The Capital Tour

I don’t know how long it’s been since I’ve written to you, but I do understand I’ve been remiss. Time simply got away from me in my travels. I will do my best to fill in the gaps without being over-lengthy, but the two do seem a tad mutually exclusive considering how much has passed in the interim. Given my fatigue, I will travail to err on the side of brevity, but, as is already evident, when I write my innate taciturnity turns to garrulity. Alas, let us commence.

When I last wrote, I think I was still fat and happy with reblochon and red in France. How to wrap up a month in the French Alps? My days passed much the same, only I started spending them exclusively at the café. Two espressos in the early afternoon, two glasses of wine in the late afternoon into the evening, and I’d head home after I’d finished the chapter of the day. What can I say? I already liked there, and when the baristas started giving me free drinks, I liked it even more. I must say, on this side of the counter, I see that it is quite nice to be a regular. At least a regular who is liked. Unfortunately, when you become a regular, other regulars think you want them to talk at you. 

Here are a few things I learned in France: Apparently, I bear the entire weight and sole responsibility for the political mess in which we are currently immersed. I, and I alone, have managed to turn the entire population of the United States to the pursuit of authoritarianism. Never mind that I swore up and down that I don’t support Trump. What else? Oh yes. In the US, there exist exclusively the extremely impoverished and the extraordinarily rich, and if any of the people who spoke to me moved to the US, they would certainly die in the streets within months because we all hate foreigners and there are no social services to support them. Obviously, the French have heard of our growing wage gap and pay inequality issues, and in conjunction with the current politics a certain number of them have surmised that we are regressing to a state of feudalism while simultaneously craving anarchy and a dictator. This is not just one conversation, but is the summation of many. As I said, a myriad of people assumed I had naught to interest me but to sit and listen as they waxed ineloquent on all the deficiencies of my country. So although I came to love it there, when I made the final egress from my subterranean lair, I was quite looking forward to what was next.

The plane ride to Rome, albeit short and bumpy, was comparatively enjoyable even though I became engrossed in conversation from which I was unable to extract myself. Fortunately, the focus had moved from the inadequacies of the States to another. I was in a row with Jamila from Oman and Zara, who had the best opener: “I’m from Iran, ever heard of it?” Fresh off of being blamed for all present and potential problems of a country, I just nodded, but Jamila lost it. After that conversation, Jamila told us she only had a weekend in Rome and was planning on visiting the Vatican on Sunday morning. A long while was spent trying to convince her that this, in fact, was a terrible idea and mostly impossible since it was Easter Sunday. Although she couldn’t really get a grasp on what Easter in Rome means, I finally convinced her that there would be fewer people on Saturday, but did not even broach the topic that she would be unable to simply stroll into Vatican City and explore. I figured the Swiss Guards with their poleaxes would get the message across much better than I would be able to express.

After roughly 14 hours to travel about 400 miles as the crow flies, I finally made it to Rome to see Mom and Sal. I did what you do in Rome. I ate a ton of gelato and drank more espresso than is altogether healthy. This being my sixth or seventh time in Rome, I thought I might finally take the opportunity to do some things I’ve never done. I ascended to the cupola of St. Peter’s. When you finally are inside the actual dome, the walls are skewed, pushing in above you. “Wonky,” was the word that came to mind as I ascended the seat of Peter, and then I laughed aloud because it reminded me of the homily in which Fr. Peter compared the Throne of God to the Wonkavator. For those of you who do not geek out over both etymology and theology (i.e.: probably all of you), I suppose I will just have to put it plainly and admit that I was actually amused by a pun. 

At the top, my impression of the views were mitigated by my continual struggle to dampen the surges of violent rage which generally come upon me when I am in large groups confined to small areas. I made my obligatory round of the cupola and got out of there as quickly as possible. Which was not quickly at all, considering the single-file-sized hallways and that I think the woman in front of me may have been suffering from vertigo. Nonetheless, when I reached the roof of the cathedral, I was quite content. Did you know there is a café there? I got an ice cream and an espresso, found a little uninhabited niche, and just sat for a while. I have always had peculiar predilection for rooftops, and sitting atop the home of Catholicism overlooking the eternal city ranks among the best rooftop experiences I've had. It lost a few points due the fact that unlike many other roofs, I knew beyond a doubt that I was absolutely allowed to be there, but there’s always a catch, is there not? 

I also decided to brave the Vatican museums. I’m bad at museums. Remember the violent rage in crowds of people? The Sistine Chapel was a bit of a trial in that manner, but I managed to spend a full ten minutes there and I’m glad I did. In addition to viewing the Last Judgment and Creation of Man, I had the opportunity to engross myself in cuneiform tablets. For a moment I lamented that I’ve lost the ability to read cuneiform, but then I remembered that even if I had maintained my grasp on the phonetics of it, I don’t speak ancient Sumerian, and I’m okay with that. I also thoroughly enjoyed the horribly distorted and inaccurate maps of the New World.

After near a week in Rome, I boarded the double-decker Flix bus to Trento to visit Emmy and escape the city crowds for a weekend. I try to avoid making blanket statements about an entire people or nation as I could never have enough data to support a claim as such, nonetheless I will say that poor signage does seem epidemic in Italy. How are you to know where to descend from the bus when none of the stops are marked? Counting stops doesn’t work, because you don’t stop unless someone requests it, and you can’t request it if you don’t know it’s coming. Fortunately, Armando came out on his bike and found me walking down the mountain highway after his wife told him I wasn’t at the train station. I’m a bit unsure how I gleaned all of this information, considering we didn’t share a common language, but that’s what happened. 

