Jolly Olde England

Okay, I've been a bit behind in publishing this blog. Here is picking up April 6th, having just left Italy. Landing at Cloe’s place. Got a late night pick-up from the airport from Cloe’s sister and her boyfriend. They were on the Bali adventure with us last year when I took the fall that broke my wrist, and we’d bonded in the time we’d spent together there; they felt like family. The two of them are up and coming rock stars – no joke - in a band called The Hype Theory, scrapping their way through the saturated London music scene. They introduced me to the late night “Tescos” experience. After a month in Italy – where everything is bread and cheese, I reveled in the familiar comfort foods tidily lined in fluorescence, and the sheer number of choices. Italy, for all its food fame, has an incredibly limited selection of foods in its markets, even in Rome. (Granted, I did not make it to the French-owned Carrefour, which undoubtedly would have held a larger selection of consumables.) I picked up some Mulligitawny soup, oh Jesus yum, and we popped around the corner to the family home.
The Jackson family home is what I imagine a run of the mill Harry Potter-esque magic family’s home to be. It’s three stories, surrounded by a small garden with a hutch for the bunny and guinea pigs, and a hen that sleeps in the flowerpot attached to the windowsill. Each room in the house is small, but not tiny, and the stairs that wind up to the third floor are tilting just so one has to lean all the way forward or back to negotiate them. And Cloe’s mother, Karen (kah-ren) has a magical quality about her. A good witch if I ever saw one. Her dad might be a muggle in comparison, but still a fairly jolly, if slightly repressed, chap. Oh my gosh, and their cars! Cloe and her mom both have the perfect cars for them, and I am envious! Cloe's little green car is so sweet!

Spent the first week mostly working, getting to know what it’s like to live in suburban England, walking in the nearby fields and parkland. Cloe and I were both battling colds, so it was pretty low-key, but it was so lovely to be in the sphere of the radiant Cloe again. She is a touchstone for me. A child-like dreamer with endless wells of loving compassion and wisdom. It was unusually sunny and warm so we spent those first few days sitting in the sun in the garden, tanning and typing away. Strange to have gotten a tan in England after a cold few weeks in Italy. The first weekend I spent in London. Vilius had just happened to be flying to London around the same time, so we met up for a CouchSurfing gathering at a Balkan beat DJ night at a pub in the South part of town. At some CS gatherings it’s easy to tell who’d CS and who’s not. You start to get a feel for our special brand of diversity. This, however, was not one of those gatherings. London’s geeky diversity makes it difficult to spot a group of CSers among the locals, so we had to go looking. There was a group of 4 friends dressed in full furries outfits, a duck, a tiger, a chicken and a rabbit. Regardless of their CS status, I had to know what inspired them to go out looking like the cast of Winnie the Pooh the Musical. Come to find out that they had absolutely no reason, other than their quirky sense of humor and fun loving approach to life. Of course I suggested that they join CS. Even funnier than the outfits was the ensuing political discussion about the chances of Obama’s reelection. We did end up finding the dispersed couchsurfers and getting everyone dancing like crazy to the Balkan beats.

The next day was spent walking London – down the waterway that skirts Regent’s Park and the London Zoo. The weather, still warm and sunny (?!!) and we made the most of it, eating lunch on the lock at Camden. Found this funny little clubby alterna-store, bumping house music. Three levels of neon clothes, funky gifts, sex toy shop, and gag gifts. No photos allowed, which I think is the funniest part. The uber-goth staff (like Death Guild Burners on steroids) are militant about it.
As I returned back to the Paddington flat where I was staying (with a lovely Yemeni-born Londoner named Faiza), I walked through Regent’s Park. The local Muslim families were gathered there playing and barbequing. I stopped to take some photos of, and marvel at, the Central London Mosque. Like many mosques, new moon crescents adorn its minarets. It was sunset and their outlines against the blue-pink sky were just breathtaking. As I stood there soaking in the moment, this funny older gentleman approached me, asking if I had ever been to the mosque. When he heard my accent in my reply to the negative, he asked where I was from. “San Francisco,” I said. He exploded with joy, “San Francisco! My favorite girlfriend was from San Francisco! Come, you must take a walk in the park with me.” It was one of those moments too perfect to pass up. Turns out he’s a 78-year-old barrister (British lawyer) originally from Pakistan. On the walk through the park we came across many people he knew, one of whom gave me a necklace from his bag at the barrister’s insistence. Walking back toward the mosque, he invites me to tour it. Having never been inside a mosque, I accepted. At the gate I was given a scarf to wear on my head, though the barrister objected. I was happy to wear it. I much prefer to follow the customs, no matter where I am. Inside, the mosque was huge. I could not go into the large room where the men pray, but I did get to look in. It was much like other churches, lots of space, and facilities for gatherings. We went downstairs to a little café, where several families were eating dinner. He introduced me, and made jokes about how he was going to marry me and take me with him to Pakistan. Had some delicious curry and was on my way with his card and a promise to be in touch.

