Poco a Poco

So it turns out I’m not the best at keeping a blog. Sorry to anyone who was actually interested in my misadventures. Anyway, I’m finally writing again... The problem is that I have too much to say.

Well, the problem is also that I think too much. Don’t get me wrong, I’m completely enjoying whatever weird version of my life is taking place right now. It’s just that this whole little escapade has sort of been one big crash-course kamikaze therapy session. I mean, despite the reality that I’ve decided to live in Madrid for a while, I’m still myself. So the fact that I have trouble making decisions or tend to give too much energy to other people has generally been amplified.

And so I’ve got life lessons aplenty. I seem to hover between complete confidence and sheer terror at my own naivete.  But I’ve chosen to live my life authentically, as scary as it may be. Learning is uncomfortable, for sure.  And it doesn't happen all at once.

There’s a saying here in Spain that I’ve kind of taken on as a personal mantra: Poco a poco. Little by little. It kind of explains the nature of the people here. They work as hard as they need to, and understand that everything takes time. I love this phrase because it applies to every aspect of my (and our) existence. When I explain to people here that I’m looking for work, learning the language, and trying to make friends, they'll say it in the most sincere way:  Poco a poco. And it's always incredibly reassuring. My yoga instructor uses it to remind us to take our time. I tell the same to the couple who I tutor in English. One thing's for sure about people here in Madrid, they don't rush anything.

I’m not sure if it’s because I’m American or grew up privileged or maybe just because I’m human, but I tend to want things immediately. This includes the answers to some pretty big cosmic questions. Turns out those things don’t come overnight, but in fact, a little bit at a time. And I'm certain I'm on to something, even if I can't put it into words just yet.

So when I can’t find my favorite cafe (even though I was there a week ago) or I’m not sure where I want to be in six months from now, I can remind myself: Poco a poco. And even though I hate New Year’s, I guess it’s a good time for obligatory reflection. I’m incredibly grateful to be alive and doing things that scare the shit out of me. Why the hell not?

I won’t tell you what I did last New Year’s (because it involved watching an obscene amount of Buffy the Vampire Slayer), but I can say that I never thought that a year later I'd be celebrating in Spain. Life is strange that way. But only if you're brave enough to let it be.

Mil besitos y Feliz Año Nuevo from your amiga loca.

Happy New Year! Getting ready for dinner with my roommate and her Peruvian friends

Madrid, Me Gustas Mucho

I haven´t posted in a while because I´ve been busy soaking in this incredible city. When I arrived here about a week and half ago, I had only planned on staying a few days. But I keep staying.

First of all, my Spanish is infinitely better than my Italian, in that I could never actually speak Italian, I just got along with little phrases. Here in Spain, I´m kind of like an Advanced Beginner. At first it was tricky because I would say per favore (Italiano), rather than por favor, or permiso instead of perdon, things like that. And I would kick myself for forgetting so many basics, like right and left  (derecha y izquierda) or the verb for  return (volver). But I´m slowly allowing the Italian palabras to fade into the background so I can practice en Espanol.

The people here are encouraging and tell me I have a decent accent. So initially I was feeling pretty good. But when I´m in a group of people all talking at once, or I want to talk about something a little more contemplative, it turns out I´m not so amazing afterall. I find myself remembering all the years I sat in the back of my classroom, listening in while my ten year old students had their Spanish class. I understood everything and would sometimes laugh along with the Professora who would make comments in Spanish that the kids didn´t always understand. I thought I was awesome. But here, I´ve realized that this means that I have the same level of vocabulary and competency as a ten year old. Pero me gusta hablar español y si quiero mejorar, todo lo que tengo que hacer es practicar, practicar, practicar : ) 

Coke Addict

I haven't drank coffee regularly for the past two, maybe three years. Now I have at least one macchiato a day. Also, for some reason, I'm obsessed with Coke. I never drink soda at home. Ok, maybe if I'm having a slice of pizza, I'll get a Dr. Pepper for nostalgic purposes. Here, I can't get enough of it. Coke with a panini, whiskey & coke, rum & coke. It's weird. I wonder if it's some subliminal pop-culture connection that links my brain to the good 'ole USA?

