Falling faintly through the universe

This might seem an odd choice for Christmas Eve, but as fate would have it this year has become the time for a rather different sort of Christmas.  I'm happy to be home, once again surrounded by the simple things that heal and soothe me, but am all too constantly aware that this wound that has been wrenched across our family will take more than a glass of mulled wine in front of a wood fire to cure.  This Christmas, death and loss have laid down their burdensome cargo just a little too close to the door.  I listen to Christmas carols, light candles, cook food, and pour an extra slug of rum into eggnog on the sly.  I laugh at Ralphie, I change the station when "Santa Baby" comes on, I finish the last of my wrapping, and I look into the eyes of the people I love and see the happiness tinged with hollowness that I feel reflected back at me.  I am happy to be home, happy to be in my favorite place surrounded by two of my favorite people on one of my favorite days of the year.  But even as I laugh, stick tape, sing along, or stir vanilla into eggs and cream, a touch of sadness is just over my left shoulder.  I see it all the time, just out of the corner of my eye, coloring my vision of everything.

This morning, my Mom, Dad, and I skyped with Eve and Bradley in Okinawa and we read "A Christmas Memory."  All three of us stateside took turns passing the book around when a particular sentence or passage made us choke up.  It must seem so weird to outsiders that one of our most precious Christmas traditions is one where we all end up in tears.  I guess it's cathartic in a way.  "A Christmas Memory" is not supposed to be read in the morning, but we made allowances for the 14-hour time difference all the way over in Japan.  And after that, the folks and I made breakfast, cleaned up, took naps, made dinner, cleaned up, opened our stocking gifts (another Christmas Eve tradition), and then had neighbors over for drinks.  It went pretty well; we all had a good time and lots of laughs.

I just finished making our Baked French Toast for tomorrow morning, the fire is burning, a glass of malbec is at my elbow, and I'm about to look through our "Christmas in America" coffee table book, which happens to be one of my own private little Christmas Eve traditions once everyone else has settled down for their winter's nap.

As always, I am happy to be here.  Not everything is how I would wish it, but then again life never is.

Wherever you are, whatever your situation, I say truly that I hope this holiday is a happy one for you.  Filled with family, friends, devotion, gaiety, vodka crans, whatever it takes.  Merry Christmas.

For my last (or maybe next-to-last) Christmas Post, I give you a piece that remains very close to my heart.  One that has very happy memories for me despite its sad subject matter.  It's a Christmas story, although maybe not of the type you're used to.  I'd like to take this moment to say Thank You to Dr. Coilin Owens, my grad school James Joyce professor, whose enthusiasm and boundless knowledge of Joyce was completely infectious.

Because it really needs no preamble, here is a link to the complete text of The Dead, by James Joyce.

And because it's long and I know most of you won't read it, or at least won't read all the way to the end, here are the last two paragraphs which are my favorite passages from the whole piece.  Read it aloud.  It doesn't matter if you don't know the context.  Just listen to how the words roll against each other, how the images spill out over themselves.  Pay attention to what happens inside your chest when you do.  This is how language is shaped and honed to create the most perfect beauty.

(And yes, this passage is one half of my inspiration for the title of this blog.)
__________________________

"Generous tears filled Gabriel's eyes. He had never felt like that himself towards any woman, but he knew that such a feeling must be love. The tears gathered more thickly in his eyes and in the partial darkness he imagined he saw the form of a young man standing under a dripping tree. Other forms were near. His soul had approached that region where dwell the vast hosts of the dead. He was conscious of, but could not apprehend, their wayward and flickering existence. His own identity was fading out into a grey impalpable world: the solid world itself, which these dead had one time reared and lived in, was dissolving and dwindling.

A few light taps upon the pane made him turn to the window. It had begun to snow again. He watched sleepily the flakes, silver and dark, falling obliquely against the lamplight. The time had come for him to set out on his journey westward. Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, farther westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead."

-- James Joyce, "The Dead"

Elegy

This is one of the hardest things I have ever had to write.  Part of me says I should maybe wait a little longer, when it isn't so raw and maybe I'm able to process things a bit better.  But then the other part tells me that I should do it now, exactly because it is raw, and that is the way these things are supposed to feel.

