It has come to my attention over the 124 days of my superviaje that it isn't such a common thing to quit one's job just like ''that'' in order to go traipsing around, traveling, studying, etc. Now that my trip has come to an end, I can say, without hesitation, ''Why the hell not?'' Personally, I have learned far more during these past four months than I have found in any textbook or within the confines of any windowless office (or office with windows, for that matter). While I understand that traveling isn't for everyone, the experiences gained by such adventures are truly priceless: only by figuring out one's way in a place you have never been before do you really learn the true significance of tabula rasa (''blank slate''), adding to the white canvas a little more every day.
I, for one, discovered the meaning of life. What I found was that the meaning of life could be different for everyone, but that, for me, the meaning of life is the search for meaning. Apparently, I'm not the only one who thinks so. Robert Byrne, a leading American chess player, has said that, ''The purpose of life is a life of purpose.'' For me, this quest involves doing whatever it takes to go to all corners of the globe (well, not corners, since the globe is round, but I think you get what I'm saying) in order to see what's out there, to learn for myself, and to understand by doing, rather than by reading or by hearsay.
For instance, I bet you never stopped to think about the act of picture-taking. In the United States, when a photographer wants his (or her) subjects to smile for a photo, he tells them to say, ''cheese.'' What do they say in other places? The answers may or may not, depending on how you want to interpret it, reveal a lot about the culture about each respective place. In Brazil, people say, ''abacaxi,'' [ah-bah-kah-SHEE] which means ''pineapple.'' Fitting, considering that Brazil is a tropical region that grows a lot of fruit and has fresh fruit stands all over the place. In Argentina, the word is, ''whisky,'' [WEE-skee] which could say something about Argentines' consumption of whiskey. In Spain, this one is a little curious. The word here is, ''patata,'' [pah-TAH-tah] which, yes, means ''potato.'' The explanation given to me once I stopped laughing was that, ''See? It got *you* to laugh!'' The reasoning can't possibly be the same (the reason that I was laughing was, ''What?! The word is ''patata''? That makes no sense!''), but, alas, my friend had a point. If the objective was to laugh, there I was...laughing. But even so, they do have potatoes in Spain, and they use them to make typical dishes like Tortilla Española. And in Italy and the Netherlands, they finally borrow a word from English, as they, too, use the word, ''cheese.'' And we all know about parmesean, mozzarella, and Edam, which come from those countries. Little things like this that no one would ever think about until you go to push a button and, all of a sudden, you get a lesson in culture.
Or when Brazilians take English classes in school, the first thing they learn (and often the only thing they retain) is the phrase, ''The book is on the table.'' It doesn't matter where the book actually is, but that phrase will be the ice-breaker with any English speaker from now until the end of time. Similarly, in Italy, it doesn't matter where Mr. Jones actually is, but as Italians will tell you, ''Mr. Jones is under the table.''
I believe it was the beginning of the Vittorio De Sica film called "Matrimonio all'italiana", in which the camera moves slowly but steadily through a hallway, giving the viewer a glimpse into each room it passes. In essence, that is exactly what I have done over the course of the last four months, stopping in on various places to see how the people live, interact with locals (in some places, my friends and their friends), get to know the tourist attractions, etc. And now that I have wrapped up this journey, it is time to get back in the swing of things in order to embark on a new one here.
On several occasions throughout the trip, people were surprised to find that I was traveling by myself. I don't know whether it was the fact that I was (am) a female, whether it was a trip lasting four months, or what, but whatever it was, something was surprising, and I never figured out what. What I did realize, though, was that even though I was, technically, a ''solo traveler,'' I met so many people throughout the duration of the trip -- more than I would have ever met if I had had a travel buddy, I'm sure -- that it is difficult to view the whole experience as a solo journey. At this point, I cannot imagine my superviaje without all the people I met along the way (as well as those I already knew, including you, dear readers), and while I have seen and done some great things in the last 124 days, at the end of it all, it is undoubtedly the people who have shaped the experience the most and have changed me.
"Quando você deseja uma coisa, todo o Universo conspira para que possa realizá-la." -- Paulo Coelho, "O alquimista"
"And, when you want something, all the universe conspires in helping you to achieve it." -- Paulo Coelho, "The Alchemist"
Então, obrigada e boa noite. Entonces, gracias y buenas noches. Allora, grazie e buona notte.
