Not quite here and not quite there yet
12 June 2010
07 June 2010
In the land of grand
Late Tuesday night, on May 4th, we departed. Goodbye tears prickled threateningly on the car ride to the train station, but they were banished by linguistic hilarity as, even on my last day, I found myself saying words that didn’t exist. Not only that, for some reason I refused to concede the nonexistence of the word. Train #1: to Bologna. Train #2: overnight to Vienna, Wien in German. In regards to this journey, you have already read what I have to say. It was the beginning of something incredible, and in the midst of card games and iPod DJ-ing, it felt like it. Something big was coming.
Wien, to put it simply, was a constant wow. Every building was breathtaking, and seemed like it should have some remarkable purpose, though in all likelihood it was just as easily an apartment building as something of historical significance. Every block, every corner we turned, more and more ornate resplendence, gilt, statues, and curlicues. My photos attest to this, and it began to feel like I was just going to have an infinite array of nameless, grandiose buildings. My penchant for rust and crust had to be relegated to the back burner; those two words are not in the Wiener’s lexicon. There was also a bizarre propensity of statues depicting figures in the midst of acts of violence (clubbing, stabbing, strangling, …).
But, let me backtrack. The day we arrived in Wien, after dumping our bags at the hostel (Ellie’s and mine ostensibly larger than Matt’s impossibly small backpack), we decided to catch a train to Bratislava. When another country’s capital is an hour away, and you have unlimited train travel for the day, it is hard to resist. So we zoomed off to Slovakia, not really knowing what we would find. Bratislava was … off. We all felt that there was something about it, something not quite identifiable, that made its energy radically different than anything we had thus far encountered. There were touches of fancy, bright spots of color, and sweeps of gray. It was neither here nor there. In my journal I described it as having an ‘indiscernible twist.’ Perhaps the most interesting and memorable part of Bratislava was the food. Matt, who might as well have ‘guidebook’ appended to his name, lead us well and we feasted on traditional Slovak cuisine. We had a starter of bratwurst, more like summer sausage, hams, and butter, with rye bread. Next I had halu˘sky, the so-called ‘best in town,’ and I can’t argue with that. Potato dumplings, more like potato crumbles, with a sauce of sheep’s cheese and bacon and bacon grease, served with a mug of sour milk. It was totally foreign, totally delicious, totally affordable, and totally filling. Now we understood why the waitress had suggested the smaller portion, but we stubborn and hungry Americans had refused her sagacity. We didn’t see too much that dreary afternoon, but we saw some interesting street art, saw what we thought was the town square but later decided probably wasn’t, and left with rain-soaked shoes and a good taste in our mouths. Day one, success.
Now back to Vienna. Looking through my journal, there is so much to recount but perhaps little of interest to someone who didn’t live it. We sat in box seats at the Staatsopera (State Opera) House to watch The Barber of Seville; it would seem that Vienna’s affinity for the arts and culture extends to making it very affordable for the masses. We ate the one and only, original, Sacher Torte, as recommended. There was the so-called ‘bottle incident.’ I tried to dispose of an empty bottle and, much to my surprise, the bottom dropped out of the elevated trashcan, raining cigarette butts, juice boxes, napkins, and so on all over the plaza in front of (the, no surprise, mind-blowingly ornate, gothic) City Hall. The wind was nice enough to pick up and scatter it all even farther. Mortification. The jaw-dropping Stefansdom felt anything but reverential inside, full of squeaking shoes, flashing cameras, audio guides, and loud tourists, and the climb to the top of the North Tower yielded little redemption. It was a gift shop with narrow windows looking out onto each cardinal direction. The view was nice, but all in all it paled in comparison with every other church tower I visited.
