Drowning in Cinque Terre -- La Spezia, Italy

 Planning a two week couchsurfing trip through Italy is nuts. It's simply bonkers. I've come remarkably close to throwing in the towel and catching a blablacar to Slovenia so many times. 

I've only been on my own for five days, and I've already had the following happen: 

a) the mix-up in Genoa wherein Fabrizio could only host me me one day instead of two (but still took care of me for the two days)

b) two hosts in Parma canceled. One because she was pregnant and not feeling up to hosting, another because, well, who knows. 

c) three hosts in Verona canceled. One canceled because after she'd agreed to host me, she decided to go on a trip to Milan for a Tibetan singing shindig. The other two guys offered to host me, but then declined immediately after I'd given them my facebook information. My educated guess is that they declined as soon as they saw I was in a relationship. 

d) my host in Padua canceled. Also, coincidentally enough, after I'd given him my facebook info. 

d) my host in Trieste asked me to come two days earlier than planned so that I can take care of his cats while he's on vacation (I'm excited for this one). 

I've managed to secure hosts (for the moment, anyway) in every city except Verona. I spend maybe an hour every day, browsing profiles, sending requests and deleting all the messages that say, "hi u look great." 

I just want things to go according to plan. For once. Please, Universe? For once, can life unfold the way I've imagined it unfolding? 

To which the Universe scoffs and says something like, 

If you wanted life to unfold according to plan, you shouldn't have become a vagabond. You should have become a mathematician. 

But I hate math. 

Not my problem. 

... 

I see what you did there. 

The train ride from Genoa to La Spezia Centrale was hot and awkward. A rather intimidating African man was sitting in my seat with his headphones in, and I didn't have the gumption to ask him to move. But I didn't want to sit in someone else's seat either, so I gingerly sat next to the intimidating fellow who was sitting in my seat. 

This way I can easily ask him to move if someone else comes along and tells me I'm in THEIR seat...

There wasn't much scenery to be had on the journey, as the train spent half its time lumbering through tunnels. About an hour into the ride, my seat snatcher removed his earbuds and turned to me. 

"You speak English?" 

"Yes." 

"Can you tell me, is this La Spezia?" 

"No, but we should arrive in La Spezia at 17:21. I don't know how many stops that is." 

"Okay, thank-you. What's your name?" 

"Aimee. And you?" 

"Paul. You traveling with family or friends?" 

"No, on my own," the words (which I immediately regretted) flew out of my mouth. 

WHY CAN'T I JUST LIE? 

"Really?" 

"Yes." 

NO!

"How old are you?" 

"I'm 27." 

Why does it matter? 

"Oh," Paul seemed surprised at my antiquity, but that didn't keep him from letting his eyes drift down to my chest and linger for a moment. 

"Where are you from?" I asked, feeling very exposed. 

"Nigeria. I am in Italy on business for a week. Then I fly back home. You?" 

"I'm from Colorado." 

"Where?" 

"The United States." 

"When do you return to Colorado?" 

"Eight months." 

"Can I have your phone number? So I have a friend in Italy." 

"I'm only in Italy for two weeks. I have a new Italian SIM, but I don't have the number memorized. You can give me your number, if you want." 

So Paul wrote down his number on the back of one of my tickets. I felt a twinge of guilt for leading him on, but not enough to do anything differently. 

I would maybe give him a call if he hadn't looked at me that way. If he hadn't asked me about my age that way. If he hadn't sat in my seat, the jerk.

My train was late, so I'd missed my connection to La Spezia Migliarino, the station where my next couchsurfing host was waiting for me.

Which isn't a problem at all, as I finally have a SIM card and can just call the guy. Traveling without a working phone is adventurous and cheaper, but I'm never doing it again. My god. 

I called Davide, and he drove to pick me up at La Spezia Centrale. Simple as that. Communicating with Davide was not as simple as that, however. His English is very poor and my Italian is poorer still, so we struggled through the basic introductions and then finished the journey in silence.

This could be a very uncomfortable three days.

