Welcome to New York!

Nothing ever quite works out the way you plan. We flew into New York from Rome on time, but we sat (crawled) on the runway for about 50 minutes. Between that and waiting in line for 25 minutes to check baggage at the only desk Delta had, behind a man with a Major Problem, we missed our flight to DC. No more flights out until morning...

Matilda and Anna of Alitaria at JFK in New York are ANGELS. They found us a room and a car to drive us to the motel and back to the airport in the morning. The final flight home ultimately was swift and uneventful. Its only memorable quality is that the airplane was freezing cold. Yet it got us where we needed to go.

Ah...my first night ever in New York, and I did nothing but sleep.

Leavin' on a jet plane..

Packing up the computer now...preparing to board airplanes small and large. It's all over but the tears and the x-raying of suitcases and shoe-removal exercises.

It's been fun, and I've hardly had time to even begin to document it. I guess that's what the next several months of my life are for.

In the meantime, I have two more weeks of vacation with relatives and friends in Maryland.

On to the next journey!

A Few Images from Firenze

Beatrice. I purchased two small watercolors from her. :)

This was probably the best part of the day. Three (I presume) art students of Asian descent spent the day recreating a masterpiece by Rafaello, on the ground, in chalk.

The very best part of this story: minutes after I took this picture, an ambulance came tearing down the road straight toward it. Everyone scattered. We were certain the ambulance was going to run over it. Instead, the driver swung wide to avoid it. Such respect.

This was a little later in the day.

Adventure taken: Tuesday, July 26, 2011

Expectations

Greetings from Firenze!

To those of you traveling in Italy for the first time: do not expect your hotel to provide washcloths. Do not expect it.

Also, my son Eric was wrong when he said I did not want a rainshower head. Wrong.

Lucky, Lucky Tourists

Everyone said that Venice would be unbearably hot and stinky. It was hot, but not unbearably so. It was often breezy and we spent a lot of time on shady side streets. And it wasn't stinky.

Everyone said that Pompeii would be unbearably hot. It was instead pleasant -- 80s perhaps? -- and windy. The worst problem we had was the dirt blowing everywhere.

I'm hoping for some dire predictions for the rest of the trips. :)

A Little Something Extra

Apparently many shopkeepers will sometimes throw in a little extra as a thank-you. When we picked up our Chinese carryout, the proprietor made clear through gestures that he was giving the cold bottle of beer to Amy because she ordered ten different things. Yesterday, the ceramics shopkeeper tossed in a few bookmarks. The strangest thank-you, however, came from the rotisserie chicken guy who thanked Amy for buying the three (fabulous) chickens by giving her a bottle of mayonnaise...one that had already been opened and used at least once.

Mangia! Mangia!

Tonight Amy, Paige, and I decided to dine at “40 Mil,” a restaurant enjoyed by the local Americans. It wasn’t very close to the house, so off we went, guided by the GPS.

This GPS thing usually works well.

We went in Joe’s car, a rattletrap Alfa Romeo which has only one serious flaw: the headlights are very dim. As in very.

After many miles down bumpy, narrow, and dark roads, we came to a neighborhood of walled properties with more bumpy, narrow, and dark roads. A turn, and another turn, and the GPS declared us to have arrived at our destination. In the middle of nowhere in particular.

Amy tried driving around a bit, hoping to find the restaurant somewhere nearby. We came to a street littered with large dogs in deep slumber, at least five of them. And this street was dirt. And dark.  She made a right hand turn and swung wide around a dog, who lifted his head just enough to acknowledge we were there.

The GPS was unimpressed with our attempts to find the restaurant and quit trying to help. It had taken us where we said we wanted to go, yes? We were on our own. After circling around twice, Amy just began driving. We might have stopped at the first restaurant we encountered, but unless the place has an English menu, it’s pretty hard to know what you’re ordering. Remember this. It will be important later.

I may not have made clear before just how manic the roads are here. Scooters and motorcycles are free to weave in and out of traffic and their riders frequently do insane things like pass cars, then make immediate right-hand turns; stop signs make suggestions, not demands; and pedestrians cross the streets in front of moving vehicles and wander the margins of the roads as if they’re invincible. So as we sped along the bumpy, narrow, dark roads in a vehicle with substandard lighting, I was, shall we say, a little tense. Eventually we came to a more populated area, and Amy made the decision to head home.

Near the house, we passed a local restaurant, still brilliantly lit even though it was nearly 11 pm. We hadn’t even had lunch, so yes, we were a little hungry. We decided to try it.

Of course no one in the restaurant spoke English.  So once again, Amy and the woman (wish I’d gotten her name; Paige calls her Pretty Pink Earrings) negotiated an order through pointing and nodding and smiling. PPE was very patient with us. She tended to repeat herself (as if that would make us better understand!). While we weren’t 100% certain what we had ordered, we got plates and plates and plates of antipasto (including fried calamari, bruschetta, salmon and sardines, arugula, and some sort of dough balls), two pizzas, and a tomatoey pasta dish. This was followed up with tiny lemon icees (not limoncello; Amy thinks this is probably because we didn’t order wine).  

