New City, Same Host

Three weeks after the fact, this absolutely unbelievable story must finally come out. You can't make this stuff up.

So, Friday morning I jumped on the early train to Naples - but not before nearly forgetting my camera charger and battery at Maria's. I had to sprint back to reclaim them. I thought I'd see her again! The train ride was a dream world mix of ancient aqueducts and fresh graffiti. After being here, I can understand why that is an Italian word.

Naples is certainly not for the feeble. Stray dogs in the train station, trash piled in the streets, Camorra-types everywhere. I was a bit trepidatious to strike out too far on my own. Unsurprisingly, the Archaeological Museum was beckoning to me. I spent about 6 divine hours there pouring through every detail, and two of the major exhibits were closed: the Farnese collection and the Gladiator exhibit. But, I was welcomed by artifacts from Herculaneum and Pompeii at almost every turn, and the excitement and adrenaline kept building to finally be on Vesuvio. Afterward, I took a stroll up around one of the hilltops and got some wonderful views of Vesuvio, the Bay of Napoli and Capri.

Finally, it was time to meet Pasquale. He and I had been emailing each other daily for a month and had Skyped as well. He was so much fun and I couldn't wait to meet him, hang out and see the city. He met me at the train station with a big hug and kiss...on the neck. Fishy. I was really tipped off when, walking into his apartment, I entered the consummate bachelor pad, complete with dim red and blue lighting, chrome and leather furniture and, oh yes, mood music. Very fishy. Unfortunately, it was almost 9 p.m. in one of the more dangerous cities in the world. I figured trying my luck against Pasquale was a safer bet than against the city. I tried to keep the conversation light and flowing as he asked me if I knew what "spritzer" was. "Probably not your version, Pasquale, what's in it?" Instead of answering, he pulled out prosecco, some other liqueur and wine glasses and began mixing. He also put ice cubes down the front of my shirt. About 18 minutes after we'd met. "Oh, this is really not going to turn out okay, is it?" I admonished myself. We took the beverages out on the patio, where I again attempted benign conversation. "Tell me more about your photography?" "How long have you lived in this apartment?" "What's your favorite thing about Napoli?" He wasn't having it, and kept pointing out his speedo and insisting I'd love to see him in it. No, grazie. I finally herded him into making dinner, thinking this was a good diversion to the innuendo. No such luck. As he was tossing a handful of cheese in the sauce, he also tossed caution to the wind, grabbed me and tried to plant one on me. I almost tossed my cookies. We ate a very awkward dinner (with some delightfully curly noodles - they looked like strands of Shirley Temple's hair!) and I informed him I would be going to bed. He invited me to join him in his bed (because, somehow, he still hadn't gotten the point). I told him I would be sleeping alone, and then explained to him in no uncertain terms that I was there for friendship and tourism, nothing more.

In the morning, I was awoken by a flash of color as Pasquale jumped into my bed...in his underpants. They were brightly colored stripes like a circus performer, only I really did NOT want to know what was under the big top. Instead of being in a 3-ring circus, I was more accurately in the third ring of hell. He tried relentlessly to kiss me. Literally shoving him off, I pressed "Can we just go to Vesuvio, please?" Pasquale and I were to go to a party for his friend that night. I informed him I would be inviting Maria, who just happened to be in Napoli from Roma visiting her family. I hoped if things didn't improve, I could leave with her. Luckily, Maria readily took me up on the invitation.

So, Pasquale and I packed up and left for Vesuvio. It was MARVELOUS! Unfortunately, it was a bit hazy, so I didn't get the best view of the bay and islands. But the crater was impressive, and I watched the seismologists hundreds of feet down checking all the systems, hoping to myself it didn't mean the warning systems were not working. There's no escape when you're perched at the rim. I again had the false hope that Vesuvio would be a nice diversion from Pasquale's advances. Diversions generally work, but not with this crafty character. The WHOLE time climbing Vesuvio, he kept trying to hold my hand and kiss me, even trying to kiss my neck with small children around. I felt like I was swatting at flies all day long. If only I had had a turtle shell to suck myself up into, but I'm sure he would have tried to break through this defense as well. He's human version of the dog you can't get to stop humping your leg.

After Vesuvio, we grabbed some pizza (the REALLY real kind!) near Spaccanapoli. Pasquale asked if I wanted to go where President Clinton had given his patronage. "Ugh, I don't want to go where all the Americans go!" I retorted. After pizza, we sat on the rocks on the beach next to Castel del'Ovo - I picked a separate rock so he couldn't try anything untoward. On the walk back to the car, he was completely quiet and walked about 2 feet away from me. Good in the sense that my space wasn't being invaded, bad in the sense that he was now acting pissy. So, I took a chance on asking him what was wrong. I mean, he WAS my host, so didn't I have the obligation to try to smooth things over a little? In the car he finally whined, "When you kiss me it's...it's like you're doing me a favor!" News flash, homie, I'm NOT kissing you! I'm trying to KEEP YOU from kissing ME! I suddenly found myself enveloped in a quasi-breakup talk with someone I'd known for 15 hours. Again, let me give it to you straight, Pasquale. I am not here for that. Period. Then he told me I was being irrational. I still have no clue what that meant. When we arrived at his apartment, he went to his parents' house (yes, bachelor boy lives in the same building as mommy and daddy) so I could have time to "cool off." Umm, Mr. Hot to Trot, you're the one who really needs to "cool down." Handsy. I'm just trying to enjoy the end of my vacation. So, I did what any savvy gal would do when they've had more than enough, grabbed his phone and called Maria to pick me up. She was there in the flashest of flashes. Saved, and I didn't even have to see Pasquale again, although I did pull my best spy moves sneaking down the stairs when I heard him coming! The "Dear John" letter I left was fun to write. "Dear Pasquale, You suck. I'm out."