So, thank you and good night,
missy
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
Amsterdam, the Netherlands: You just gotta do what you gotta do to make it through
The trip to Amsterdam was pretty uneventful after I left the Rome airport and, once in awhile, it's refreshing to have an uneventful transit experience. I arrived in Amsterdam early afternoon on Friday, May 2, to be greeted by Tim, my Dutchie friend whom I went to visit for the weekend.
Considering I had been to Amsterdam twice before, that meant that the last stop on the itinerary of my four-month superviaje could be a low-key one, without having to rush around the city, hitting all the museums and landmarks in three days' time. I spent a good part of the afternoon hanging out with Tim and Sanne, Tim's girlfriend, on the roof deck of their apartment. With a sunny, summer-like day, and a view of the city as our backdrop, it was a great way to kick-off the weekend. I even developed a game (go figure). Whenever they had a quick side-conversation or said a sentence in Dutch, I decided I was going to translate it into English for everyone. Important item to note here: I don't speak Dutch. Hence, the fun in the game! The funny part was, out of three consecutive turns, I actually got a sentence right. Guess my batting average ain't so bad.
Over the course of the weekend, I did manage to see some sites that I hadn't seen before, always with my personal Dutch guide or two. For example, I got to see Vondelpark, the Central Park of Amsterdam. The park has 120 acres, within which you can find a bike path, a film museum, an open air theater, a playground, and when it's good weather out (like it was all weekend), lots and lots of people. I also checked out an outdoor market called the Albert Cuyp Market, which is apparently the busiest market in the Netherlands. While I was at the market, I indulged in two Dutch specialties (not at the same time): raw herring, accompanied by some sort of pickle, and stroopwafel, which means ''syrup waffle.'' What could be bad about something that translates to ''syrup waffle''? (Duh -- the answer is *nothing*.)
One night, a group of us went out to an Amsterdam nightclub that was having 90's night -- roughly translated? A Dutch disco playing songs that I have on cassette tape! (Anybody out there remember cassette tapes?) And then, of course, they also threw in some Dutch classics that took over the airwaves in the 90s, so those songs were new for me. Either way, a fun night was had by all!
Sunday, I got to get to know a town outside of Amsterdam, called Monnickendam, which is the hometown of both Tim and Sanne. It's a town right on the water that has a lot of private yachts, and the old town is a charming place to walk around. Being that Sunday was May 4, that meant it was a holiday in the Netherlands: Remembrance of the Dead. It would probably be a combination of our Memorial Day and Veterans' Day. Tim, Sanne, and I went to Dam Square during the 7pm hour because there was a whole ceremony revolving around a 2-minute period of silence to begin at 8pm. The queen of the Netherlands was there, in addition to the prime minister, the mayor, and other important people (like Tim, Sanne, and me). A great deal of people filled the square, and the ceremony was televised. I was just grateful that there were Jumbotrons, since there were too many people for me to be able to see the main events happening directly in front of me.
The morning of Monday, May 5 was my last morning of the trip, and it was a little more eventful than I had expected it to be. When I arrived at the check-in counter, I had planned to check my bag (cost-free, of course) and make my way toward the gate, thus starting my long day of travel. But no. Not in the least. My bag was almost 7kg over the legal limit. That's about 15 pounds. And the penalty for excess baggage whether you are 7 kilos or 75 kilos over is the same: 50 euros ($77.60). What? I'm not paying 50 euros! I can make this work. *I can *make* this work.* My last test of the superviaje came at this point, when it came time to go back to the States, and there was no way I was giving up my euros. My options? Well, there's, take stuff out and leave it. Or ship it. Nope, not going to do either of those. Then there's, pay the 50 euros. Not going to do that, either. So, I took the suitcase off the scale, put all my stuff down on the floor, and got to work (who ever said this was a four-month vacation and there was no work involved was surely mistaken). One shirt, two shirt, three shirt, four. Five shirt, six shirt, and a Netherlands soccer jersey to top it off. Still not enough? Okay, then I'll also wear two jackets and tie my sneakers to my backpack. How do you like them apples now, check-in lady? (It kind of reminded me of a certain ''Friends'' episode, actually.) So, after putting my bag on the scale four times, resisting the check-in agents' advice to just pay the 50 euros and be more comfortable wearing my regular clothes, I went at it my own way, kept at it, and ultimately crossed the finish line at security, with all my remaining euros tucked safely away. Beep beep, beep beep. Oh boy, what now? (Fortunately, they didn't make me take my shoes off; they must have thought that the shoes tied to my backpack were my shoes that I had been wearing. I didn't even actively try for that one!) I still don't know what set off that endearing little alarm in the Schipol airport, but I do know that I did get a very thorough pat down, one that I could feel through every layer of clothing I was wearing. Eventually, as they always have in the past, they let me go. And by the time I boarded my flight, I was wearing only my original clothes and had all the extra articles of clothing in a plastic bag by my side. So, once again, I managed to keep my euros in my possession, this time perhaps at the expense of an extra stop at security. And though sometimes when it rains, it pours, in this case, it was just...hysterical. And there was no other way for this trip to end. Sometimes you just gotta do what you gotta do to make it through.