 
When I'm "home" and have some sort of normal existence, I like to think I'm pretty healthy. Cereal with almond milk and a banana for breakfast. Tea. Lunch: Huge salad with nuts and fruit with olive

Miss you : (

oil-lemon  dressing. Dinner varies between some version of veggie tofu-stir fry, shrimp tacos, more big salads (maybe with grilled chicken), and Trader Joe's frozen burritos. Every so often I'll be dying for a bacon cheeseburger or order and overindulge in too much Chinese take-out. I drink water all day long and if I'm feeling fancy, lime seltzer. I've never had a major sweet tooth, so my big indulgence is a Green's and Black's Hazelnut & Currant chocolate bar that I'll keep in the fridge and take like a week to eat, much to the disgust of my friends. Sometimes I get the Maya Gold one to mix it up a little.

Day 1 in Brussels: Start of my demise

From the moment I set foot in Europe almost 2 months ago, that all went to shit. First of all, my Belgian friend eats little packaged waffles for breakfast everyday. Talk about perpetuating a cliche. You might think, That doesn't sound too bad. We have waffles for breakfast here in the U.S... Yeah, but not all the time, and you know that even your mom switched to multigrain Eggos sometime in the late-nineties ("They say they're bettah for you").

Seriously?

 After only a week, I was missing veggies and exhausted from too much meat and bread consumption. One morning in Amsterdam, tired and hungover, I amazingly found a bagel place. I was skeptical, but when I sat down and saw that I could order hummus, avocado, and tomato, and that they had Yogi tea, I seriously almost cried. The bagel was total crap (it was multigrain though), but it didn't matter. Here was my particular American cuisine, and I was so damn grateful for the small comfort of home. I pocketed a couple of tea bags so that I'd have more than just Earl Grey as an option, and left content.

 So I was in Sicily for over a month and things spiraled out of control. Why do Europeans think Nutella is an acceptable breakfast food? But the Nutella is really just the icing on the cake, or the ricotta in the cannoli, or the Nutella on the coronetti, or something like that.

Pane Panelle, hold the croquette please

Jesus, Italians love bread (and Jesus). Anyway, they find the most amazing ways to make things more fattening. First, if you try to order only one flavor of gelato, people look at you like you're insane. A favorite treat here is a brioche roll cut open and smushed with a bunch of gelato, topped with whipped cream and a little biscuit. They also put french fries on pizza. Then there's pane panelle.  Panelle are little fried rectangles of chick pea flower. Ok, not so bad. But then they take a bunch of the pannelle and layer them on a sub roll with a squirt of lemon juice and some salt. Then, some people add little potato croquettes and french fries on top of that. Bread sandwich? Yikes. (Not that that stopped me from trying one)

Semi-normal veggie dinner

For the past few weeks, I've succumbed, and  now think nothing of having a chocolate filled croissant with my morning cappuccino or eating pasta for both lunch and dinner. The couple of times I've been in a place long enough to cook for myself, I revert to an old stand-by, garlic sauteed veggies (I wouldn't even try to find tofu here). Always zucchini, sometimes mushrooms or eggplant. Red pepper. I don't even bother to put it over pasta, but I do add lots of pecorino or parmigiano.  Again, it's a small reminder of some distant existence where I'm lighter around the middle and don't feel alarmingly sluggish due to over-consumption of carbohydrates.

Lazy dinner. Thank god for arugula.

I bought one of these hunks of fresh ricotta from this guy.

He drizzled it with olive oil, and added garlic & oregano. He also gave me a couple of slice of parmigiano to take home.