Really, though, I have to thank Pasquale, because this all worked out in my favor. Maria, as I've stated, is an absolute gem, and I was so happy to spend more time with her (I knew that wouldn't be it!). We drove to her family's incredible Mediterranean villa in Trecase (Three Houses, because it's the smallest town in the region at 10,000 people [Maili Tatu, anyone?]), which overlooks the bay and has a veritable cornucopia of oranges, lemons, grapes and figs in the back. Her parents immediately took me under their wing, and are the sweetest people in the world. Even her aunt was telling me to, "Say hello to Barack Obama." Mrs. Marino seemed to delight in serving me a myriad of culinary creations (including my first octopus!) and kept the wine flowing readily. It's not possible to get your fill of Lacryma Cristi, especially when it's bottled by the neighbor down the street, but for a few days I had as much as my heart desired. By the end of my stay, she had become my Italian mother, and invited me back anytime.

The night she picked me up, Maria took me to Sorrento with her friend Carmine. But, not before a classic Maria and Shannon Misadventure: we got pulled over by the military police and were detained for about a half hour. Sorrento has some breathtaking views of the bay, and is an adorable little town. While sipping more wine, Maria and Carmine did solve one mystery for me. Apparently, it's a well-known "fact" around here that American and Northern European women come here for one reason only. Yeah, thanks to whoever gave us that reputation. Really, I appreciate it. Made my vacation.

The next morning Carmine picked me up and took me for a (free!) private tour of Pompeii (he's a tourist guide). I couldn't believe that he would give up his day off to schlep around a hopeless travelin' gal. He defended himself by claiming it as a way to make up for "Pasquale the Raper" (Maria came up with that gem). As an anthropologist, this was by far one of the highlights of my trip. Carmine ascertained that I must be part Pompeiian high-society, since all the upper-echelon folks were very light-skinned. Funny. I tended to agree with him, though, after being informed that the ancient city had 4 water springs and 87 wine bars. My kind of place!

That afternoon, Maria gave me a little crash course in Italian politics. Berlusconi is like the combination of the worst of G Dubya and Clinton - used his buddies (read: Mafia and Camorra) to ensure he won the election, using his power to line the pockets of his friends with complete disregard to the greater good of his country and people, plus sex scandals! Sounds like a winner to me. Then, we headed to the beach to soak in the last rays. I worked on my tan (who's Pompeiian royalty now? Not me!) and swam in the Mediterranean for the first time in my life. I couldn't believe how salty it was. Maria and I soaked up so many rays, in fact, that we missed the last elevator back up to the street on the cliffs above! There is no other way off the beach. We were informed of this by the president of the local kayak society, who graciously offered us a ride out (a group of them were congregated on the beach, so we had no idea the elevator was closed with so many people around). I wish we had taken him up on his offer, but we intercepted a hotel employee and begged a ride up.

Maria and I grabbed a local lemon dessert to bring back for the family, and went to savor my last dinner in Italy. Mrs. Marino insisted on sending home two bottles of Lacryma Cristi (red and white) AND a bottle of homemade limoncello. I was floored (just as I'll be after drinking it all), and could barely squeak out the words to thank her. I was so overwhelmed by the outpouring of generosity by Maria and her family, I had absolutely no words to express what I was feeling to them. Maria took me in for four days in Roma, and then answered my desperate plea and hosted me for two more days. Plus, her family took me in no questions asked, made me feel like a part of the family and sent me home with gifts. How can you respond to kindness like that? The only answer is by paying it forward.

There's a lot I could say about my time in Europe. To simplify, I was able to get some distance and perspective, and figured out a lot. Much of this was loooong overdue. But, happily, I'm finally really in a place where I know I can pay it all forward. It's always a bit sad to go home from vacation, but I'm not dreading it. Instead, I'm ready to go home and take my life by the horns.

When in Vatican City, don't do as Jesus does.

So, train stories are always fun. This one is fun only in retrospect. I was actually scared for the first time on my trip while it was happening. I took the overnight train from Val Gardena to Roma. My cabin-mates were the Ghanaian version of the Ugly American. They were screaming and shouting and carrying on, at one point getting in a shouting match over whether midnight is night or morning. All this on a train full of people. So, you can't blame me for asking them to be quiet. Only, my spidey senses were tingling about them, what with them punching the windows of the cabin and all. So, I didn't want to get involved in discourse with them. Therefore, I pretended to be Spanish, ostensibly the one language they didn't speak, and could feign not understanding what they were saying to me (especially when one of them called me a particular curse word for wanting to sleep at 2 a.m.). I ended up having a quasi-conversation with one of them, me in Spanish, he in Italian. We ended up laughing, and then he said something about his friend (the one doing all the punching) not liking Americans.

