For you, Dad

Ever since I arrived in a certain foreign land a Texas-width away from my Texas home, a certain someone has been egging me on towards adventure. I took a train to Los Angeles, and dutifully reported back, thinking I had accomplished my mission. Instead I received a new assignment: take a train east; go farther. Well, I didn't take a train to get here, but I'm pretty far east. Too far? And since arriving, it is well known, I have been taking trains up, right, down, left, left, and everywhere in between. Today, I think, I have completed another, perhaps unspoken, mission. A mission I had for myself, too. I traveled alone.

Now, during the course of this last month, I have had my moments alone. But somehow, I don't think sitting in front of the Viennese opera house for two hours, drawing, and impatiently taking a meandering walk to the Niçoise beaches count as independent travel. Torino had been on my Italian to-do list for quite a while. It was one of those places everyone says you have to see, even if I never figured out why, exactly. Originally, it was an intended stopping point on the way back into Italy from France but, as you will read about on some future post, that plan changed. But I still wanted to see Torino. So today, I went. Despite the fact that I would be spending twice as much time in transit as in Torino, I went. Classic U2 (Yes, it is that old now. Egad, how old are we?) kept me company on the road.

In Torino the sun decided to perplex me, and I didn't want to march around map in hand, so I picked a direction and I went. All the sights should have been a straight shot from the station, but that would have required being on the correct street. Call me Miss Stubborn or call me Miss Independent, but I would not ask for directions all day, no matter how much easier it would have made things. Torino seemed like a ghost town, but that's what Sunday does to Italian cities. Everything was closed. I walked, with no real comprehension of where I was going, except that it was hopefully 'towards things.' I let my eyes lead my curiosity lead my feet, and wandered into statue-centered piazzas. The map I had gotten at the tourist info at the train station continued to prove its uselessness, not featuring any of the seeming landmarks I traversed.

Today became a day of churches: Annunziata, La Gran Madre, San Lorenzo (with a fantastic cieling), La Capella Verde (all green inside), and San Domenico. I was looking for the Duomo, and I marched myself every which way trying to find it. It turns out I did find it, several times, but never quite realized it, and never found the entrance, either. (I only know this now, thanks to Google.) Somebody needs some better signage, methinks. As is often the case, the main square was featuring some kind of special event, and today's seemed to be recognizing elementary school students. I guess there was a talent show or something, because all of a sudden a girl was presented on stage, and she started dancing to Low, by T-Pain and Flo Rida. Let me tell you, there is something odd about sitting in a luminescent yet somber church, staring up at its architectural masterpiece of a ceiling, and hearing about shawties with Apple Bottom jeans and boots with the fur. At least, from what I saw before I entered the church, it was fairly apparent that she had no understanding of the lyrics.

So, I spent three-plus-ish hours wandering Torino, pulling out my map as infrequently as possible, half trying to find certain things and half willing to go wherever the day took me. And it took me all over. Despite feeling lost for most of the day, I think I managed to see most of what I was 'supposed to,' and more that lay in wait. I admit that, at first, the thought of being alone in an unfamiliar city was daunting, and I started out with headphones securely in place. I was acutely aware of the total lack of women walking alone. But, as things progressed, I found my stride.

Lastly, this might be one for the record books. When the time came to take the train home, I arrived at the train station either 30 minutes early for a train I knew would take me home eventually or seconds before the departure of five trains leaving at the same time, one of which would probably take me home if I remembered correctly. I played Russian roulette with slightly better odds, less dire consequences, and logic on my side, and leaped onto the train to Bologna. At the very least, I knew I could catch a train to Parma from there. This girl made the right choice, and thanks to not waiting for the sure train to Milan and then having to transfer to one for Parma, got a direct ride home and made it early enough to catch the last bus.

When my host dad found out I had traveled alone he quipped, 'just like a grown up.' Just like a grown up, indeed. 

Bottom to Top

I started looking at my photos today, and I realized:
a) how much I had already forgotten
b) how much I saw
c) how fortunate I am
and d) how much I can't resist sharing, at least a little bit


Bratislava

Wien

Praha

Plzeň

Berlin

Coming home

Don't get too excited; I'm not back in the US of A just yet. I'm back in Parma. Six hours on four trains from Nice and I was wondering what home means. I have met people who say they are from nowhere, or everywhere, and not understood what that meant. In recent years, life has given me a lot of homes, each one farther from the one I first considered to be such, and I am starting to understand.