Earlier that week I had gotten a message from a friend I’d met in Thailand last year – the lovely and amazing Megan Flamer – saying that her sister, Tasha, lived in London and just happened to have an extra ticket to that Monday’s Jose Gonzalez show. So I stayed another night, and saw one of the best shows of my life! He was backed by the Goteborg String Theory Orchestra (http://www.tgst.org/) – easily the hottest ensemble of musical geniuses in Finland – conducted by the inimitable Nackt, a musical force of nature. I can hardly begin to describe the divinity that was this collaboration. Just go to the website. Trust me.

Cloe came back to London with me a few days later for an ecstatic dance night and the weekend. I have to admit, as hippy-spirit-woo-woo-yoga as I can be, I have had an aversion to ecstatic dance for as long as I’ve known about it. Maybe I was dance snobby, but my distaste was only reinforced by my experiences at ecstatic dances. The few times I’ve actually gotten myself to an ecstatic dance event, I ended up feeling like the whole thing was contrived. Part of it is (an no offense to those of you who like it) that there are the contact improv people who seem to have no sense of what consent to contact looks like, who roll their sweaty bodies all over anyone who is not quick enough to dance away, at least that’s what happened in the ecstatic dance I went to last in Berkeley. Maybe it’s that I did not really know anyone at the dances I went to before. Maybe, just maybe, I just needed to be in a better less judgmental place before I could enjoy the kind of freedom that comes with ecstatic dance when one is truly absorbed in it. Regardless, this one was different. I went with Cloe and her (and my new) friend, Saharima – one of the most fantastic and amazingly tattooed women I’ve ever met. I am certain that part of the difference was the quality of the people I went with, but another was the quality of the people there. The DJ was guiding the dance through something called the 5 Rhythms. He started off with a long period of chill music while people warmed up, meditated, greeted each other in silence. Then he suggested that we focus on grounding, connecting through the Earth, feeling the element of earth. Then moving through connecting with others, with a small group, effortlessly moving from one connection to another, exploring what can be exchanged in the dance. Then dancing to the highest self. I had never felt so free in dance, so unselfconscious. And at the end, as he encouraged us to tune back into our heart space, I felt a release in me, some energy that had been stuck began to move, and I burst into tears. Cloe was nearby and perfectly present for me in that moment. I moved out some old, old stuck sadness.

A mutual friend of ours from Bali, Claire, happened to be in London for a few last days before her move to Brazil, and we were lucky enough to stay with her for a couple over the weekend. She was wrapping up the renovation of her condo, and when we arrived she was about at the end of her rope. It was clear that she needed some help. It had been years since I last did some home improvement, and it felt good to flex those muscles again. We sanded, sealed, cleaned. Claire was beyond grateful, and I remembered what that gratitude felt like, when a friend or two show up in those last few days of work on a house, when you just don’t think you can paint one more wall. We had great girl time, even did a little shopping at a street market. Then Claire was off, and we gathered the lovely and amazing Lisa Larn and her son, Jai, and headed for Brighton. Having watched the BBC’s Pride and Prejudice far too many times, I could not but help hearing in my head the annoying voice of Lydia “I want to go to Brighton!” and giggling to myself. We had a lovely day laying around on the beach and running around with Jai in the Brighton gardens.

Sunday was the picnic for the people of Nowhere, where all kinds of fun burner-type freaks gathered to plot and plan our summer festival in Spain. It was like the friendlier version of the Black Rock DPW all in one place. Cloe was a sport and went with me. We met near the Thames, in Jubilee Gardens, right under the giant ferris wheel, within view of Big Ben. Like every day in San Francisco, I had that sense of “how did my life get so good?”
One of my fellow Nowhere go-ers, Sam, had an extra ticket to the White Mischief party that evening a nautical steam-punk themed event replete with Gogol Bordello type bands, hula hooping burlesque acts and all kinds of crazy fun stuff.  We had a freaking blast! Turns out Sam is also a swing dancer, so we cut up the dance floor into the wee hours. Night buses home are not tons of fun, but much more so after a few drinks and a fabulous night.

The perfect wrap up to my time in the UK was the Moonlight yoga dance journey sleepover that Cloe put on at her yoga studio. Another awesome dance experience, a group breathwork session, led by yours truly, and a lovely vegetarian meal. Made some friends for life, and had the sweetest time all snuggled up on the floor with Rosy, Arron, Cloe, Lisa and the rest of the gang. In my rush to leave for Turkey, I lost my black wool coat in Heathrow Airport (where nothing is EVER recovered) but I was so full of love and so excited to finally reach the Middle East, I could not be bothered to care.

So the conference began. Lots of time in meetings, brainstorms, and hanging around with the people I love so well. One of the things I love most about my job is the collaboration on new projects. When a new idea emerges for a project, a process, or if the product team just wants to get ideas for ways to improve the website, we all sit down together and brainstorm. I'd never experienced this level of professional co-creation until working for CouchSurfing.

