we walked past. "This is exactly the picture I had for Naples."

With the help of Baris' phone and my photographed directions, we reached our hostel in the historical district of Naples and checked in.

"This is so nice," Baris and I said to each other over and over and over again. The receptionist was especially helpful, took pride in how fantastic the hostel was and really seemed to enjoy her work. She gave us a map with restaurant recommendations and instructions for getting to and from Pompeii and the airport. I also appreciated that they used HelpEx and their volunteers looked exceedingly happy.

Happy volunteers is a sign of a great establishment. If people are working for free and enjoying themselves, the place and the people must be amazing. Otherwise they'd be miserable/not there at all. So if anyone reading this has plans to visit Naples in the near future and isn't up for couchsurfing, I'd highly recommend  6 small rooms

Food in Naples is incredible -- some of the best I've ever had as a traveler.

Limoncello

Baris tries Baba. He is not impressed.

Baba!

However, finding honest prices appears to be even more of a challenge here than in Rome. Baris and I were so hungry that we ate at a place without doing research or checking prices and were thoroughly "fleeced".

This plate of cheese and meat and sundried tomatoes plus some aubergine cost 20 euros. Umm... Scusami?

The next day was Pompeii. We walked to Centrale station (stopping at a Tucano Urbana shop on the way so that Baris could purchase a winter jacket and picking up picnic goodies at a nearby Supero) and boarded the train for the ruined city at 12:45. It felt bizarre seeing the silhouette of Vesuvius as the train trundled along.

The next day was Pompeii. We walked to Centrale station (stopping at a Tucano Urbana shop on the way so that Baris could purchase a winter jacket and picking up picnic goodies at a nearby Supero) and boarded the train for the ruined city at 12:45. It felt bizarre seeing the silhouette of Vesuvius as the train trundled along.

This volcano destroyed an entire city almost 2000 years ago. Buried it completely under 15 feet of ash. Stuff like that only happens in films. But there's Vesuvius...right there. Unreal.

Pompeii is believed to have been founded in the 6th or 7th century BC by the Oscans, captured by the Romans in 80 BC and annihilated by Vesuvius in 79 AD. It is now a UNESCO World Heritage site with a sign saying the ruins "belong to everyone."

Apparently, "belonging to everyone" translates into an eleven euro entrance fee.

"I would be happy to just hike up Vesuvius," I told Baris as we gloomily gazed at the prices. "I love hiking and I've been missing it."

So we walked back and forth through the touristic little town --

Pompeii sees 2.5 million tourists every year, so the outskirts are overrun with trinkets -- in search of a trail to Vesuvius, but were stymied by iron gates at every turn.  We finally saw an open arch leading into the ruins of Pompeii and just... strolled... through.

"I don't think we're supposed to be in here..."

"No, everyone else must have paid for tickets."

"Did we just find our way into Pompeii for free?"

"I think so."

We kept walking, feeling guilty and sneaky and ninja-like.

I don't know about Baris, but I felt a little giddy. 

"Baris... we're in Pompeii!"

Pomegranate tree!

Naked Roman advertising the virtues of recycling

We walked until we felt too guilty, then ate our picnic lunch of sausage and cheese and fruit and cheap boxed wine next to a 2500 year old fountain. I blissfully chewed fatty sausage, bit into the crispy apple, swallowed a mouthful of terrible wine and soaked in a rare ray of sun.

Ah! this is a memory I will keep forever. 


We tried to make it to a recommended pizza place that night, but were intercepted by a young Italian hippie waxing on in impeccable English about the virtues of a nearby restaurant called "Tandem." As he seemed so enthusiastic about their ragu and assured me that there would be gluten-free options, we skeptically followed him to Tandem.

And were so happy that we did. The restaurant had a young, quirky, theatrical vibe. There were two TVs, one showing short clips from films wherein the characters were consuming pasta and the other showing short films about the people who work at the restaurant consuming pasta.

Tandem only serves ragu, so Tandem makes a marvelous ragu. This dish cooks in a cauldron for 24 hours and is served with various kinds of pasta, cheeses or gluten-free bread. We didn't speak much during this meal. We closed our eyes and slowly chewed and wished we could spend at least as much time eating the ragu as it had spent slowly cooking in that impressive cauldron. We ate ricotta with pistachios and honey for dessert.

If you are going to Naples, stay at 6 Small Rooms and eat at Tandem. Do it.

Friday was spent wandering, shopping and escaping thunderstorms.

We finally bought boots on Saturday at a Timberland shop that took us over an hour to find. 

Why do my feet make things so complicated?

I said goodbye to Baris at the bus station near the port at 14:40. This goodbye was even harder for me than the last goodbye.


I need to get better at this. Ach. I move too much to allow myself to become so attached and sentimental.

I spent the afternoon exploring Naples with Tessa (my friend from Nice) and her friend from New Zealand, both of whom just happened to be in the city at the same time. Tessa and I caught up and I once again felt encouraged and inspired by her past, present and future opportunities and the way she easily flows through life.

As I was scheduled to meet my next host at 18:00, I left the New Zealanders by a graffiti plastered fountain and returned to 6 Small Rooms to collect my luggage.

Next part of the adventure -- Antonio, 18:00, in front of 6 Small Rooms. Here we go.