I just got to Madrid yesterday and only have an inkling of what to expect with regard to the cuisine (other than tapas, lots of ham, and churros). But I've given up the fight to regain any normalcy in my diet. If I get home in time for Thanksgiving, it will be a kind of perfect way to be reintroduced to my (admittedly) beloved country. With more feasting. Then I'm going to fast like a mofo.

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PS- I had a million AMAZING meals in Sicily... I was going to give some highlights here, but there's just too much... stay tuned.

Luck of the Irish

My apartment in Cefalu

So when I was in Cefalu (almost a month ago!) Francesco (my “landlord") said that I could use any of the bikes in the front entryway. After 2 days at the beach, I decided to do a bit of exploring by bike, knowing I could still hit the beach later that afternoon.

I found one with a low enough seat and a basket, and headed out. The gears were tricky and I’ve never been that good at adjusting them anyway. I generally just arbitrarily turn them back and forth until it feels ok. The bike was clicking and clacking and at times didn’t have enough resistance, but I got it to a (noisy) spot that I liked and persisted down the street that followed the shore.

The shared patio. Yay for laundry!

 I assessed each beach as I passed, all of them the same really, from the one I had been frequenting. All the way down at the end, the shore curved up and out to form a little crescent beach. Rather than a sandy coast, this little end point had large rocks scattered throughout the surf. Just enough to climb around on or sit and get your feet wet. There were also the familiar blue lounge chairs and umbrellas that you can rent on most parts of the beach. Upon inspection, I learned that this was the private beach reserved for the guests of the Santa Lucia hotel. I was pretty sure that if I took up residence here for an hour or so, no one would be concerned with whether I was an actual hotel guest or not. I liked the idea that it was secluded and that there were free chairs, and I imagined myself reading and lounging in solitude.

My bike

After running back home to grab my beach stuff, I headed back on my rickety bike, beach bag crammed into the front basket. By the time  I settled on the sand, it was already late afternoon. The sun was slowly sinking behind me, causing me to have to move out of a newly cast shadow every fifteen minutes or so. After about an hour, I gave up and decided to take some pictures and head out for a bit to eat.

I had been observing this couple a few yards down. They were meandering down the beach, sometimes putting their feet in the water. Each had taken a place on a different rock in the surf. The husband sat reading a newspaper with his feet in the water, the wife was a few rocks closer to shore. She had on a matching shorts and tank top set. It was white with little smears of color here and there. It was like something I would have had (and loved) when I was a kid. I thought it was cute that they were there together, but taking time to chill separately. They were clearly tourists like myself.

You can see Florence & Robert in the background : ) 

On my way off the beach I snapped a shot of the shore stretching out to the east, with the ever present Rocca towering above the town. My father & brother are famous for self-portrait shots of themselves, arms outstretched, faces wincing in the hopes that the shot will actually work out. So far, these were the only pictures I had of myself. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree.

So I asked the woman in the jumper if she wouldn’t mind taking my photo. She snapped a few (later I realized that I really don't want a full length shot of myself in a bathing suit), and we got to talking. Her name was Florence, and  she and her husband, Robert, were from Ireland on a week vacation in Cefalu. Part of their travel package included three bus trips to some of the main sites in Sicily. They had already done two and the second one, a trip to Mount Etna, took all day and was quite exhausting. When I mentioned that I'd like to go to Agrigento, a nearby city with ancient Greek temples, Florence explained that she was going there tomorrow and she had an extra seat, since her husband was fed up with all the touring.  I’d have to get to her hotel by 7:20.

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Agrigento

And that’s how I ended up on a tour bus to Agrigento with 15 Irish couples, one British yogi and a French tour guide. I was the youngest person by at least twenty-five years. Florence was kind, open, and more talkative than me. It was a welcome relief to be able to communicate with such ease. Throughout the day, I actually felt like an Italian tour guide myself, since it seemed I was a bit more familiar with customs, expressions, and food. I even had Florence taste her first ever cannoli. She was incredibly inspiring; she told me about her life, how she had lived on her own in London for several years and wanted to learn to fly a plane since she was a child, which she eventually did. She told me a story about searching for a laundromat in her new London neighborhood and instead came upon a beautiful church that she would end up being married in. It was a nice reminder that good things can come to us in unexpected ways.