We walked through the hills of Umbria in our free time, exploring, picking flowers, finding the best views. Spent many hours in the van, shuttling back and forth to better internet connection in Spoleto. Then there was the outing to Perugia. A few of us decided to leave the castle for an evening, go out to dinner and maybe find a dance club. What we found was a big town situated on a hill with a huge town square smack in the middle. All the college kids from the local university hang out in the square, playing music, socializing. We had an incredible meal in an out-of-the-way restaurant, involving more than one dish with fresh black truffle. Is there anything better than fresh pasta with truffles? We didn't find the dance clubs, and gave up the search in lieu of some Prosecco and chocolate at a cozy little wine bar. During the hour-long ride back we realized that it was March 30th, and that we were in a perfect position to inflict a well-planned April Fool's Day prank on our unsuspecting coworker family. Rejected ideas from the ensuing brainstorm: running through the castle upon our 2am arrival rousing everyone with some pretend emergency requiring the immediate evacuation of the premises; hiding all of the vehicles around the other side of the town; panty raid; and numerous others deemed too cruel or time consuming. What we did choose to perpetrate took us into the 3am hour. The milk and juice containers in our refrigerator were all opaque, so as to conceal the true nature of the contents thereof. We drained said containers into bowls, washed them and filled each with the other. Then we set our alarms to wake before the crew came down for breakfast. It was only a few key people who got juice on their cereal, and in their coffee, but it was totally worth it! It made for an amusing morning.

There were a few days of driving up and up and up and finding the little towns perched on the mountainsides, eating in little restaurants run by families, discovering vistas. One particular: a group of us had been driving around all day, visited some nearby municipal hot springs that were less than thrilling, and really just going as far as we could go and, ostensibly, still make it back in time for dinner. We drove up through unbelievably remote and tiny villages on the way to the sunset. Little nuns peeking out of windows to see who's roaring up the road, townspeople sitting on benches wave, cats and chickens scampering off the road at our approach. Casey had in mind that we'd have a sunset mountaintop dance party, and it turned out to be one of the pinnacle moments in Italy. It was 6 of us, a bottle of wine, the sound system in the car, and the will to live up the moment. The sunset was epic, and dance we did.

There were so many more amazing moments like this, I'll have to write a book to do them all justice. Some other conference highlights: playing sardines in the castle (see photo - a good many of us packed in the kitchen cellar), the sauna, multi-projector light show put to music watched from the floor of our gigantic living room, Erin (our chef's) dinners, and some really spectacular dinners out in the surrounding medieval towns.

Back in Rome

A small group of us returned to Rome and converged for a dinner party at my host’s house, which then turned into a night of showing everyone new to Rome around the city. We took a late night walk through the old city starting with the Colosseum. It was so fun to watch Fabiana experiencing Rome for the first time. We took everyone to Trevi fountain and there was a negotiation with the street sellers for some cheap plastic toys that ended up all over Otto's face (see photo). One more day of work with the crew at a hotel and then I was off to jolly old England.

The Vatican and an uphill struggle

To resume, a gaggle of intrepid couchsurfers wander tipsily around Rome in search of

a dance club on a Thursday night...
The dance club was somewhat like the typical SF clubs. Lots of guys trying to get up in girls’ business, but the presence of the guys in our group deterred most of the unwanted attention. We got down like crazy to some very loud electro-pop, and then our Roman friends were nice enough to make sure we all got home safely. Vilius, the aforementioned CSer from Lithuania, ended up crashing with me and Duncan at my host’s house, as I’d been given permission to host whomever I deemed worthy. So the three of us – with very little sleep – stuck to my plan to meet with Marc in the morning. Surprisingly, we were up and on the train to downtown at 8am. We’d heard that the lines for the Vatican Museum were long and early arrival was essential. At 9am there was already a line around the corner, but it was sunny and warm-ish and we were good company. Marc never showed, or was very late and didn’t come looking for us in line. I would have cursed his name but I honestly didn’t think we’d have made it to the museum if it hadn’t been for the plans to meet. So instead I silently thanked him. In line, we worked as a team to ward off the discount-happy tour salespeople, many of which misconstrued the cost of the museum in order to get people to buy their tours. We entertained ourselves with the creative ways we engaged and denied these scheisters as the line slowly crept around the Vatican walls.
Inside the Vatican Museum – lots of amazing old paintings. Gilded halls. Tapestries, symbolism. Grumpy guards, clearly tired of telling people what not to do there. Vilius being one of them, having laid down on the floor of one of the rooms with amazing ceiling frescoes. Really? No one can lie down and look up? I think there should be special areas specifically for doing so. It was overwhelmingly beautiful. It’s funny when, after awhile, you find yourself looking at a masterpiece and thinking, “yeah, yeah, another masterpiece... next!” Highlights of the day? 1. The company: Duncan, being his hilarious and irreverent self, and Vilius, (like me - a recovering Catholic) with his vaguely sarcastic humor and anarchic steak, were the perfect companions for the day. We found ourselves ready to move at the same times, and marveling at the same discoveries in the art. 2. Sending my parents a postcard from the Vatican. I’m not sure why, but I found it amusing. 3. Practically the last thing you see as you leave the museum is a picture of Pope John Paul II holding a koala bear. Awesomeness. (see photo.)