So, I was happy when we finally arrived in Roma and I got off the train safe and sound. What was the first thing I chose to see in Roma at 7:30 a.m.? The Trevi Fountain, of course. I got to watch a half dozen men in galoshes squeegeeing it while I ate peaches from Ele. It was sublime. Then I made my way over to Vatican City (a whole other country!), and was denied access to the Basilica for having bare shoulders. Two days later when I got over it and went back, I was appalled to see Jesus in a loincloth and cherubs in less, yet I had to be almost fully mantilla-fied. Does God really care that much about my shoulders? Isn't God just happy to see me? It's been such a long time.... This is just one of many reasons I left the church. However, I felt a twist of happiness today when I saw the rainbow flag flying from a balcony only a few metres outside of the Vatican City walls. Small victories can be so sweet.

I have seen so many incredible sights here: the Colosseum, the Terme de Caracolla (the ancient bath house, with a full Olympic-sized pool), the Sistine Chapel (wowza!), the Forum, the Piazza Venezia, the changing of the guards at the parliament - I've seen almost every square inch of ancient Rome. My host Maria is wonderful. She's an anti-marriage, anime-loving, environmentalist who broke in her kitchen cooking dinner for Jordan and I. She spends her vacations volunteering with WWF, doing things like saving harbor seals in Greece. Maria is an inspiration, and makes me not only desperately miss doing international volunteering (was my last GCN trip really 3 years ago?!), but reinvigorates me. Our first night together, she took me out on the back of her moto for a sunset tour of the city (there's nothing like seeing the Colosseum and the Forum against the setting sun). We went to Trastevere, a neighborhood high on my list, for wine. I was invited to move to Egypt with our server. I turned him down.

Every trip I take abroad, I give myself license to buy something extravagant, since I make it a point not to splurge on myself at home. So, I decided, what better to do in Rome than get some gladiator sandals. After two afternoons of shopping, I hadn't found a pair that worked. They are deceptively uncomfortable - the soles are hard as a rock. Luckily, there is more than one option if I want uncomfortable Italian shoes. I ended up with a pair of suede stilettos, which are actually more comfortable than the sandals. And surprisingly business appropriate. Tutto bene!

I have also been treating myself to as much gelato and tiramisu as my body can handle. Pine nut gelato, bring it on! I've even had strawberry tiramisu. It's a good thing I've been doing so much walking. It doesn't help that the Italian boys like to give double portions to the blonde foreign girls. It also doesn't help that they're so cute I can't help but go back for more...gelato.

"You mean I'm in...Austria?!" and Other Exciting Tales

Friday started as a lovely, clear day. I bought some fruit and delicious pasteries with the remainder of my francs, and ate breakfast watching the clouds go by. Then it was time to catch the first of my 6 (yes, really) trains to Ponte Gardena. On the way to Interlaken, I sat next to a very nice elderly British chap, who lamented his wife wasn't with to meet me. He gave me some good Italy pointers. I stepped onto the balcony at Interlaken and literally ran smack into Taylor! He was heading to Milano. I would've been on the same train, but I was routed a different way, being promised it was shorter. At least Taylor and I had one leg together. Reciprocal couch surfs will be arranged soon.

So, I continued on through my next several trains. On the train from Zurich to Innsbruck, I realized my ticket stopped there. Where the hell is Innsbruck, anyway? I started to panic a little, since I only had 6 minutes to make my transfer - not enough time to buy a ticket. Feeling crafty, I went to the dining car and asked if there was someone I could talk to. They directed me to a very helpful conductor. Apparently you can buy tickets on the train. Apparently, they also give you a €3 discount if you're an obviously lost American who has to have the other conductor called because she doesn't understand what you're telling her. So, I was sold a ticket to the border station, Brennero, still not fully understanding how I was supposed to catch the right train. It wasn't until 4 of the 6 minutes on my transfer had gone by that I realized that 1) I was in Austria and 2) they sold me a ticket for the correct train, but only for part of the journey. I'd have to buy the other half of the passage onboard. Ay.

So, you can understand when I stepped onto the platform in Ponte Gardena and saw Eleonora's smiling face, I'd never been so happy to see someone in my life. This woman truly is an angel - we had a phenomenal weekend together. We first headed back to her place to drop off my things. She took up the role of tour guide effortlessly, taking me for a nice stroll and telling me about the history of the area. In Val Gardena (the name of a valley nestled in the Dolomites made up of several small towns), they speak Ladino and are more culturally Austrian than Italian, as the area has only been Italian territory since the first World War. Once we worked up an appetite, we headed to a restaurant and got some pizza (the real kind). A few bites in, we realized the window over her bed was wide open, and I again attempted to outrun a rainstorm. Only, this time the rain was coming down in sheets with crazy gusts of wind. I felt like I was in a hurricane. Luckily, the bed made it through with only minor injuries, and we finished our dinner chatting about families, dreams, goals, jobs and the like. It was a perfect evening.