My amazing, woman-of-steel Grandma passed away this past week.

When my Grandpa passed, two Septembers ago, I was half a world away.  My family wasn't even able to tell me until a day after it happened.  This time was different.

My Mom called me out of bed shortly before 7:00 AM.  My Grandma was suffering from another "heart spasm", as we called them.  She'd had them before, and I settled in to wait this one out for a few hours until it passed and she was willing and able to rest again.  That isn't what happened this time.  And around 9:00 I started making calls.  The hospice nurse arrived.  She made Grandma comfortable.  The family began to arrive in ones and twos.

There is nothing I can say that even comes close to trying to explain that morning.  How I had to step out into the hallway for a minute after Grandma called out for Bob, her husband and my Grandpa, to come and help her.  How she prayed.  I know she was afraid.  I know she wasn't ready to accept that this was the end, because when the nurse and my Mom and I reminded her that she would be going to a place where she would see her husband and loved ones again, she looked at us all with a flash of her old fire and said quite clearly: "Well I'm not going anyplace."

It was only three hours later that my Aunt Diane told us all waiting outside that Grandma's breathing had changed.  And around noon Grandma finally decided that she had fought against this for long enough.  I consider it a blessing beyond count or price that I was able to be there.

What happens at that moment?  Where do we go?  What happens when that spark winks out, that invisible, unfindable bit that makes each of us ever so much more than protein and carbon?  And travels somewhere... else.  I don't know where that place is.  But my Grandma did.  She believed that she knew exactly where she was going.  And I guess I can believe in her belief, if nothing else.

The next few days are kind of a blur.  It is a sad dark joke that honestly only minutes after it happens, before anyone even really has a chance to process, that events must immediately be set into motion.  Work must be done.  In your head and heart the world might be collapsing, but there are arrangements to make, flowers to order, people to be called.  Dinners to make.  Lawyers to be notified.  Airport pickups to be arranged and mattresses brought up from the garage to create an appropriate number of sleeping spaces.

But finally things are winding down.  I leave with my mother and father to go back to Nova tomorrow.  Once again HOME has become a sort of Camelot, a Buddhist mountian top, the Sanctum Sanctorum.  I'm looking forward to quietness, even if it won't be for long.  Lots of things have changed in my world, on several different fronts.  But this post is only about one thing.  Or one person.

This is the part where I remember her.

I remember her indefatigable strength.  I remember my Mom telling me about how she would feed lunch to five children with one can of tuna.  I remember how she used to make Thanksgiving dinner for 30 people in a hostel-sized kitchen.  I remember she told my sister and me that "A woman can have secrets.", with a glint in her eye, and how we always wanted to ask her what that glint was for, but never did.  I remember how she held my hands and would not let them go when I first came to see her the day before she left the nursing home.

The day before she died she wanted to set her hair in rollers, because that's what she had always done, for the past 80 or 85 years most likely.  And even though her hands shook and her arms were too weak to reach up to the top of her head, she was determined to do it herself.  My Mom put a helping hand under her elbow and helped her those extra crucial inches.

The most simultaneously incredible and heartbreaking thing about my Grandma was that she had a side to her that so few people saw.  She was a wife and mother, a seamstress, a cook, a mediator, a nurse, and a fearsome housekeeper.  She was also a painter and a poet, and while she permitted her beautiful artworks to be displayed in local shows and competitions, hung around her home, and gifted to  her children, her poetry she kept largely hidden away.  I'm sure she had a good reason for doing so, even if she never told any of us what that reason was.  Or hell, maybe she did confide in someone once, and that person is keeping her secret.  As well he should.

So I hope my Grandma does not mind, but I'm going to close this elegy by sharing one of my favorite poems by Elizabeth Alice O'Connor.  I think it speaks well of the legacy she left behind.

"A Mother in Retirement"

I don't get up early anymore,
(Not having to do a loving chore).

No need to clean walls as much,
No smudges at the height little hands can touch.

