Thursday, November 4, 2010

Thursday, November 4, 2010
10:50 PM
Paris, France
Eurolines bus to London, waiting to leave Gallieni

My oh my, it’s been a while since I last wrote. In many ways much has happened since last I ventured an exposition here, and in other ways not much. I have visited Genoa, Rome, and Pisa. I have seen the great monuments of out ancient past—the toddling age of our intellectual burgeoning. Yet, that is only about four days of collective experience. Much of my time has been spent in preparing myself for my self-proclaimed next-stage-in-life. I’ve prepared applications, registrations, and begun studying again. I have been reworking my mentality to focus itself as it once did six years ago.
I suppose it is most prudent to revisit these past two weeks chronologically. I was trapped, so to speak, in Nice; or, more accurately in France. The French were on strike, protesting the government trying to change the retirement age from sixty-two to sixty-five. Transportation all over the country was extremely difficult to find. Only the private companies would work. Getting out of the country was damn near impossible, requiring one to travel to the border and then hop over by foot, bus, or commuter train. Felt like something out of “Casablanca.”
So, I settled down into Nice. The hostel was very comfortable, the weather was warm, and the city pleased me. I spent much time wandering around and walking down to the beach to eat, relax, write, listen to podcasts, and think. I spent much time in the hostel, working on college applications and talking with my friendly Australian roommates who were also stuck, trying to get to Barcelona.
Eventually, we all got tickets for our respective destinations. I set out for Rome on Tuesday morning. I had a layover in Ventimiglia, a small Italian town, the first I’ve ever been in. The first thing I noticed was that conversation seems very important to the Italians, as one might imagine from their usual depiction in media. The city lay along the Mediterranean and, for the hour I was there, I delighted in walking along the sea, looking out at the precariously perched buildings along the rough hills, and seeing, far inland, a mountain capped in snow.
The next layover was in Genoa. I had about three hours there and I put my feet to work, crossing much of the heart of that incredible city. I visited the university, peeking my head into the classrooms and seeing the unbelievable splendor they have classes in. I can only imagine that those classrooms haven’t been touched since the Renaissance. The walls and ceilings are covered in magnificent paintings and all is framed by dark, carved wood. The places where the students sit seem quite ancient themselves.
The whole city is a convoluted mass of hills and twisting streets, alleys stretching out in a seemingly boundless maze with seemingly endless places for discovery. Walking through one alleyway I found my self next to the entrance to some very old building, some very beautiful building, marble with columns, appearing forgotten, buried as the city expanded in its complexity around it.
I had my first taste of genuine Italian cuisine in Genoa, stopping off in a restaurant for a pizza. Mine has prosciutto on it. I don’t think anything else need be said.
Down one of the alleys I found a gelato store and had a chocolate gelato.
An appetite for Italian food would soon become nearly all consuming. For nearly every memory I have of Italy I can picture an accompanying food. Pizzas, lasagnas, pastas, gelati, pastries. I ate it all, and all the time.
Next was Rome. But, I’m getting nauseous trying to write this on the bus. So I’m going to stop for now.