Month 5: Cheesy makes plans

Ok guys! So now that no one is reading this blog anymore, I have updates!

1 - I found a hitchhiking buddy to get back into the Balkans at the end of June! Yaaaaaaaaaaaay!

2 - I'm going back into the Balkans at the end of June! Yaaaaaaaaaaaaay!

3 - I'm moving to Split, Croatia at the beginning of July for an undetermined length of time. Ću tamo ići to volunteer sa udrugom za pomoć mladima. = I'm going there to volunteer with an organization that helps troubled youth.

Biggest fear: paralyzing boredom resulting from moving from a city of 15 million to a city of 100,000. Best solution: hula hoops, yoga, and rakija. Yaaaaaaaaaaaaay! (I can only hope they don't expect me to be a role model for the "troubled youth," hahaha)

Month 5: Cheesy meets rival

Cheesy had said something she regretted. In fact Cheesy often said things she later regretted.

Cheesy's problem was that, once she started something (anything), she couldn't stop. For example: talking, complaining, eating, singing, traveling. Cheesy was an absolute failure in self-moderation (especially given that after doing something obsessively for a while, Cheesy would suddenly stop it completely until some new obsession came along). For a while, Cheesy wasn't able to stop herself from philosophizing about facebook and spying on people, until she crossed the line by criticizing people who give constant updates about themselves. There are lots of people who give constant updates about themselves. Cheesy was beginning to realize that the desire to talk to people was probably normal. So constant updaters were probably socially healthy people from whom Cheesy could learn a lot, ha ha. With that realization, Cheesy's short-lived obsession with the facebook privacy issue ended abruptly.

In the meantime Cheesy had met a friend who complemented her perfectly in the social sphere. Let us call her Tally (since of course Cheesy was still obsessed with the blogger's privacy issue, ha ha). Tally was good for Cheesy, because Tally was always talking, smiling, and laughing. Cheesy was learning from Tally what it was like to be a normal, happy, sociable person. For example, Tally demonstrated that it was possible to live well without changing one's country of residence every few weeks (ha, ha). Tally was also crazy about things like "positive energy" and "cleansing one's aura" and so on. Cheesy was thrilled to have finally met someone cheesier than her. Tally also accepted Cheesy's atheism, which had been making Cheesy feel like a deviant weirdo in Turkey. In brief, Tally made Cheesy feel a little bit less alone, and together they would float for hours through their strange cloud of cheesy energy.

Nonetheless Cheesy's itch to move was getting stronger and stronger. She was surprised at how much she missed the weight of her backpack on her shoulders. She was also disappointed on how slow she was at picking up Turkish - she had learned as much Turkish in six weeks as she had learned of Serbo-Croatian in two weeks (and yes, she was losing her English skills) (and yes, she just said "Serbo-Croatian" even though that's a big no-no) (what was she supposed to call it? She was in Croatia for one week where they told her not to learn Serbian, then she was in Serbia for one week where they told her not to learn Croatian, but in both places she learned the same language, so she had decided to give the finger to politics and just call it "Serbo-Croatian") (oops did she just say too much again? Dear reader, she means no offense).

Cheesy's final thoughts on the matter were about self-restraint. Cheesy believed that when there is an itch, one should scratch. Isn't this the cornerstone of hedonism?

(Too many days, too lazy to count): Out of the silence…

…come some random thoughts from Istanbul.

1. Sorrrrrry! Ok most important update: I made it to Istanbul! Hahaha. Only 5 weeks ago.

The truth is that I was going to give up the blog. As all bloggers eventually must, I had to decide (a) whether I really want to be spied upon, and (b) whether I'm too lazy to provide people with the necessary tools for spying on me. To be honest, for a while I didn't feel like telling people what I was doing. Don't take it personally – if you know me well, then you know I have my moments. If you don't, well: I have my moments. Haha. Then I wanted to write, but so many things had happened and I just felt too lazy. Bad excuses, I know. And know I come out of the murk with some crappy apologies and crappier lists, but hey, no one's forcing you to spy on me anyway J

 

2. Turkish people are tough. I wouldn't mess with them if I were you. (when I hang out with Turkish people I feel like a silly little bird who thinks she knows her way, but really everyone knows she's lost…)

 

3. I think it's possible to get addicted to leaving things. Istanbul is always clogged with traffic and people and noise. It's true that I find it energizing. But I also really miss the rush you get when you're standing at the side of a highway, and there's nothing but the swoosh of cars going by and the future waiting for you at the other end. Is it only proud people who get a good feeling when they abandon things? Because in a way, abandonment is an act of defiance, and proud people are defiant. When you abandon a place or a person, you are saying that you think there are better things out there for you. So are all travelers assholes?