On Saturday Ele's friend Egon took us on a 10 hour hike around a mountain. Yes, we literally walked in a big circle around a mountain. Egon is a guida alpina by profession. The route he chose was stunning. There were 360 degree views of mountains and green valleys, and several times we passed over patches of snow. Ele says that's even rare for here, but it made my day to have my picture taken on a patch of snow. After a macchiato at a rifugio where I played fetch with a Dobermann and a few hours of hiking, my bladder got the best of me. I was glad for my training in Kenya, where I learned not to get the peepee all over me or let the moon hit your eye like a big pizza pie. There aren't many places to be discreet on a big, open mountainside. Then it was time for lunch. Ele packed us a delicious spread with speck sandwiches, bread and nutella, and fruit. Speck is made of pork, and I, being the political person I am, had to explain why I don't eat pork in the U.S. and how good it is to see the animals raised here the way they were supposed to be. Speaking of, after lunch we ran into a herd of sheep and a herd of cows. I got to pet a number of them, and ended up with some pretty classic pictures after one of the cows insisted on licking my face. Later in the day, we were having a short rest when Egon pointed out a young marmot hanging out on a rock below us. I want one. On the last legs of the day, we had run out of water and were running out of steam. No problem for a guida alpina. He brought us over to a rock outcropping, where meltwater was being filtered by the rock. We drank it straight from the source, and it was invigorating and delicious. Of course, we had to wait for the trickle to fill the bottle, and happened upon a large stream about 5 minutes later, but whaddaya do? To wrap up the evening, Ele cooked me a delicious dinner of pasta with red sauce and lemon chicken.

On Sunday morning, Ele and I made brioche filled with apricot jam, nutella or cinnamon sugar, wached down with Italian press coffee. Can I keep her? We packed up for a short hike, and took the ski lift up to the top of the mountain. A bit scary looking straight down from the top, but I am assured they are safe. We had a nice walk, and stopped to lie down a bit in an open field. A 2-year old male red deer wandered over by us. He was very intrigued, coming over to sniff, running off a few steps and repeating the process over and over for about 5 minutes. Ele got an incredible videotape of it. Then we were off to the restaurant from Friday, to test our luck at the kitchen not being closed and a rainstorm not truncating the evening. This time we were able to order canederli, which are little balls made of speck, bread and either mushrooms, cheese or spinach. This regional food was absolutely delicious. Then we had the chocolate version and some creme brulee. It's a good thing I don't eat like this all the time. Sadly, it was time for Ele to bring me to the train station. We made it with about 5 minutes to spare (the fun thing about running late is you get to hear all of the Italian road rage trash talking). I got a bit choked up watching her as the train left the station. She is a very, very dear person, and I am so happy to have connected with her. I look forward to seeing her again, hopefully sooner than later!

Now, I'm in Roma safe and sound, with more train madness on the way. But that's another story for another time. Ciao!

Switzerland Answers All My Questions

The overnight train from Paris to Lauterbrunnen was incredible. I finally managed a few hours of sleep after the three French men in front of me finished their very loud conversation at 2 a.m. (so, maybe some French are a little rude). I was to arrive at my transfer point at 5:47 a.m., so, having never taken the train in Europe before, I was freaking out when we stopped at a station at 5 and were still there at 5:35. Apparently 10 minutes is all you need, and I caught my train for Geneva with no problems, and was immediately greeted with chateaux on a mountain lake. We continued to weave our way through painfully adorable French mountain towns. Finally, the sun peeked over the peaks as we passed a blue-green river dotted with swans. Fields of sunflowers, corn and hay in various stages of baling covered the landscape. When we arrived in Geneva I had 13 minutes to find my next train - with a border crossing in a big station, I was a little nervous. No passport check, no sweat finding my train. I had no idea how to read my French ticket, and I still managed to pick the right train car for my assigned seat. This is getting easy. Just 40 minutes outside of Geneva, vineyards spill down the hillsides into the lake below, while the jagged peaks of the Alps line the opposite shore.

I arrive at my hostel just in time to meet the noon check-in. However, Stefan is the hostile hostel owner, and the only unpleasant person I've met in Switzerland. I filled out the information card, and the last bit was passport number. In my culture, you don't give out that information, and you certainly have the right to ask why someone needs it. So, I asked. He spent the next 5 minutes lecturing me/arguing with me about Americans thinking everyone is out to get them and "if you would just travel outside your country" you would see that not everyone is bad. Well, sir, if you would take the time to talk to me instead of just getting angry with me, you would see that I have traveled to 5 continents and have never been asked for this information. Pardon me for being skeptical.

This was the only unpleasant hostel experience. I got up to my room, and picked the bed with a window overlooking the canyon, jagged snowy peaks, and a gigantic waterfall. A few minutes later, the first of my roommates arrived. Shing-huay is a teacher from Taiwan. We spent the afternoon and evening together eating lunch (I had fondue!), hiking, and talking about joys, pains, pleasures, travels, cultures, religious views, politics - you name it. It was an incredible afternoon, and I feel so blessed to have connected with her. We separated for a little while in the evening, and I felt lonesome for her immediately. Talking with her also helped me work through a lot of unfinished things in my head, for which I am forever grateful.

Later, we met the rest of our roommates. Taylor is from Tempe, Arizona and this is his first time in Europe, chasing adventure and music festivals. Mari is from Sydney, and is sweet with a sharp wit. Martin is from near Munich, and is the funniest, most go-with-the-flow person I may have ever met. Martin had us all in stitches all night, particularily with his story about being picked up by a school bus driver in L.A. and proceeding to tour the city/drive home kindergarteners for the next 4 hours. We were up until o'dark hundred drinking wine and laughing harder than I have in ages.