So after two hours (at least) of driving, we had an adventurous mystery meal right around the corner. Isn’t exploring grand?  Mangia!

Adventure occurred the evening of Tuesday, July 19.

Mall Rats

What trip to Italy would be complete without a visit to the mall?

In Munich, a woman, assuming that Amy was German (and she is, at least 25%), tried to give her an advertisement. Tonight it was my turn. A woman tried to press a flyer into my hand and talk to me about it. Tonight, for the first and probably last time, I was Italian.

The big surprise about the mall was that it was just like the posher American malls...and was the first truly clean place I'd seen in Naples. For some reason the Napolitano respect the mall in a way they don't respect their streets or other public places. It was spotless, shiny, lovely.

Surely this does not refer to that Sonny Bono...does it?

At one point, we saw in a line a Guess, a Footlocker, and something else iconically American that escapes me at the moment. We had a good laugh in Sephora when we found L'Oreal Paris among the pricey makeup. And what mall would be complete without Mickey D's?

...with a serious McCafe...

As we left, I noticed the sky was a brilliant, almost cobalt, blue, and the parking lot was planted with what I've been calling umbrella pines since I don't know what they really are. I wish my phone took better pictures. This doesn't represent the beauty of the sky or the trees.

Adventure occurred the evening of Monday, July 18.

Water, Water Everywhere

I expected water to be a big issue here in Europe. Maybe it is in places, but the first surprise (to me) was how much water the toilets use. I expected them to use minimal water, but I think those here in the house – and most places – use a lot more than my American toilets.  Water pressure has surprised me as well. In the resort in Garmisch (Germany) as well as the posh hotel in Mestre (Italy, and which did feature low-water-use toilets), the water pressure was spectacular. We had two different rooms in Garmisch because our first one was only available for three days. The second one had water pressure so fierce that its shower may have been capable of taking the color off our skin.  Here in the house in Napoli it’s decent, although Amy is not fond of the hard water.

I was warned that I’d have to pay to pee, but so far the only place this has come up was inside the courtyard of the Glockenspiel in Munich, where we had lunch. It was a confusing set up because first we had to pay, and then it looked as if we had gained access to the men’s room, but the ladies’ was slightly down the hall. Oh, and public toilet seats? Optional, baby. Optional.

Toilets flush differently here, by pushing a large button in the wall a meter or so above the toilet. I don’t know where the tank is. Inside the wall??? Clearly there is one. I can hear the water filling and then stopping when I flush in the house. This must make repairs ever so interesting.

Amy’s washer, which is provided with the housing, is…Italian. And unusual in design. But again, not one that uses a small amount of water.

We drink bottled water only. Here at the house there’s some sort of chemical contamination issue, and out and about…well, would YOU drink the water in another country? As I was warned, sodas are expensive (considered a treat rather than a staple, and while Coke is easy to find, Pepsi is rare) are never served with ice, and are not that cold, even when in a cooler. It’s just easier to drink bottled water “out” and get sodas at the military commissary.  The most expensive drink I’ve had so far was the four Euro (about $6) “lemon tea” in Liechtenstein, served in an iceless glass, which my taste buds told me was bottled Lipton tea. The most expensive drink I didn’t have was the seven Euro bottled water at the alfresco restaurant in Venice. There was water for 1.5 Euros within our eyesight, which we knew because we’d already bought some there. We ate and dreamed of water, then hot-footed it over to the little shop next door as soon as the check was paid.

All this reminds me that I’m thirsty, so I will bid you ciao for now. Diet Pepsi in the house. Ice in the freezer. I am living the life, baby. Look for posts on food, shelter, and clothing in the future.

Napoli, Napoli

(This will be edited later to add some photos/links to photos. Hey, it's nearly 5 am. A girl has to sleep sometime.)

I wish I could say I like Napoli.

I find it fascinating, though. It’s a strange, strange place where all people drive as if they’re characters in Grand Theft Auto and litter receptacles are far better known by their other name: the side of the street. “Campfire girls,” women who have been trafficked into prostitution, linger in predictable, semi-rural areas along our routes. They tend to be rather pretty, and often, but not always, African.  (Prostitution is legal here, but not the trafficking. Still, who is likely to complain? The customers? Hardly. The women who are the victims? Slaves tend not to get a say. So it continues.)

I haven’t seen that much of the city.  We’ve been elsewhere during most of my stay. There is a hop-on-hop-off bus tour that we may take. I’ve asked Amy if all of Naples looks like the area in which she lives (much of it run-down and dirty); she says all that she’s seen so far looks this way. (However, apparently looks can be deceiving. Many people maintain a run-down exterior to hide their wealth, while inside their homes are quite posh.)

