Kenya: the coast

Kenya has been a bit disappointing.  I guess I’ve built it up in my mind to be something I thought it wasn’t.  And it is NOT as scary as people think it is.  People are actually quite helpful.  Hakuna matata!  NO worries!  I would love to tell you all about my time there (I’m in Tanzania now).  Actually, I have been trying to write about my experiences and have made several attempts to upload my photos.  Unfortunately, the internet connection is extremely slow at the best of times.  Most of the time, it’s unreliable.

I have made some notes, so maybe I can re-count everything later.  Like my unknowingly being helped by “beach boys” or snorkling in the marine park or Lamu.

Lamu.

Lamu was like being in the twilight zone.  I should have guessed.  I rode there on a bus while sitting on a milk-crate.  It was bound to be interesting.  Book worthy, actually.  Really.  What a strange place. 

I am camping in Tanzania right now.  Tomorrow I camp out National Geographic style: out in the wilderness.  This is why I’m here, and I am scared!  Ha ha!  NO water for me tomorrow after 5 pm.  I am not going to risk going to the loo in the dark with a cheetah potentially waiting to eat me alive!

m

Jambo!

That’s “Hello!” in Swahili.

(Stops.)

Yes, Swahili is an actual language and culture, not just something one says when one does not understand another person.  “Are you speaking Swahili or what?”  A bit of history: This culture dominates much of the eastern African Coast.  It was formed when the Arab invaders started inter-marrying with the Africans centuries ago.  The society is very Islamic. 

I arrived in Nairobi, Kenya yesterday after a long 24-hours of travelling, then decided to head straight to Mombasa.  It is hot.  It’s only 24 deg. C, but it’s so humid that it feels like 40 deg. C.  I’ve had to force myself to eat, I showered twice and I’m only sitting now, but I am still drenched, making me a prime mosquito target.

(Pause.)

How’s the weather back home?

(Snickers.)

Let’s step back a few days, to my last morning in Rome.  (Rome.  Already seems like a distant memory.)

Rule number one: do not use Terravision.  This is a coach service provided by low-cost airlines all over Europe to the airport.  Low-cost carriers tend to fly out of minor airports (hence, partially why the costs are reduced) where there is no, or infrequent, city transport.  This coach service is offered for travellers with booked airline tickets.  I booked my ticket months ago since I was flying EasyJet to London, UK.  (Note the distinction: UK, not Ontario, Canada.  See previous post.) 

To make a long story short, I arrived at 07.30 for an 08.15 departure.  The bus arrived at 08.45 across the street and there was no tracking as to who got on, so some people jumped the queue by sneaking around the “co-ordinator.”  There were people waiting since 07.00 or earlier and still did not get on the bus.  There were enought people for 3 buses.  Anyway, I ended up sharing a taxi with a young English couple I was chatting wtih for $10 EUR each from Termini Station and after checking in, I had about 15 minutes to spare before boarding.  Crazy.  I’ve send an e-mail to “Customer Service” to express my disdain and to get a refund.  We’ll see what they say…if anything at all. 

After an uneventful flight, I arrived in a damp, dreary LUN-dun (weather I usually like, btw), still in my comfortable summery clothes.  Did I get stared at?  Yes, in the most snooty manner by one person in particular.  I don’t understand this.  I have seen how some Brits dress when they travel.  They have no business looking down at me.  Anyway, I knew I had to change because I was a bit cold, but I wanted to get to the centre of town asap and unload my pack.  Okay, hop on the Southern Train heading to Victoria Station.  It only takes 10 minutes more than the Gatwick Express and it’s half the cost.  For the life of me, I could not find the ticket counter for the Southern Trains.  The “help desk” people were chatting and wouldn’t give me the time of day (I guess they’re so used to tourists, they don’t care to help another one…which is strange because that’s why they’re at the counter…whatever.  It’s England.)  I asked a young gentleman about purchasing a train ticket at one of the many kiosks.  He said I should be able to find any train on the list, not just the GE.  But all the costs were for the GE and there was no indication that the tickets were for one type of train or another.  Desparate to get on a train, I purchased a ticket.  It turned out it was for the GE.  Damn it.  What could I do at that point?   There were no visible signs for the STs, and the visible signs did not indicate which tickets and schedules were for which trains.  It was all a bit confusing.  So, I hopped on the next departing train, chose a seat where no one could see me, ate my “Boots” sandwich (remember Boots Pharmacy when it was in Canada?), and got dressed right there in my train seat.  No one saw, so who cares?  Two Brits were arrested in Dubai recently for public sex, so my actions were quite modest in comparison.