 

4. I get tired of hearing my own voice. Just look at #3 above, it sounds so snobby. So that's my 3^rd excuse for not writing in a while. (I don't think I'll ever understand the people who put a new facebook update every 5 minutes. Don't they get bored of themselves?)

 

5. Let's talk more about boredom. Maybe it's the chronically bored who end up traveling, not the proud. You get bored of one place, you move on. It's easy and it's fun.

 

6. It's pretty frustrating to teach anything to people who don't want to be taught. It makes me wonder – why teach? Clearly these people have better things to do with their time than to learn. I'm not sure whether I'm doing the right thing when I have to force students to learn things for an exam that they just couldn't care less about. In a way I respect them. I don't feel like making them learn any more than they feel like learning. So I wish I could just say to them, "Ok let's make a deal. I'll give you the average grade if you just shut up in class and let me teach the people who care." But unfortunately most 15-year-old girls wouldn't really understand. Especially if I say it in English. (haha)

 

7. Last week it hit me for the first time that I'm in a Muslim country. Once again, a little slow.

Day 62-65: Cheesy is up in the air

     All of a sudden Cheesy was about to leave for Istanbul. All of a sudden Cheesy was absolutely, uncontrollably petrified. Just as Cheesy was getting to know and love the Balkans, she was leaving. It was only the second time on her trip that she felt truly afraid. The first time was when she entered Slovenia. But Slovenia was still more or less central Europe. For God's sake, Slovenia was EU. Now Cheesy was going to Turkey. Cheesy was a young female atheist with pink and blonde hair. She had no idea how it would be like in Istanbul. Cheesy wanted to stay under her covers in her cozy little apartment in the cozy little town of Struga, Macedonia. But instead,

Turkeyturkeyturkeyturkeyturkeyturkeyturkey

    And the bus ride would only be 18 hours….

Day 1,213,924: Cheesy’s Mind Begins to Wander, Too

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Part I.

    Once upon a time, a man named Oscar Wilde wrote a book that transcended all limits of time, space, and physicality to wind up in the mind of Cheesy Magenta. The book was called A Picture of Dorian Gray. In the book, there was a character named Lord Henry, who was by far the most intelligent fictional human being Cheesy had ever come across. Lord Henry said something, or Oscar Wilde wrote something, that Cheesy thought about often. It went something like this: a good artist puts all of his energy and creativity into his work, and as a result, has a personality that is totally empty and dull.

    In Trieste Cheesy had met a couple of Germans hitchhiking from Central Europe to South Africa. The girl became a bit of a fascination to Cheesy. She was tall, blonde, broad, and silent. She ate a lot. She carried around a backpack that nearly doubled her size. She had rosy cheeks and straight white teeth. She reminded Cheesy of health and stability, so let's call her Stable Sally.

    Stable Sally had gone on all sorts of fabulous adventures. Cheesy couldn't even remember half of them. The one that stood out was Stable Sally's month of hitchhiking alone in Mongolia. There were no roads in Mongolia and no cars. People got around on horse. Later on, in Zagreb, Cheesy would find out that there is also a beautiful culture of throat-singing in Mongolia. Stable Sally, a young blonde girl from a quiet German town, integrated herself into all of this without ever speaking a word of Mongolian (or whatever they speak there).

    But the strangest thing, Cheesy thought, was how silent Stable Sally was. A true adventurer was supposed to be bubbly, reckless, and aloof. Like Steve Irwin, the crazy Australian crocodile-hunter. Stable Sally was, well, kind of boring. Where was all the adrenaline? Where were the strange creatures hiding in Sally's backpack? Where were the dirty teeth and crooked haircut? Then Cheesy thought of Oscar Wilde. Maybe Stable Sally had directed all of her inner insanity into her journeys, and had nothing left to perk up her personality. Maybe Stable Sally was the traveling analogy of a great artist.

Part II.

    Cheesy most definitely did not feel at home in Serbia. Maybe that's why she liked it so much. After leaving Italy, everything had changed. She had begun to see all sorts of things, some of them more like Montreal and some of them much less. The biggest change was in the colours of Eastern Europe. She saw streets entirely covered in graffiti art; she saw orange churches, green palaces, and yellow houses; she saw pink platform shoes, pink coats, and pink hair (and YES! Cheesy desperately missed her pink hair too). Eastern Europe was all about people. History, politics, architecture, and nature were all secondary.