"I have two Argentinians at home," Davide told me as we rolled to a stop in front of his apartment. 

Great. That makes me feel better. At least they'll be able to communicate with him better than I will.

"I take shower, then make you dinner," Davide said after I'd stashed my bag in the spare room next to what I assumed to be the Argentinian's luggage. 

"Wow, thanks so much. Can I help?" 

"No," Davide said simply and retreated to the kitchen. 

Okay then... guess I'll just sit on the living room couch so I appear more social than going off to the spare room. 

The Argentinians arrived an hour or so later, and I was relieved to hear that they spoke Italian as well as Spanish, so the silence that reigned between Davide and me was broken. I was even more relieved when two other couchsurfers, girls from New Zealand, turned up a few minutes later. 

Five girls in his place? This is crazy. I mean, I like it, but it's crazy. 

"How many for dinner?" I asked Davide when he started setting the table. 

"Ten." 

"Ten?" 

"Ten. I have four friends coming." 

I sat next to the New Zealanders, Laura and Shakka, and we chatted in English whilst everyone else around the table spoke Italian.

I'm really glad I have a place to stay in La Spezia, but I'm not sure why I'm here. 
  

We drank three bottles of wine, ate all manner of charcuterie and cheese and passed around a jar of Nutella.

The amount of personal space some Italians respect (which is zero) was a little troubling for me. Davide kept walking around and squeezing our cheeks, asking for long hugs, patting our bellies to ask whether or not we wanted more food, etc. The Argentinian girls had known him for a while (one had surfed with him the year before, so they were old friends), and they were actively engaged in conversation, so maybe all the touch felt natural and normal to them. But for me, someone entirely new to Davide, entirely new to his home and unable to participate in conversation, having my belly randomly rubbed or my cheek squeezed or my shoulders touched made me feel unsettled.

The next day, the New Zealanders and I bought a 16 euro pass for unlimited train travel between the villages of Cinque Terre. I'd hoped to hike between villages and not have to use the train, but the woman at the register very curtly informed me that the trails were closed due to impending storm.

I contemplated my options for how I could react to this kind of news.

I've been wanting to visit Cinque Terre for five years, and when I finally get here, the paths are all closed.

I decided that the most useful reaction would be, "Bummer, but now it gives me an even better excuse to come back here with Boy."

We had a precious few moments of dry, overcast weather. 

But soon enough, the clouds began to darken ominously -- and not in a way that said, "I am merely going to shower on you lightly for five minutes and then be merrily on my way." No. The clouds blackened the sky in the way that drearily communicated, "Hello, I am going to drown you now."

Shakka watching the storm roll in.

We fled into churches every so often to escape the worst of the deluge, and I found a whole new appreciation for religion.

Thank-you Jesus for keeping me dry. 
 

The New Zealanders and I were thoroughly soggy and cold. But whenever I caught myself cursing the universe for being so against me, I tried to notice the pieces of beauty that wouldn't be visible were the sun shining.

 In the end, I managed to slowly convince myself that life couldn't be better (as I was slowly freezing to death in my mustard yellow rain jacket).

The storm cleared by late afternoon, and I (along with all the other sopping wet tourists), basked in the glorious, warm sunshine.

Boy will take Girl on a date here one of these days. I've decided. He should start budgeting for it now.

The New Zealanders and I got separated on the train to the last village. Living in Istanbul for three months taught me how to line myself up with a cranky crowd of people desperate to get on a train, and to not fight my way forward, but let them push me in. So I was shoved onto the bursting train by a gay New Yorker named Caesar (who is going to buy all his gay coworkers chocolate flavored condoms as souvenirs), and Laura and Shakka had to wait patiently for the next train.

I wandered the village by myself for a couple of hours, absorbing colors and smells and sounds the way you can when you're alone.

I met Shakka and Laura at the train station near Davide's house, and we walked home together, catching up on how we'd spent our afternoons.

Davide prepared another enormous feast for the six of us that night (a French couchsurfer joined the party), complete with wine, limoncello and dessert. He hosts so many people that he can't remember names, so just refers to us by our countries.