After unloading my pack at Vic Station for 6.50 GBP (!!), I helped an English woman from another part of the country purchase a tube-ticket (I’m helping a resident use London transport ticket kiosk??) and hopped on transit for Camden Town markets.  I had never been there before during my other jaunts to the city, and I found it really kitchy.  It was great, but I’m just a visitor and Londoners may find it too touristy.  There was a lot to take in, I didn’t know where to look next.  I was actually getting quite dizzy.  But there were some good shops and restaurants to be seen.  After the train, food, public transport, and printing at an internet point, I was reminded of some lyrics from a song by Catatonia:

London never sleeps it just sucks the life out of me and the money from my pocket.

I could not believe I spent almost $100 CAD in one afternoon.  And the city really does make a person feel rushed.  I was getting a headache, which lasted all the way during my flight to Doah, Qatar.  (My experience with Qatar Airways was great.  A new favourite airline to add to my list.)  Landing at 06.00 with little sleep, a huge headache and already being 28 deg. C was making me a bit cranky, so I ended up having a snooze on the departing lounge floor, and again on the connecting flight to Nairobi.  But it didn’t help much.  I also had to catch another flight to Mombasa a few hours after arriving in Nairobi, so I forced myself to grin and bear it.  Two Canadian women were waiting for a friend due to arrive several hours later, so we sat at the airport cafe and chatted for a few hours.  

On the flight to Mombasa, I sat next to a Canadian woman (North York, small world) who was making a surprise visit to her family.  She complained the whole way there about how unfair the two-tiered pricing system worked (tourist price vs. resident prices), and how we got no value in return for our money. 

“We may have more money, but we’re not millionaires like they think we are.  We have more expenses back home than they do here!  Not even a sandwich on the plane.  Nothing!  This is not fair.  In Canada, everyone gets the same price.” 

I lived in Cairo.  I know how this works, and there’s no use complaining about it because the locals do not care about your needs.  However, in the end, she got an extra packet of biscuits with her apple juice.

Mmmhmm.

Is this story getting too dull?  It seemed all bumpy and note-worthy when it was all happening.  When I arrived in Mombasa, I was tired, tired and tired.  My taxi driver took me to a few hotels before I decided which one I wanted to stay at.  When I finally chose one, I tried to have a shower.  No water, dirty towels.

I calmly complained at the desk, quickly realizing that everything here is done calmly and slowly.  As the hotel desk clerk said, “Slowly is bet-ah.  Slowly, slowly.”  Good thing, because it’s too hot to do anything quickly.  I got another room and had a great sleep.  (N&J, thanks for the netting–this hotel doesn’t have any.)

I had a hard time eating this morning.  I can’t eat when it’s hot, but you have to force it down or you’ll faint later on.  I admit, I was scared to go out into the city.  When I asked the clerk for directions to the main site, Fort Jesus, she said, “It is too far to walk.  (It was not.  I walked back from that area to the hotel this afternoon.  20 minutes.)  Take a tuk-tuk.  100 shillings.”  THAT ride was fun, and it got my confidence up.  After the site, I walked around the Old Town to see some of the noted Swahili architecture.  The neighbourhood is in tatters, and there is garbage everywhere.  I couldn’t get see past the filth.  I went to a shop to add minutes to my phone, where I asked the lady to recommend a juice stand.  I was parched and the water I was drinking was being sweated out.  She recommended a good cafe a few doors down, the Jahazi Coffee House, a building fully restored.  Lovely.  Great fresh juice and delicious Swahili tea (ginger, cardamom and milk).  Walking back to the hotel, I realized that if you want to be followed and stared at, take out your camera and take a photo.  The locals do not like it when you snap photos of their city or people, especially the people.  They believe it steals part of their souls.