Museums museums museums, some good, some perfunctory, some great. The Secession Museum, so named because it represented a split from the dominant art school of the time, impressed me with its adhesion to the founding principles. It exhibited challenging and forward-thinking contemporary art, rather than just showing art from the movement that founded it. My favorite museum, though, was the Belvedere. Located in a garden so vast that walking after walking for three forevers you are no closer to your destination, it was every bit as grand as what Vienna taught me to expect, but my expectations didn’t make it any less impressive. The last of the museums I saw, it felt the least like a checklist, and I really connected with the art exhibited. Furthermore, I finally saw a significant collection of Klimt pieces, though every museum we saw had at least a handful.
During these days we savored schnitzel, kebab, and one night when everything else was closed we ended up in an ambiguous Middle Eastern restaurant and ordered the first thing on the menu. It turned out to be some kind of wrap, and inquiry revealed that we had chosen a Persian establishment. I joined Guidebook Matt, who was determined to have a Viennese Café Experience, and the place we chose was perfectly chintzy and comfortable and delicious, despite not having either of the pastries we attempted to order. It was one of those places you could spend all day, and we certainly spent more time there than we intended, though part of that was due to our inability to ask for the bill and our unwillingness to resort to English.
A transition, courtesy of the travel journal:
Wien, to put it simply, was a constant wow. Every building was breathtaking, and seemed like it should have some remarkable purpose, though in all likelihood it was just as easily an apartment building as something of historical significance. Every block, every corner we turned, more and more ornate resplendence, gilt, statues, and curlicues. My photos attest to this, and it began to feel like I was just going to have an infinite array of nameless, grandiose buildings. My penchant for rust and crust had to be relegated to the back burner; those two words are not in the Wiener’s lexicon. There was also a bizarre propensity of statues depicting figures in the midst of acts of violence (clubbing, stabbing, strangling, …).
But, let me backtrack. The day we arrived in Wien, after dumping our bags at the hostel (Ellie’s and mine ostensibly larger than Matt’s impossibly small backpack), we decided to catch a train to Bratislava. When another country’s capital is an hour away, and you have unlimited train travel for the day, it is hard to resist. So we zoomed off to Slovakia, not really knowing what we would find. Bratislava was … off. We all felt that there was something about it, something not quite identifiable, that made its energy radically different than anything we had thus far encountered. There were touches of fancy, bright spots of color, and sweeps of gray. It was neither here nor there. In my journal I described it as having an ‘indiscernible twist.’ Perhaps the most interesting and memorable part of Bratislava was the food. Matt, who might as well have ‘guidebook’ appended to his name, lead us well and we feasted on traditional Slovak cuisine. We had a starter of bratwurst, more like summer sausage, hams, and butter, with rye bread. Next I had halu˘sky, the so-called ‘best in town,’ and I can’t argue with that. Potato dumplings, more like potato crumbles, with a sauce of sheep’s cheese and bacon and bacon grease, served with a mug of sour milk. It was totally foreign, totally delicious, totally affordable, and totally filling. Now we understood why the waitress had suggested the smaller portion, but we stubborn and hungry Americans had refused her sagacity. We didn’t see too much that dreary afternoon, but we saw some interesting street art, saw what we thought was the town square but later decided probably wasn’t, and left with rain-soaked shoes and a good taste in our mouths. Day one, success.
Now back to Vienna. Looking through my journal, there is so much to recount but perhaps little of interest to someone who didn’t live it. We sat in box seats at the Staatsopera (State Opera) House to watch The Barber of Seville; it would seem that Vienna’s affinity for the arts and culture extends to making it very affordable for the masses. We ate the one and only, original, Sacher Torte, as recommended. There was the so-called ‘bottle incident.’ I tried to dispose of an empty bottle and, much to my surprise, the bottom dropped out of the elevated trashcan, raining cigarette butts, juice boxes, napkins, and so on all over the plaza in front of (the, no surprise, mind-blowingly ornate, gothic) City Hall. The wind was nice enough to pick up and scatter it all even farther. Mortification. The jaw-dropping Stefansdom felt anything but reverential inside, full of squeaking shoes, flashing cameras, audio guides, and loud tourists, and the climb to the top of the North Tower yielded little redemption. It was a gift shop with narrow windows looking out onto each cardinal direction. The view was nice, but all in all it paled in comparison with every other church tower I visited.