Yesterday Taylor, Mari and I set off for a nice long hike. The Lauterbrunnen Valley is incredible. It is the largest glacial valley in the world and is ringed with 72 waterfalls. Every 10 steps, you see another snowy mountain or another waterfall. It is unbelievable. All day long, we kept saying things like, "dude, we can't really be here, can we?" "Is this place really real?" Pictures won't do it justice. Seeing waterfalls pouring directly from a mountain glacier is something you just don't see everyday. And there are goats! And cowbells tinkling like windchimes! I even pet two cows! Swiss cows! Holy cow! (Sorry, I had to.) Anyway.... The three of us took the tram up to Grimmelwald, which has the most incredible view of the mountains. It's like you can reach out and touch them. We wound our way up the mountainside to Murren for a delicious lunch and, yes, gorgeous vistas. Everything worked out incredibly well during the day. We had to laugh that every time we had a question (Do they really have bad house fires here? What does edelweiss look like? Do the people with parachutes we keep seeing jump from the top of the mountain or somewhere in the middle?) it was answered somehow within minutes.

It was about a 2 hour walk back to Lauterbrunnen, and we took our chances despite a few sprinkles. A little over halfway, we started hearing big claps of thunder and seeing lightning. Taylor judged the storm was about 9 miles away. I felt a raindrop right then. Being on a highly wooded mountainside, we decided running was a good idea. There is nothing like trying to outrun a thunderstorm by sprinting down the side of an Alpine slope. Hiking shoes, you did good. We made it down in one piece. We were much more soaked than the flowers in windowboxes at a house near our hostel, which were protected with umbrellas.

Last night, we went out with a couple of other Americans, Dan from Ohio and Wes from New Mexico, to the bar in town. It was a cultural lesson to see several young children sitting on the floor (which looked impeccably clean) playing and coloring. We ordered beers (raspberry flavored for the ladies) and chatted the night away with several skydiving instructors from Australia, there base jumping (that re-affirmed that answer). Only in Switzerland.

Oui, Paris!

On Monday, I hopped a flight for Paris. Despite my day-glo orange backpack, I must have blended in because I was asked for help 3 times. We managed to find a common language twice (interesting that my knee-jerk reaction was to respond in Spanish. What's that about?). I was helpful once. Not a bad record before even leaving the airport.

So, I thought I'd left Ireland. I mean, I took a plane, didn't I? So, why did I step out of the trainstation to see Ireland EVERYWHERE - Irish pubs, shamrocks decorating storefronts, even the Irish embassy. Apparently even the French love the Irish.

I started off my time in Paris making my way through the lovely Quartier Latin. Taking advantage of a gorgeous sunny day, I wandered through the Jardin de Plantes and meandered over to the Pantheon. I sat on the steps looking out to Notre Dame while enjoying a crepe de fromage. I could get used to this. Notre Dame is simply stunning inside, and sits towering over the Seine. Unfortunately, I was denied entry to the Sorbonne, but they tell me it's not what it used to be.

After meandering past the Lourve and Bastille I picked my way through the streets to meet my host, Dule. In a word, he is amazing. We dropped off my things at his adorable apartment. Since he is a transplant (from Serbia, by way of Zurich and the U.S.) he has a butcher paper on the wall slowly being filled with all the things he wants to do in Paris. I was encouraged to contribute, and added "speak with an artist." It became our mission for the night. We headed out to a delicious dinner, I had a tartine de chevre with a delightfully light salad and a wonderful chablis. We then popped around from bar to bar sampling various French wines and sharing stories about great loves, great losses and great memories. He quickly endeared himself with his wonderful storytelling ability. I couldn't have enjoyed the night more, even though our mission was not met.

The next morning I bid a bittersweet adieu to my wonderful host. I set off on a mission, and walked a circle around the entire city for the next 13 hours. I saw it all: the cemetery with great French notables such as Maria Callas, Montmartre and Sacre Coeur, l'Opera Garnier, the Eiffel Tower, and the Pompideu. I stopped for lunch on a square watching painters and enjoying some wonderful French cheeses. At this point I was starting to realize I can pick out enough words to catch the gist and was feeling pretty comfortable. I even felt emboldened enough to order tapwater in French (l'eau de robinet - I taught myself!). I later ordered another, and despite being told that he could only bring me one glass, another soon appeared. People say that the French aren't necessarily the nicest, but in my experience they've been really helpful and sweet.

Taking the waiter as a sign that I should use French more, I tried to rely on it (all 3 sentences I know) as much as possible the rest of the night. Later in the evening, I was humbled by a 3 year old counting to 10 for her mom. Show off!

Zac Attack

What a fantastic last 24 hours! My "locker buddy" from high school, Zac Mangas, just happens to be in Ireland now, too, and staying 5 blocks from me. Despite phone malfunctions, we were able to meet up. We hit up a pub in Temple Bar and were treated to live Irish music with a contemporary twist. I also proceeded to make my way through most of their menu choices. Going drink-for-drink with him was not one of my most well-hatched plans. Especially given the fact that I didn't drink in high school, going out drinking (in Dublin, no less) together was about the last thing either of us expected. The best things are those you don't plan. It was a fantastic night, and the perfect way to close out my nights in Eire.