Nice butt

Everyone I chatted with that day was incredibly kind. Barbara and I talked about birds of prey in Sicily, New York, and Ireland. I lamented about the state of the world with a  retired pharmacist who noted, as we pondered these ancient ruins that were no doubt built by slaves, that the rich have been exploiting the poor since the beginning of time. Nothing ever changes.

And then there was Margaret. She was dressed in a long blue sundress with a matching scarf. Her short white hair held with a small barrette, she carried herself with a certain bemused lightness that made her stand out among the crowd. I liked her instantly. Later, when I found out that she runs an Iyengar yoga school in Ireland and is a reflexologist and electro-crystal therapist, I wasn’t surprised. She could easily have been from New Paltz.

Me & Margaret. When Barbara took this picture she quipped, "Two Goddesses!"

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Later that night, I agreed to meet Margaret for a free show in Cefalu’s theatre. So I found myself in a tiny theatre on a Friday night, watching Italian children in the first two rows jump and whoot as giant balloons bounced over the crowd. The show, it turned out, was Bubble Magic and was primarily intended for locals and kids. Here I was, a teacher far far away from her school, at what was basically an assembly. How did this happen? It was enjoyable nonetheless, especially to see Margaret’s reaction to the many bubble contraptions the glittery host kept bringing out. An old Italian man sat next to her and commented to her throughout the whole show. She had no idea what he was saying, but that didn’t stop him. After the show he was still going on about how great it was (or so I surmised from my limited translation ability). I was able to chat with him a bit, explaining where the two of us were from, and again, I felt happy to realize that I had made progress in the communication department.

The Cathedral at dusk

The next afternoon, I met Margaret in the main Piazza for tea. Today she was all clad in purple. It had begun to drizzle, and we decided to once more check out the interior of Cefalu’s Cathedral. Just as we entered, it began to downpour. We were trapped inside the cathedral with a few other tourists as the rain came down in sheets and the wind threatened to slam the huge wooden doors shut. We stood at the doorway, watching the palm trees sway and tourists dash for cover. Margaret hadn’t had lunch yet, and needed to eat something before she left town that day. She decided to brave the rain. And so, I watched her arrange her purple rain coat and carefully step out into the monsoon. With a few brief strides, Margaret disappeared down the stairs and into the storm. It seemed like I had imagined her.

There she goes...

I stayed in the church a while longer. There was this poor guy setting up flowers for a wedding, and all through the storm he & his young son continued, unwavering, to haul in the bouquets and arrange and rearrange them at the altar. I sat and watched and waited for the rain to subside, having no where in particular to be. Sometimes it’s nice to be stuck in a place.

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View of Cefalu from on top of La Rocca

A storm rolled in for my last days in Cefalu. The beach had been absent of waves until this particularly blustery day.

Me & Florence (notice the outstretched arm shot, yet again)

Update (or Catacaombs and Jeff Magnum)

Well. I’ve been without steady internet for a little over a week. In that time, I’ve traveled to and from the Aeolian Islands off the northern coast of Sicily, around to the east coast city of Catania, west inland to Caltanisetta, Enna (the highest point on the whole island), and Piazza Armerina. Now I’m back in Catania. I realized that I’ve written some of my weird musings and observations, but haven’t actually mentioned where I’ve been or what I’ve been up to. So, here you go:

Palermo

I arrived in Palermo and spent a few days exploring the city and adjusting to my new identity as “solo girl-traveler extraordinaire.” I dutifully attempted to hit the major sights, and took a million pictures. Here are a few:

Piazza Della Vergogna  (Nicknamed  “The Fountain of Shame," cuz they're all naked.)