That evening was my hasty getaway to Spoleto, where I’d meet my colleagues, better known as my extended family. We’d been spread to the four winds for the better part of the last 6 months, and this would be our first time together since September. I get picked up at the Spoleto train station around dinnertime by Susy, TTT and Rachel, who was apparently on the same train. A windy drive out into the country and we pull up to a castle-town called Macerino (ma-chair-EE-no) where we are to live for the next three weeks. It’s old home week. Almost everyone I work with is there, some sleeping off their jet lag, most lounging around the fireplaces. I find out that, of the 4 “princesses” who will be staying in the “tower”, I am the first to arrive. The castle is warm and cozy, with heated floors in several rooms, and a big kitchen where Erin, our beloved friend and chef, is already creating magic. We have a weekend ahead of us to adjust and reconnect, and hike and party, maybe a little.
There were some long walks around the countryside, lots of good food, a bit of mist.

Sunday afternoon, a few of us realize that we need to get out further and explore, but we’ve slept past the point of catching a ride in the two cars that left to go to town and adventuring. So I arrange to use the remaining car, having promised Susy, our recruiting head and conference mistress, that we’d have the car back in an hour and a half (by 3 o’clock so she could leave and pick up a crew who’d be waiting for her in town at 3:30). So, Casey Ann, Ben, Dan, Rachel, myself, and Alex set out to get to the small lake that we could see from the hill above the castle. Alex, the tallest of us, packed himself into the trunk, trading the discomfort for the chance to get the heck out of dodge. This little lake seemed about a 20 minute drive away, at most. We head out with a vague map, opting to turn left at a road a few of us had walked down a ways a day before, thinking we could always reverse if it looked as though we couldn’t get all the way down that route. We were so overly optimistic. Though a few occupants of the car voiced some concern, there was a general sense of “we can do it!” that took us further and further down this dirt road. I was thinking that at least we’d be able to get through to the bottom. I mean, who builds a road down hill that doesn’t reach the road at the bottom?
But about 2/3 of the way down this rocky, rutted dirt road, we all began to have serious doubts about being able to back out, and about the condition of the road allowing us to reach the lake. Ben stops the car and he and I run down the road to see if it looks passable. Though we could see the bright blue-green water of the lake walking distance from where we were, the road ahead was rutted beyond what our little Fiat hatchback could manage. Mind you, the width of this road could accommodate the width of our car, but with little room on either side that did not have trees, rocks, or serious shrubbery attached. At this point, everyone was out of the car assessing the situation. We quickly discovered that the car was not going to back up the way we came. Ben’s skills behind the wheel notwithstanding, we were going to have to turn the car around. We were at a spot that seemed like, with the right application of engine power and a bit of luck, we might manage to do it. So Ben proceeded, as we cheered and encouraged from a safe distance, to firmly wedge the car half-turned between the soft dirt and rock of the road and a small stand of trees that were the only thing between the car and a downward-sloping ravine. I must add at this point, that this was not Ben’s fault. We had no other choice but to give it a shot, and he did an amazing job in a near-impossible situation. Fortunately, Ben had found himself in similar situations off-roading in the rural American South, so he quickly assessed what needed to happen (at this point it was still conceivable that we’d make it back to Susy in time, though that time was quickly passing). We had to turn the car the rest of the way ourselves. I will give the whole group a little pat on the back for the can-do attitude. It did not waver at this prospect.
A couple of folks got behind the car, standing on the downhill slope, while the others got ready to lift and push from the rear driver’s side of the car. The first push was scary, as it took one of the wheels off the ground, and put more pressure on the trees that were the only thing keeping the car from plummeting down the hill, and running over our friends. I think it took two more lift/pushes, but we got it turned around.Then the challenge of getting the car back up the hill. There was no 4-wheel drive. It had rained a few days prior, and the sad little car quickly carved some ruts underneath it. Here is where the group started to feel a bit discouraged. I have to say, I started to think about what the next steps were: hiking back up to call a tow truck? Did they get tow trucks out this far? Would a tow truck make it safely to this point in this road? I had my doubts. Thankfully, we had an Alaskan with us. Not only was Ben’s experience and grit keeping us believing we could do it, but Casey Ann’s experience with similarly challenging circumstances in Alaska really lent something to the process. We packed rocks and sticks under the wheels, we pushed, we packed more sticks and rocks. Ben pushed that tiny engine past its limits, and finally, he moved forward, right over the ruts that were keeping us stuck. Then the car stopped in the next set of ruts. We pushed again, still stuck. It took several tries before the wheels finally gripped and took our little (rented) car up and over, and up the hill. WIN! We had agreed that if Ben got the car going uphill, we would all walk and meet him at the top. And it was a lovely walk. Sweaty, smiling, and high-fiving, we joyfully recounted our individual experiences of the past 45 minutes, laughing at our situation and feeling proud of having overcome it together. Ben walked down to meet us, and we took a few post-challenge photos. Though it felt like hours had passed, we were only 30 minutes late getting back with the car. Susy was none too pleased...until we plied her with booze and recounted the story.

150 years and new friends

Saturday was spent, after I awoke at 2pm, zipping around on Giuseppe’s scooter at lightning speed. If you think SF drivers are fast, you have not been to Rome. They have their own unique set of rules, not too dissimilar to Paris. Lanes are not all marked. Merging haphazard. Drivers vociferous.

Giuseppe takes me up to an orange grove with a view of the Dome of St. Peter. The hidden terrace with a better view of the city, the Pantheon!!! So amazing. I think I’ll have to stay here the week just to let the enormity of the history I’m standing on sink in. It’s too much to take in all at once.