Today, we museum-hopped. The art museum in Parnell Square is fantastic, even housing a few Monets. I spent a few heavenly hours in the archaeology museum. The Vikings have been in Ireland since the 8th century. So, technically, I could be a Viking, too. Guess that explains why I love my football team so much. Yes, I did get a picture of me in an orange, white, and green Viking hat, complete with horns and braids.

So, here's an Ireland quick guide for the savvy traveler:
take away - food to go. Especially useful in coffee houses, as you'll want the coffee to warm your fingers outside.
pub grub - what to ask for when you're looking for the American idea of the traditional Irish dinner (fish and chips, lots of meat, etc)
dark/light pudding - fried breakfast meat/grain patty that looks a bit like falafel. The light is pork, the dark is blood sausage. Don't knock it til you try it.
go 'way - get out/shut up/for reals?/you're pulling my leg/etc
bookmaker - bookie (I was gravely dissappointed by this, having assumed that the Irish were doing a fantastic job of preserving the old scribe tradition)
trolly - shopping cart

Everybody smokes. Don't even try to get away from it. When throwing away your gum, they will assume you are throwing a cigarette butt in the trash and yell at you.
Go with beer. Or Bulmer's cider. I don't drink beer and even I'm doing it. If you really, really can't live without wine (or have Celiac, the only really legit excuse), make sure you order a quarter bottle instead of a glass. The bottle has likely been open for days or more.
If you're being made fun of, it's because they like you. It's called slagging. The phrase "I wouldn't spend the energy on making fun of you if I didn't like you," must have originated from this practice.
When crossing the street, please remember cars have the right-of-way. They will not stop for you, and if you make them, they will honk and jeer. Cross the street when there are no cars coming, not when you have the light. Remember to look right.
Public restrooms do not use paper towels, opting for high-powered electric dryers. Some places even have 3-in-1 hand washers. To use: stick your hands in, they will get squirted with soap. After a few moments comes the water - rub vigorously. Once you're done, presto, high-powered hand dryer. This is the most phenomenal invention I have ever seen.

Next, 36 hours in Paris.

Blarney Stone, Shannon Malone!

I'm not sure how much of the last few days I can even remember. It's been a whirlwind.

A few nights ago we stayed at the Lake Hotel, which is Ireland's answer to Kellerman's. Our friendships last long as the mountain stands. I sent my parents off to town on their own, and had a little alone time at the hotel bar. I ordered some wine and bruschetta and hunkered down to journal. About a half hour later, sipping on my wine, the bartender asked me something. I had to apologize to him that I was having a difficult time with his accent. He asked again if I wanted the check. I said that would be fine, but inquired if my dinner was coming. "You ordered food?" he asked. "Yes, bruschetta please," I responded. "Oh, love, I'm so sorry, I guess I'm having a difficult time with your accent." I had the best belly laugh I'd had in ages and we became instant friends. He even invited me to the horse races. I also had a lovely time chatting about education and politics with two English teachers from Germany. It's amazing how refuge in a glass of spirits can connect the soul...and lift the spirit.

Two days ago brought a visit to Blarney Castle. Yes, I kissed it. Yes, I was taking my life in my hands in every sense of the word. Yes, I've yet to test out if it has really made me more eloquent. Judging by this post, I'm having a hard time believing it has. Perhaps I washed off the magic when scrubbing my lips moments after smooching the stone. From Blarney, we drove to Cahir, which is the hometown of my childhood priest, Fr. Harry Walsh. We even got to talk to Fr. Harry's sister-in-law (his brother was out golfing.) There's something transcendental about eating in your great-great grandfather's pub (Malone's) next to your great-great grandmother's clothing store (Sheehan's) in the hometown of the man that gave you your first communion. From there we drove on to Cashel, and stayed in a lovely B&B built in 1790. Did I mention our room had a castle view?

We went to check out the castle, The Rock of Cashel/St. Patrick's Rock, in the morning. Something to do with St. Patrick. I was too busy talking with the tour guide about his plans to go teach English in Abu Dhabi. Most Irish 20-somethings leave their small towns for university in the bigger cities (Denis went to Limerick). Then they go live abroad for a few years before returning to their hometowns. I guess you can't really stay away from a place that has a castle, now can you?

Last night we stayed at a hotel outside of Dublin. We were all far too tired to try to stuble upon a place for dinner in the 'burbs, so ate at the hotel restaurant. Our adorable waitress, Jurgita (Heer-GI-tah), was Lithuanian (so many Lithuanians here!). We were trying to figure out what the brown sauce on the table was (we did eventually decide it's similar to barbecue). I asked Jurgita if she knew what it was. Her response? "Zat ees ver deefeecult qvestion becose ay don't noh." Favorite quote of the trip.

Today we walked around Dublin and saw the Book of Kells. It is absolutely breathtaking. However, I have to say I like the Book of Durrow better. Perhaps that's because it's from County Offaly like me. One more day in Dublin, then off to Paris on Monday!

Moher, please!

Our plan on Monday was to drive through the Burren, which is about the most desolate area in all of Ireland. There was a skirmish between our car and a curb the night before, and let's just say the curb won. Our innkeeper was incredibly helpful in connecting us with the rental car company. No help from them, however. So, do you drive through the land that time forgot with half of your undercarriage gone? Eh, sure, why not? And I thought I would be missing out on sketchy vehicle situations by not doing the Mongol Rally. Ha! So, we set off for the Burren. The car was the only thing that made it through the day unscathed.

