Venice
The Eurail Diaries: Simplicity
Once upon a time, in a land not to far away, there was a curiously peculiar child that most of you all know. That same slightly atypical child hasn’t changed much if any change at all. He’s proud of his past and eager for the future. His mother would drill one particular command into his head at the end of every breakfast meal. To this day that for ever imposing voice gives him the same inevitable command that as a child he could never escape. Even now, as a young man, far from the control of his parents he doesn’t know what it is to finish a bowl of rice crispies with out the sweet whispers of Snap Crackle, and Pop muffled by a shrill “drink your milk! You pour it! You drink it!”. Its time she knows that her piercing matriarchal voice sticks within my head as I travel some 5 thousand miles from listening range.
There is a point to this however. Only two days ago was this point made clear to me. This clearing of the mind happened just as I finished perfecting the art and science of slicing my three dollar block of cheese in a way that it would evenly accommodate a whopping four sandwiches. Mind you, this was no easy process but now, it stands as a true expertise.
After this modest experiment I asked myself why in the hell would I take the slightest effort into making flawlessly flush cheese slices fit in between pieces of bread. I couldn’t answerer that question. All I know is six months ago I was paying 150 dollars for jeans, and tipping the coffee girl three dollars for drip. Who tips for coffee! Now I refuse to pay extra for pre-sliced cheese. I’m crazy, no? But is drinking the remains of Snap, Crackle, and Pop any different?
In between my common attempts to save a little money, I travel. At this point I have just enough money to see Italy, travel to Madrid, pay for my first months rent, and all the frequent beers in between. As crazy as this may be to hear, coming from one American to another, simplicity is a lifestyle and just for this year I plan to embrace it. Not until you taste the full sense of this routine do you totally understand how refreshing it can be. My head seems to no longer be traveling along with the happy meal, super target, want now and get it generation. Instead it’s clear to explore the other options. Even if that means no instantaneously appearing Big Mac at the drive thru and then a pit stop at the 24hr Wall-Mart at 3am. Everything closes by 9 in Europe, just to fill you in.
I never thought anything of Germany except for maybe; sausages, Hitler, and yodeling little bow peeps. As it turned out, I never had a brat worst, there’s no mention of the dead Jews and sadly, I’m told Little Bow Peep only existed in my pre-adolescent nursery rhymes. I was housed by my cousin from my father’s side; he’s catholic and believe me when I tell you the Catholics know how to wine and dine a life out side of the cathedral. This city of Konstanz, with no more than eighty thousand seemed to have more diversity and high end energy that that of my metropolis of Spokane and Coeur d’Alene. It sat on a lake combining Germany, Switzerland, and Austria, thus making it a prime area to feed my eager need to explore. Most days were filled with nonchalant walking, touring the infinitely abundant collection of castles, and my enthusiastic effort to try and keep up with the German tradition of drinking beer.
From Germany and with a burn in my wallet I took the train to visit the land of fine chocolate, high security banks, steep watches that would put the average working man into a second mortgage, and of course, once again, insane sub-way clientele (another story, another day).
Switzerland has a diversity that stands far beyond most other countries I have traveled to. Small, ya, but some how condensed with French, Italian, German and Swiss German speaking citizens, then after all that throw in their huge African American population. It was crazy, id get to Zurich and struggle to get a German speaker to tell me where an ATM is (not a success) then after an hour train ride to Lausanne Id try and get a French Speaker to tell me where the bus station is (outcome again lingered at a negative).
The sub-way continues to amaze me. It has come to my attention that anyone with an unusual quality, whether mental or physical, seem to decide to sit next to me. I love it, I will admit to that. This time my adjacent seat was filled with someone half way sane. Okay…imagine…an adorable, cookie cutter old lady, dressed up in brightly colored cloths, probably coming home from that evenings church pot-luck, she’s a little insane but still quite functional. Alright, that same depiction of a woman sat next to me, for the whole of the sub-way ride she embarked on a seemingly never ending account of how she makes stuff. I didn’t know what “stuff” was because this conversation was in French. I speak no French. She didn’t seem to care. In between her gasps for air and the subtle caresses she gave my arm I really really tried to tell her that I spoke English. I left yet again, another sub-way feeling slightly abused but chuckling to myself.
It was only one second where the conveniences of modern day Western Europe disappeared. My grasp wasn’t until I got off the train 2 hour later in Milan. It was my cross over that made me recognize, once again, that toilets with a seat are foreign to most other cultures. Haha, if you’ve ever traveled you may no exactly what I am talking about. Not only is there no seat, but no bowl. Let me explain, you prepare your self just as you would with the usual method of “relief” (Ass bare, knees bent, and a willingness to sit back and enjoy). Although the difference is that the toilet…is a ceramic hole in the ground. Benefit? You walk out having had a major thigh and glute work-out. Disadvantage? Still, any appearance of a seat remains non-existent.
After getting to Milan my fascination left with the train I just got off. Hostels were sparse and roads dirty. The only allure I have is of coarse its label of being the fashion capital of the world, dry yes, but some how intriguing. From the sprawling dirt and the art of textile I journey to Venice. This quick pit stop was only for a day but a day that will leave me wanting to return, just next time with some capital, a boat, and some romantic company. All are hard to be with out in the idealistic “Bride of the Sea”. No more than thirty minutes after leaving my hotel I get lost. This shouldn’t be a surprise to most of you. It certainly wasn’t one for me. Just this once however I took great advantage of it. Meandering the streets of Venice is like a maze but the revelation around the corner will astonish you every time.
Roma gave me something that few other places did. This was native English speaking folk. Roma is understandably the biggest tourist destination in southern Europe. I took great advantage of this. Soon after arriving, a short conversation of travel small talk turned into a leisurely trip to Naples, and later a free place to stay in Rome. I can’t say my days involved any thing more than the customary Roman highlights. I won’t attempt to write a colorful digest of The Vatican City, The Pantheon, La Piazza di Navona, The Spanish Steps, or even the post card plastered Coliseum. No travel guide or double decker, super express, tour bus will ever give this city the justice it disserves. Think about it, how does one present justice to a city where justice was derived.
My time in Italy isn’t over and I’m not leaving until the Tuscan sun stops giving me such damn good rays. I’m getting tired but I need more culture, the Italian people are insanely mad but insanely intriguing, my tension span is too short for the beaches but I go anyway, pasta gives me cramps but I eat it. Many things Italian contradict fixations that any where else I would go with out. Screw it! When in Rome.
Not in collage and on the open European road,
Jake