    Cheesy's host was a typical-looking Serb. He had big, deep-set gray eyes like the tete-a-claque cartoons, and full pink lips. He had a wide jawline and a bristly beard. He was short and stalky. He ate fried meat for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Cheesy hadn't seen him eat a single bite of fruit or vegetable. He was the worrying type. He was small and awkward, which sort of reassured Cheesy since she often felt that way herself, but sometimes she also felt awkward that she made him feel awkward. Awkward is contagious. And it's a really awkward word if you say it enough times.

    Cheesy's host took her to his hometown of Novi Sad, a bit north of Belgrade. They were hit by a monstrous snowstorm and didn't get home until two days later, at 3 a.m., burnt out and hungover and grubby. But Novi Sad was gorgeous – half quaint and half commercial, like many Balkan cities. Zagreb was that way, too. There are zones of wide roads, blowing wind, and concrete. Then there are zones of blocky residential buildings, sometimes looking cramped and neglected. Finally there are the "pretty" zones with statues, markets, and cobblestone streets. Okay, so that makes three halves, but that's just how great Eastern Europe is.

    Sometimes Cheesy was nostalgic for her kitchen back home. She had secret pangs of longing for broccoli, soy sauce, and bran muffins. She was holding up alright, although she couldn't stop her stomach from turning when her Belgrade host would wake her up to breakfasts of deep-fried fish burgers, sliced ham, fried sausages, and chicken wings. On the other hand, she had made a life-changing gastronomical discovery in Croatia and Serbia: rakija! It was usually translated as "brandy," but in Cheesy's opinion, rakija couldn't be equated to anything else. She especially loved the ones made with honey, called medica or medovača (pronounced "meditsa," "medovacha"). Her host in Zagreb had made a big pot of his own medica, made with lemon and cinnamon, and they had drunk it by the bottle-full. In Novi Sad Cheesy and her host went to rakija bar where they drank rakijas made from quince, raspberry, and walnuts. And it was dangerously cheap…

    Cheesy was also working on her language skills. After finally buying a book about Serbian/Croatian, she had uttered her first whole sentence to a stranger in Serbian: "Ne govorim srpski," which of course means "I don't speak Serbian!" Also, she had met a guy at the fortress in Belgrade who spoke nothing but Serbian. They had managed to exchange phone numbers. Since then, the guy kept sending Cheesy text messages in Serbian, which Cheesy would frantically try to decode and then answer with the help of her book. Needless to say, misunderstandings were common… for example, he had asked her what time she would be coming back from Novi Sad and she replied that she hoped it would not rain (it snowed, anyway).

Part III.

    In fact, Oscar Wilde wouldn't have been the only one to agree on the analogy between traveling and art. Cheesy's good old friend Albert Camus wrote that art was the ultimate existential hobby: the artist constantly creates in order to bring meaning and magic to life, although in the end his efforts are pointless. Similarly, every city brought something wonderful into Cheesy's life, which she would then have to leave behind. If Cheesy was going to dedicate her life to meeting and then abandoning great people, she was going to have to build a bit of a backbone. Or just go back again and again, trying to re-create the initial magic. But should she risk the disappointment? Should good things stay in the past?

    Should good things stay in the past?

Day 47: Go east, young woman

    This afternoon, my hosts in Trieste drove me to the train station on the Slovenian side of the border. In the car, it dawned on me for the first time that I was far, far from home. Home has nothing to do with me now. Home is a concept whose meaning is gradually loosing footage in my mind. Right now I am on the train to Ljubljana, and within miles I'm the only thing I know anything about. The language is different. The trees are different. The fences are different. Yesterday I met a couple of Germans who were hitchhiking to South Africa. They had also hitchhiked in Mongolia, Iceland, Romania, Scandinavia, and Africa. They made me wonder whether having a "home" becomes more or less important the further you go.

    By the time I left Trieste I was finally beginning to feel at home in Italy. It is not the magnificent country that you learn about in school. Its glory is in its past. As a result, the people are afraid to move forward. Italians talk endlessly about how their country is too closed, how the people are too near-sighted, how the culture is too limited. But there is a reluctance to change. Italians are complicated, beautiful, and sad. I would go back without hesitation.