Museums museums museums, some good, some perfunctory, some great. The Secession Museum, so named because it represented a split from the dominant art school of the time, impressed me with its adhesion to the founding principles. It exhibited challenging and forward-thinking contemporary art, rather than just showing art from the movement that founded it. My favorite museum, though, was the Belvedere. Located in a garden so vast that walking after walking for three forevers you are no closer to your destination, it was every bit as grand as what Vienna taught me to expect, but my expectations didn’t make it any less impressive. The last of the museums I saw, it felt the least like a checklist, and I really connected with the art exhibited. Furthermore, I finally saw a significant collection of Klimt pieces, though every museum we saw had at least a handful.
During these days we savored schnitzel, kebab, and one night when everything else was closed we ended up in an ambiguous Middle Eastern restaurant and ordered the first thing on the menu. It turned out to be some kind of wrap, and inquiry revealed that we had chosen a Persian establishment. I joined Guidebook Matt, who was determined to have a Viennese Café Experience, and the place we chose was perfectly chintzy and comfortable and delicious, despite not having either of the pastries we attempted to order. It was one of those places you could spend all day, and we certainly spent more time there than we intended, though part of that was due to our inability to ask for the bill and our unwillingness to resort to English.
We’re on our way to Prague today. It’s hard to believe we have already finished one leg of the trip. I still haven’t drawn a conclusion about Vienna. At first I felt like it was worth seeing, but not somewhere I’d like to stay. Then, by yesterday, my opinion had shifted. What can I say, I love me my art meccas. I can only imagine how much amazing art passes through here. Also, of course, for the most part the Vienna I saw was the tourist’s Vienna, not the Wiener’s Wien. There are a handful of things I wish I had had the time to see or do, but overall I am very content with our stay, and ready for this next step. It is hard for me to imagine one of those whirlwind tours of Europe. A day or two in a whole country just isn’t enough time to find something real.
04 June 2010
Stories to tell
I am home. Over the next few weeks I will be filling in all the blanks, perhaps doing a bit of back and forth time travel, but getting to everything. For now, though, I will tell you about how I got home.
Ever since I booked my flights back in December, I was supposed to come back on May 31st. Leave in the morning, arrive in the afternoon, thanks to the seven hour time difference. Well, about a week ago I was tipped off and looked into my flight status. Lucky for me (and that is at once sarcastic and completely sincere), British Airways was having cabin strikes. My flight from London to Houston was canceled. I had to call and rebook, and the next available flight was on June 2nd. On the plus side, I would now be departing with Matt, but on the downside I would now be taking a total of three flights, and arriving around midnight. I had a sneaking suspicion about the outcome of these three flights, but I kept it to myself and took what I could get, which came with two extra days in Europe.
The story begins, kind of, on June 1st, though time gets tricky from here on out, because of time zone shifting. Anyway, the point is really that though I woke up around 11, I only got one hour of sleep before getting up at five the following morning to prepare for my departure. It was one of those trips where you take every mode of transportation (boat, bike, helicopter, and skateboard not included), meaning Cristina drove me to the train station at 530 so I could catch a 600am train to Milan. I arrived at the platform with my 22kg suitcase, a sight lighter than it was when I arrived (thanks, Brendan), and as I prepared to hoist it up onto the train, a man appeared and took it out of my hands. He said he had seen me arrive and seen the concern on my face about being able to lift my giant suitcase. My concerned face was actually because of Matt’s conspicuous absence, but I wasn’t about to complain. Matt did arrive, about two minutes before the train left, and from there we took a bus to the airport, where we unknowingly arrived altogether too early. We went to check our bags, only to find that the baggage counter wouldn't open until nine. We passed through security only to find that they wouldn't allow access to our gate area until an hour before our 1130 flight. Eventually, we got on, and I somehow managed to properly interrupt my dozing to see the Alps and the English Channel.