missy
Considering I had been to Amsterdam twice before, that meant that the last stop on the itinerary of my four-month superviaje could be a low-key one, without having to rush around the city, hitting all the museums and landmarks in three days' time. I spent a good part of the afternoon hanging out with Tim and Sanne, Tim's girlfriend, on the roof deck of their apartment. With a sunny, summer-like day, and a view of the city as our backdrop, it was a great way to kick-off the weekend. I even developed a game (go figure). Whenever they had a quick side-conversation or said a sentence in Dutch, I decided I was going to translate it into English for everyone. Important item to note here: I don't speak Dutch. Hence, the fun in the game! The funny part was, out of three consecutive turns, I actually got a sentence right. Guess my batting average ain't so bad.
Over the course of the weekend, I did manage to see some sites that I hadn't seen before, always with my personal Dutch guide or two. For example, I got to see Vondelpark, the Central Park of Amsterdam. The park has 120 acres, within which you can find a bike path, a film museum, an open air theater, a playground, and when it's good weather out (like it was all weekend), lots and lots of people. I also checked out an outdoor market called the Albert Cuyp Market, which is apparently the busiest market in the Netherlands. While I was at the market, I indulged in two Dutch specialties (not at the same time): raw herring, accompanied by some sort of pickle, and stroopwafel, which means ''syrup waffle.'' What could be bad about something that translates to ''syrup waffle''? (Duh -- the answer is *nothing*.)
One night, a group of us went out to an Amsterdam nightclub that was having 90's night -- roughly translated? A Dutch disco playing songs that I have on cassette tape! (Anybody out there remember cassette tapes?) And then, of course, they also threw in some Dutch classics that took over the airwaves in the 90s, so those songs were new for me. Either way, a fun night was had by all!
Sunday, I got to get to know a town outside of Amsterdam, called Monnickendam, which is the hometown of both Tim and Sanne. It's a town right on the water that has a lot of private yachts, and the old town is a charming place to walk around. Being that Sunday was May 4, that meant it was a holiday in the Netherlands: Remembrance of the Dead. It would probably be a combination of our Memorial Day and Veterans' Day. Tim, Sanne, and I went to Dam Square during the 7pm hour because there was a whole ceremony revolving around a 2-minute period of silence to begin at 8pm. The queen of the Netherlands was there, in addition to the prime minister, the mayor, and other important people (like Tim, Sanne, and me). A great deal of people filled the square, and the ceremony was televised. I was just grateful that there were Jumbotrons, since there were too many people for me to be able to see the main events happening directly in front of me.