Our plan was to wind down past some caves and archaeological remains to wind up at the Cliffs of Moher. We again gave our GPS the benefit of the doubt and tried to program it to take the back way to the cliffs. We ended up spending a tidy bit being incredibly lost. We saw some beautiful areas, but took roads that would only qualify as "hiking trail" in California - 5 feet wide, tree-lined and winding, but at least they're paved. We finally stumbled upon a marked road and wisely decided to head to the cliffs.

The Cliffs of Moher drop some 600 feet into aqua-blue ocean and overlook the Aran Islands, one of the last Gaelic-speaking strongholds. Of course, there are cows in front of, behind and on top of the visitor center. I did a little off-roading on foot, and almost plunged to my death. That, or I was chased by a rabbid butterfly. We did the obligatory post-Mohertem at the Lisvardoona smokehouse for the best salmon I've ever tasted. We then abandoned all advice from the GPS and took the right proper roads to see Burren's more oft-traveled splendor. We stopped to see a stone burial site dating to 3000 B.C. Ancient Irish: Step 1: figure out that "cultivation" thing the Egyptians keep talking about. Step 2: pile up stone slabs to honor the dead and mystify future generations. Take that, Giza!

We made our way to Limerick and stayed in a Travelodge that looked more like an Ikea showroom, and was just as labyrinthine. We had dinner at the Cornstore. For a place with such a terrible name, the food was anything but. The real highlight of Limerick was spending some quality time with my river. I searched the banks high and low for a little spot to touch it, and finally found a little public landing. I stood on a rock and waved my fingers in the water, watching the swans swim by. It was the most overwhelmingly spiritual moment of my life being in the River Shannon and watching my tears mix in and float away.

Last night we stayed at Browne's B&B in the town of Dingle. Camilla is about the sweetest woman in the world, perhaps a bit unexpected since she is famous and all. Tom Cruise stayed with her for 3 weeks during the making of Far and Away. The deposit on the rooms is what paid for her beautiful wooden staircase. Her home is also green, having received grants of 5,000 Euro to put in a solar panel and other energy-saving modifications.

Today we drove around the Dingle Peninsula and the Ring of Kerry. Both scenic mountain/coastal drives. To get to Killarney from the Ring of Kerry, you pass through a national park. There's a big hullabaloo with the government trying to force the operators of horse-drawn buggies, or jaunting cars, to wear "nappies" to catch all the horses' residuals in the park. So, the jarveys (operators) are striking. That's right, there's a strike over what amounts to horse diapers. It took us 20 minutes to get through the picket lines on the road to make it to our hotel. Scabs!

It's Galway or the Highway

I'm sitting in Ireland blogging, chatting with our Lithuanian innkeeper and listening to American R&B from MTV. Loving this.

We got our rental car in Dublin and headed straight for Galway. Along the way we saw our fair share of sheep, cows ("Cows, dad, cows!") and emerald green. I also got a glimpse of my river, all sparkly and fantastic. Galway is PHENOMENAL. Lots of beautiful old stone churches, a cobblestone pedestrian shopping street several blocks long, a river walk, and even a bust of JFK. The houses are adorable - tiny little white and grey boxes with brightly colored doors and windows. We walked around for several hours taking it all in. In the rain. We entered a pub at about 6 p.m., obviously haggard. We went to the bar to order food, and they said they'd just closed down the kitchen. I asked if he had another recommendation for some pub grub. He took another look at us and said, "we'll open it back up." That's just it. No questions asked, wouldn't even hear of us trying to find another spot. We were extremely grateful, humbled and happy. We settled down to watch Galway take on Clare in hurling. After burgers, chips and our first pints of real Guinness, it was time for a little more sightseeing. We walked along to the Spanish Arch, which was, well, anti-climactic. But, dude, we're in Ireland. Whatever. We made our way through a few college campuses and back to the B&B. I feel justified in mentioning that my sense of direction never fails me in the city. We didn't get lost. Not once. We did, however, get caught walking down the wrong side of the sidewalk.

A special factoid about Galway for you: the Claddagh ring originated here. Claddagh is actually an area just outside of Galway, tucked between the river and the bay. Claddagh was, from what I read, the last autonomous kingdom in Ireland. Mothers have been passing the rings down to their daughters here for hundreds of years. However, the individual credited with the Claddagh ring is a man from the Joyce clan (one of the 14 tribes) in Galway. He was apparently kidnapped and sold into slavery, where he worked for a smith in Algiers. When he was freed, the smith offered him his daughter to stay. Joyce refused, and brought the Claddagh design back to Ireland.

We set off today for Clifden, a metropolis of 1100 people on the Atlantic coast. Other destinations included John D'Arcy's castle (no clue who he was, but his castle sure looks pretty in the picture) and Kylemore Abby (with all the appropriate jokes about my brother Kyle). The GPS and our collective brainpower still couldn't get us to the castle and the abby. Okay, so maybe my sense of direction needs a little more honing in the middle of nowhere. However, we had a splendid time in Clifden, even getting our picture taken in front of Malone's deli and meat shop and getting herded by an 8-week old border collie. We took the Sky Road out of Clifden and drove up to dolphin beach. Sorry, no dolphin sightings. But, the islands stretching out into the sea more than made up for it. We had a picnic lunch perched up at the lookout point, scoping out the lattice of ancient stone fences below us. It was absolutely breathtaking.