Needless to say, you won’t find many photos of what real life is like here in Mombasa.  I tried, but I had to be careful not to offend.  I was only one of two foreigners walking around the main city by herself and I didn’t want to be a target for anything.  Everyone else hired a tour guide or went with a group–for what, I don’t know; there’s not much to see. 

Must plan for tomorrow. 

m

Slow food, but quick eats; a new Rome & tea.

I arrived at the station in Perugia early yesterday.  The hostel locked everyone out at 10.00, and I had no where to store my bags, so I just went straight to the station and had a tea at the bar.

I know it’s the Italian-way to have one’s daily caffeine standing at the bar, but I cannot get used to this idea.  This is a country that complains about the change in eating habits of the population, especially the young, and is trying to revolutionize the food movement to return to real ”slow food.”  BUT they still eat cookies and other biscuits for breakfast, children are allowed to drink coffee (with milk) and you have to RUSH to drink your coffee or tea at the bar…unless you want to pay double for table service.  For an espresso, of course it makes sense to drink it at the bar.  It’s just a shot.  Why sit down for that?  But in the morning for a café latté and brioche–how can one rush that?  It’s so bad for digestion.  Anyway, the locals don’t seem to have an issue with it, so I move on.

My first day back in Rome (yesterday) was very different from the “site-seeing” Rome.  Things that can happen in a matter of 3 to 4 hours:

1. The buses from the station were diverted because of a revolutionary convention.  Yes, the communists were waving their red flags in the Piazza della Reppublica. 

The city was in "red" yesterday.

There was a big demonstration there and a rally & concert in Piazza Nuova, which I stumbled upon later on in the evening and then quickly left after I finished my gelato because when visiting a foreign country, one should steer clear of political demonstrations, especially when police are watching everywhere.  One politician went on about the freedom in America and other countries, but how the Italian democracy was totalitarian.  I was a bit confused.  Did they want to change one regime for the same of another, only on different sides of the political spectrum? 

I understand the government here is corrupt and people are getting fed up, but communism?  Try selling all of this to people who lived in the former Eastern block countries. 

2. I booked a hostel on-line the day before, then arrived and found out that they tried to contact me to say the booking site over-booked the room, but I didn’t hear my phone ring.  Apparently, they had no place for me…but they made up an “emergency bed” because they knew it wasn’t my fault and because I already paid the deposit.   I was so relieved because this place is really nice and the breakfast is great.  I have never been to an all-women’s hostel.  I must say, I’m sold on the idea.  No offence, gents, but you lot are a dirty, noisy, smelly bunch when you travel.

3.  I had my laundry done for me for the same price it would have taken me to do it myself.

4.  My bank card worked!  I guess it was just the banks in Perugia giving me a hard time.

5.  Drinking Roman water again just makes me feel clean.

6.  Good helpings with the gelato at a good price.  Can’t beat this anywhere else in the country.  Rome definitely has the best helpings for $2 EUR.

7.  A street vendor was selling roasted chestnuts.  I was so excited, so I bought some.  They were well over-priced and not good at all. 

Bad, expensive roasted chestnuts.

8.  I got yelled at by a southern Italian woman sharing my hostel room because I was too scared to go to Napoli on my own.  She’s been working here for a month and still cannot find a place to live within her budget.  I sort of feel bad for her.  Anyway, she told me not to listen to hear-say about Naples from other people again, and not to watch any films depicting the city in a bad way.  “You just have to be careful like in any other city.  Would you go out alone at night or in bad neighbourhoods in New York or in Johannesburg?  No!  It’s the same thing in Naples.  The mafia don’t bother people like you and me.  Don’t wear gold or fancy jewellery and no one will rob you.  Eh!  Don’t listen to other people!”

Okay…moving on…

9.  Cheap, fast internet again.  Ahhh…

10.  Someone tried to jump off the Vittorio Emmanuele monument.  I’ve taken the lift to the roof.  It’s got a nice view of Rome, and it’s quite the drop.

Vittorio Emanuele II Monument.