I am so grateful for the guide. My two hours of studying the phrasebook did not make stick many of the phrases I need to get around. People here are generally nice and patient, but it still feels lame to jump in with ‘inglesi?’, so I do my best to ask questions and communicate in broken and certainly battered Italian. If all I had to do was read what people were saying, I would get more of it, but the ear takes time.

I did, however, navigate alone tonight (Sunday) to a restaurant I’d heard was good, and had a fantastic meal. I asked them to have the chef send out whatever they thought was best, wholly signed on for the adventure. And deliver, they did. Antipasti of roasted and marinated veggies, perfectly cooked octopus –usually not my fave, but absolutely delicious – and some fresh mozzarella with basil and tomato. Next was the pasta with stewed oxtail in a red sauce. Which would have been enough for my dinner, but oh no, I’m in Italy, therefore I must eat until I could not possibly fit one more bite into my distended stomach. Then I must eat one more. There was filet mignon with green peppercorn sauce and a side of amazing slightly crispy roasted potatoes and salad, a limoncello-soaked custardy pastry for dessert, and of course one must have cappuccino. I had to roll myself out for a walk afterward.

I’ve had very limited access to internet here, which is the only thing I’ve lamented. I know I could go looking for an internet café, but there are none in walking distance, and I don’t want to carry my laptop hither and thither, so I resign myself to limited intermittent access to my best resource – which just happens to be the website I work for, strangely enough. With a roof over my head, (my host left for Istanbul today and left me the flat for the week) and enough to see and do spelled out in the handbook he left for me, I cannot honestly wish for more.

Monday was rainy and I stayed home all day. I had internet coming through for a few hours, so I got my requisite check-in on work done. And, joy of joys, got an email from my friend Duncan who is coming to Rome tomorrow! Serendipitous and wholly welcome. I tell him that I can host him, give directions, say we will meet at the flat or at the CS gathering around the corner Tuesday night. I get out to dinner at the restaurant I had originally set out to eat in on Sunday. It was fantastic. Fresh pasta with lobster, truffle oil and tomatoes. Secondi was thinly sliced cooked sea bass on shaved artichoke and lettuce with a lemon dressing. Simple and perfect. Dessert: molten chocolate cake with a hint of cinnamon, chocolate gelato and espresso. Tuesday was sunny and warm. I went to sightsee and, between the Colosseum and the Forum, looked casually to my right as I walked past a snack-stand to see a flash of “pornge” that was my friend and colleague, Cameron. What is “pornge”, you ask? Well, though they sound alike, it has nothing inherently to do with porn. It is simply what you get when a person can only be described as embodying the perfect mix of pink and orange, skin and hair respectively. But the word’s homophonic relationship to porn is not without its entertainment value, especially in relation to my friend Cam, who is better known as Camtastic.

We went on our audio tours together, skipping around the order of the tracks on our iPods so as to stay within experience-sharing distance of each other. Afterward, he was not averse to hunting down a tiny, out of the way restaurant from the guidebook for a killer lunch in the old city. It did not disappoint. Pasta with fresh shaved truffle, wild boar with polenta, and, as Romans do, more food than we really should have finished between the two of us. We walked around old city, through the Pantheon, then went to the Vatican and the Basilica de San Pietro. So many amazing paintings packed into one place. Mass was being said at the time so we got to hear a bit of what I remember mass being like in Latin, though it was actually Italian. Cam has a unique perspective on things. He’s well read in many subjects, most notably in the vein of spiritual traditions, religions, and mysticism. He is also a total nutter with anarchic, yet loving, tendencies. As one may imagine his comments throughout were entertaining and provocative. We looked for and found hidden culty significance in the church artwork.

Made it home just in time to shower and eat a bit then get over to the local pub - the Beefeater - for one of the weekly CouchSurfing gatherings. The gathering itself was bigger than I expected and lots of interesting folks in attendance. I had only been there a few minutes when Duncan showed up. It had been two years since I last saw him. He was tired, but really happy to hang out and have a beer. His friend Paola, whom he’d met in Istanbul a few weeks before, joined us after a bit and she was the highlight of the evening. She was intent on taking us out the following night, for it just happened to be the 150th anniversary of Italy’s unification. There were plans for dancing to the bands playing al fresco, having dinner, going to the museums that would be free that evening. Also met a bunch of traveling CSers, many of whom would join us the following night. Ali, from Istanbul – who told me of the CSers sitting his flat in Istanbul who would host me in April, One of whom just happens to be Bri – a CS volunteer I believe I’ve met. With Wednesday came heavy rain so Duncan and I just stayed indoors, hanging out and catching up. Evening came around and the rain let up a bit, so we went to meet the group and see what might still be happening of the celebrations.