    Trieste was a lovely city. It has the atmosphere of in-betweenness. It is cornered between the mountains and the sea, between eastern and western Europe. It is sort of small, but sort of big. There are some tourists, but not many. It is decidedly Italian, but there is a significant minority of foreigners (due in part to the center of theoretical physics nearby, which attracts nerds from around the world). The architecture includes Roman ruins, baroque palaces, and modern art statues. There are areas which my host described as being "like beaches," where you can sunbathe but not swim, and where women and men have their separate zones. In Trieste everything is in between, more or less.

    I would like to tell you about the Slovenian countryside passing below me. It is a new world that I want to share with you. But I haven't yet told you about Padova and Venice, or even about Bologna. Oh, my poor reader, how I've kept you out of touch! Bologna was my favourite city in Italy. Instead of big piazzas, pompous white palaces, and gnarly oak trees, Bologna is full of archways. Orange archways. Yes, yes, I know the city is old, but I insist that it was totally 1970's. Bologna is groovin. Bologna got game. It's laid-back, it's open, it's orange. My host was, without doubt, the cook with the lowest stress levels that I will ever meet (yes Sarah and Dave, that one's for you!). Although he did tell me that he was showing me only one side of Bologna, and that there exists a whole other world of people who are all about "fashion."

    In Padova I had my first experience with one such "fashion" Italian (they use "fashion" as an adjective to describe these types of people, e.g. "He's a bit too fashion for my tastes"). At the Padova station, I was greeted in all my travel grime by a young man in smart, spotless clothes and brought to an apartment where I swear there was not a speck of dust anywhere. Coming from Bologna, all this was a bit of a shock to me. I felt as though I had suddenly been dropped into a world that I didn't want and that didn't want me. But as always, my reaction was too hasty. It turned out that my host was as strange as all the other Italians I'd met, and as such, we got along famously.

    … I'll tell you about Trieste some other time. Right now, it's all about Slovenia. It's the coolest thing in the world to walk down the street and not understand a thing on the posters and street signs. Let's get lost!

Day 39: The road out of Rome

    Ah my faithful reader, Cheesy has not forgotten about you. But as she was drifting on through Europe, real life was catching up to her. The thrill of embarking on a four-month voyage was subsiding to more practical challenges of every-day life in Europe. And in general, daily challenges are far less interesting to write about than epic voyages. Cheesy was not epic – Cheesy was cheesy.

    Rome, on the other hand, was epic. Everything was huge, gray, and ancient. But Cheesy couldn't help but feel that all the myths and monuments were a façade hiding the true character of the city. Rome was somehow more elusive than all the other towns Cheesy had visited. After ten days, Cheesy still hadn't discovered any particular neighbourhood particularly well. She had spent an evening in San Lorenzo, the student ghetto near the train station, where she played board games in a bar with other couchsurfers. She had spent two evenings in Trastevere, which is a bit like the Plateau in that you either go there because you're cool or because you want to look cool. For example, in one Trastevere bar Cheesy had had a shot called a "69" composed of chocolate, absinthe, cream, and peppercorns. But Cheesy still hadn't found a vibe that unified her memories of Rome, so she decided she'd just have to go back again one day to figure out Rome for once and for all.

    The Roman people were certainly nicer than the Fiorentini or the Torinesi. They smiled more and wore more colourful clothes. They talked less about politics and more about history. They hadn't caught on to the north Italian trend of wearing glasses the size of goggles. They looked at you in your eyes when you spoke, and actually seemed to be listening.

    Despite the countless monuments and tourists, Rome paradoxically gave Cheesy the impression of being empty. Maybe it was because the buildings were so big, they dwarfed everything around them. Rome was full of wide piazzas, wide roads, and wide parks. Cheesy couldn't really tell where everyone lived. When she asked, the Romans answered the "Periferia," the neighbourhoods forming a concentric circle around the center of Rome. Indeed, Cheesy's host was in the western periphery in an area called Casalotti. It took Cheesy an hour to get to the center of Rome from Casalotti using public transportation. (Rome only had two metro lines, although it was at least twice as big as Montreal. One guy claimed that the metro only covers 30% of the city).

    Life in Rome was a mixed bag. On the down side, having an education wouldn't guarantee a job. The jobs that were available were mostly short-term or menial. Rent was nearly as high as Paris. Salaries weren't great. The bread was lousy. On the plus side, having four or five weeks of vacation per year was normal. Food prices were reasonable. The winters weren't cold. It was easy enough to make friends. A bus ticket only cost one euro. So did a cappuccino. And it was Rome!