11.  Not having to site-see.

I spent today walking around Rome.  I covered all the tourist spots within a few hours.  Not bad.  I also happened to stumble onto St. Peter’s Square during mass.  The pope was canonizing 4 saints: one from Ecuador, India, and I don’t know the other two.  It was kind of neat to be there, but I left after 30 minutes.  I didn’t get a program and I had no idea what was being said, except for the 2nd reading, which was in English.  One reading was in Indian, the gospel in Spanish, the psalm in Latin, etc.  Too confusing.

Canonization Mass at St. Peter's.

I also stumbled up on a street market.  Did I ever think I would see Italians fishing for $3 EUR shirts and $EUR trousers being sold by Indian immigrants?  Italy is changing.

I went to the Piazza di Spagna because I wanted to go to Babington’s Tea Room, which I spotted my first time here.  I don’t know why guidebooks always trivialize the Spanish Steps.  They all say, something like,

There is nothing remarkable about the Spanish Steps, except that they lead to the Spanish Embassy, below.  However, as in days of old, hopeful models come to see if an artist will paint their portrait, a trend that still exists today.

First of all, the Spanish Steps are unique because the design of this outdoor staircase is so grand.  It is really a site to see, if only to sit and rest for a while while people-watching or eating gelato.  (I had two helpings with 5 flavours today, by the way.)

Second, the Steps do not lead down to the Spanish Embassy.  The embassy is off to the left, toward the Trevi Fountain (which I love).  The Spanish Steps lead down to the lah-tee-dah shopping district of Roma: Gucci, Armani, Prada…grand steps to a grand avenue of shopping. 

Third, the “artists” will draw a portrait or charicature of anyone who will pay for it.  Even people who look like me have a chance to be recognized. 

But back to the tea house.

Whenever I’m in another country and I spot, what seems to be, a decent tea room, I always make the effort to try it out.  This was a bit unique because the name has a family connection (Uncle Buck–haha).  I did not go into Babington’s, though.  Even I know when I’m being robbed.   There is no price list for the restaurant on the website, but afternoon tea is $38 EUR for a small pot of tea, sandwich and scone.  Hmmm.  Just TRY and tell me, the food and tea snob, that the quality of food, tea and service is worth it.  I dare you.   

My photo-blog has been updated as of today.  I have been taking some short films, but I can’t upload them onto the site.  I think I have most of them saved on CD to view when I get back home.  I’ve also tacked on some new photos to the “Roma” album. 

I hope everyone is enjoying Thanksgiving weekend back home.  I haven’t spotted any restaurant menus that are serving turkey, but I’ve got until tomorrow to find one.  I have one more day to wander around Roma, then off to London for a bit.

See you in Kenya!

m

“I mean, there isn’t another London anywhere, is there?”

I needed to leave the south of Italy.  It’s certainly different and frustrating, and it certainly required a lot of planning and a separate trip on its own.  Too bad.  I hear lovely things about Sicilia.  I decided to come to Umbria.  I’m glad I did.  It’s all forest and mountains and lovely small villages, and not too many tourists.

Getting here was a bit of a nightmare.  Due to the sporadic bus schedules in the Salerno area, I missed my train and had to get on a later train…which was 25 minutes, THEN 40 minutes late.  Not bad if you’re at Roma Termini or in Firenze.  They have several places nearby to eat, grab a coffee or tea, left luggage facilities and places to SIT.  Salerno has none of these.  Even the Italians were complaining.  Several of us had to stand for almost 2 hours at the doorway looking up at the departure schedule to see the status and platform location of our train arrival.  We were tired and hungry.  I also had a headache.  Once the train arrived, it smelled of the loo and cigarette smoke.  It’s unlawful to smoke on trains, but Italians lock themselves in the toilet stalls and smoke regardless.  If you want to interrupt them, be prepared for a fight.  I was ready to kill, so I decided against it.  There was no ventilation, so everyone in the carriage suffered.  I was talking to a girl from Lamezia, Calabria who was sitting across from me on her way to Roma for an interview, and she said it was worse when she first got on.  I cannot imagine.  Both smells, the waiting at the station and not eating left me feeling sick.  Once I started to get clammy and my stomach started lurching, I actually grabbed a bag and ran out of the carriage.  Elena (her name) gave me her number, just in case I needed help once I got off the train, which was nice…but we all remembered what happened with Marianna from Capri.