I was coming back to Parma, furrowed fields zipping past my window, and I was bouncing in my seat. But I was also worried. Worried that I might have forgotten Italian in this month of not speaking it. Worried that I might open my mouth and have French come out, instead. When you've been in so many countries you never know what language might escape your mouth when you bump yet another person because you forget to compensate for the backpack that makes you double-wide. But back to the issue: what is home?

Coming home is hearing a language you thought you'd forgotten flowing forth from you, as though you'd never left. Because home never left you. Coming home is being embraced like someone who is not a guest and, after being warmly welcomed and even more warmly fed, people going about their evening's activities, because life is just back to normal. Nothing special; you're home now. Coming home is knowing the streets under your feet and the language in your ears and saying my how things have changed but knowing it is still the same. It is still home. And it always will be.



Homecoming number two in T-4 days.

Put a ring on it

There was a time in my life when I wore at least three rings at all times. Maybe around the time when I started started painting and sculpting regularly and my rings started spending more time in my pockets than on my fingers, that time drew to a close. When I went to Parma, I took one ring with me: one from Guatemala. Again, I got used to wearing it everyday, to absentmindedly turning it when I wiated, be it for buses or in line for gelato. Then I began my travels, and I left almost all of my jewelry behind, including my ring. Suddenly my distracted fingers had nothing to twirl. Suddenly I was missing a little part of me, because even if no one else noticed my ring or knew that it and I are Guatemalan, I knew. People used to tie strings around their fingers to help them remember something, and this little band of silver reminded me that even if I was busy pretending to be Italian, or at least not American, I still had and always will have other roots. It was my reminder of all things and all people home.

When I went to Cinque Terre a while back, I bought myself another ring. It makes quite the statement, and it made somewhat of a statement in my accounting, but as Ellie pointed out, every time I wear it I will remember my incredible experience on Italy's famously beautiful rocky coast. I might not wear it every day, but I hope to wear it for the rest of my life. Yesterday, walking through the market in Old Town Nice, another ring caught my eye. It could be the opposite of the one I bought in Cinque Terre; it is small and understated,  but no less beautiful. It is an every day ring, but not an everyday ring. It is a ring that will remind me of European simplicity, and the simple but perfect time I have spent in Nice.

Is it a coincidence that I have bought rings at each of the coastal cities I have visited? Yes and no, I think. I just so happened to be in 'ring-buying situations' in both of these places. Still, while there is nothing from these past four months that I want to forget, if there is one thing I will yearn to recall it will be the complete and utter peace I have felt in these two places. When life pares down to an insignificant you somewhere between the join of two blues, the distant and sometimes indistinct horizon where sky and ocean meet, you see that less really is more.

Disney ride

First of all, let me tell you that I am typing this on a French keyboard, and apparently they are crazy, so while my reduced typing speed might not affect you, this may have more typos than usual. For example, if I wanted to type Parma without paying attention, as I did when I tried to access my blog, I would get Pqr,q.  Not quite the same. Also, for some strange reason, there is a µ key.
On to business.

I am now in Nice, France. We went to the beach yesterday, just a ten minute's walk from the hostel. The water is blue blue blue, the rocks are white white white, and they are covered covered covered in people. Not quite the idyllic abandoned paradise, but once you pop in your headphones and close your eyes, or just look up at the sky, it is all yours. Except maybe when you hear the wandering shouted refrain of 'beer, cold beer, orangina.' But this is not the part of the story I am here to tell you; I let myself get momentarily distracted by the splendor of the landscape.What I really want to tell you, if I don't run out of patience with this keyboard first, is the story of how I got here.
You already knew my intended itinerary, but that is not exactly how it all went down.

Friday we were supposed to have one more half day in Amsterdam, but thankfully we decided to go make our train reservations that morning, albeit days later than I had intended. After taking a number and a seat, we got called to the counter. Bad news. Nice via Saturday's overnight train? Impossible. Just getting to Paris? Practically impossible. Apparently it was a big holiday weekend and everyone would be traveling. Furthermore, the French train system is practically inaccessible from outside the country. The man behind the counter tried everything for forever, but ultimately our best hope was to start catching regional trains Saturday morning and spending the day slowly moving down the face of France, just to get to Paris and see what we could accomplish from there. Hmm. Time for some quick edits. We hopped onto the first train to Rotterdam, because this new plan would all but excise it from our travels, otherwise, and we wanted to do more than just sleep there. We were both more than ready to leave Amsterdam, anyway, though there were a few more things we could have seen.