At the Port

 
                      Ubiquitous Palm trees

 So one day in Palermo I set out to find the Orto Botanico. I discovered a pretty spare park with dirt paths, sparse citrus trees, and cacti here and there. It was nice, yet not very impressive for a so-called Botanical Garden. I was beginning to understand that many things in Sicily are not entirely well-kept; I assumed that this was another such place. Nonetheless, I took a bunch of pictures, and sat for a while to write and watch the passers-by. I soon assessed that this was a place where locals come to jog, old people read on benches, and above all, teenagers come to make out. After about an hour of trying to avoid noticing the fifteen year olds across the path groping each other, I set off to leave. 

         Immediately outside the gates, I noticed a huge sign with an arrow. It turned out that the true Orto Botanico was in fact next door; I had been in some local park. So, it being five thirty and still sunny, I paid the five euro to enter this place that turned out to be much better than the make-out spot I had whiled away in. Of course, since I had been taking pictures all day, I was only able to snap about four more until my camera battery ran out. You’ll have to take my word when I say that this place was really gorgeous. 

          There were greenhouses scattered among groupings of trees and shrubs from all over the world. One whole section was devoted to cacti, another to herbs, another to aquatic plants. My favorite was an enormous ficus tree, its ancient branches swinging down, snake-like, into the soil below. It was positively prehistoric. Later, I spotted a cat curled up & sleeping in a flower pot. Below is a greenhouse I encountered before my battery died. I don’t know about you, but the first thing that came to my mind was Big-Top Pee-Wee. If you have no idea what I’m talking about, then you need to put it in your Netflix cue, pronto. 

Here’s an idea of the markets. This was early on in my travels, so I was a little timid about the weird fish options. In the first days, I stuck with swordfish and tuna. Since then, I’ve ventured into sardine and squid territory. It’s all insanely delicious. But the food discussion deserves at least its own post, if not an entire new blog unto itself.








 

On my last day in Palermo, I made the trek to the outskirts of the city to the Capuchin Catacombs. It was hot and I was a little hung over (but that’s another story in itself). I was sweating by the time I found the place, which was swarming with tourists. Not wanting the cacophony of chittering languages to disturb my  macabre experience, I set my iPod to Neutral Milk Hotel and descended the stairs to the awaiting mummified cadavers. You weren’t supposed to take pictures, but I saw some other people doing it, and, since I don’t believe in hell (or rules, apparently), I snapped some too. Surveying the two-hundred year old bodies of people who loved and lived, I had all the obligatory thoughts about life and death and human existence. Then I left and had a panini and a coke. Nothing like dusty corpses to stir up an appetite. 

 

The Sole of the Matter

I can't believe I'm about to write this. I never thought I'd see the day when I'd concede to the notion of something I swore against years ago. But, you have to understand, the canvas peep-toe flats I brought with me for this month-long excursion are not the best for walking all day on cobblestone. And listen, the Merrels I brought are ok for traveling, but they don't exactly go with my cute little sun dresses. So, (gulp) I bought a pair of Birkenstocks today.

When I was sixteen, that's what I wanted for my birthday. My parents took me and my two best friends to some town out east on Long Island where there was a specific Birkenstock retail store. It was a big deal, because they were kind of expensive. But man, I loved those things. I wore them for years. Even though the company has a great policy for replacing the soles, I never bothered. After ten years, these sandals were stretched, worn, and beyond repair. But, for nostalgic purposes, I kept them in my closet for years after I stopped wearing them. In the interim, my style had changed. Listen, it's true that my attitude has a bohemian slant, some might go as far as to say "new-age," but at some point, I made the conscious decision that this type of footwear was just  a little too earthy-crunchy for me. I saw myself as hipper-than-that. So, just a few months ago, I finally (and confidently) tossed my fifteen-year-old Birkies in the trash.