We had a layover in Heathrow, where they don't post or assign gates until an hour before your plane departs, so we sat, looked at pictures, and I admired the many beguiling pumps in one of the most epic shoe stores I have ever seen. Fortunately, our diverging flights left from nearby gates, so when the time came we were able to stay together. And then the time went. Our flights were delayed. But not by so much, and we said our farewells and see you soons and were on our way.
Now it was the long flight. Eight and a half hours later, which roughly translates into an interspersed 2.75 questionable movies later, I arrived in Chicago. It was around 6pm local time, aka 1am Parma time, meaning I was closing in on the 24-hours of transit mark. I passed through customs, and started working on processing the fact that English will henceforth be the predominant language. I noticed something funny. For better or for worse, I have always been an eavesdropper. While abroad, that meant that I always had to first identify the language being spoken, then listen. Now, here, I find myself doing the same thing, except that I try non-English first. That means that I try listening to English conversations with my Italian filter on. That means that I don't understand anything until after I switch to Spanish, maybe French, and finally get to English. That means I really don't understand much of anything. The man ahead of me in line only spoke Russian, and as the employees asked around about whether anyone spoke Russian and could translate, I thought to myself, 'next semester.' (I'm taking Russian next semester!)
I don't usually ask for help, and I rarely submit to asking directions, but that was the theme of this adventure. After re-checking my bag I was given directions to the terminal shuttle, which would take me from 5 to 3, except that the directions led me not towards the shuttle. I asked a security guard. Yeah, somehow going out the doors to the taxi pickup is not the same as taking the elevator up to the inter-terminal shuttle. But I made it. My flight to Houston was supposed to leave at 855, so I waited. And waited. 8pm = 22 hours and I was feeling it. I started nodding off. At 845 we hadn't started boarding yet, and no announcements had been made. The posted departure time had not been changed. Then it got pushed back fifteen minutes. Still no news. As the clock ticked down we were told that a plane was being sent from Indianapolis, and that it should arrive around 10. Why? Where was the plane we were supposed to have taken? What happened to it? No one knew. Then we were told it would arrive at 1030, meaning we would depart about a half-hour after that. Then it was pushed back another 20 minutes. This whole time, I had been debating asking someone for a cell phone so I could call home. Minor detail about being abroad for four and a half months: zero cell phone + zero cash for payphone = zero means of communication. I finally toughened up and asked the man next to me (who had been switching back and forth between a blackberry and a flip-phone all night) if I could borrow his phone. As I opened the flip-phone bestowed upon me, an announcement was made. 'Ladies and gentlemen, I regretfully inform you that the flight to Houston has been canceled. Please line up and we will rebook you.' Well, not much point in making that phone call now. At least not for a while.
I finally made it to the front of the line and I was tired and frustrated and not thinking straight. The woman told me my option, printed my ticket, and I hadn't agreed to anything yet. I asked if there was any way I could contact my family, and I received the supervisor's cell phone. What to do? I had been given an 1130am flight to Dallas, where I would have to take yet another flight to make it to Houston. At that point I couldn't even do the math for how high that would make my total hours of travel. I guess the supervisor was a multilingual eavesdropper as well, and after my phone call he spoke to me in Spanish, and offered me a 530am flight with a different airline. Ok. Better. Sucky, but better. But I had to wait until he finished helping someone else. Ok. Meanwhile, the person next to me was having some language troubles. It was that Russian man, and again, no one spoke Russian. But he spoke French. I told the woman I spoke some French; she gave me a cursory glance, and asked whether any of her coworkers spoke French. No one responded. She tried speaking loud English to the man. 'I don't understand,' he replied. Strangely assertive, I asked what the snafoo was, to see whether it was within the scope of my French. He wanted to call his son, and had given her a phone number, but with no area code. In what I admit was a terrible pidgin of French and Italian, I tried to explain to him that three numbers were missing, but while he understood what I was saying, didn't know what those numbers might be. Hmm. I suggested to the woman that they work their way through the three area codes. I wrote them down for her, and suddenly the man decisively proclaimed that it was 281. So, it turns out, it was not so much French that was necessary as a knowledge of Houston area codes, but I had enough of both and the man was grateful and he reached his son. Then it was my turn. I got the 530 flight. Now, I could pay to stay in a hotel and have to come back at three in the morning and go through security yet again, or I could sleep in the airport. Hmm. My decision-making skills had long since left me, but I opted to avoid more airport nonsense by spending more time in the airport. Time to find tomorrow morning’s gate.
