September 29, 2006
Roamin' Rome (one year + 1)
Currently I stand at the end of a very long line for the Sistine Chapel. The woman in front of me is smoking, and since her smoke cannot escape the crowd of bodies it hits me in thick layers instead. Every thirty seconds or so the massive line surges forward accompanied by an increase in excited voices inspite of the fact that we still have close to two hours before we even arrive at the entrance.
This is the downfall of Rome. It has hords of tourists. Often when I'm walking around and see local Italians I can't help but think ''sorry I'm here...'' It is an absolutely beautiful city full of narrow cobblestone vias, breath taking monuments and quaint corner cafes with linen covered tables. I could definitely see myself living here, taking long lunches, sipping wine and zipping around on my motorbike. The one thing that keeps me from unpacking my bad permenantly and taking up residence in a tiny apartment with lofted ceilings and endless supplies of pasta, is the tourists. I don't know if I could ever really think of it as ''my city'' if I was continously blinded by camera flashes and getting tangled in maps lost to the wind. Although I will say the infinite amount of gelati shops does make it tempting.
In front of me an American and Chinese man have gotten into a small argument.
''Where are you going??'' he says as the Chinese man tries to push in front.
''You can't go any further''. He shakes his head exsasperated and turns back to his friend while the Chinese chat amoungst themselves and disappear into the line in front of him.
Just about every language I could think of off the top of my head in a 10 second period is being spoken within 10 feet of me, which makes me glad to have arrived here after Africa as opposed to another major western city. At first I thought it may have been a bad choice, after 3 extra hours on the train and 2 hours trudging along with my backpack and newly aquired roller suitcase stuffed with Jared's and my Africa purchases, which I might add is not so great on cobblestones. Somewhere in those 2 hours I realized that I was going to have to get used to this European backpacking concept of ''booking ahead''.
In those first few hours, the culture shock of returning to the western world hit me with the force of an ancient marble statue. The tight stylish clothing, expensive electronics and immitation Gucci. The streets were so clean, there were no food stands or kids kicking homemade soccer balls. And although you could tell I was a tourist, I didn't attract any more attention than the next. I had to fight off the fear by forcing myself not to think about it.
After checking into the hostel the first day I did little more than laundry, internet and oogle at all the sweet and savory treats inside every glass case. But the second day, refreshed after 12 hours of sleep, I hit the cobblestones with the determination to see as many sites as possible. I walked continuously from 9am-6pm and saw just about every major site other than the Vatican. At the end of the day my legs ached with both the joy and sorrow of being physically active again.
The third day I felt even better. The first few days had been doubly hard dealing with both the culture shock of a new country and missing Jared. Although I had made a great effort to distract myself with Rome's history, I still missed him terribly and ended up silently crying myself to sleep. I highly doubt he did the same thing seeing it was quite a pathetic ''girly'' thing to do and also because at the same moment he was on a crowded bus to Nairobi and it would have looked a bit ridiculous, but I know he feels the same way. When you've spent 24 hours a day, 7 days a week with one person for 3 months, being lonely takes on a whole new meaning.
Anyways, the next day I felt further from tears and more at peace with being alone and thus chose to spend the day doing what one best does solo, no not polevaulting, but roaming museums. I was determined to hit at least two because I wanted to get the most out of my ''Rome Pass''. At the (in my opinion) high price of 18 euros you got into as many museums as you could find in the windy vias of Rome...well at least that's what I thought when purchasing. In fact it only got you into two museums free and the rest at a discounted price. I also didn't know that the Colosseum and Palentine were considered museums, although it makes sense. So when I set out that morning I should have received nothing for free, but my ignorance turned out to be bliss when the first ticket woman yelled to me through her glass,
''How many museums you go??'' I shrugged and somewhat awkwardly replied,
''How ever many I can get to before this thing expires...?'' But upon finishing realized she meant to say ''have you been to'' instead of ''you go''. ''Oh, none'' I quickly stammered, and she pointed me towards the entrance.
Upon arrival at my second museum I realized that the system had cheated me, but that I had also cheated the system. This glass enclosed woman explained to me the true function of my pass and that I would have to pay €5 to enter her museum. I paid the €5 with a smile not wanted to seem cheap and hoping that it would be worth it.