Needless to say, I missed my connection in Rome and had to find a place to stay at 21.00.  Luckily, there was a hostel around the corner from the station and my room only had two other girls in it.  The next day, I caught my train to Perugia.  Anyway, where am I going with this?  I firmly believe things happen for a reason because…

…in another city, in Toscana, an Australian lady had also missed her connecting train to Perugia that night, ended up arriving the same day as me and we ended up being in the same room in the hostel.

That evening, at the hostel in Perugia (I am back in the north, in Umbria), I was in a room with several chatty ladies and had my first taste at translating back and forth between two Italian girls and two Australian ladies.  Before you ask, yes, older people stay in hostels, too.  Everyone is on a budget these days.

I digress.

One Aussie mentioned that her son was getting married to a Canadian girl, and will be moving to Kelowna, B.C. in a few months.  She was so excited to be going over there at Christmastime.  She was also THRILLED that she got such a flight deal for that time of year.  She kept going ON and ON and ON about this great flight deal. 

“I mean, wow!  I am so glad he suggested West-thingy. (I think she meant, WestJet.)  I cannot believe I got a flight from Heathrow to Kelowna for $275 Canadian dollars!”

Me: “Really?  I had no idea that WestJet flew to the UK.”

“Oh, yeah.  My son told me about them.  I was going to fly with another airline (AirTransat), but he told me about West…thingy, and I got a great deal!  I can’t believe it!”

“That’s great.”

The other Aussie, who works for Quantas said, “How can that be?  WestJet is a discount airline.  How could they get permission to fly internationally?”

Me:  “Well, they started flying into some US cities, Mexico and some Carribean islands.  I wonder if they are taking over some flight paths from FlyZoom, since they went out of business?  Maybe they’re expanding their market.”

Quantas-Aussie: “Hmmm.  Yeah, could be.”

Excited-Aussie: “Yeah, it’s from London.  There aren’t any other Londons, are there?”  Except it wasn’t a question.  She was telling me that there weren’t any other Londons in the world.

I stopped and stared at her, my mind racing.

“Well…unless it’s London, Ontario, Canada.  That’s where I’m originally from.  I know WestJet flies from there.”

She stopped.

“Nooo.  I’m pretty sure it was Heathrow.  (She pauses.)  Actually, I’m not so sure.  I think I assumed it was.”

Quantas-Aussie:  “Do you have the airport code?  Heathrow is LHR.”

“Yeah.  Oh, God.” 

She checks. 

We wait.

It’s definitely NOT London Heathrow.

“Oh, my God, I’m going to be sick!”

“Well, you can always stay with my parents for a few hours…”

I spent approximately 30-45 mintues reassuring her that it would be all right, and gave her several suggestions on how to fix this problem.   Basically, if she can’t change the departure city and/or get a refund, fly into Detroit or Toronto, catch the About Town or Robert Q shuttle to London and voila!  Problem solved.  I also had to draw maps because she didn’t know which countries Toronto or Detroit were in.  (Quantas-Aussie was quite embarassed by her lack of geography knowledge.) 

I told her finally:  “See?  This is why we had to miss our trains.  We had to meet for this very reason!”

She was not amused, but at least she has several months to make other arrangements, or else,

“…you would have been at Heathrow in several months looking for the WestJet desk in all that chaos!”

At Christmastime, $275 for a flight across the pond?  Always questionable.

m

Eat, Pray, Love & Shove…

..that book up your backside!

For months now, when people hear that I’m taking time off to travel, I’ve been asked: Oh, have you read Eat, Pray, Love?

No.  I have not. 

And now that I have been asked that question for the umpteenth time, I definitely will not read it ever. 

Honestly.  I love to travel and we do not get enough holiday time in Canada to go away for several weeks at a time (read: far-off and exotic places where it takes two days to get there and back).  The timing for this trip was right: I was bored at work and only on contract (although I could have taken permanent, but why would I if I’m bored?), I was kicked out of my apartment (the owners are building condos on the site), I have no man, no kids, no debt (yet), why not?  It was perfect timing.