So here I am in Cefalu, a beautiful seaside resort town on the northern coast of Sicily. My purple Payless flats are holding up alright. So far, I've walked entire cities in them. They even work ok in lieu of flip-flops at the beach. But sometimes, at the end of a long day, I have to ignore the fact that my feet kind of hurt. And until now, I've been tough about it. Between the flats and the little black heels I brought, I think I've been managing the occasional discomfort quite alright. When I noticed a tear in the flats a few days ago, I realized their days were numbered and that I'd need to come up with an alternative. Otherwise, I'd be stuck wearing bulky brown & yellow hiking shoes (which are comfortable, but kind of dorky.) The other problem is that I also bought some shoes when I was in Brussels. I couldn't help it. Five euro for a pair of black & gold peep-toe heels and these adorable blue ones with laces and a thick heel. Five Euro.  So as it is, I've been schlepping all this extraneous footwear with me around Europe.

I spent the entire day on the beach today. You can rent a chair & an umbrella for five euro and stay as long as you want. They also intermittently play 90's/2000's hip-hop. It's completely worth it. So, I slept and read and went for a swim. And it was lovely, really. Afterward I gathered my things to leave and get a bite to eat. And the beach was so beautiful and the sun so warm that maybe I kind of wished I had a buddy there with me. So I had a panini and some gelato and wrote some postcards and felt a bit of longing for the familiarity of friendship. On my way back to the apartment I'm renting, I stopped at a shoe store and without even hesitating, tried on, and purchased a brand new pair of god-damned Birkenstocks. I couldn't help laughing at myself on the way out.

I won't deny the fact of retail therapy: how the act of purchasing (or consuming) something can  temporarily alleviate an undesired emotion. But, in that act, I also made the decision to help myself out. To save my poor feet and perhaps something more. And man, are they comfortable. Shit. Turns out I am a hippie after all.

Here's a good view of my beloved purple flats at the beach in Porticello.

All my shoes. Totally frivolous.

Me and Old Italian Men

So I've inadvertently created a little travel ritual on countless occasions since my arrival here. I'm usually heading off to some cathedral, piazza, bar, or whatever. I've carefully consulted my little pocket map, and am pretty sure I know where I'm going. But you know, I just like to check. Or, ok, sometimes I might be a little, um, turned around. Anyway, I never fail to find an Old Italian Man, either sitting on a folding chair on the side of the street, amidst parked cars & laundry, or sometimes standing in a doorway smoking a cigarette. Why I don't just ask someone younger, I'm not sure.

It goes like this:

Me: "Scusi? Dove via Alloro?"
Old Italian Man: "via Alloro?" He stands, walks out toward the street.
Me, laughing apologetically: "Non parlo Italiano..."
Old Italian Man, ignoring the fact that I just told him I don't speak Italian: "Si, Si...via Alloro... something something...sinestra...something something something...piazza Marina... something something..." 
Me, nodding intently: "Si...Si..." 
Old Italian Man, hands exuberantly gesturing: "...something something something..."
Me, smiling, still nodding, backing down the street: "Si...ok...si, grazie." At this point, I think I understood "left." 
 Old Italian Man: "d'Espania?" (They always assume I'm Spanish)

Me: "Oh. No, no. Sono Americana... New York."
Old Italian Man: "Oh! New York! Something something...famigilia...something something, Brooklyn..."
Me, pointing to myself, nodding: "Me too. Si, si. Grazie, grazie... ciao." 


And I walk the way he told me, only finding the street I wanted about half of the time.
One time a guy walked me all the way down the street, giving directions, warning me about the mafia, telling me what to see in the city. Not that I really understood any of what he was saying. What I love about these guys is that I know they're probably someone's grandpa; they laugh and kind of seem to get a kick out of me. You'd think I'd choose my guides a bit more wisely, but it turns out they're definitely part of the experience here, something I've just come to expect. At this point, I think I'd be lost without them.