The morning of Monday, May 5 was my last morning of the trip, and it was a little more eventful than I had expected it to be. When I arrived at the check-in counter, I had planned to check my bag (cost-free, of course) and make my way toward the gate, thus starting my long day of travel. But no. Not in the least. My bag was almost 7kg over the legal limit. That's about 15 pounds. And the penalty for excess baggage whether you are 7 kilos or 75 kilos over is the same: 50 euros ($77.60). What? I'm not paying 50 euros! I can make this work. *I can *make* this work.* My last test of the superviaje came at this point, when it came time to go back to the States, and there was no way I was giving up my euros. My options? Well, there's, take stuff out and leave it. Or ship it. Nope, not going to do either of those. Then there's, pay the 50 euros. Not going to do that, either. So, I took the suitcase off the scale, put all my stuff down on the floor, and got to work (who ever said this was a four-month vacation and there was no work involved was surely mistaken). One shirt, two shirt, three shirt, four. Five shirt, six shirt, and a Netherlands soccer jersey to top it off. Still not enough? Okay, then I'll also wear two jackets and tie my sneakers to my backpack. How do you like them apples now, check-in lady? (It kind of reminded me of a certain ''Friends'' episode, actually.) So, after putting my bag on the scale four times, resisting the check-in agents' advice to just pay the 50 euros and be more comfortable wearing my regular clothes, I went at it my own way, kept at it, and ultimately crossed the finish line at security, with all my remaining euros tucked safely away. Beep beep, beep beep. Oh boy, what now? (Fortunately, they didn't make me take my shoes off; they must have thought that the shoes tied to my backpack were my shoes that I had been wearing. I didn't even actively try for that one!) I still don't know what set off that endearing little alarm in the Schipol airport, but I do know that I did get a very thorough pat down, one that I could feel through every layer of clothing I was wearing. Eventually, as they always have in the past, they let me go. And by the time I boarded my flight, I was wearing only my original clothes and had all the extra articles of clothing in a plastic bag by my side. So, once again, I managed to keep my euros in my possession, this time perhaps at the expense of an extra stop at security. And though sometimes when it rains, it pours, in this case, it was just...hysterical. And there was no other way for this trip to end. Sometimes you just gotta do what you gotta do to make it through.
missy
Sunday, May 4, 2008
Rome, Italy (Part 2): It wasn't built in a day, but let me break it down
Aside from the unforeseen backtracking to Buenos Aires that I was forced to do because of that Aerolineas Argentinas mishap about a month ago, Rome was the only place I knew in advance that I would be spending time in on two distinct occasions. Since I spent over a week of combined days in Rome overall, I knew that I wouldn't have to pack things into each day or rush to do touristy things that I actually did a few years ago. Rather, I could just do what I felt like doing and leave the Italy guidebook at home. (However, if I wanted to bring the guidebook along, it would have served me just fine, since the monuments are thousands of years old, so the information from 2003 wouldn't -- or shouldn't, at least -- have changed much, if at all.)
This Rome segment of my trip wasn't a whole lot different from the first one. One day, I picked up a chocolate-filled croissant for breakfast and took a leisurely walk to the Colosseum. A few times, I got a gelato, always from a different place just to see whose was better. (I haven't come up with a decision yet. I need to try out more places to come up with an educated answer.) And besides revisting the regular (free) tourist destinations, it was good to be able to spend time with my friends in Rome, whom I (obviously) don't get to see too often when everyone is in their regular routines.
They say (''they'' being the proverbial, uh, ''proverb'' people) that Rome wasn't built in a day. Similarly, Rome can't be visited in a day. Like most touristy cities, they have those stop-and-go buses (I guess all buses are stop and go) that hit a dozen or so landmarks in a couple of hours, but how much can you actually learn about a place from riding one of those things? Okay, you can learn some history, take some pictures, say you've ''been there'' and ''done that'' but there's a crucial element that's missing that, in my opinion, is integral when it comes to truly getting to know a place: talking to the people. People who come from Rome itself, people who come from other places in Italy to live and work in Rome, even people who emigrate to Italy because it's supposed to provide a better life. Those will be the people who fill in the gaps of what you see, hear, and read in varying sources ''out there.''
Exhibit A: The Roman guy who went to school, studied psychology, and when he graduated, he decided to go to New York for a month because he'd never been there but he wanted to see what it was like. He found a place to stay for free while he was there, managed to score a free trip to Miami and the Bahamas, and then when the month was up, he returned to Italy, where he currently works as a psychologist. He has his girlfriend, his friends, and they go out on the weekends.
Exhibit B: A girl from Bergamo (a town in northern Italy) who went to school, studied psychology (yes, I realize there's a common thread here), has also traveled a bit, works as a psychologist (and once-a-week as a bartender (just because it's fun and she meets a lot of people)), and still finds time to play on a volleyball team, which just made the finals in the national tournament. She, too, enjoys her weekends, and when she goes home at the end of the day, her work stays at the office.