We spent the day in Rotterdam -- fantastic -- aided by the fact that the sun began its slow descent at ten, and woke up at a fuzzy 545 the next morning. Now here was the issue. The train departure times we had were for the Centraal station, not Blaak, which was nearest to us. We assumed we could easily catch a train between the two and make it to Centraal. Wrong. Being Saturday, trains between the two only left every half hour, and the next one left one minute after we were supposed to be departing from the other station. I resigned myself to wait, but Brendan was not willing to take it sitting down. If we were going to wake up this early, we were going to catch that darn train. We were going to walk across town to Centraal. So began the epic journey. I hitched up my pack and set a blistering pace over the city's sidewalks. If I was going to be my own pack mule, I was not going to miss this darn train. Twenty minutes later, we made it with minutes to spare. Onward to Antwerp. Leg one, check.

An hour and ten minutes later we had six minutes to make a connection that 'no one ever makes.' Luckily, I'm not just anyone, and while my tales may be riddled with transportation misadventures, I have learned how to read train schedules and station signage without breaking my stride. Up the escalator, down the escalator, and onto the train to Lille, France. Our next connection, by now, seemed eternal at 15 minutes. We even had time to get our first meal of the day, at a sunshiny 10am. Onward to Amiens, France. 90 minutes later we had a whole half hour during which to twiddle our thumbs before boarding our final train to the good old city of light. 120pm and we made it. The long but easy part was over. Now to see whether we would be stuck in Paris without a place to sleep or hope of getting to Nice.

At the Paris Nord train station, we approached the ticket line with trepidation. Next thing we knew, Cindy had booked us on the train, sleeper cars, nooo problem. This feat, which had proven impossible for two separate agents at two separate train stations in two separate cities in the Netherlands, took her less than five minutes. Brendan wanted to propose to her. Now we just had to wait eight hours for our night train to leave. What to do, what to do? Spend those eight hours wandering Paris, of course. So Brendan got his wish to see Paris, I got to play tour guide, and we had our druthers and made it to Nice as planned. Or when planned, anyway.

One more thing. We got into our train car at 1030 that night, and met our companions, Claudia and Darrell, celebrating their ten year anniversary. Traveling from Corpus Christi, Texas. It really is a small world after all.

Stage two

The itinerary is official. For all you stalkers out there, here's where I will be for the next week or so:

19 Arrived in Amsterdam
20 Day in Amsterdam
21 Day in Amsterdam, go to Rotterdam
22 Rotterdam, overnight train to Nice, France
23-25 Nice
26 Back to Italy




How to be a world-famous artist:
1. Develop a revolutionary style. If you're not quite that creative, jump on someone else's bandwagon really quickly, and start a school together.
2. Make a huge body of work, so that every major museum can have at least one of your pieces in their permanent collection, and so that there is still enough left over for your homecountry to be able to open a museum dedicated to you.
3. Create a handful of ironic paintings so that even college students will want to buy posters of your art.
4. Paint 'pretty things,' so other people will want to buy calendars or cheap prints of your work. Or for college students who want posters that will make them seem 'cultured.'
* Bonus points for being troubled, eccentric, or a failure.

In Austria I went to four art museums. In every other country so far, I have been to one each. I wouldn't say I burned out, but I am torn. I know that there are amazing masterpieces awaiting me within so many walls, but there is amazing life and culture waiting outside of them. After a while, it feels like going for the sake of going. Or, like been there, done that. If every museum boasts a Monet and a Picasso and a Warhol, do I really have to go to each museum? I never thought I'd say it, but it almost feels like if you've seen one, you've seen them all. At the same time, after going to the Van Gogh Museum today, I am of a different mind. We get so used to seeing the same handful of a famous artist's paintings, it is easy to forget that he ever did anything else or anything different. I had no idea how much Van Gogh produced, or how much his style changed over the short years of his life.

Tomorrow, Rotterdam and architecture.