The trip from Dublin to Galway was not without it's special moments of terror, as my mom and I were sure my dad was about to clip the car next to him on more than one occasion. Let me qualify that statement by telling you how narrow the roads are here. There's about 2 inches (uh...5 centimetres?) of clearance on either side. If you're lucky. Ireland has the 3rd most accidents in Europe. And we're driving on the opposite side of the road. The fact that there were no actual accidents is quite impressive. Today as I was driving from Clifden back to Galway, there were a few times where I'd have a tour bus coming at me on one side, sheep in my lane on the other side and a dip in the road that had the real potential to send me flying in either direction. These are the moments when you close your eyes and hope for the best. The roadsigns are full of Irish witticism, and are perhaps a bit snarky - which I can't get enough of. For example, there's the sign at the edge of Galway Bay that has a car driving over a cliff (it's about a 3 foot drop). My favorite is when you're entering a rural town (read: 4 storefronts), instead of telling you a speed limit, there's a sign that says "SLOW" followed by one that says "SLOWER". Use your discretion, I guess. When entering a larger town, you come into the "TRAFFIC CALMING ZONE" as if calm were even possible for the Irish, or for anyone else when in Ireland.

The most endearing thing so far? Even though only 5% of the country speaks Gaelic, all road signs are in Gaelic. Most are also in English.

In the Beginning...

And away I go! This is my first real vacation since Kenya in July 2006 (and, by what twist of the universe is it possible that my dear friend and Kenya companion Eden is back there now?). I'm highly overdue, and I've picked a pretty darn good one (if I do say so myself). Over the next 26 days, I will be exploring both oft-traveled and hidden corners of Europe. It's the grand middle- and upper-class American rite of passage, and now it's my turn to backpack across Europe. Here's a little taste of what I have in store (play with the city markers - they talk back!):


View SEE, do you see? in a larger map

The incredible journey starts meeting my parents in Dublin. I have waited 27 years for this. My dad and I have always said we were going to go to Ireland (The Homeland!) together someday. It's finally here! I'm suspended somewhere between elation and disbelief. From Dublin, we rent a car, test our expert driving skills backwards, and make our way to Galway. But, to get to Galway, we have to cross my river. I get to see it, touch it, smell it, play in it. Water is cleansing, but to have my river washing over me is a power I can only imagine. At least for a few more hours. As my darling nephew pointed out, if Noah's Ark was in the River Shannon, it would be like we were hugging each other. It's my mission to make that happen, and get a picture to memorialize the event. The parentals and I will spend 10 days looping the southern half of the Emerald Isle. We've got some amazing things in store. And, yes, this non-beer-drinking gal will be imbibing in at least a couple of pints of Guinness. I hear it tastes like a milkshake. I can't wait to get my parents drunk. On a pint.

Love my parents and all, but everyone needs some alone vacation time after 3 years. (Seriously!) So, I put them on a plane back stateside, and I jet off for two days in Paris. Being so short on time, I'm not anticipating any of the big tourist traps, except, of course, a glimpse of the Eiffel Tower. Mona Lisa will have to smile on me another time, so I'll get my smiles from my host Dule. A meandering to Montmartre and a stroll on the Seine, a picnic in Paris, oh I'll be back again.

From Paris, I head to Lauterbrunnen, a tiny town in the Swiss Alps of less than 3,000 people. Why, oh why Lauterbrunnen? Behold. "Wow!" is what I said, too. 60% of the land is rivers, glaciers or mountains? Sign me up. The 72 waterfalls aren't bad either. I've got an amazing hike all planned out. I hear a restaurant in town makes about the best apple strudel. I'll have earned it after hiking all day, right? I'll be hosteling it on this stop, because you have to, or it's not really backpacking.

Next, I'm off to Val Gardena in the Dolomites. This string of the Alps in north eastern Italy was just named to the UNESCO list of world heritage sites for it's dynamic mix of geological features. With photos like this (click on the link to see the mountain pics), it's not hard to see what all the fuss is about. Dear Eleonora has agreed to host me and show me the glorious sites. The hills are alive!

La gamba Italiana of my great adventure continues on to Roma. No one could be want for awe-inspiring sites. I'll spend the days discovering the Trevi fountain, the Vatican, the Coliseum and some surprises along the way. My couch queen Maria will clue me in to the local side of things in the evenings. Bring it!

Ultimo, I bookend my trip living out childhood dreams with time in Napoli and climbing Mt. Vesuvius. Pasquale, the host who thinks American visitors are more fun than going on holiday in Spain, uses Vesuvio as his alias - so he knows how to do the volcano right! Experimenting with pasta sauce in his small kitchen and drinking copious amounts of Lacryma Christi and other Italian wines are also on the docket. So, you won't blame me if I never materialize back in California.

I promise, I really will do my best to keep my blog updated as I'm wandering. But you'll have to excuse me if I don't have internet for a few days. Good things come to those who wait. I promise I won't make you wait 3 years. I think.