I'm starting this post from a tiny, dark alley in Old Town Genoa, Italy. One of the many tiny alleys which comprise this dirty and glorious city. People walk by every now and again, and I curl my feet under the chair to make room. The barista leans languidly against the door frame of the cafe, waiting for more customers to grab an early afternoon coffee. Columbus' childhood house is off to my right somewhere, and Genoa does a decent job capitalizing on this genocidal maniac for the sake of tourism.
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| Columbus' childhood home. |
The perfect cappuccino sitting in front of me cost one euro. And although the drinking of this cappuccino causes zero suffering, it hurts that there's only one cappuccino here. The only other time this summer wherein there's been one cappuccino was doing our time in Iceland, where one cappuccino cost a bloody fortune. If Boy were with me, there would be two cups of coffee on the table in this narrow alley in Genoa. Probably three, actually. Because he would order his usual Americano, I'd order a cappuccino, he'd ask for a sip of my cappuccino and I'd tell him to fuck off. So he'd buy his own cappuccino.
I'm sad there's only one cappuccino.
After twelve hours on a Flixbus (one that didn't get abysmally lost, but still took twelve hours to travel 380 kilometers), I arrived in this large, chaotic, colorful city at eleven o'clock at night. My host for two nights, Fabrizio Fiore (who wins the award for best Italian name ever), left an English speaking dinner party at a friend's to meet me at the station.
Thank goodness. The last thing I'd want at this moment is to walk with Ellie for an hour through a large Italian city in the middle of the night.
"Why an English speaking party?" I asked Fabrizio.
"Because my friend is moving to Poland in a couple of weeks," Fabrizio replied. "To start a new job where he has to speak English."
"Wish I could have made it earlier in time for the dinner. Sounds like a lot of fun. But that was the only bus from Turin to Genoa."
"Yeah, we only spoke English for an hour. Then it was all Italian."
After a ten minute bus ride and a ten minute walk, we took a rickety elevator to the 8th floor (Fabrizio's parents live below him on the 6th floor. He's a proper Italian), and my considerate host offered me a drink and showed me the spectacular view from his balcony.
"I feel like a good balcony should be a basic human right. Life is so much more enjoyable with a good balcony."
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| Also, the guys in this statue have most excellent calves. |
Fabrizio had to work early the next morning, so we made plans to meet at five pm in front of his favorite coffee shop, and then we both went to bed. I plugged in my laptop to charge and waited for the familiar orange light to come on.
And waited.
And waited.
Oh god... I hope it's just the outlet.
I immediately tried all the other outlets in my room. I scurried into the kitchen and frantically stuck my adapter into all the outlets around the table and the sink.
No orange light.
I'm not... oooooohhhh.... I'm not going to stress about this tonight. Maybe, for one reason or another, Fabrizio's outlets hate my laptop. I can't do anything tonight anyway, so I might as well not get indigestion.
Fabrizio left for work around eight the next morning, and I left the flat at nine-thirty, so our paths didn't cross.
Which is okay. I'll see him tonight. And since I'm going to try to purchase my Italian SIM card today, I should be able to contact him if anything goes wrong.
I popped into a vodafone shop to purchase a SIM card, and was told that I could not purchase a SIM card without my passport. As I'd left my passport safely tucked away at Fabrizio's for the day, I walked out of the vodafone shop empty handed and mightily confused.
Why the hell would they need my passport for a SIM card? In the UK, I purchased a SIM card at a convenient store. And it took a grand total of thirty seconds. None of this unnecessary hullabaloo.
I arrived in Old Town Genoa about an hour later, after being hissed and whistled at multiple times by men on motorbikes and in cars.
Welcome back to Italy as a single lady, Bourget. I hate that just because men aren't viewing me as "taken" they feel they have the right to comment on my body.
Genoa captured me. Riveted me. Astonished me. It's a city that magically combines the best parts of Naples and of the best parts of Rome. The narrow, dirty streets with the glorious, historical monuments.
I slowly strolled into one breathtaking, awe-inspiring church after another, hating them as much as I loved them.
I bought a gelato from a chain shop I remember from my first time in Venice.
I hate buying from chains... but at the same time... I need familiarity right now. And Grom is so good. So very good.
I walked along the coast and watched the blue water rippling with the slight breeze --
-- the leaves of the palm trees undulating and the strange sails swinging about.
What a beautiful day, I thought happily, the most relaxed and centered I'd felt since Boy left for Colorado. I wish Boy could be here to share this city, but... but I'm doing okay. I mean, the gelato helped. And this place... Genoa... isn't ugly.
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| I don't even... what? |
"Aimee, we need to talk," he said in a worried tone. "Did you get my messages?"
"No, I haven't had internet all day and I wasn't able to get a SIM card for my phone. I'm sorry. I've been trying to find internet hot spots around the city and none of them have worked."
"It says on my app that you've seen the messages, though."
"I'm sorry, but I haven't seen them."
"Anyway, I have to go to my son's today. I have to leave Genoa. I found out this morning and have been trying to message you all day so we could arrange something else."
