Like a Tumbling Tumbleweed . . .

What follows is a series of journal entries from a trip I took to Italy. I started with two full days in Palermo, Sicily, then I flew to Rome for two days. After that I took a bullet train to Florence to meet up with four friends from my study abroad group. We took a day trip to Cinque Terre, specifically to the towns of Manarola and Corniglia, and spent another day in Florence exploring. From Florence we took a bullet train to Venice. We spent two days there to finish off the trip. With all that time on trains and planes, I was able to articulate my thoughts and feelings in a tiny notebook. In keeping with the musical theme of this blog, I found lyrics from some of my favorite songs that embody the spirit of each journal entry. The songs have been compiled in a playlist entitled “Like a Tumbling Tumbleweed,” which is linked below. You can listen as you read, if that’s your thing.

The subject matter is focused not on what I saw, but how I felt based on my experiences. I was alone in Palermo and Rome, so the corresponding journal entries deal with the concept of traveling alone. After I met up with friends in Florence, the tone shifts to touch on the pros and cons of traveling in a group. Now that I’ve over described the content into near irrelevance, I might as well get to it. Enjoy!

April 4th, 2017

“Passionate from miles away.”

I feel like the world is playing badminton with me: knocking me from country to country. Knocking me around in each country. Testing my resolve, my patience. But I haven’t broken yet. I’m bent. Reshaped by the sheer size of the world. That and the fact that people go about their business no matter where I turn up.

A car, windows down, music blaring, careens down the street in Palermo. Meanwhile in Paris: the same. Meanwhile, in Humboldt Park, Chicago: more of the same. The languages differ. Italian in Palermo, French in Paris, Spanish in Humboldt Park. And the genres too. At its core, though, the scenes are eerily similar. TVs flash light blue, then dark, then light blue again. In apartments here, in apartments everywhere. People sit covered with blankets on couches and in beds, all staring at screens. Its strangely comforting to know that modernity touches all of us. We really are all in this massive world together.

And I bring my habits, quirks, and skills with me wherever I go. I sip my Heineken that I opened with the bottom of my cigarette lighter. Years ago I learned to do it in Spencer’s basement. Age 24 or 17, the ritual hasn’t changed. Suburban America or the heart of Palermo: the ritual is the same. That is comforting too. The continuity of the little things. The simple solitude of a cigarette and a beer on the balcony; letting the sounds of a buzzing town wash over me. It’s always the same, but it’s never the same.

The past year has seen me in Chicago, Illinois; Nowhere, Nebraska; Colorado Springs, Colorado; Eastbourne, Brighton, Bath,, Rye, Salisbury, Bristol (kinda), and London in the UK; Normal, Illinois; Ypres, Belgium; Paris, France, and Palermo, Sicily, where I sit now. More destinations will follow. Even as I rocket across the net, the little birdie that I am, I’m still me. Whether I dance alone (to Passionfruit by Drake) on a Sicilian balcony, watching the lights of Palermo shimmering against the mountains, or in my apartment in Normal, watching the occasional car pass, the feeling is equally freeing.

I set the scene. The location matters not. The feeling, the energy, matters infinitely. The energy is the scene. I felt tingles. Drunken, awestruck tingles looking at the endless, star-riveted sky in Nebraska. I felt a shiver down my spine watching the sun set over the mountains in Palermo. The energy was not inherent, it was created in my head.

If I could offer one piece of advice to my future self (or anyone, for that matter), it would be to bring energy to the situation. Don’t let the location determine your presence. Don’t rank your moments. You can have an epiphany on a bus just as surely as you can drift mindlessly through the Vatican.

April 4th, 2017

The comfort of continuity becomes apparent when you’re thrown into discontinuity. The scene changes, but the possessions don’t. A backpack becomes an anchor. A bronze cigarette case becomes an identity. A pink sweatshirt becomes a calling card. Materialism in excess can rob you of your soul, but, to an extent, the special things I own make me feel safe. These objects make me feel at home when the world around me is so unfamiliar. I never thought I could have a bond with an iPhone charger, but that 6 foot cable never fails me. I’m surrounded by inanimate friends when every person I see is a stranger. I cling to the strings on my sweatshirt as I struggle to order food in Italian.

April 5th, 2017

“Here comes the nighttime.”

I’m sitting in an Italian record shop, smoking French cigarettes, drinking German beer, listening to Angel Olsen. In my sheltered American body. The moment seems jigsaw-made for me. You don’t end up here if you structure your days. You end up here if you listen to impulse, the music in the air. You can ignore it if you’d like, but you’re missing out on the perfectly unplanned moments, like right now.

April 6th, 2017

Sometimes you know when the bus will come. You show up, pay, get on, and everything goes smoothly. Other times, you drunkenly walk through the streets of Palermo at 3am, cursing out loud because you can’t find a pizzeria that’s open.

April 6th, 2017

“Since I left you, I found a world so new.”