It was a decent museum, not as good as the one I got into for free, but it turned out to be worth it in a different way than I expected. There was a very large black and white photo exhibit by a photographers whose name, unfortunately, has slipped my mind. Most of his photos were either portraits or pictures of people caught at genuine human moments. Much of his early work was of 1950's Italy. Shots of woman carrying baskets of bread and children playing games in the street. A sparcely filled fruit stand or a child lugging a large wine bottle back to the shop for a refund. Staring at these images I realized that this was the Italy I had hoped to find. The Italy that was more like Africa. I missed those big and little things that are different about developing nations. They have mopeds here, but they don't have enough. They would need at least 10x the amount currently on the roads for me to think of their streets as ''hectic''. They have delicious food, but the smells and tastes would need to be in my face on every corner and fill every crevace of the bus for me to notice. I miss that rough edge that makes a country ''undeveloped''.
The exhibit forced me to see what I was looking for and why I was disappointed by what I had found. In the end it helped me remember that places are different and that they change, but most of all that I should enjoy them for what they are and not what I want them to be.
So today, with another early start which wasn't early enough, I find myself crowded with thousands of other tourists surging forward in anticipation of what the Vatican's walls may hold and I'm embracing it. Not everywhere will have hardly any tourists and elephants bathing in the rivers, just as not everywhere will have the pizza and history of Rome. I figure that inspite of the sweaty crowds, the nasty case of bed bug bites and the travellers diahrea I managed to pick up in this ''developed'' country, Rome can only be Rome, and luckily Rome is fabulous... a quirky, rustic, tourist riddled kind of fabulous.
And with that I will say ciao. One needs to concentrate in these sort of lines, those Chinese tour groups can get sneaky...
This is the downfall of Rome. It has hords of tourists. Often when I'm walking around and see local Italians I can't help but think ''sorry I'm here...'' It is an absolutely beautiful city full of narrow cobblestone vias, breath taking monuments and quaint corner cafes with linen covered tables. I could definitely see myself living here, taking long lunches, sipping wine and zipping around on my motorbike. The one thing that keeps me from unpacking my bad permenantly and taking up residence in a tiny apartment with lofted ceilings and endless supplies of pasta, is the tourists. I don't know if I could ever really think of it as ''my city'' if I was continously blinded by camera flashes and getting tangled in maps lost to the wind. Although I will say the infinite amount of gelati shops does make it tempting.
In front of me an American and Chinese man have gotten into a small argument.
''Where are you going??'' he says as the Chinese man tries to push in front.
''You can't go any further''. He shakes his head exsasperated and turns back to his friend while the Chinese chat amoungst themselves and disappear into the line in front of him.
Just about every language I could think of off the top of my head in a 10 second period is being spoken within 10 feet of me, which makes me glad to have arrived here after Africa as opposed to another major western city. At first I thought it may have been a bad choice, after 3 extra hours on the train and 2 hours trudging along with my backpack and newly aquired roller suitcase stuffed with Jared's and my Africa purchases, which I might add is not so great on cobblestones. Somewhere in those 2 hours I realized that I was going to have to get used to this European backpacking concept of ''booking ahead''.
In those first few hours, the culture shock of returning to the western world hit me with the force of an ancient marble statue. The tight stylish clothing, expensive electronics and immitation Gucci. The streets were so clean, there were no food stands or kids kicking homemade soccer balls. And although you could tell I was a tourist, I didn't attract any more attention than the next. I had to fight off the fear by forcing myself not to think about it.
After checking into the hostel the first day I did little more than laundry, internet and oogle at all the sweet and savory treats inside every glass case. But the second day, refreshed after 12 hours of sleep, I hit the cobblestones with the determination to see as many sites as possible. I walked continuously from 9am-6pm and saw just about every major site other than the Vatican. At the end of the day my legs ached with both the joy and sorrow of being physically active again.
The third day I felt even better. The first few days had been doubly hard dealing with both the culture shock of a new country and missing Jared. Although I had made a great effort to distract myself with Rome's history, I still missed him terribly and ended up silently crying myself to sleep. I highly doubt he did the same thing seeing it was quite a pathetic ''girly'' thing to do and also because at the same moment he was on a crowded bus to Nairobi and it would have looked a bit ridiculous, but I know he feels the same way. When you've spent 24 hours a day, 7 days a week with one person for 3 months, being lonely takes on a whole new meaning.