Making it count: travel updates by the numbers

Countries vistited: 4
Austria, Slovakia, Czech Republic, Germany

Languages attempted: 3
German, Slovak, Czech, (but have also used English, Spanish, Italian, and French)

Cities seen: 5
Vienna, Bratislava, Prague, Plzeň, Berlin

Hours spent on trains: 27

Beers tasted: 18 and counting
Urbock 23 Eggenherg ('the cognac of beers'), Wieselburger, Spiegl, Pilsner Urquell, Pilsner Urquell (unpasteurized and unfiltered), Dark Staropramen, Budvar, Budvar Dark, Gambrinus, X33, Pivovarsky Dum's sampler (light, dark, sour cherry, coffee, wheat, banana, nettle, monthly special)
When good beer is cheaper than water, there's just no excuse.

Museums seen: 5
Leopold Museum, Albertina, Secession, Belvedere, Mucha

Misadventures had: 1.5
An epic tale of tracking the nonexistent Parma FedEx the day before my departure, seeking my absentee train ticket, but it all worked out.
Getting fined 700 Kc on a a Prague tram for not having validated the ticket immediately upon boarding

Kilometers walked: uncountable
Ask the soles of my feet. Perhaps they know. Perhaps my maps know. Ask the z's I start to leave on my pillow the second I lay down my head.

Days remaining: 15 (unless the airlines and the volcanoes have something to say about it)
Enough or not enough?


A journal excerpt from Day One:
On the train to Vienna. We cross into Austria, and by 630 I am awoken and don't dare close my eyes again. It is amazing how visually apparent it is that we are in a completely different place. We sure ain't in Kansas no more. I don't mind the gloomy forecast because it makes the current sights so mystically spectacular. Coniferous forests and the mountainside, shrouded in clouds. Every now and then the sun breaks out and that fleeting hint of a blue dawn is all the more spectacular. Along the sides of the tracks it is like a lincoln log playground, and surrounded by so many beautiful green trees it is the first time that the sight of logging doesn't come with a pang of guilt. Silver rivers cut through the verdor and my Seattle companion, Ellie, says it draws home to mind. I spy some brown cows (how now?) and I feel at home, too. The architecture can only be described as quaint and quintessential. Angled roofs, angled wooden accents on pastel siding. Steeples look like ergonomic stacks of ice cream scoops, topped with a shining golden accesory. There is a mysterious phenomenon now known as the Christmas tree on a stick or, more succinctly, the Christmas kebab.
All I can think is that I hope I remember this forever. Day one, maxing out at around five hours of sleep, and already there is so much wonder to behold.

Odds and ends

The last word of this title kills me. But, to quote the overquoted, 'every new beginning is some other beginning's end.'


The odds: Things I've had on lists here and there but haven't managed to work into the blog. There are probably more, but by now they have slipped through the cracks of my memory.

• For some reason, the Olay brand is called Olaz here.
• This is not original to Italy, or at least not exclusive to it, but I find it... indescribable. Perhaps entrancing. I'd embed the video but the sizing makes it all wonky.
  Miel Pops commercial    ...there's also a House remix under the related links.
• When something is driving you crazy, you say 'fa venire latte ai capelli.' It makes your hair milk. That's a really unappealing visual, but I guess so is the experience that makes you say such a thing.

The ends:
Last. Day. In. Parma. (But I'll be back.)

So, here I am, preparing to embark on an adventure if there ever was one. I'll be in Vienna from the 5th to the 9th of May, then I'll get to Prague, where I'll stay until the 14th, whereupon I'll arrive in Berlin. After that, who knows? There are notions of Amsterdam and Brussels and the south of France floating in the air. I'll try to keep you posted.

As the moment draws closer, when I'm not busy pretending it's not approaching, I consider things to look forward to. I might manage to go an entire day without hearing the strains of Bad Romance. It would be the first in over three months. I look forward (kind of) to finding Jody fur in new and unexpected places. I found some in my jean pocket last night. I just wish her fur were like all the seeds flying around outside looking like some freak fluffy spring snow, so I could grow little Jodys when I get to the US. I'm sure at least one or two strands will find their way there with me.

I love the insights of guidebooks but I hate spoilers, so I only half-read them. I haven't opened mine yet, but I'll have several hours on trains during which to do that. As it is, right now, I have no idea what is in store for me. Just that I have wanted to go to Berlin for a long long time, and that now I will. Here are my goals: admire some amazing art, gaze upon spectacular architecture, savor some excellent beers, and learn some new words.

I found this quote today, and it seems an appropriate outlook before my departure:

We are perishing for want of wonder, not for want of wonders.
G.K. Chesterton

I am ready to marvel. I know you know I will find wonder in everything from cracked sidewalks to gilded arches. I wish I could take you along for the ride. Instead, I promise, to myself as much as to you, that when I make it back to the solid ground called reality I will catch you up on as much as my fingers have the energy to type and as much as your eyes have the energy to read. Thanks for the readership, the company, and the support.