"I'm sorry, that's too bad," I said, a little shocked and not quite sure how this situation would affect me.
"No, I'm sorry for you," Fabrizio emphasized. "Do you have anywhere else you can go?"
"I don't know..." I said, thinking back to all the hosts I'd declined so that I could stay with Fabrizio.
"I'll call my friend Massimo. Maybe he can host you."
In five years of couchsurfing, this has never happened to me. Ever. I mean, I've had some horrible couchsurfing experiences, but never have I had to leave a host's home like this. Gosh, I wish Boy was here.
I ran through a list of all the emotions I could feel in this situation, and decided that not panicking would probably be best.
If Massimo can't host me, what's the worst that can happen? The worst is that I'll connect to internet in Fabrizio's flat, book a super expensive hostel or hotel, grab Ellie, and spend a bit more money than I'd like.
This is not worth getting indigestion over.
"He can host you," Fabrizzio put his phone away. "He wants you to arrive at eight though, as he is still cleaning up from the English party."
"Thanks for taking care of me," I said, heaving a slight sigh of relief.
Why am I not more relieved? Because I wasn't all that worried. This is amazing. I like not worrying. I should do that more often.
I packed up Ellie and walked the hour back to Old Town, to Massimo's apartment.
This does feel a little crazy, though. I'm going to stay with the friend of a stranger. A man whose facebook picture I've seen, who I know nothing about -- except that he's moving to Poland soon -- and who comes recommended to me by a man I've stayed with for one day.
Yes. That's what I'm doing.
And I'm not going to worry about it.
On my way, an Arabic looking fellow started walking with me.
"Ciao," he started. Then said quite a bit more in Italian that I didn't understand.
"I don't speak Italian," I said, hoping he would drop it.
"English?"
"Yes."
"What is your name?"
Why am I doing this?
"Aimee," I stared straight ahead and started walking faster. Why can't I just tell him to fuck off?
"Where you from?"
"Colorado."
"Where?"
"United States."
"Where?"
"America."
"Where?"
I shrugged my shoulders and ignored him.
I want to ask him, "What do you want?" Because he couldn't say, "I want a friend," or "I want a conversation," because we can't even understand each other. I loathe these kinds of interactions. Loathe them. Guy sees girl on street, walks up and starts a conversation even though they can't converse with a language barrier. Continues on, in the face of girl's obvious dislike.
I saw a lovely young mom pushing her baby in a stroller. Two boys, couldn't have been over eighteen years old, walked past her in the opposite direction. One reached out and grabbed her butt as they crossed paths.
"Vieni qui," the woman stopped immediately, turned around and stared firmly at the boys.
They just smirked.
"Vieni qui,' she said again, without anger, just firmness.
The boys shrugged their shoulders and walked away.
I seethed.
The woman stood still for a moment, watched the boys walk away from her, then turned back around and continued her journey.
They wouldn't even apologize. I'm glad she made them look at her, though. To look at her in the face. To hear her voice. To understand that her body is not there for them to grab.
Massimo ended up being the most excellent friend of a stranger. He made me a burger, let me play with his kitties --
-- watched a film with me and helped me accept that my laptop charger was indeed broken.
I hope I can buy a new charger tomorrow... I'm not worried about the money. Money is money, and when I need more, I'll make more. I'm worried about not being able to find a charger in Genoa and having to wait two weeks to Skype Boy or write my blog. Because I doubt they have Apple stores in places like Cinque Terre. And my phone has been acting up lately, so I can't rely on it for couchsurfing requests or blablacar rides. I don't want to be worried. I want to trust that a) it's just the charger and not the computer itself having issues, and b) I can find a new charger tomorrow. But my capacity for not worrying has been exhausted today.
After I'd said goodnight to Massimo and his kitties, I curled up in bed and cried again. I cried for no one to cry with. I cried for the unmitigated lack of control in my life. I cried for the whistles and the hissing and the boy grabbing that mother's ass. I cried because I knew that this would be part of my life until I'm with Boy again. Ignoring the whistles. Immediately asking people who approach me on the sidewalk, "What do you want?" Being nice, but not too nice with couchsurfing hosts -- because being nice and being interested is so often misconstrued with being "interested".
I understand that this is something most young women go through and that it's not the end of the world. But I'm also furious and annoyed and heartbroken that this is the world. A world wherein I am harassed zero times as long as I have a man at my side, and as soon as the man leaves, the whistling starts. Because my body is now available to comment on since it isn't "claimed" or "owned" by another man.
I left Massimo's early the next day, walking briskly through the mostly abandoned streets towards the Apple store. I passed through an open-air market with antique cameras, wooden elephants, Barolos from 1943 and silverware. I bought Boy a silver fork to go with his silver spoon from Wales. I did not buy Boy a Barolo from 1943.
Then I purchased a charger for 90 euros. And was delighted to spend the 90 euros in order to get back to writing my blog, Skyping with Boy and attempting to plan the rest of this adventure.
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