Anyways, the next day I felt further from tears and more at peace with being alone and thus chose to spend the day doing what one best does solo, no not polevaulting, but roaming museums. I was determined to hit at least two because I wanted to get the most out of my ''Rome Pass''. At the (in my opinion) high price of 18 euros you got into as many museums as you could find in the windy vias of Rome...well at least that's what I thought when purchasing. In fact it only got you into two museums free and the rest at a discounted price. I also didn't know that the Colosseum and Palentine were considered museums, although it makes sense. So when I set out that morning I should have received nothing for free, but my ignorance turned out to be bliss when the first ticket woman yelled to me through her glass,
''How many museums you go??'' I shrugged and somewhat awkwardly replied,
''How ever many I can get to before this thing expires...?'' But upon finishing realized she meant to say ''have you been to'' instead of ''you go''. ''Oh, none'' I quickly stammered, and she pointed me towards the entrance.
Upon arrival at my second museum I realized that the system had cheated me, but that I had also cheated the system. This glass enclosed woman explained to me the true function of my pass and that I would have to pay €5 to enter her museum. I paid the €5 with a smile not wanted to seem cheap and hoping that it would be worth it.
It was a decent museum, not as good as the one I got into for free, but it turned out to be worth it in a different way than I expected. There was a very large black and white photo exhibit by a photographers whose name, unfortunately, has slipped my mind. Most of his photos were either portraits or pictures of people caught at genuine human moments. Much of his early work was of 1950's Italy. Shots of woman carrying baskets of bread and children playing games in the street. A sparcely filled fruit stand or a child lugging a large wine bottle back to the shop for a refund. Staring at these images I realized that this was the Italy I had hoped to find. The Italy that was more like Africa. I missed those big and little things that are different about developing nations. They have mopeds here, but they don't have enough. They would need at least 10x the amount currently on the roads for me to think of their streets as ''hectic''. They have delicious food, but the smells and tastes would need to be in my face on every corner and fill every crevace of the bus for me to notice. I miss that rough edge that makes a country ''undeveloped''.
The exhibit forced me to see what I was looking for and why I was disappointed by what I had found. In the end it helped me remember that places are different and that they change, but most of all that I should enjoy them for what they are and not what I want them to be.
So today, with another early start which wasn't early enough, I find myself crowded with thousands of other tourists surging forward in anticipation of what the Vatican's walls may hold and I'm embracing it. Not everywhere will have hardly any tourists and elephants bathing in the rivers, just as not everywhere will have the pizza and history of Rome. I figure that inspite of the sweaty crowds, the nasty case of bed bug bites and the travellers diahrea I managed to pick up in this ''developed'' country, Rome can only be Rome, and luckily Rome is fabulous... a quirky, rustic, tourist riddled kind of fabulous.
And with that I will say ciao. One needs to concentrate in these sort of lines, those Chinese tour groups can get sneaky...
September 18, 2006
REWIND: A Chilly Hike (Day 283)
Chilled by stale sweat and covered with a thin layer of dust we precariously yet quickly made our way down the steps of the mountain. It was my second day in South Africa and Jared and I had just spent the last 2 hours climbing to the top of Capetown's famed Table Mountain.
We were chatting as we made our way down, Jared in front with me following somewhat closely behind. As we curved around one of the many steep hairpin turns we were greeted by an older man about midsixties and his wife perched on a rock.
"You must not be Canadian" he said. We began to answer but he continued, "because you're practically yelling".
Somewhat thrown off guard Jared and I stopped for a moment. His wife smiled.
"We just spent some time in Canada, and they were pretty quiet" he said. At this point Jared and I took a couple of steps in an attempt to continue down the steep path. He went on, "and you know what I think?...I think they're quiet because they don't want to be mistaken for Americans".
His wife nodded.
With this comment Jared and I paused. We had actually been talking about this exact subject the night before and had agreed that in most cases it's actually Canadians who are giving US a bad name, at least in the areas we had travelled. In Southeast Asia there were numerous instances when we had encountered what we thought to be an obnoxious group of Americans, yet on further investigation found they were actually Canadian, and if we can't tell who can? We had also agreed that there really aren't that many Americans traveling and if they do they tend to watch their asses closely and go to great lenghts to serve as positive "embassadors" since they know the world is against them.