P. S. I'm excited.

On the other side

For those of you who have seen my pictures, you have seen the side of Parma, and Italy as a whole, that calls to me. And, of course, it is dependent on whether my camera heavies my purse when a marvel greets my eyes.  But, like I have mentioned before, there is another side. I have somewhat of an aversion to taking pictures inside churches, but I have no aversion to sharing someone else's. To be honest, they probably wouldn't turn out on my camera anyway.

These are some pictures Alina took during her visit to Parma. Welcome to the grandeur, say goodbye to the crumbly.
The Duomo:

The dome of nearby church San Giovanni Evangelista, painted by local artist, Correggio:

Anywhere you live, after a while, you get used to it. You start breathing like a normal person, forgetting that with every step you take your breath should get taken away. And that, truly, is one of the joys of visitors; they make you see your world with fresh eyes, and remind you how so so fortunate you are to be where you are. Getting ready to leave has the same effect. So I am particularly appreciative of Parma right now.

Have I mentioned that Parma has over 50 churches? Have I mentioned that almost all of them are like these, if smaller? I've only seen a small fraction, but expect me to be spending my last day -- forecast: rainy -- making a farewell pilgrimage.

How to learn a language

It is amazing how much information is conveyed metalinguistically, that is to say, aside from the words. You could have next to no idea what someone is saying to you, but know exactly how to react. Be shocked, surprised, impressed, concerned, or congratulatory. For the most part, you'll know. The one thing I had trouble with was questions. 'Are you asking me or telling me' was an unexpectedly common refrain of mine. My host mom also got really good at identifying my 'I have no idea what you are saying but I don't want to let on that I don't understand' face, and finding a way to re-explain.

Sometime between some time and another, I became almost fluent in Italian. I remember watching Italian films in Claremont and relying heavily on the subtitles, but days after I got here I was watching movies with no problem. How?

A friend of mine told me that one of the more frustrating things about using a language that is not your own is the fact that it hinders wordplay. It is a lot harder to be witty when you don't fully know how words interact, or when you don't have the quickness necessary for proper comedic timing.

I learn new words Every Day. Every Day. Sometimes I forget those words when I want to say them, but the next time I hear them, I can slowly sift through my mental files and remember what they mean. Yesterday I learned that a 'sunny side up' egg is called 'occhio di bue,' or 'ox's' eye.' I hear new expressions every day, and that's the beauty of immersion. I could study Italian all my life, but never learn how to speak it like An Italian. Here, I hear how it's really done; we all know that we start to talk like the people around us, and this is no exception.

I have adamantly resisted dictionaries for my entire stay. I still don't have an Italian/English dictionary, and I'd like to keep it that way (besides, there's always the internet). I look up words when I am writing papers, and that's about it. It doesn't matter how many times I look up the Italian equivalent of some word I want, I won't remember it until I figure it out for myself. When I do acquire a new word, it's like suddenly everyone is saying it. I always wonder whether people had been saying it all along and my incomprehension would gloss over it, or whether the stars align to help me cement it in my head.  So, instead of using a dictionary, I use my family. Remember when I tried to explain the word 'wiggly' and ended up with 'drunk walking'? Sometimes it doesn't quite work. But most of the time, I find the process fascinating. Last night there was an unfamiliar word to me that I found out meant 'crack' (the verb) (incrinare). My host mom started with 'something that is broken but isn't.' Hmm. I got it with 'when you drop a glass.' Another one that didn't work was when I was trying to understand 'lucertola.' 'Those little animals with four legs that like the sunshine.' Had to turn to the dictionary to find out it was a lizard. So yes, I did sometimes use the dictionary.

It is as though the Italian language were one big pixelated image, and every day the resolution on some part of it increased. Gradually, more and more of the image was becoming clear, and so were more and more conversations. I still find myself talking my way into a dead end, be it grammatical or 'vocabularical,' but like I've always said, a dead end is just a place to turn around and try again. Rebuild that sentence in a way you can finish it. Channel your inner poet and figure out how to describe the essence of the word you don't know. Get your certification as a mime and combine the powers of gesture and facial expression. Eventually, people will get it. And you'll get some laughs along the way, too.