This lack of signage also led my and Emmy’s Sunday afternoon walk to transform into bushwhacking our way to a mountaintop when the trail simply ended. Fortunately, I had decided to put on my hiking boots which Mom was kind enough to exchange for my tennies, but otherwise I hadn't changed from my church clothes. LNT #1 – Plan ahead and prepare. Fail. Though did we? Because the only sign we found for the castle clearly indicated that we follow the terminal trail. We did find the ruins of a tower for our efforts, and when we finally made it back down into town, the castle was there sitting amidst all the other buildings. After returning and doffing my sweaty and dirty "nice" outfit, we went out for dinner and had wine, GF pizza, espresso, and limoncello before lying on a lakeside dock stargazing and singing the song from The Lizzy Macguire Movie. I'm not defending it, I'm just telling you it happened.

Shakespeare's Globe in the background

Back to Rome, where I took a picture of JPII’s tomb before I was told that I wasn’t allowed to. I hadn’t realized that the prayer and picture areas were exclusive. I suppose I figured that ten minutes  of prayer got me access to one picture, but that’s not the way it works. I think the guard(?) only didn’t kick me out because I was crying. Come on. It’s Saint John Paul the Great. I’m just content that I didn’t have to knowingly break a rule to get the picture, because I’m pretty sure I would have.

LONDON. For reasons unbeknownst to me, I somehow let myself be swayed by insidious lies regarding the nature of London, and almost did not go. Pure foolish rubery. Mercifully I am a sucker for a cheap flight and went anyway. London may very well be one of my favorite places in the whole world (that I’ve visited), and generally I don't even like cities. Oh London, our time was too short, but it was nothing short of magical. And I do not say that only because I visited Platform 9 ¾. Les Misérables on the London stage… For those of you who love musical theater, that statement is enough. For those of you who don’t, nothing I say will matter, so I leave it there. When I got back after the show, I opened my window and heard the strains of Zimmer’s score to Sherlock Holmes drifting up from below. It was delightfully cliché and I couldn't have been happier. 

In the 47 hours that followed I went to King’s Cross Station and bought my first souvenir of the trip (a Platform 9¾ key ring), visited St. Paul’s and Southwark Cathedrals, walked the Millennium and London Bridges, saw the Tower Bridge, visited the Tower of London and saw the crown jewels, visited the Victoria & Albert museum, the National Portrait Gallery, and the National Gallery, visited Trafalgar Square, stopped by the recreation of the Globe Theatre, and saw Big Ben. Oh, and I saw Buckingham Palace. I didn’t care for it. Perhaps it’s the anti-monarchial side of me, but it was the singular disappointing moment of my days there. 

Since a young age, I have favored British Literature. I would have graduated with a degree in English if I hadn’t decided to forego the requisite American Lit in favor of “British Drama through the Ages.” Due to this inclination, walking around London was like walking through my personal literary history. Wandering Covent Garden, I imagined Eliza selling her flowers, every street name I recognized, every landmark I saw, seemed familiar in way inexplicable except to those who understand what it means to not just read, but who vicariously experience a story. At the Charlotte Brontë exhibit I shed more than a tear reading over the first edition of Jane Eyre and found both solace and poignant understanding in her handwritten letters. It was actually deeply personal and moving, and I shall say no more of it. Alas, I had to tear myself away to go catch the Night Bus. Yes, truly, from London I took a sleeper bus with bunks to Edinburgh. It wasn’t the best night’s sleep, but I imagine that it beats the Knight Bus as the driver was much more deliberate than Ern, though slower. Don’t worry, if you don’t read Harry Potter, you should be lost.

After the splendor of London, this past Saturday I awoke to a grey dreary day in Edinburgh. My hosts were nice and welcoming, I found a good cortado, went to the movies, and wandered around. And I hated it. So much. Perhaps after spending so long with family and friends and the thrill of London, I was simply lonely and bored finding myself alone again. The people I was staying with seemed like they’d be people I’d be friends with if I lived there. I base this solely on the fact that they’re nice, have a vintage Star Wars poster on the wall, have an entire shelf of fantasy novels, and have Catan and War of the Ring on their game shelf. However, the odd fact that they reminded me of friends but weren’t actually was unexpectedly depressing. Wandering outside, the dull monochromatic greys of the city were oppressive, and the only way to describe my impression and my mood is “bleak.”

Sitting inside alone with Netlfix as company, I remembered reading something like the following on a travel blog before I left: “It’s okay to stop, to change your mind. Maybe travel isn’t everything you thought it was, and that’s okay. Maybe you planned for too long, going home early doesn’t mean you failed.” Although I already purchased my non-refundable flight home, I started thinking that maybe it is simply time to cut my losses and go home a few weeks early.

Perhaps it's the legendary Jarocki frugality in me, but I don't like paying for convenience. I'd rather drive the 15 minutes round trip to the movie theater to pick up tickets than pay $3 a pop to reserve online. I can't help but run the math, and when I do, I do not often find it worth it. But Edinburgh weakened my pragmatic resolve. And so, the next morning, instead of walking eight minutes to the tram, I got an uber to the airport. Not only did I transgress a hitherto sustained precedent of not downloading any apps which request unnecessary access to my phone, but in choosing the uber, I paid roughly 75 cents per minute saved if my card gives the market value conversion. Hourly rate: $45. Steep for a jobless vagrant. Like I said, my mood was as grey as the Scottish sky, and I didn't even care.

The Brevity Report:

• America, but me specifically, is ruining France
• Easter in Rome
• A visit to Trento
• London: all the things
• Edinburgh: bleak