A short train ride and short wait at the stazionne, and a small group of us set out to walk downtown to a little café for apertivo – happy hour with free food – and planning. We waited out the rest of the evening’s rain seated outside under a canopy, drinking Prosecco and debating how wet we really wanted to be the rest of the night. But the rain let up, and we walked the streets with just about everyone else in Rome, stopping to watch a huge opera light show, with visuals projected onto a huge ancient edifice. Breathtaking. Beautifully eerie and yet festive. Stilt walkers wandered around, providing another interesting contrast to the crowds, and we marveled at our luck, being in Rome for this celebration. To mark the occasion, the city and its embassies opened the doors to their buildings and museums, and lines of people wrapped around each waiting for the chance to see the official cubitorial splendor and world class art work. We tried hitting a few of them, but decided the night air, loaded with the sounds of Italian culture, was way more interesting than going indoors in the end. We did step indoors for a moment to round out the evening with some of the best gelato available anywhere at Giolitti, where Giuseppe had taken me a few days prior.

The next day Duncan and I were invited to lunch at Paola’s apartment. Note: if a Neopolitan girl invites you to lunch at her house, say YES. Between her regional cooking and the special treats the guests brought, we were in Italian culinary bliss. She had set out platters of antipasti - salted cured meats, bread, and grilled vegetables. One of her friends had made Sicilian meatballs, to go with Paola’s pasta. Another guest, Eugenio, brought sweet wine that his father and friends made, and traditional desserts from his Umbrian village – fried chestnut-cocoa pastries. That’s really only half of the food we were served. There were hours and hours of eating. It was a holiday for everybody, and rainy, so it was a perfect day to stay indoors with good people, learning about their respective cultures. I learned about some of the small village dialects of Italian. And that the mountain towns, like Frascati from whence Eugenio originated, will have dialects different from towns just a few kilometers away as the crow flies. I’d thought those languages would have long been homogenized. Apparently it’s his grandparents’ generation that is likely the last to speak it, though his understands it.

From that lunch to a weekly CS gathering, at a bar for apertivo. Apertivo – a great happy-hour-like concept where as long as you’re hanging out and drinking, you can eat as much of the free food they put out as you like. And it’s Italy, so the food is generally really good. The gathering was a mix of surfers and locals; professional travelers, lawyers, techies and all sorts. People from Italy, of course, France, Lithuania, UK, Australia, Colombia, US, New Zealand, and certainly a few other places. The tall French guy named Johann was especially entertaining, insisting that a group of us who spoke French speak French together, and convincing all of us to go out dancing. There were plans made to sightsee the next day, and lots of warm and friendly faces. Making plans in foreign countries is always interesting without a phone. There must be a locations agreed upon, meeting times adhered to, and if you miss the meet up, you’re basically out of luck. I agreed to a surfer named Marc joining Duncan and I in a square outside the Sistine Chapel at 9am. The gathering kept going strong into the night, with people coming and going. Around 11:00 a group of us finally motivated to head to another part of town to go dancing. Ironically, Johann, whose idea it was in the first place, ended up being the one who had to walk, as he was too tall to squish appropriately into one of the tiny Italian cars. (I would have walked, but had opted to wear heels that night and would not have made it that far in them.) But with us walking to the cars, and the tiny Roman side streets, Johann made it there within 5 minutes of the rest of us. To be continued...

Arriving Roma

Arriving Roma. Somehow the more long plane rides I take, the shorter they feel, and the more I enjoy the time alone, with reading material and music. The flights to Rome were painless, thanks in part to me new headphones that cancel out sound – yay – and to the new music I bought in the weeks before the flight. Shout outs to Cee-Lo Green and Rufus Wainwright for getting me through.

The London airport has mightily comfortable places to sleep if you can nab one of them. Big comfy modern-esque couches and flat couches with no arm rests. I’m not sure why, but it feels funny to fall asleep in public most of the time, but in parks and airports there are different norms. Having slept not a minute on the flight to London (too much to think about, and really, it was way before my bedtime) I wrapped myself around my bag, laid my head on my backpack and slept about three hours. Woke miraculously in perfect time to go brush my teeth and make it to my flight with about 20 minutes to spare.

The flight to Rome was about 2.5 hours, much of it spent reorganizing and clearing out all of the music in iTunes that I never listen to. Not sure why I feel like I’m wasting a resource by ejecting unused albums from my library, perhaps it’s the lingering pack-rattiness I jettisoned years ago from my personality still clinging to my neurons for one last hot second. Bye bye!

There could not have been a more perfect welcome to Rome than the gaggle, or should I say “warren,” of 5 burly men in full pink bunny costumes running noisily past me through the baggage claim and out into the wild. I laughed out loud, feeling like I’d brought a tiny piece of SF, okay, Burningman, with me to Italy.

The train ride and Metro to my host’s neighborhood were relatively uneventful. I did notice that every single person on the Metro had nice shoes. Apparently that is one way Italians fit the stereotype. Very nice shoes. Fortunately, I am rocking a new pair of swanky boots, and did not feel out of place.

My host, Giuseppe, had been waiting for some time when I arrived – plane and train late – but was game for going out. We scarfed some pasta he’d just made, dressed up and went to a small-ish club in the Triangle, where most of the nightlife lives.

Driving past ruins, Colosseum, and down near the center of town, G says, “Oh, I’ve got an old uncle who lives down here, I think we should call him. I take the phone, not thinking about the fact that it’s 11pm, and he says “Look under ‘P”, and I’m scrolling through his phone like, uh huh, “P”, then? And he says, “O”... and I look over to see the Vatican as we pull around the corner. Haha. Very funny this guy. We pull into a neighborhood not far from the Houses of the Holy to go dancing. Huh. Perfect irony?