"Well actually..." Jared and I said at the same time. I smiled as he continued to explain our thoughts to the man and his nodding wife. "Interesting" was all they replied.
The man then started to talk to Jared while his wife began chatting at me. She said she thought Americans were pretty quiet after their recent trip to California. She then went on to say that California was a dirty place with entirely too much poverty. Her husband chimmed in to say he thought Bangkok was better than L.A.
"We all have our problems" Jared replied.
"Well at least they don't pretend to be civilized" the man spat.
At this point Jared and I glanced at each other. It had been an odd couple of minutes. They had greeted us by offending us and had continued to do so throughout the entire conversation yet had done it in an oddly polite fashion which had thrown Jared and I off enough to allow them our attention for so long. But this comment, followed by his wife saying California was the most horrible place in the world, snapped us out of our daze and we realized we could no longer tolerate their inconsiderate blabber.
We turned to go, but then I turned back.
"Yes, we all have our problems, that's why I choose to reflect and go home and help make change rather than sit around telling others what's wrong with their countries" I said with a smile.
And with that he was off.
"That's the biggest load of bullshit I've ever heard!" he screamed, spit flying in all directions. We turned and continued our stumble hurridly down the mountain while the man stood upon his rock screaming at the top of his lungs. His voice boomed over the side of the mountain and with each echo his topic changed. Americans were fuel guzzling inconsiderate Bush-loving human beings. None of them had a good bone in their bodies. The English were soccer playing children. Women were losing their femininity. The list went on and on. At one point Jared said he even yelled something about me needing to grow out my hair.
The man was insane, yet his comments still stung. He was saying the things I know a majority of people think. He was exactly the type of traveller I hate. The dirty hippie that has done nothing but sit and smoke weed while bitching about the world and what's wrong with it. In my opinion the epitome of a useless human being. Someone who travels the world, learns so much, has so much priviledge yet uses none of it for any good. I don't know how many times I've found myself in rooms full of travellers drinking, smoking and whining about Bush and the U.S. government, fingers jabbing at the air, eyes rolling, tempers flaring. Early in my travels I used to agree, hanging my head to a certain extent. Yet as time has gone on I've found myself fed up with other travellers and their opinions. It's not that I don't agree with a lot of what they say, it's what they don't say that bothers me. When it comes to world politics all the focus is on the U.S. and how it's "messing things up". People seem to believe their countries have little or no power in world politics. In their minds George W. Bush thinks he rules the world and their comments show why in some ways he does. They don't acknowledge their own roles in the process. They don't acknowledge that it's the people they vote for at home that either support or fight the issues their voters deem worthy. They don't acknowledge that they elected the leaders that allow Bush to "rule the world"(1). They don't acknowledge that it's their voice that makes the change. Instead they waste their breath screaming at Jared and I, telling us how we screwed up by not doing anything when we may in fact be the only one's who actually make our voices heard.
As much as it hurts to be accused of being supporters of an "evil imperialistic empire" their angry voices and jabbing fingers have shown me how much power I have simply because I have the right to vote in U.S. elections. Whether it's right or fair, at this point in history my vote effects the entire world. Given that, it is not possible for me, a world traveller and U.S. citizen with an understanding of politics and environmental issues to go home and be the person they accuse me of being. What I now understand is that the rage in their voices may actually be a result of the belief that their votes are meaningless when in actuality they are not. They are frustrated by their self-imposed uselessness and the knowledge that I will continue down the mountain and make the change they want to make, while they will continue to rant on rocks, their words bouncing off the cliffs and creavaces of the mountain's dusty terrain.
(1) "They" being the majority of people in their country. I know I didn't vote for Bush but I accept the fact that a majority of people in my country did.
We were chatting as we made our way down, Jared in front with me following somewhat closely behind. As we curved around one of the many steep hairpin turns we were greeted by an older man about midsixties and his wife perched on a rock.
"You must not be Canadian" he said. We began to answer but he continued, "because you're practically yelling".
Somewhat thrown off guard Jared and I stopped for a moment. His wife smiled.
"We just spent some time in Canada, and they were pretty quiet" he said. At this point Jared and I took a couple of steps in an attempt to continue down the steep path. He went on, "and you know what I think?...I think they're quiet because they don't want to be mistaken for Americans".