That’s it.

I do not need a mid-life crisis (and I’m not even middle-aged yet) to do something fantastic.  Get it?  I believe it’s best to do wonderful things when one is already happy.  This way, there are no disappointments.  Bumps in the road, yes, but those are part of any experience.  I do not think it wise to ”run away” from life.  And pardon me, but isn’t the author of that book educated, wealthy and privileged?  Call me an ingorant snob, but someone in that position should always be able to pick onself up when life throws a curve ball.  It’s not like she was sold into the sex trade like a 5 year old Cambodian or a 14 year old Eastern European girl.  Oh, wait.  She did pick herself back up.  She travelled for months at a time (read: has lots of money), and poured her heart onto her sleeve and sold it as a book (thank you, Oprah).

Don’t write your negative comments on this post.  I don’t care to hear them.  But I am tired of strangers assuming my trip is based on a crisis in my life and after reading E, P, L, I was suddenly inspired.  Women travel on their own all the time.  Let’s understand that some of us have our own mind to do crazy and amazing things.  This isn’t the only crazy thing I’ve done in my life.  I studied engineering at uni, after all.

As an aside, I forgot to mention in my last post that when I was at the laundry place in Sorrento, I helped a man fold sheets for the hotel he works at.  After talking for a while, he gave me the website to holiday rental places along the Amalfi Coast, along with the details of the rental home he owns.  I also have his contact details.  If anyone wants to rent his house, let me know and I’ll send you the information.  Mention my name and “laundry in Sorrento,” and he’ll give you 20 percent off the rental price.

Hahaha!

Love it.

m

Venezia (Venice), the Amalfi Coast, Pompei & the internet again.

Hokay, soooo it’s been a while since I’ve been able to get to use the inter-ma-net.  In Firenze, I paid $0-2 EUR for one hour of fast connection, and everywhere else it’s been $5 EUR an hour to wait for a page to load (in Venezia, $4.50 EUR per HALF hour).  Not worth it.  And I do NOT understand why it’s so bloody expensive.  You will all have to wait for more photos to be uploaded.  Too bad.  I like adding photos to my posts.  Perhaps I can find a good connection when I get back to Roma.  Mmmmmm…perhaps.  I’m addicted to the internet, I admit it.  What am I going to do in Africa?

Anyway, people back home have told me time and time again that Venezia is a waste of time, and that I should only go for a day, then leave the same day.  Italians have told me otherwise.  They say I needed at least three days.  I decided to split the difference and go for two.  The verdict:

Italians: 1.  Canadians: 0.

What the hell are you people talking about only going for one day?  Venice was amazing!  My first day there, I spent hours walking around from one district to the next, getting lost, finding my way back again, realising later that I walked around in circles. There are no cars on the islands, so you can only travel by boat or on foot, and taking the water buses were fun when I was too tired to walk.  It is filthy, but can I say romantic?  Yes, I believe it was.  But I love it anywhere near water, so it could have been a water treatment plant and I would have likely said, Oh, nice! 

(Pause.)

Okay, no, not really, but you get the point.

The worst parts were the main tourist sites at the Piazza San Marco.  The basilica is worth seeing, though, just for the gold-plated mosaic ceilings alone.  Granted, I don’t think I could have stayed more than two days.  At least not on this trip.  It’s really expensive compared to other places I’ve been to, including Firenze.  Not good when you need to stretch your money for several months, this included couch-surfing, which was disastrous.

Ugh.

That was the real reason I needed to leave.

This guy was highly recommended on the CS site, but yikes, what a weirdo.  Intelligent, yes, but very strange. I don’t need to go into details right now (maybe later…when I write my book on strange-men-and-why-a-lot-of-women-are-choosing-to-stay-single), but I will say this: his apartment was a cesspool.  I don’t think it had EVER been cleaned.  I did not shower for two days because I was scared to get into the tub and because I couldn’t shower anyway: there was no room to move! 

(Shivers.)