There are no wrong turns when you travel alone. There are no disagreements. The world is your playground. I haven’t showered in 4 days. I don’t currently own a toothbrush; that’s on the agenda for tomorrow. I drink 4 beers a night and I go through cigarettes like the world is ending and I don’t fear death. For all I know, the world is ending. And if it is, I’d at least like to see it happen. I’ve seen plenty. Not enough for a lifetime, but a lot for 24 years. The end of the world would be a fitting final sight. What I’m saying is, I’m content right now. Does that mean that I’ll be content forever? Of course not. But I’m certainly satisfied with the way things have been going lately.

“You can check out any time you’d like, but you can never leave.” 

I write from a hostel in Rome where the energy, the raw human energy, is joyous. Smiles all around. Countless timelines intersecting happily here. My bottle of Nastro Azzurro sits next to me. In the next chair is Tom, an Italian lawyer born in Missouri. He’s typing an essay on doctor malpractice laws in Italy. On the curb outside, I shared cigarettes and conversation with Ibo, a Turkish construction manager who called his homeland “hell.” Fleeing the unrest temporarily in Rome, he told me he wants to leave Turkey for good. He also told me to get up early tomorrow. Good advice. We’ll see if I do it. He hails from what once was the city of Troy. Far from the violence, but still in hell, apparently. The world seems small right now. Small and friendly.

April 7th, 2017

“I once had a life. Or rather, life had me. I was one among many, or at least I seemed to be.” 

Donny’s looking for his happily-ever-after in Rome. His base of operation: the cigarette terrace at the M&J Hostel. That’s a long way from Austin, Texas, but apparently she’s worth it. “How romantic,” I said after he told me the story. I didn’t want to follow his story with my own, but I did it anyway. I hope it didn’t bore him, the lovesick guy he was.

Then there was Alice: skipping across Europe in a whirlwind journey. Madrid, Budapest, Prague, Amsterdam, and Rome. She didn’t know she was capable of seeing so much until she went and did it. All you need is the initial push and you’re off on a roll.

The lounge at the hostel is marketplace of cultures and ideas. Nobody cares much about how you smell, but they listen to what you have to say. The beverage of choice is Nastro Azzurro in giant bottles, 2 Euros, Cold. Effortless. It lubricates the discussion, which can jump from the similarities between American baseball and cricket to the ramifications of Trump shooting missiles at Syria. I thrive here. It feels like I belong here. This lifestyle of walking miles a day, being resourceful, making plans on the fly and then making them happen, feels right. This has been problem solving elevated to art. I know I’m no expert traveler, but I feel like one. That’s probably all that matters.

April 8th, 2017

Went to the Sistine Chapel with Alice after planning it the night before. I asked what she was writing about. She said she was trying to remember all the places she’s been. We got to talking and the plan materialized from thin air: “can I go with you?” she asked. “Sure. I’ll message you when I wake up,” I replied. That was that.

This morning she met me in the hostel lobby and we were off. Buying train tickets, locating the station, getting off at the right stop, finding tickets to the chapel, and arriving at the Vatican all went off without a hitch. The conversation flowed, we put our heads together and made the plans happen. I didn’t expect traveling with a stranger to be so smooth. It was the kind of experience that didn’t seem possible.

The Basilica, the Chapel, and Alice all amazed me in different ways. The Basilica for it’s imposing marble, the cavernous hall, and the godsend light beams that sliced across the space inside. The Chapel for the superhuman attention to detail. A 2-dimensional fresco had all the depth of reality, and probably more style. And Alice because she was gone for the Basilica, there for the Chapel, and she managed to not annoy me once all day.

In the Chapel and the Basilica, I found myself thinking that all acts done in the name of god are acts of god, and that god has never actually done anything.

April 9th, 2017

“I’m in no rush, let’s do it right.” 

A few hours ago I watched the sun set on Manarola, part of Cinque Terre, in Northwestern Italy. I don’t think the photos on the postcards I bought live up to ones I took myself. Not only for sentimental reasons, but for aesthetic quality as well. I spent the whole day traveling with a group and, although I originally thought it would be difficult, everything ultimately worked out. It didn’t feel effortless, but it felt good. Not only to see the sights with my own eyes, but to share the experience and contribute to the group. We hiked, photographed, ate, drank, swam, and bought train tickets together.

Usually I’d be operating off the cuff; entirely unplanned, so today was a drastic change of pace. But a valuable one. I didn’t get everything I wanted. In fact, I didn’t even have time to figure out what I wanted. We reached compromises in real time, each getting a small share of the plan. At first I was frustrated by what I took to be bickering, but that is group dynamics in a shell. You bicker, you respect each other, and you build the plan stepwise, like a Jenga game in reverse. Now, on a train back to Florence, I feel like I’ve made some real friends. The crucible, the trials and tribulations of Cinque Terre has fashioned a functioning group out of us. And what we’ve seen and done today will live with us forever. We share the memories with each other and no one else. It is most certainly not traveling alone, but it was not notably worse. Shared experiences  have a different weight than individual ones. Because of the cooperative element, it feels more human.

“Movement doesn’t flow quite like it does when I’m alone.” 