Exhibit C: The woman from Romania (less than ten years older than Exhibits A and B) who came to Italy eleven years ago because she wanted to provide more for her daughter (who stayed in Romania to live with her grandmother). She learned Italian in two months, and she continues to work six days out of the week -- sometimes seven -- from 7am until whenever it's time to go home (usually not earlier than 7 or 8pm). Once a year, in August, for about three weeks, she goes back to Romania, where she has built her own house and has to do work there, too (to maintain the house, her mother, her daughter, etc.). And with all the work she does, day in and day out, her perspective is, ''But that's life, no? And I have my health, so who am I to complain? Without my health, I'd have nothing.''
These are three people who live and work in Rome and have done so for the last several years. These are three people out of the more than 2,700,000 people who comprise the population of Rome. If these are only three stories, think of all the other stories that are out there. All the stories that make up a place -- any place, not just Rome -- add a whole new dimension to the place.
I was walking down the street the other day, and there was a guy on the street asking for money. After I thought, ''Yeah, I could use an extra euro or two, too,'' I started to wonder. Are the beggars in Italy richer than the beggars in, say, Argentina, where one euro is worth 5 pesos? Or is a beggar a beggar, wherever you go? Do they think of rich/poor only in terms of money? Or do they think, hell, they're not tied down to anything, they're free to do whatever they choose -- why would they be poor? Something to consider.
Thursday, May 1 was a holiday in Italy -- Labor Day. Some of you might be thinking, well what difference does it make for me? This whole thing has been a holiday! Well, if that's what you think, you try living on the go for four months and you will find that it is not as ''vacation packagey'' as it sounds. It has, indeed, been labor. And fun. Suffice it to say it has been a mix of the two. So, when my friend Manu told me that we were going to the beach on Thursday (no one works on the holiday, after all), it was extra exciting -- more time with my friends, and my last day in Italy would be spent at the beach. Remember Manu's friend who has the pizzeria attached to his house? That's Giorgio. His family also has a beach condo in Passoscuro, a beach-town about 45 minutes to an hour outside the center of Rome. We drove there on Thursday morning and there were maybe 10 of us who spent the whole day there, hanging out on the beach, playing beach volleyball, going swimming, eating (because when in Italy...), etc., and at the end of the day, we drove back to Rome, signifying the end of a fun holiday and a fun stint in Italy.
When I was in the Rome airport the following morning, somehow I ended up being the first person in line for my flight, and apparently, this first person in line looked so suspicious at 7:30am after having had minimal sleep that airport security decided that *this* person was the one whose bag was going to fill the ''let's get her!'' quota. So, naturally, I decided to try something (what did I have to lose?). As soon as the rubber-gloved security woman asked me in English (I had my American passport in my hand) if she could search my bag, I responded ever-so-enthusiastically in Italian, ''Of course,'' at which point she unzipped it (I wonder what would have happened if I had said no). But then I added, still in Italian, ''But I packed it really well, and I never pack it so well.'' And she laughed, zipped my bag up again (without touching anything inside) and wished me a good flight. Buon viaggio to you, too, lady! And arrivederci, Roma.
missy
http://andsmilestogobeforeisleep.blogspot.com
This Rome segment of my trip wasn't a whole lot different from the first one. One day, I picked up a chocolate-filled croissant for breakfast and took a leisurely walk to the Colosseum. A few times, I got a gelato, always from a different place just to see whose was better. (I haven't come up with a decision yet. I need to try out more places to come up with an educated answer.) And besides revisting the regular (free) tourist destinations, it was good to be able to spend time with my friends in Rome, whom I (obviously) don't get to see too often when everyone is in their regular routines.
They say (''they'' being the proverbial, uh, ''proverb'' people) that Rome wasn't built in a day. Similarly, Rome can't be visited in a day. Like most touristy cities, they have those stop-and-go buses (I guess all buses are stop and go) that hit a dozen or so landmarks in a couple of hours, but how much can you actually learn about a place from riding one of those things? Okay, you can learn some history, take some pictures, say you've ''been there'' and ''done that'' but there's a crucial element that's missing that, in my opinion, is integral when it comes to truly getting to know a place: talking to the people. People who come from Rome itself, people who come from other places in Italy to live and work in Rome, even people who emigrate to Italy because it's supposed to provide a better life. Those will be the people who fill in the gaps of what you see, hear, and read in varying sources ''out there.''