I don't have to look through the oven door.
No need for fancy cakes to store.

No noise to hush, or quiet a hassle.
All have gone to their own little castle.

There's time to sit around and read.
I'd rather have five mouths to feed.

Time drags by -- I look out the door.
How did I do so much before?

I've not forgotten how to sew.
Just don't have many places to go.

I feel fine.  My health is good.
Still can do the things I should.

Days don't have such joy in store.
I don't get up early, anymore.

-- by: Elizabeth O'Connor 

And the thing is, even after she "retired", I never saw that woman rest.

Grandma, rest now.  Your children, their children, and their children carry the love and the strength they all learned from you.  And I believe I'll be seeing you again, to ask those questions I always wanted to, and didn't.

Trust your heart, and trust your story.

I know, I know.  Home for nearly two weeks, yet the blog is still stuck back in Rome.  Haven't even touched Greece which may have been my favorite part of the whole adventure, and certainly a utterly perfect way to end it.

My blog-slacking is not entirely pure jet lag and laziness.  For one thing, do you have any idea now many leaves can fill up a quarter-acre shade garden?  I do.  Intimately.  Also, due to circumstances beyond my control I found myself as Head Decorator for my house when it came time to Christmas it up.  I've been cooking a ton, both for fun and by necessity, everything from homemade mac and cheese (my first attempt and stunning success!) to white chocolate almond cranberry cookies.

And then this past Friday I came up to New Jersey.  My Grandma's health is failing, and my Mom has been up here taking care of her.  It meant that Friday was the first time I got to see my Mommy since I've been back!  And after I did see her, and assess the situation and all, I decided that I needed to make myself useful up here for longer than just a weekend.  So here I am, at least for another week or so.  If I need to stay longer I certainly will, but everyone is just kind of taking it a day at a time right now.

I'd kind of thought I'd have scads of time while up here to blog and read and what not, but that has turned out to be not the case.  And tonight I'm just too darn tired to tackle Rome.  Sorry.  Maybe tomorrow.

(I knew there was a reason I made myself keep both a hardcopy personal journal and a blog, even though that got damn tedious at times.  With my journal entries and photos I should be able to recreate my last days in Europe even if it does end up being three weeks late.)

Instead, you get another Christmas Post!

Remember how I said that some of my Christmas Memories would have a lot to do with the actual holiday, and some would not have anything to do with the holiday?  This is one of the latter.

I read it to my family one Christmas Eve several years ago, because I just love the way this poem sounds when read aloud.  It's Neil Gaiman's "Instructions".  I think I actually linked to this once before, when I blogged about using it for an ESL lesson.  Well, whatevs.  It's on the Christmas List so you get it again.  Hopefully you love it even a tiny bit as much as I do, and won't mind reading and/or hearing it a second time!  Enjoy.

Reading this poem now, after just having come back from the most marvelous adventure, and finding myself having to once again face the cold shower of life's harsh uncertainties, on several fronts, I find that my favorite passage takes on new relevance.  The fact is that, at this moment, I have no idea what is going to come next.  If ever I needed a reminder of these things, it is right now.

Remember your name.
Do not lose hope — what you seek will be found.
Trust ghosts. Trust those that you have helped
to help you in their turn
Trust dreams.
Trust your heart, and trust your story.

Rome: Coming of Age in the Eternal City

As many of you know, hobbits come of age when they are 33.  Before then, they are considered to be in the "tweens", an awkward and irresponsible age where young hobbits can get away with acting much like Peregrin Took.

I can tell you right now that I make absolutely no promises to change or curtail my behavior or grow up even a little no matter what birthday I've just had, but the fact remains that I had my hobbit's Coming Of Age Birthday on my first full day in Rome, November 13.

When planning this Europe trip, I had so wanted to somehow have my birthday in my very favorite place in the world, and half by accident, half by design it ended up working out just that way.  But what do you do for your 33rd birthday when you are alone in Bella Roma?  Despite being exactly where I wanted to be, I found myself feeling just the smallest bit of melancholy at reaching my mid-thirties, and all alone.  So I decided that the perfect birthday activity would be to do one of the things I had most regretting missing the first time I was here:  touring the Keats/Shelley house next to the Spanish Steps, and then visiting their graves in the Protestant Cemetery.