    On the train to Bologna Cheesy was already feeling nostalgic. She felt sure she would return to Rome one day. And next time she wouldn't be sick at home for five days – she would live amongst the Romans and discover all the secret corners she knew she'd missed. But she knew she'd have to plan it better. The Romans were bombarded by couchsurfers. A couchsurfer listed as a host in Rome received an average of 9 or 10 requests every day during the down season. During the summer it was basically impossible to find a host. And Cheesy was not, by any means, going back to the hostel she'd stayed in her first night.

    Nonetheless Cheesy was looking forward to Bologna. She had been told it was a great student town and the capital of left-wing politics in Italy (however weak it may be). She had also learned that spaghetti Bolognese was an American invention that did not actually exist in Italy (neither did fettuccini alfredo). Her host was a young pastry chef new to couchsurfing. So let the good times and the pastry dough roll!

Day 29: Cheesy visits a rut

    Experienced travelers know that, when you're on the road, all things go wrong at once. First, Cheesy couldn't find a host in Rome, despite having sent out dozens of messages to dozens of people. Second, she couldn't reserve a bed online at the only hostel in Rome, because reservations had to be 48 hours in advance and Cheesy had been hoping until the last minute to find a couchsurfing host. Third, Cheesy couldn't stay an extra day with her host in Florence, because he was expecting new guests. Fourth, Cheesy found out Monday morning at 10 that she had to be gone by 11 because the housekeeper was coming.

    So all of a sudden Cheesy found herself in the train station of Florence, heading to Rome with no idea what to do once she got there. But she still felt positive, because she managed to get on a train that she knew was heading to Rome (unlike in Marseille, where she got on the train not knowing when or how to get to Torino where her next hosts were waiting for her). On the train, she got into a conversation with an Italian man sitting opposite her, who actually knew quite a bit about linguistics. But Cheesy's good humour was premature. Cheesy hadn't marked the date on her train pass yet, since on the Marseille train she only wrote the date once the ticket-man came along. And so the ticket-man on the Roman train came along. And Cheesy hadn't marked the date yet. And the ticket-man fined Cheesy €50. And so began Cheesy's descent into Rome.

    Once arrived, Cheesy took the bus to get to the hostel. In Rome, there are crosswalks on the street without any traffic lights. So the pedestrian is expected to saunter out into the highway and hope that all the cars will stop. Cheesy had to cross such a street to get to the hostel. She was cautious. She waited until a bus stopped to let her cross. So she dashed towards the yellow line in the middle of the highway. The cars on the other side of the highway hadn't seen her yet. Once she arrived at the yellow line, the first car saw her and stopped suddenly. The car behind it of course hadn't seen anything, and went flying into the car that had stopped for Cheesy. And so Cheesy's entry to the Roman youth hostel was punctuated by a major car accident. Fortunately no one was hurt, and Cheesy was able to creep away from the scene to get to the hostel.

    The hostel was €19 per night. Internet use was €3 per hour. The wireless system was down. Breakfast was not included. Laundry cost €6. The lobby was unheated. There were no locks on the doors. There was no soap in the bathrooms. And in order to go anywhere, you had to cross the damn highway again. Cheesy was not pleased. But the employees were really nice, and placed Cheesy in the same dorm as another Canadian girl who had just arrived. So there was hope for Rome.

    However, the next morning, Cheesy began her tour at the hospital. No, dear reader, Cheesy is quite fine. But (and I'm sure you'll be very interested to know), Cheesy had developed an infected ingrown hair, and it had become so swollen that Cheesy thought she might do well with a prescription of some kind (Cheesy had learned early on from her parents working in the pharmaceutical industry: when in doubt, seek drugs). Cheesy managed to get out of the hospital by about 1 p.m. and was happy to have some time to walk around. Of course, it promptly started raining. So Cheesy found a café with a wifi internet connection and settled in. She had 64 new emails, breaking her previous record of 32 in Florence. Most were just couchsurfing business, which was taking up much of Cheesy's time.

    After tackling the emails, Cheesy braved the rain and managed to do some sightseeing. She stumbled across the Parthenon by accident. Not that it was hard: the Parthenon was huge. Rome was huge. In fact, with all the traffic and monuments and people, Cheesy was beginning to think that the only thing cooler than Paris was Rome. Cheesy was a city girl, no doubt. After the Parthenon, Cheesy visited the Castel Sant'Angelo. The castle was surrounded by more of the lovely Dr. Seuss trees that Cheesy had first seen in Marseille. Then Cheesy went to the Basilica San Pietro, which she did not realize was right next to the Vatican. She also didn't realize that she could actually go into the basilica without paying, so she lingered around outside for a while. She did manage to get into the crypts of the dead popes. That was nice, but not like seeing a real mummy, skin and bones, like in Torino.