Parking. According to Giuseppe, we don’t “park” we just leave the car somewhere. That’s how the Romans do it. Maybe you get a ticket, maybe not. We pulled alongside some dumpsters and “left” the car there. Clearly not a parking spot, but hey, that’s how we roll.

In the club: everyone having a great time together. Dorking out. Singing. No drunken sloppiness. Pure fun. American 70’s-80’s funk and disco covers. Awesome band. Diverse crowd of older and younger. I really admire the way Romans party. They really connect with each other. There were folks across the room from each other all doing dance moves mirroring each other, singing to each other. Hilarious and charming.

Pizza at “The Cemetery” afterward – classic Roma. Fried rice ball with mozzerella. Fried squash blossom. Flat, crispy pizza. The place is called the “Cemetery” or something close to that in Italian because the table tops are all heavy marble slabs. Tasty yet macabre. Loved it. Up next: Seeing the sights....

Bali Bliss

How many blogs must have a chapter named Bali Bliss? It rolls off the tongue so readily. Here's just the start of my observations and experiences here, all I've had time to write. So much more to tell once I get a bit more work done!
All that I had hoped for in my trip to Thailand has realized in Bali. I am sure it exists in other places, but I'm finding it here in spades: beautiful carved stone edifices, temples around every corner, large expanses of lush green and jungle, no terribly modern buildings sticking out like a sore thumbs. Many have heard me say it, it's like Thailand on steroids. And the people: down to earth, calm, eye-contact friendly, tolerant, warm. There is even a sense that, though annoying, tourists and expats are integrated in a way that keeps everyone on an even keel. I have more to discover, but these are my first impressions.

Where I am staying is about as perfect a home as anyone could wish for. Large, comfortable open space divided by a koi pond and reflecting Buddha pool. The infinity swimming pool at the back of the property overlooks an expanse of rice paddies. All day and all night long, a chorus of shifting sounds. Currently frogs and crickets singing a lullaby din punctuated by the chirping of tiny and not-so-tiny geckos. In the morning and most of the day: roosters crow at intervals; cows moo; a dog bark here and there; the whir of tropical heat-inspired bugs, invisible except to the ear and the occasional accidental dive bombing of an errant beetle, wasp or giant bee. It's loud if you think about it, but fades to a tropical song when you don't.

Typical days include: the free and slightly dangerous feeling of whizzing around town on my motorscooter; completely blissful, tolerable heat; lovely cool breezes and sporadic prolific downpours; home cooked meals; lots of work on the laptop; several en-masse, suit-free dunks in the pool; and the feeling of an island's wonders awaiting my exploration.

Upcoming: dance party at home, dance party at the foot of a volcano, climbing said volcano for sunrise, more about the entirely awesome experience of yoga in a thunderstorm, temple visit, preparations for Galungan, and goodness knows what else.

to the mainland

Things I forgot – I snorkled and swam on the Monkey Beach side of Koh Phi Phi Lai ( no monkeys=sad face). There were little tiny jellyfish that freaked me out a bit, but the guides had not warned us about them, so I figured they weren’t dangerous. I got one little sting but it was not terribly painful and went away quickly. The schools of fish are beautiful. I still get the feeling that I do not belong in the ocean. I try to forget this as I float over the abyss.

My last morning on Phi Phi was spent on the internet planning, and an early afternoon getaway to Krabi, or so I thought. In trying to use a transfer for my boat to Krabi, I somehow end up on the boat back to Phuket. A little miscommunication between two people helping get my ticket sorted. I find this out just after departing the dock. Literally pulling away from KPP, I ask one of the passing pursors to make sure our destination, and she looks at me in distress and says, no, we’re on the way to Phuket. Fortunately 1. I decided that nothing was going to worry me on this trip. I believe that there is a reason things happen, even if I never know what it is. 2. My plan was to head back to the West coast and head up to Khao Sok National Park on the mainland anyway, so even though I didn’t get to see the limestone cliffs of Krabi this time, there will be other trips. And 3. the trip to Khao Sok is that much shorter, cheaper and more direct. My day was spent in transit, as days so often are in Thailand. Apparently it takes 5 hours to travel 180 km, no matter where in Thailand you are. The bus ride to Tacuapa (my transfer point to Khao Sok) was mostly in the dark. I arrived to a sleepy little town at the end of its evening. It was 9pm, and I was hoping that something would be open for food and shelter. I had eaten only some crap wannabe pancake and egg that morning, and so was starving. On my walk toward the hotel, there was this roadside open-air restaurant where lots of locals were eating dinner. One of the girls behind the counter cooking crepes was elected to communicate with me. In her limited English and my even more limited Thai (read ‘pointing at and attempting badly the phrases in my phrase book’) we managed to decide that I would eat something with chicken, vegetable and/or noodles in it. I love surprises, especially when it comes to food, and this was the best one yet. Arrived at my table a small but sufficient plate of wide rice noodles, with vegetables, egg, and a bit of chicken in a delicious sauce. I can only guess what the sauce was, a combination of the typical Thai ingredients. I just reveled in the delight of an unexpectedly fantastic meal. That and a banana crepe with honey cost me less than half of what I’d paid for every meal so far. Win! My hotel was a bit pricey (at 600 baht, roughly $20), but for a last-minute stay with a shower and clean sheets, I didn’t care. Woke at 7 and got my butt down the street to the bus station.
Sitting on the bus to Khao Sok, waiting for takeoff, I realize that I may not eat for several hours – as we well know by now, a 50 km ride can take several hours. So I ask the bus driver, he says “five minute.” Ack! I jump off the bus and run over in and among the little group of food stalls next to the station. To my absolute enamourment, there is.khanom krog, my favoritest of favorite Thai delicacies, being spooned out of their little individual cooking vessels and into to-go containers. With fire in my eyes and a growl in my belly, I ask for one – which looks sufficient to start me off for the day. 10 baht!! That’s right... about 40 cents for these little coconut and rice flour pieces of nirvana. Next door, the fried chicken and sticky rice were looking fresh, so I scooped up one of each of those, and ran for the bus as the engine revved for departure. The fried chicken may have been the best thing I’ve ever eaten next to the khanom krog. I was so bummed that Shari wasn’t with me to taste it. Although I must say, the little Thai grandmas at the Thai temple in Berkeley do a damn good job of recreating it. As opposed to everything else I’ve tried, I can’t say that it’s better here.