Terminal 2, they said. I set out, and found myself behind a young airport employee pushing an elderly woman in her wheelchair, accompanied by her husband. I assumed that, given the emptiness of the airport, they were probably going the same place as me, and I followed. That could have been a bad idea, but thankfully it wasn’t – mostly. We got to Terminal 2 and realized that Continental was probably not there, despite our instructions. The boy pushing the wheelchair turned to ask me and I said yes, that was what I was looking for but no, I didn’t really know where it was. He asked around and we were redirected to Terminal 1. On our way there, we saw a sign that seemed to indicate that Continental was back the way we came, so we turned back. But it wasn’t. We turned back back to Terminal 1. There it was, at last. Having now seen all of O'Hare's terminals (it goes 1, 2, 3, 5), I hunkered down and tried to get some sleep amidst the sounds of the night crew’s vacuums and construction. Luckily, I was now well-past 24 hours and only supplied with about four hours of sleep, so neither noise nor discomfort could keep me from the shores of slumber. I woke every now and then, once to find the elderly man covering me up with one of his wife’s shawls. I tried to be appreciative, but in my semi-slumber I think at best I managed a sleepy smile. At 330 he woke me up, and then I was able to express my gratitude.
This third and final plane ride went off without a hitch, other than a 20-minute in-flight delay due to having to circumvent a nasty weather pattern. But, this story is not over yet. My suitcase stayed with American Airlines, my original intended carrier, and was supposed to come to Houston on their first available flight. So, once at the airport, I had to go to their office to make sure it would be mailed to me. After taking the unidirectional airport shuttle all the way around the airport just to get to the adjacent terminal, I found out that American Airlines would give my suitcase to Continental, who would then send it to me. So back to where I started. Continental and I worked it out, and the suitcase would be on its way.
So now, 36 hours after leaving Parma home, I am home home. I am getting used to the taste of real milk, which is at once familiar and yet strange. I am having to remember that toilets don’t flush via button on the top, anymore. I am readjusting to the idea of having a functional cell phone, with all the pros and cons that that entails. I am getting back into the nitty-gritty of Texas, with cheesy grits, local beer, Blue Bell ice cream, and Guatemalan home cooking. Houston gave me its humid hug the second I got off the airplane, and I smiled because there is nothing like it. Adelina is home, with pictures to share and stories to tell.
Ever since I booked my flights back in December, I was supposed to come back on May 31st. Leave in the morning, arrive in the afternoon, thanks to the seven hour time difference. Well, about a week ago I was tipped off and looked into my flight status. Lucky for me (and that is at once sarcastic and completely sincere), British Airways was having cabin strikes. My flight from London to Houston was canceled. I had to call and rebook, and the next available flight was on June 2nd. On the plus side, I would now be departing with Matt, but on the downside I would now be taking a total of three flights, and arriving around midnight. I had a sneaking suspicion about the outcome of these three flights, but I kept it to myself and took what I could get, which came with two extra days in Europe.