Exhibit A: The Roman guy who went to school, studied psychology, and when he graduated, he decided to go to New York for a month because he'd never been there but he wanted to see what it was like. He found a place to stay for free while he was there, managed to score a free trip to Miami and the Bahamas, and then when the month was up, he returned to Italy, where he currently works as a psychologist. He has his girlfriend, his friends, and they go out on the weekends.
Exhibit B: A girl from Bergamo (a town in northern Italy) who went to school, studied psychology (yes, I realize there's a common thread here), has also traveled a bit, works as a psychologist (and once-a-week as a bartender (just because it's fun and she meets a lot of people)), and still finds time to play on a volleyball team, which just made the finals in the national tournament. She, too, enjoys her weekends, and when she goes home at the end of the day, her work stays at the office.
Exhibit C: The woman from Romania (less than ten years older than Exhibits A and B) who came to Italy eleven years ago because she wanted to provide more for her daughter (who stayed in Romania to live with her grandmother). She learned Italian in two months, and she continues to work six days out of the week -- sometimes seven -- from 7am until whenever it's time to go home (usually not earlier than 7 or 8pm). Once a year, in August, for about three weeks, she goes back to Romania, where she has built her own house and has to do work there, too (to maintain the house, her mother, her daughter, etc.). And with all the work she does, day in and day out, her perspective is, ''But that's life, no? And I have my health, so who am I to complain? Without my health, I'd have nothing.''
These are three people who live and work in Rome and have done so for the last several years. These are three people out of the more than 2,700,000 people who comprise the population of Rome. If these are only three stories, think of all the other stories that are out there. All the stories that make up a place -- any place, not just Rome -- add a whole new dimension to the place.
I was walking down the street the other day, and there was a guy on the street asking for money. After I thought, ''Yeah, I could use an extra euro or two, too,'' I started to wonder. Are the beggars in Italy richer than the beggars in, say, Argentina, where one euro is worth 5 pesos? Or is a beggar a beggar, wherever you go? Do they think of rich/poor only in terms of money? Or do they think, hell, they're not tied down to anything, they're free to do whatever they choose -- why would they be poor? Something to consider.
Thursday, May 1 was a holiday in Italy -- Labor Day. Some of you might be thinking, well what difference does it make for me? This whole thing has been a holiday! Well, if that's what you think, you try living on the go for four months and you will find that it is not as ''vacation packagey'' as it sounds. It has, indeed, been labor. And fun. Suffice it to say it has been a mix of the two. So, when my friend Manu told me that we were going to the beach on Thursday (no one works on the holiday, after all), it was extra exciting -- more time with my friends, and my last day in Italy would be spent at the beach. Remember Manu's friend who has the pizzeria attached to his house? That's Giorgio. His family also has a beach condo in Passoscuro, a beach-town about 45 minutes to an hour outside the center of Rome. We drove there on Thursday morning and there were maybe 10 of us who spent the whole day there, hanging out on the beach, playing beach volleyball, going swimming, eating (because when in Italy...), etc., and at the end of the day, we drove back to Rome, signifying the end of a fun holiday and a fun stint in Italy.
When I was in the Rome airport the following morning, somehow I ended up being the first person in line for my flight, and apparently, this first person in line looked so suspicious at 7:30am after having had minimal sleep that airport security decided that *this* person was the one whose bag was going to fill the ''let's get her!'' quota. So, naturally, I decided to try something (what did I have to lose?). As soon as the rubber-gloved security woman asked me in English (I had my American passport in my hand) if she could search my bag, I responded ever-so-enthusiastically in Italian, ''Of course,'' at which point she unzipped it (I wonder what would have happened if I had said no). But then I added, still in Italian, ''But I packed it really well, and I never pack it so well.'' And she laughed, zipped my bag up again (without touching anything inside) and wished me a good flight. Buon viaggio to you, too, lady! And arrivederci, Roma.
missy
http://andsmilestogobeforeisleep.blogspot.com
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