"USA!"

"New Zealand!"

"France!"

It feels so disconcerting to have my shoulders rubbed by a guy who doesn't even know my name.

I'm finishing this post from a cafe on one of the main walking streets in La Spezia. The music is loud and obnoxious and it seems a bit commercial, but I chose it because of the clearly marked "Toilet" just inside the door and to the right.


The sacrifices I make for my bladder. Are many. 

One of the waiters claps his hands aggressively at pigeons and chases them off the patio. The man to my left smokes, and I wish he wouldn't. The man to my right smokes, and I couldn't care less because he's downwind, but I feel sorry for the woman sitting next to him.


The barista says "dimmi," when I approach the counter. I exhaust my limited Italian with phrases like, "un cappuccino per favore."

She brings the drink to my table.

"Grazie."

"Prego."

It's incredible how much better I feel when I can share even tiny bits of conversation. Just being able to be polite makes me feel more at ease. At home. 

Less than two weeks until I'm with my community in Slovenia. Something I've been dreaming about and pining for since I left Andrej, Dino, Sabina and Sandi two years ago. I only have two more weeks of moving this quickly through people's homes and people's lives. Then I'll settle with friends in Slovenia for an entire month.

A month seems like an eternity right now, but will probably fly by far too quickly. 

I leave for Parma today. I'm staying with a couple, for which I am oh so grateful. Davide tried to kiss me last night and this morning, using the Italian kiss-on-both-cheeks greeting as a way to trick me into going right down the middle.


With effort, I laughed it off.

"No, only cheeks," I told him.

"But I prefer lips."

"Only cheeks," I said firmly, with a plastic smile.

"Stay another day," he begged. "I'll take you on my motorbike to Portovenere. You must see Portovenere."

"No, I already have plans in Parma. But thank-you very much for the offer."

"Stay..." he pulled me in for a deep hug and tried to aim a kiss for my lips.

"Maybe another time," I tried to extricate myself.

Why does it have to be like this?  

After these two weeks of couchsurfing, I'm going to take a good long break. My month in Slovenia with friends, my month in Bosnia at an apartment I'm renting. I might have to couchsurf in Bulgaria for a bit, but then I'll only be at hostels in Asia. 

I love couchsurfing. But I'm becoming terrified of it and jaded by it, too.  

I want to brush over situations like these and believe that they aren't a big deal for two reasons, neither of which make much sense or I'm proud of.

1) I want people to be good. Simple as that. If what Davide did wasn't a big deal, then people can still be good.

2) I don't want to be a "drama queen". This sort of objectification and dis-empowerment happens to women in every part of the world every second of the day. And if so many others are putting up with it, who am I to complain when a man nearly twice my age with two kids and an ex-wife in Sicily pulls me in for a kiss and continues to playfully pressure me after I say no?

A man who doesn't even know my name, but just calls me, "USA". 

I want to walk away from this situation and feel fine.

But I'm not fine. 

I want to get on my bus and feel okay.

But I'm not okay. 

What am I?

I don't know. I'll deal. 

I wonder how many other women are thinking that same thing right now?  

I could tell myself the story that, pshaw, it's no biggie. He's just a lonely guy who invites girls into him home because he wants company. Sure, he tried to kiss me and continued to pressure after my no, but he was being playful, so it's not a big deal, right? He didn't force me -- only tricked me a little, so it's fine... isn't it? He wouldn't stop touching my leg at dinner, but maybe that's a cultural thing, so it would be wrong to judge it, wouldn't it?

But underneath all those "not a big deals" and "okays" and "fines" is the part of me that becomes a little more numb. A little more distant. The part of me that shuts down and "deals".

And if I continue to focus on the okays and fines and other words that minimize behavior, I will never have the courage to stand up for the part of me growing cold and distant. I will never have the courage to turn around and say, "Vieni qui," and make people see the person who is done "dealing" and not the plastic smile and quiet voice saying, "only on the cheek..."