The story begins, kind of, on June 1st, though time gets tricky from here on out, because of time zone shifting. Anyway, the point is really that though I woke up around 11, I only got one hour of sleep before getting up at five the following morning to prepare for my departure. It was one of those trips where you take every mode of transportation (boat, bike, helicopter, and skateboard not included), meaning Cristina drove me to the train station at 530 so I could catch a 600am train to Milan. I arrived at the platform with my 22kg suitcase, a sight lighter than it was when I arrived (thanks, Brendan), and as I prepared to hoist it up onto the train, a man appeared and took it out of my hands. He said he had seen me arrive and seen the concern on my face about being able to lift my giant suitcase. My concerned face was actually because of Matt’s conspicuous absence, but I wasn’t about to complain. Matt did arrive, about two minutes before the train left, and from there we took a bus to the airport, where we unknowingly arrived altogether too early. We went to check our bags, only to find that the baggage counter wouldn't open until nine. We passed through security only to find that they wouldn't allow access to our gate area until an hour before our 1130 flight. Eventually, we got on, and I somehow managed to properly interrupt my dozing to see the Alps and the English Channel.
We had a layover in Heathrow, where they don't post or assign gates until an hour before your plane departs, so we sat, looked at pictures, and I admired the many beguiling pumps in one of the most epic shoe stores I have ever seen. Fortunately, our diverging flights left from nearby gates, so when the time came we were able to stay together. And then the time went. Our flights were delayed. But not by so much, and we said our farewells and see you soons and were on our way.
Now it was the long flight. Eight and a half hours later, which roughly translates into an interspersed 2.75 questionable movies later, I arrived in Chicago. It was around 6pm local time, aka 1am Parma time, meaning I was closing in on the 24-hours of transit mark. I passed through customs, and started working on processing the fact that English will henceforth be the predominant language. I noticed something funny. For better or for worse, I have always been an eavesdropper. While abroad, that meant that I always had to first identify the language being spoken, then listen. Now, here, I find myself doing the same thing, except that I try non-English first. That means that I try listening to English conversations with my Italian filter on. That means that I don't understand anything until after I switch to Spanish, maybe French, and finally get to English. That means I really don't understand much of anything. The man ahead of me in line only spoke Russian, and as the employees asked around about whether anyone spoke Russian and could translate, I thought to myself, 'next semester.' (I'm taking Russian next semester!)
I don't usually ask for help, and I rarely submit to asking directions, but that was the theme of this adventure. After re-checking my bag I was given directions to the terminal shuttle, which would take me from 5 to 3, except that the directions led me not towards the shuttle. I asked a security guard. Yeah, somehow going out the doors to the taxi pickup is not the same as taking the elevator up to the inter-terminal shuttle. But I made it. My flight to Houston was supposed to leave at 855, so I waited. And waited. 8pm = 22 hours and I was feeling it. I started nodding off. At 845 we hadn't started boarding yet, and no announcements had been made. The posted departure time had not been changed. Then it got pushed back fifteen minutes. Still no news. As the clock ticked down we were told that a plane was being sent from Indianapolis, and that it should arrive around 10. Why? Where was the plane we were supposed to have taken? What happened to it? No one knew. Then we were told it would arrive at 1030, meaning we would depart about a half-hour after that. Then it was pushed back another 20 minutes. This whole time, I had been debating asking someone for a cell phone so I could call home. Minor detail about being abroad for four and a half months: zero cell phone + zero cash for payphone = zero means of communication. I finally toughened up and asked the man next to me (who had been switching back and forth between a blackberry and a flip-phone all night) if I could borrow his phone. As I opened the flip-phone bestowed upon me, an announcement was made. 'Ladies and gentlemen, I regretfully inform you that the flight to Houston has been canceled. Please line up and we will rebook you.' Well, not much point in making that phone call now. At least not for a while.
