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.