Typical side-of-the-road view:

Amy and Joe’s housing is nice: the military families live in what we in the US would call a gated community, with a remote-controlled gate, burglar bars, and security doors to keep thieves out. The people of Napoli are not violent, but some are very willing to divest a family of its more valuable possessions.

I haven’t witnessed the famous garbage-burning yet, but I imagine I will eventually.

On July 8, two days after we arrived, my niece Paige turned 18. That evening we (minus Joe, who worked late) walked to a pizza restaurant not far from Amy’s home. Dinner is served very late, so when we arrived at dusk, we were among the first customers. The (I presume) proprietor glared at us as we entered, a greeting so very much unlike what we would expect and in fact encounter everywhere else (at least so far).  Perhaps if we were in a more touristy area of the city we and our Euros would receive at least a polite welcome. Here, in this neighborhood restaurant, I presume that they presume that we’re military. (I’m not, of course, but it is the military that brought our little group to the area.)  We were, however, cordially seated by a woman, and through hand gestures and keywords, Amy and the server were able to negotiate our order. The restaurant, which I’ll call Red Umbrellas because I don’t know its proper name but it can easily be spotted by those umbrellas as we go down the street, truly was charming. Dining was alfresco, as it so often is in Italia, and only alfresco. (I wonder if the place closes in the winter? Carryout only? Make note to ask Amy.) We took photos, but they’re too close-up to show the environment. On the other side of the restaurant two men with guitars were warming up, quietly practicing, starting, stopping, discussing. They didn’t begin their performance before we left. By the time the pizza arrived at the table (including the hot-dog-and-french-fry pizza), the restaurant was filling up. While the proprietor had offered us a non-welcome, he was far more effusive with what I presumed were his regulars.  When he greeted a group of six, it was easy to tell which of the group he knew and which he didn’t: air kisses and hugs for his friends (including men), a perfunctory but polite handshake for the others (including women).

Despite the insane driving and the trash, it’s clear that this neighborhood truly is a neighborhood. At home, I barely ever see those who live mere feet from me. Here, people linger on the sidewalks and under the red umbrellas, smoking, arguing, watching the cars go by. Here, people interact.

So there's that.

_____________________

Stop signs are rare; stoplights are even more so. This intersection was negotiated by all these drivers without the benefit of either one. (Sorry about how dark the movie is, but I took it at dusk.)

First photo from Napoli

Here's the view from Amy and Joe's balcony. As Paige said, "In America, they'd tear that down." (Followed by a frowny face.)

Upcoming entertainment

Roma has some pretty good concerts coming up. Guess Amy Winehouse is "annullato" since she once again said, "yes, yes, yes" to rehab. (Wishing you some luck with it this time, Amy.)

Inflight entertainment

The plane had individual seatback tvs to keep the inmates from rioting during the long, long flight to Roma. Paige watched a number of movies. I listened to The Decemberists and Allison Krauss and Union Station, and watched the map of our progress.

Priorities

(The photo has nothing to do with the trip, but I needed something fast. That’s Renee, our family friend, standing beside a plane she helped build. It’s still on the same theme: airplanes. Good enough.)

One simply cannot run off to Europe from the United States without using the facilities. And so a blog about a vacation begins not with dreams of the Tuscan countryside or the isle of Capri, but with the potty.

The bathroom in an airplane is a marvel. Smaller than a small dining table top, every square inch is designed for efficiency; the user-friendly design positions the consumables just where the visitor might expect them: toilet tissue, soap, paper towels. The folding door offers ingress and egress using little floor space; the large mirror minimizes the feeling of claustrophobia.

I always make airplane seating decisions based on proximity to the bathroom.

Several years ago I attended a conference in Chicago. Inexplicably, my friend and colleague Bernadette and I had first-class seats on the trip back to Jacksonville. Because I assumed that first class seating came equipped with a first-class bathroom, I recklessly drank my fill of iced tea before boarding. Not until we were seated did I understand the error of my assumption.

The only bathrooms were in the rear of the plane. I, being in first class, was in the very front.

It didn’t take long for the tea to kick in.

Because no passenger can wander around the plane while the seatbelt sign is on, no matter how dire the emergency, my screaming bladder and I had to remain seated for, so it seemed, the entire flight over the state of Indiana. Such relief I felt when that blasted sign went off, only to be foiled again: the flight attendants had begun their long, slow food-service crawl down the aisle, totally blocking my pathway to the bathroom for, so it seemed, the entire flight through the state of Georgia.

Although I didn’t face public humiliation for peeing my pants on a commercial flight, trust me that I came very, very, very close that day. And so, for the eight hours it took to fly from New York to Roma, I was never more than ten happy steps away from the miniature marvel that is an airline toilet.