His wife nodded.
With this comment Jared and I paused. We had actually been talking about this exact subject the night before and had agreed that in most cases it's actually Canadians who are giving US a bad name, at least in the areas we had travelled. In Southeast Asia there were numerous instances when we had encountered what we thought to be an obnoxious group of Americans, yet on further investigation found they were actually Canadian, and if we can't tell who can? We had also agreed that there really aren't that many Americans traveling and if they do they tend to watch their asses closely and go to great lenghts to serve as positive "embassadors" since they know the world is against them.
"Well actually..." Jared and I said at the same time. I smiled as he continued to explain our thoughts to the man and his nodding wife. "Interesting" was all they replied.
The man then started to talk to Jared while his wife began chatting at me. She said she thought Americans were pretty quiet after their recent trip to California. She then went on to say that California was a dirty place with entirely too much poverty. Her husband chimmed in to say he thought Bangkok was better than L.A.
"We all have our problems" Jared replied.
"Well at least they don't pretend to be civilized" the man spat.
At this point Jared and I glanced at each other. It had been an odd couple of minutes. They had greeted us by offending us and had continued to do so throughout the entire conversation yet had done it in an oddly polite fashion which had thrown Jared and I off enough to allow them our attention for so long. But this comment, followed by his wife saying California was the most horrible place in the world, snapped us out of our daze and we realized we could no longer tolerate their inconsiderate blabber.
We turned to go, but then I turned back.
"Yes, we all have our problems, that's why I choose to reflect and go home and help make change rather than sit around telling others what's wrong with their countries" I said with a smile.
And with that he was off.
"That's the biggest load of bullshit I've ever heard!" he screamed, spit flying in all directions. We turned and continued our stumble hurridly down the mountain while the man stood upon his rock screaming at the top of his lungs. His voice boomed over the side of the mountain and with each echo his topic changed. Americans were fuel guzzling inconsiderate Bush-loving human beings. None of them had a good bone in their bodies. The English were soccer playing children. Women were losing their femininity. The list went on and on. At one point Jared said he even yelled something about me needing to grow out my hair.
The man was insane, yet his comments still stung. He was saying the things I know a majority of people think. He was exactly the type of traveller I hate. The dirty hippie that has done nothing but sit and smoke weed while bitching about the world and what's wrong with it. In my opinion the epitome of a useless human being. Someone who travels the world, learns so much, has so much priviledge yet uses none of it for any good. I don't know how many times I've found myself in rooms full of travellers drinking, smoking and whining about Bush and the U.S. government, fingers jabbing at the air, eyes rolling, tempers flaring. Early in my travels I used to agree, hanging my head to a certain extent. Yet as time has gone on I've found myself fed up with other travellers and their opinions. It's not that I don't agree with a lot of what they say, it's what they don't say that bothers me. When it comes to world politics all the focus is on the U.S. and how it's "messing things up". People seem to believe their countries have little or no power in world politics. In their minds George W. Bush thinks he rules the world and their comments show why in some ways he does. They don't acknowledge their own roles in the process. They don't acknowledge that it's the people they vote for at home that either support or fight the issues their voters deem worthy. They don't acknowledge that they elected the leaders that allow Bush to "rule the world"(1). They don't acknowledge that it's their voice that makes the change. Instead they waste their breath screaming at Jared and I, telling us how we screwed up by not doing anything when we may in fact be the only one's who actually make our voices heard.
As much as it hurts to be accused of being supporters of an "evil imperialistic empire" their angry voices and jabbing fingers have shown me how much power I have simply because I have the right to vote in U.S. elections. Whether it's right or fair, at this point in history my vote effects the entire world. Given that, it is not possible for me, a world traveller and U.S. citizen with an understanding of politics and environmental issues to go home and be the person they accuse me of being. What I now understand is that the rage in their voices may actually be a result of the belief that their votes are meaningless when in actuality they are not. They are frustrated by their self-imposed uselessness and the knowledge that I will continue down the mountain and make the change they want to make, while they will continue to rant on rocks, their words bouncing off the cliffs and creavaces of the mountain's dusty terrain.
(1) "They" being the majority of people in their country. I know I didn't vote for Bush but I accept the fact that a majority of people in my country did.