The bus ride – in the daylight – is beautiful. Huge rock formations – are they giant hills, or small mountains? – jut up out of the ground in groups, lending particular drama to the landscape. The sides of them exposed rock, and vegetation, palm trees everywhere. So, yes, after many stops, and some very slow climbs up hills, I arrive at Khao Sok National Park, actually, just down the road from it. I come across a cute little group of bungalows with a sign: 300 baht per night. Perfect! One day and one night here, and then on to Koh Phangan. I sign up with Nee. She and her husband – whom I later learn is called “Mr. Power”, I kid you not – run this place, and another in the mountains near Patong Beach. She is so sweet and helpful. I set my bags in my bungalow – replete with giant mosquito net hanging over the bed – and head out to the park on foot. By this time I’ve read that there are elephants, tigers, monkeys, wild boar and a few other varieties of wild animals that live in this park. Generally only seen during the wet season, that doesn’t start until May. But I hope against hope that I will see something. I see some elephant dung on one of the little side trails down to the waterside at one point (I feel so adventurous going off-road for a few minutes into jungle) but I’m not sure if it’s from wild elephants or those that they put people on to “jungle trek” through the park. I’m going to pretend that it’s wild elephant crap. It taught me to hope that maybe, just maybe... but no, I didn’t see more than lizards and birds. Very cool lizards and birds, mind you. But this lack of wild animals leaves me with this sense of humanity driving nature away to the recesses of the earth.
I have only ventured a tiny little bit into this gigantic park and I realize that I am exhausted. Not sure if it was from snorkeling and swimming, or just travel weariness, or jet lag finally making an appearance. Either way, I suck down some cold, sugary green tea drink from the park headquarters and head back to crash out in my bungalow. After a several hour nap, I wander around the garden a bit and say hello to newly arrived Guillaume, a mild-mannered French guy from near Lyons. Then Nee and Mr. Power invite us to go with them to some hot springs nearby. I’m thinking “it’s 90 degrees outside, who needs hot springs?” but I can’t turn down an invitation from my hosts; it’s exactly the kind of benefit one gets traveling alone, and I was excited to have a chance to learn more about my hosts as well. We take a 30 minute car ride to a remote river where there are so many hot springs, the whole river, as far as I walked, runs warm. There are even little bubbling pools in which, we’re told, one can boil eggs. And people do. It’s a completely undeveloped river, with a couple of pools created with rocks and sandbags, and the only people there were the Thai locals. They were very friendly and watched our every reaction to the pools, and the surroundings, like we were cute little puppies. Somehow I didn’t mind. As the sunlight disappeared from the sky we headed back to a fantastic home-cooked meal and more conversation. At dinner, I notice Shelob hanging above our heads in the rafters. One of the biggest spiders I’ve ever seen, and apparently she just lives there. No big whoop. Seriously, bigger than any tarantula. See photo. Oh, yeah, and the ants here are huge and run really fast. Like they’ve got to beat the other ants to the roadkill or something. Kinda freaky, except they don’t seem to come around people. So a brief but rich glimpse into Thai life in the heart of the land bridge between South Thailand and further South Thailand, and I'm up and off to the East and more island adventures.

Just a quick note on travel in Thailand: hand sanitizer is the best thing in my possession. My second use of a boat bathroom has thoroughly convinced me of this. You see, Thais outside of the city do not use toilet paper. On land, and in some larger ferry boats, there are little high-pressure water sprayers with which one clean oneself after using the facility. However, on the smaller boats, there is a large bucket of water with a small handled pan for the same purpose. The water looks clean, which is great, but there’s no paper no nothing in which to aid you in cleaning yourself, or drying yourself for that matter. And any tissues you bring with you need to be thrown in the waste basket. So, you can imagine why I have developed a love of hand sanitizer. In the States I rarely use it. I think soap does the trick and over-sanitizing is generally unnecessary. But here, I am so happy to have a little help, as soap is sometimes hard to come by.