Back in college, and then in grad school, I majored in English and concentrated heavily on the Romantic poets, particularly the younger generation of Keats, Shelley, and Byron.  That was a long time ago and sadly I have forgotten almost everything I once knew, but these gentlemen were an important part of my existence for many years and I thought it fitting to celebrate another year of life by paying my respects to two of those men that so enriched my days (and nights.  Many, many long, quotation-filled, one-inch margin-obsessed nights).

The Keats/Shelley House is located just to the right of the Spanish Steps, yet another Roman landmark completely and utterly overrun with tourists and sharks.  To be honest, I'm not exactly sure why it is the Keats/Shelley House and not just the Keats House, as to my knowledge the house had nothing to do with Shelley but Keats died here of tuberculosis when he was 24.  And even though it's the Keats/Shelley house and not the Keats/Shelley/Byron house, most of it is equally dedicated to all three of them.  It's quite small really, just four rooms on one floor, with walls lined with books by the these tortured geniuses and glass cases filled with early editions, painted cameos, and letters written either by or about the three young men.

In the far back corner is a small room where Keats spent his last days and finally passed away.  All the furniture is a reconstruction, because everything in the room was burned after his death.

Keats' death mask in the background.

I have always found it so sad that Keats' final months and weeks of life were spent in such an angry black depression.  He had convinced himself that nothing of his work would remain, and was inconsolably bitter about his illness.  I suppose that is completely understandable; I too would be pissed at the idea of dying at 24, but I've always wished he could have found some peace and contentment before the end.

It is a long way from the north end of Rome where the Spanish Steps are, all the way down outside the city walls to the south, where the Protestant Cemetery is.  My love for Rome is such that I take great pride and pleasure in walking everywhere, but this particular trek would have taken forever and I had my unfortunate Achilles tendons to consider.  So my birthday included one maiden voyage upon Rome's metro.  Seemed the most practical course.

The Protestant Cemetery is actually quite easily accessible from the Pyramide metro stop.  Despite being off the edge of my hostel map, I was able to find it with no trouble.  Every old graveyard image and feel seems to have been captured in this one quiet, beautifully somber place.

They had signs directing you to the graves of both Keats and Shelley.  I found Shelley's first.  Just a very simple white marble slab set into the ground.

And here I kicked myself a little, because it was only now that I finally realized a good use for a couple of those roses that all the hawkers kept shoving into my face back at the Spanish Steps.  I would have liked to leave something beautiful here, even if it would have only lasted a few hours.  Instead I had to content myself with pressing my fingertips onto the stone, imagining a distraught Lord Byron standing by a century and a half ago.

Keats is buried in a different, much sparser section of the cemetery.  I found him next to his good friend Joseph Severn, who took care of him in their Rome house right up until the end.

Here lies one whose name was writ in water.

So bitter was he at the end of his days, that Keats forbade his name to go on his tombstone at all.  "Here lies one whose name was writ in water" was to be the extend of his epitaph, but after he died some doubtlessly well-meaning folks decided that was too sparse and added the rest.  To the right, there is a small memorial with that includes both his name and bust in profile.

There's a bench just opposite here, and I sat for a little while, sipping birthday Powerade and letting my mind wander.  I was very conscious of any possible irony or metaphor implied that comes with visiting a graveyard on one's birthday, but it fit the mood I was in exactly.  Did yet more reflecting on then versus now, and thought that maybe I could do with reading some more poetry again.

When I started to do some more exploring, I found one thing that lifted my spirits immediately.  I've been searching this whole trip to find an actual Weeping Angel.  You know (or you should!), an angel statue that legit is covering her eyes in some way.  I've photographed dozens of angels but never came across one covering her face.  In the Protestant Cemetery, I finally found one!

Still not perfect, but it works!

I wandered around the cemetery for a little while longer and eventually said my farewells.  Took the metro back up to the Colosseum for more photos and tourist-dodging, and surprised myself by remembering the way to an Irish bar that I had stopped in during my epic first night in Rome three years ago.