Moving on.  I got to Napoli and got lost trying to find the “Mafia-Metro.”  Yeah, they own a separate rail-link from Napoli to Sorrento and surrounding areas.  I don’t know why they keep getting away with these take-overs, but that’s not for here.  Ella told me all about this separate line, and I knew I had to look for it, but it’s not easy to find.  Thank goodness for some lovely Aussies that were in the same boat and helped me out.  The Amalfi Coast is lovely.  I got a bit of motion-sickness getting here (a lot of winding roads on cliffs), but I’m back for a few days after spending the night in Pompei.  I wasn’t planning on going to Pompei, but things changed when I was on the ferry back from Capri yesterday.

I sat next to someone who was sipping an ice-tea.  A bit rare here, and I was craving one.  So I asked her if she spoke Italian or English.  Italian. 

“Is that drink good?”

“Yes.  It’s tea with lemon.  Did you want one?”

“Yes, but I’ll wait until the queue dies down.”

“I’ll get you one.”

“How much is it?” as I reached to get my money.

“$0.80.  But let me get it for you because I’m Italian, they charge me a different price.  They will charge you $2.00 EUR”

Yikes.

So, anyway, in true Italian-style, she jumped the queue and got me my drink in no time.  We started talking about what we did and where I was going.  She asked if I liked Capri. 

“No.  There’s nothing there except a few rocky beaches, lots of [she-she-pooh-pooh] shops and five-star resorts.”

“Oh, no!   It’s different at night when the tourists leave.  If you decide to come back, here’s my number.  Call me and you can stay at my place.  I work there during the week and go home on weekends, but if I know you’re coming, I’ll stay.  We’ll go out with my friends.  Did you go to Pompei?”

“No, I’m not really interested.”

“What about Napoli?”

“No, too many people I’ve spoken to said they left after a few hours.  Besides, I’m too scared to go there alone.”

“Oh, no!  If you want to go, I’ll take you around.”

And the conversation went on like this.  In the end, she convinced me that I should see Pompei (and I’m glad I did) and that she would pick me up at the station and we’d go out that night, then go around the ruins the next day, then drive around Napoli as long as I told her which district I wanted to see because she said there’s a lot to do.

She had all these plans for us.  “We’ll do this, we’ll do that.”  She had been abroad alone before and she said she knew what it was like to not know where to go, etc.  However, little by little, it became, “Whatever you want.”

Yeah. 

I waited for her at one of the Pompei stations, like she asked me to.  When she didn’t arrive, I called.  She said, “You’re there already?”

“Yeah, never mind.  I’ll find a place myself.”

“How?”

“All the hotels are near the centre.”

“Okay, maybe we’ll meet up later.  Whatever you want.  If you’re too tired, that’s okay.  We’ll meet tomorrow morning.”

“No, I can go out tonight, but in a few hours.”

“Later.  Okay, let me know when you’re ready.”

I was given wrong information about hotel locations, and walked with my gear for almost an hour to the centre of Pompei.  The hostel closed down and I ended up looking around again.  But I finally found a place.  The proprietress was a bit brash, and she lied about breakfast being in the price, but I think she tried to be helpful most of the time.  At least the room was clean.

Anyway, this girl, M., called me a few hours later and said that maybe it was too late to go out, and that maybe we could meet after I saw the ruins tomorrow (AFTER? Wasn’t she supposed to come with me?)…but “Whatever you want to do!”  And by the way, she had to go out during lunch, so she’d call later in the afternoon.  I was beginning to get annoyed.  Okay, fine.  Next day, I saw the ruins but didn’t hear back from her.  By 14.00, I said forget it.  I got on the train and went back to the coast.  She did call…when I got on the train back to Sorrento.

“So, you don’t want to see Napoli?”

“I got on the train to go there, but then I changed my mind.  I’m too tired to travel twice in a day.”

“Okay, whatever you want!  If you need anything, call me.”

Va bene.

So, I didn’t get to see crazy, scary Napoli.  Next time.

She wanted to show me around, but I ended up doing all the work: planning, searching, travelling.  Why do people try to act hospitable, but when they realize it takes up too much of their time, weasle their way out of their promises? 

Geesh.

The more I meet other people, the more I realize how fabulous I really am.

No more speaking to locals in their native tongue.  I’m going to play the dumb-English-speaking-tourist from now on.

m