    After her touristy afternoon, Cheesy returned to the hostel. She had managed to find a host, and was to wait for him there until 8 or 9 p.m. Italians have big days. They work from 9 a.m. until late into the evening, come home to have a multi-course dinner at 9 p.m., then maybe go out dancing until 2 or 3 in the morning. Maybe it's because they're always running late. In any case, Cheesy wasn't surprised when her host called to say he'd only be arriving around 9:30. Cheesy didn't mind. She was happy to be leaving the hostel and hopefully also the rut she'd gotten into since heading to Rome.

Day 28: Firenze to Roma

    Have I already been in Europe four weeks? When was my last blog post, anyway? Yikes time flies.

    Italy is slowly warming up to me, or maybe I'm slowly warming up to it. Maybe it's because I understand the language much better now, which means the culture and the people are more accessible. But what I'm finding out is strange. The Italians seem displeased with their country. My second host in Turin spoke to me for five days straight about the horror of Italian politics and the shame of a culture based entirely on soccer, coffee, and fashion. My host in Florence told me that work is hard to find, earnings are low relative to cost of living, work conditions are deplorable, and rent is high. He told me that the Florentines aren't so nice. In Turin, my hosts told me the Turinese aren't so nice. Everyone seems to think that all the nice people are in the south. But the further south I travel, the further south I have to go to find people who describe their city as friendly. So maybe I'll have to go right to the southern tip of Sicily to find the elusive friendly people of Italy…

    Not that my hosts haven't been nice. But Italians are surprisingly serious. I've met only two people who had an easy smile – one was from Sardinia, the other from Napoli – both of course from the "far south." Italians seem to age quickly, too. Thirty years somehow seems a lot older here than in Canada. I have yet to meet the bubbly and flirtatious stereotype.

    So why do Italians stay in Italy if they're tired of living here? At first (in my well-established naivety), I thought it must the charm of Italy sucking people in like magnets. But when I asked my hosts, the replies were curious. Italians are lazy. Italians are xenophobic. Italians are too attached to family and friends. One person even told me (please don't be offended, dear reader) that Italians are f**ed up. And after telling me this they admit that they have no real proof for characterizing Italians this way. So my impression is that Italians are a people of strange convictions and even stranger inclinations. Their actions don't match their beliefs and their beliefs don't match reality.

    I'm heading to Rome now, where I'm sure I'll be told that Romans aren't nice, and I should go further south. Actually I've had a lot of trouble finding hosts in Rome. Tonight I'm hoping there will be room at the hostel. Also, I got fined €50 for not having put the date on my Eurail pass before getting on the train. So my entry into Rome is starting out rough. Nonetheless, the countryside between Florence and Rome is absolutely gorgeous. I also asked my hosts to tell me something good about Italy (for God's sake). The first host had no answer. The second said, "the weather." Ha, ha. Well it's true – the sun is out and it's warm today. Although it rained for my first three days in Florence, and my first five days in Torino. So basically after two weeks, I'm still unable to attribute a single quality to Italy with any certainty. Oh wait, they eat a LOT!

    I suppose I should say something about Florence. Here goes: it is FULL of Americans. Everywhere, everywhere, everywhere. Honestly it's so bad that I was embarrassed to be an English-speaker in Florence. And it's full of college Americans. (No offense intended to Americans reading this, if there are any). So the streets fill up with twenty-year-old ditzes and jocks taking advantage of the sixteen-year-old drinking permission in Italy. And we're in the down season now. My advice: do not, under any circumstances, go to Florence in the summer.

    Still, Florence is a lovely city for walking. The streets are windy and cobblestony, there are tons of old churches, the Duomo is majestic, the river is lovely, and the gelato is goooood. The markets are big but more expensive than Torino. In general things are less clean and stuck-up in Florence than in Turin, and more charismatic. But then you hear someone squealing in an American drawl, and your shoulders sink a bit. Sigh.

    Alora perché non voglio essere una turista (i couchsurfers sono 'travelers' e non turisti), e sopratutto non voglio che la gente pensi che io sia americana, finisco questo blog in italiano. Ciao e baci a tutti!

 

    

Vi presento Torino!

Piazza San Carlo - a reflection of the grandiose architecture of Torino
Overlooking the city, brrrr
Fiume (river) Po, with kayaker, Alps, and the Mole
Silvio, my second host in Torino, filming a documentary about the darker side of Italian politics (assuming there is a lighter side)
My first hosts Piero and Eva