This trip's budget does not really allow for cocktails, but on my birthday I allowed myself two excellent gin and tonics.  I sat for a long time at the bar and caught up on my journaling.  Earlier that day I had bought myself a present of a new journal, as my current one was almost out of pages!  It's been a very noteworthy adventure.

And then I found my way back to the Sodium Light Bar.  Even without Monya, without the sodium lights, this place had just became so important to me the last time I was here and I wanted to say a proper goodbye one last time.  I know that's stupid because it is just a bar, but it was here that I swore to come back.  Some people throw a coin in the Trevi, and some people make promises to sexy bartenders over shots of vodka.  The bar had taken on significance in my brain that went far beyond its literal role as a crowded local drinking establishment.

Real quick -- another story of Rome and memories... back three years ago, before I left I went for a haircut and my stylist (who had been to Rome about ten times), told me I needed to try a kind of wine called Amarone while I was there.  So I did.  The wine was of course awesome, and I ended up bringing a very expensive bottle back home with me, which then was the wine I opened for my father and me the night before I left for Georgia.

So when I sat down at the Sodium Light Bar, I checked out the wine list (on a chalkboard) and saw they had an Amarone.  Of course that's what I had.  One more tiny splurge on my Coming of Age Day!

Nostalgia Amarone at Nostalgia Bar

Three years ago while sitting in almost this exact same spot, I wrote that I felt like the eye of a cat. 5 hurricane.  It was kind of like that again, but of course something was missing.  It was more than just Monya.  One of the things I finally realized about my time in the Eternal City was that Rome felt so different because I was different.  And all things considered, I was grateful I'd had the chance to experience Rome with the eyes of three years ago.

Wine finished, it was time for the most important part of the day:  Dinner!  My whole trip I'd been looking forward to my one no-holds-barred birthday dinner, where I'd actually eat at one of those amazing-looking restaurants I was always passing by.  I wandered with no real direction, looking for the perfect place (and you know me and how long finding "perfect" can take!) when suddenly I realized I was walking towards the Trevi.

It was almost like I panicked.  "The Trevi!" I shouted to myself.  "That's the last place you want to be!  It'll be full of tourists and overpriced and probably not that good anyway!"  In almost-desperation, I took a sharp right turn down an alley and ended up looking at a place so adorable, so tucked-away, so utterly perfect that I could not believe my luck.

I went in and sat down, having been greeted by a very friendly waiter.  I ordered fried zucchini blossoms, something I'd always wanted to try in Rome, and swordfish prepared Sicilian-style with tomatoes, olives, and capers.  Also a half-bottle of Italian white wine.

Sicilian swordfish, wine, new journal!

Much like pizza in Naples, I'd been kind of afraid that this birthday dinner, when it finally happened, would not live up to my very exacting expectations.  But once again I should not have worried.  This was exactly what I'd hoped it would be.  The food was fresh and delicious, the service excellent, and I was able to take as much time as I wanted to enjoy every minute!

After dinner I ordered limoncello and a dessert which turned out to be rather like a caramel flan (delicious!), then lingered over the last of my wine.  I didn't want to leave but could not put another morsel of food or drink in me so finally it was time to go.

I walked home, and then back at the Rome hostel I ran into Arity and Brian, the friends I'd met from Naples.  We'd done Vesuvius and then Pompeii together.  I was so surprised and happy to actually see people I knew!  We toasted my birthday and they introduced me to Beth, a girl staying in their dorm.  We agreed to meet tomorrow morning and go over to St. Peter's together.  Such a pleasant surprise to close out my birthday -- laughter and the company of friends had been the only thing that could have possibly been missing!

From start to finish, an incredible day.  I simply could not have asked for anything more.  Cheers, Bella Roma.

In which David Sedaris gets rather possessive of Santa

Well, my last Christmas Memory post was a real tear-jerker, so here's a little bit of merriment and jolliness (and a fair dose of healthy irreverence).  I first discovered David Sedaris when I was in Georgia, which was way later than I should have because I missed out on years of hilarity.