We saw a lot: swam in the marina, hiked up and down Cinque Terre, ate seafood, saw the sun set. I wouldn’t have had the patience for so much activity. Our shared exhaustion is a badge of achievement. Together, we conquered the day. Did it flow? Not remotely. But a group usually doesn’t flow. We didn’t do it how I’d do it, but we did it right.

April 10th, 2017

Misunderstanding the circumstances you’re in is as close as you can come to living in another dimension. The assumptions people make about what you know colors their perception of you, and vice versa. If the assumptions lead to different perspectives, things go downhill pretty quick, especially if the situation is complex. requiring careful handling. Differing perspectives make a toxic situation worse. It breeds skepticism, confusion, distrust, and even anger. Nobody wins. The only remedy is genuine communication. No fronts. Pure empathy. A human trying to connect with another. Sounds simple, but it doesn’t happen nearly as often as it should. Too often, the differing perspectives are allowed to exist, tainting an entire relationship when a simple honest conversation would have set things straight. The obvious catch to this is that some people are incapable of reaching the level of honesty and humility needed to co-empathize with another person. They may just not know how, or they may be wrapped up in social conventions. Petty, meaningless things that people let control them. I feel sorry, I pity, I don’t necessarily hold it against them. That would put me on their level. I don’t feel right there. I need the veils of pride lifted. I need to know the reality of a situation.

“Are the stars out tonight? I don’t know if it’s cloudy or bright?”

You’d think someone who shit their pants from drunkenness at 8pm wouldn’t try to party later that night.  But no, they did. And they didn’t really seem to know the true ugliness of the situation. It’s one thing to babysit someone. It’s an entirely different situation to babysit someone who insists they don’t need babysitting. It’s like the three year old who says “mine” to everything and then cries when they can’t get down the stairs. Italian men are like sharks. Her drunken stumbling was fresh blood in the water. None of us wanted that blood on our hands. And so the night was derailed, hijacked, and ruined. Florence saw some truly embarrassing behaviors tonight.

April 11th, 2017

“Banana split for my baby, a glass of plain water for me.”

I see why some Italians seem to hate American tourists. Or tourists in general. So many of us come to the gorgeous, lush, history-rich and well established country and use it up like a commodity.

A few frat stars from Pitt walk down the middle of a Florentine street. They scowl when a motorcycle passes too close. Never mind the fact that they’re walking in the middle of a motorway. No, it was definitely his fault, the other guy.

The world is not your playground. If you don’t blend, culturally, you’re part of the problem. At the gelato shop, she got the wrong flavor. The Italian woman at the counter wouldn’t take it back. That was three wasted Euros, true, but I don’t blame the cashier. I can’t. I think that her profanity and general rudeness was a little much, but then again, I don’t know how many times she had to deal with grumbling, spoiled Americans that day. That might’ve been the 10th time, for all I know.

I know an American gelato shop would have given her another flavor. The customer is always right in America. But there lies the problem: Italy, the country of Italy, is not in America. To expect the logic of America, the flawed logic of “the customer is always right,” to exist everywhere is naive. Ignorant, even. So I blend. I blend really good. I get better at it every day. I love blending.

April 12th, 2017

“Locura azul” : “Blue Madness”

When Venice floods, however many years from now, you can ask me what it was like. Crawling with tourists, cheap souvenir carts, shops selling glass animals and 5000 Euro vases. The Grand Canal, winding and lined with unique buildings, spanned by the Rialto Bridge. White and stone, the bridge embodies the Renaissance — it is a much a bridge as it is a work of art. It is functional; it serves as a bustling marketplace. The finest Venetian jewelry and blown glass is sold there. Venice seems mixed up in the 21st century. It has most of the physical features of a 16th century city, and none of the people. It radiates manufactured romance in some places. and the genuine article in others. We spent hours trying to figure out what to do there but I think we accidentally figured it out when we stopped to rest. Venice is meant to be seen, heard, and absorbed. The actions matter less than the mental pictures you take of it. In Venice, you live in a postcard everywhere you go. The food is overpriced, the cathedral is rather small, but city is greater than the sum of its parts. There really is nowhere else like it (that I’ve seen).

Listen to the accordion echoing down the narrow walkways. Watch gondolas slink beneath ornate bridges. Watch people eat at restaurants you can’t afford. That is what Venice offers.

April 13th, 2017

“Wish I was an English muffin, ’bout to make the most out of a toaster. I’d ease myself down, comin’ up brown.”

I think it’s over. I’m out of money and out of plans. I want to sleep in a bed that I’m familiar with. But I never want the exhilaration of exploration to end. I wonder how I might go back to reality while maintaining the spirit of travel. It feels melancholy. Vague heartsickness. Not regret. Day-to-day life doesn’t brim with opportunity the way vacation does. Now, as I sit on a plane bound for London via Dusseldorf, I can picture the mountains of Sicily, the faces of Rome, the panorama of Florence, the lagoon in Corniglia, the sunset in Manarola, and the Grand Canal of Venice. I may never make it back physically, but I can go back mentally anytime I want.

(Cover Image from Garden Collage Magazine)