I finally made it to the front of the line and I was tired and frustrated and not thinking straight. The woman told me my option, printed my ticket, and I hadn't agreed to anything yet. I asked if there was any way I could contact my family, and I received the supervisor's cell phone. What to do? I had been given an 1130am flight to Dallas, where I would have to take yet another flight to make it to Houston. At that point I couldn't even do the math for how high that would make my total hours of travel. I guess the supervisor was a multilingual eavesdropper as well, and after my phone call he spoke to me in Spanish, and offered me a 530am flight with a different airline. Ok. Better. Sucky, but better. But I had to wait until he finished helping someone else. Ok. Meanwhile, the person next to me was having some language troubles. It was that Russian man, and again, no one spoke Russian. But he spoke French. I told the woman I spoke some French; she gave me a cursory glance, and asked whether any of her coworkers spoke French. No one responded. She tried speaking loud English to the man. 'I don't understand,' he replied. Strangely assertive, I asked what the snafoo was, to see whether it was within the scope of my French. He wanted to call his son, and had given her a phone number, but with no area code. In what I admit was a terrible pidgin of French and Italian, I tried to explain to him that three numbers were missing, but while he understood what I was saying, didn't know what those numbers might be. Hmm. I suggested to the woman that they work their way through the three area codes. I wrote them down for her, and suddenly the man decisively proclaimed that it was 281. So, it turns out, it was not so much French that was necessary as a knowledge of Houston area codes, but I had enough of both and the man was grateful and he reached his son. Then it was my turn. I got the 530 flight. Now, I could pay to stay in a hotel and have to come back at three in the morning and go through security yet again, or I could sleep in the airport. Hmm. My decision-making skills had long since left me, but I opted to avoid more airport nonsense by spending more time in the airport. Time to find tomorrow morning’s gate.
Terminal 2, they said. I set out, and found myself behind a young airport employee pushing an elderly woman in her wheelchair, accompanied by her husband. I assumed that, given the emptiness of the airport, they were probably going the same place as me, and I followed. That could have been a bad idea, but thankfully it wasn’t – mostly. We got to Terminal 2 and realized that Continental was probably not there, despite our instructions. The boy pushing the wheelchair turned to ask me and I said yes, that was what I was looking for but no, I didn’t really know where it was. He asked around and we were redirected to Terminal 1. On our way there, we saw a sign that seemed to indicate that Continental was back the way we came, so we turned back. But it wasn’t. We turned back back to Terminal 1. There it was, at last. Having now seen all of O'Hare's terminals (it goes 1, 2, 3, 5), I hunkered down and tried to get some sleep amidst the sounds of the night crew’s vacuums and construction. Luckily, I was now well-past 24 hours and only supplied with about four hours of sleep, so neither noise nor discomfort could keep me from the shores of slumber. I woke every now and then, once to find the elderly man covering me up with one of his wife’s shawls. I tried to be appreciative, but in my semi-slumber I think at best I managed a sleepy smile. At 330 he woke me up, and then I was able to express my gratitude.
This third and final plane ride went off without a hitch, other than a 20-minute in-flight delay due to having to circumvent a nasty weather pattern. But, this story is not over yet. My suitcase stayed with American Airlines, my original intended carrier, and was supposed to come to Houston on their first available flight. So, once at the airport, I had to go to their office to make sure it would be mailed to me. After taking the unidirectional airport shuttle all the way around the airport just to get to the adjacent terminal, I found out that American Airlines would give my suitcase to Continental, who would then send it to me. So back to where I started. Continental and I worked it out, and the suitcase would be on its way.
So now, 36 hours after leaving Parma home, I am home home. I am getting used to the taste of real milk, which is at once familiar and yet strange. I am having to remember that toilets don’t flush via button on the top, anymore. I am readjusting to the idea of having a functional cell phone, with all the pros and cons that that entails. I am getting back into the nitty-gritty of Texas, with cheesy grits, local beer, Blue Bell ice cream, and Guatemalan home cooking. Houston gave me its humid hug the second I got off the airplane, and I smiled because there is nothing like it. Adelina is home, with pictures to share and stories to tell.
31 May 2010
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.
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.
29 May 2010
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
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
27 May 2010
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.
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.
25 May 2010
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.
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.
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