Last December found me sitting in my borrowed bed in Vashlijvari, wrapped up in 47 blankets, gloves, a wool hat, and every winter thing I owned.  Far away from family, friends, and my Christmas Spirit, I read this essay and felt a twinge of holiday glow for the first time that season.

For your consideration, David Sedaris reads his essay to an appreciative audience -- his own take on the Dutch version of Christmas and Santa Claus.

Yeah, it's 15 minutes but what the hell else are you going to do with your day?  If you're in a rush, the Christmas stuff starts about three minutes in, but you'll be missing out.

You can't be forever blessed.

I leave to fly home tomorrow morning.

If I could, I would continue.  I love this transient, minimal life.  Even with all if the frustrations, all of the many ways Europe has discovered to flush a toilet (and still not all that well), I would go on if I could.  Asia, Africa, Indonesia, Australia... just me and Sisyphus, hopefully meeting friends here and there along the way.

When I think about it objectively, who wouldn't love this life?  I see incredible things, eat and drink incredible things, every day as a matter of course.  I have no responsibility beyond that to my own safety and well-being, and the closest thing I have to actual work is this blog here (which does seem like an outright obligation sometimes but never something I'm not immensely proud of and happy to go back to).

It is, sadly and obviously, an unsustainable lifestyle.  I've pushed it way too far already, and will feel those consequences in the months to come. I wish I didn't like nice dinners.  I wish I didn't like museums, or parasailing, or riding horses on volcanoes.   I wish I didn't like any of those things that have depleted my available funds for this adventure, and now the lack of them forces me to end it.  But if I didn't like those things, I would not have had the experiences that have made this trip unforgettable, the very things that leave me, desperately, wanting more, wanting just so badly for it all not to end.

For three months I lived the life I would live my whole life if I could.  I got to do this.  Many people never get that chance, and I am acutely aware of each and every one of my blessings and fate-smilings-down-upon.  Tomorrow I go back to my real life, my other life, which is still not all that down-to-earth and hardly horrible.

I am so, just so grateful for this time.  To have had this most precious time.  I should be feeling a sense of tremendous accomplishment, and I'm sure that somewhere in there, I do.  But one thing I always try to do is be honest with you people on here, and honestly right now I am sad.  And yes, I am aware this is akin to a child crying because she can't have more cake, even though she's already just had more cake than any reasonable parent would allow.  I don't care.  This is my space, and I can be sad about a wonderful thing ending if I want to.  There is so much more to see, so many countries and cities and coastlines, and hostels to yell at.  I want to keep going.  Forward.  Instead I am going back.

This song isn't truly relevant to my current situation, but it's been in my head a lot during the course of my travels.  I was going to post it originally in the unlikely and unpleasant event that Mitt Romney won the recent election, but by the grace of God and the American people I was spared having to do that.  All the same, it's a good song, a thoughtful song, and I wanted you to hear it.

(Also -- DUDE.  Pants.  Hair.  I don't care if it was the '70s.  Thank God this was before the success of your music depended on how sexy you were.  Instead of, you know, on actual quality of music.)

Rome: Calling up old ghosts

My first night in Rome was kind of like... meeting up with an old college buddy after five or ten years.  It was frenetic, and exhausting, and awesome, full of nostalgia, and I passed many a bittersweet moment reflecting on all that was THEN, and NOW.

But first.  Train from Sorrento, and then from Naples, all went smooth.  I'm a Rail Pro by then end of this freaking adventure.  Even the train ride itself was a little sad as I realized this was the last train I would be taking on my trip.  Flying to Athens, ferry to and from Santorini... this was it for the mighty European Rail System.  So very fitting that my last train would pull me into none other than Roma Termini.  It was 6:00 or so in the evening.

My hostel was near Termini, as are pretty much all the hostels in Rome.  I did not want to stay in this area; I very much wanted to be exactly where I had been the first time, in the quiet and picturesque Monti neighborhood just five minutes from the Colosseum.  But that had been a very different trip with a very different budget, and now my kinds of places were scattered around what my old Rome guidebook called "the seedy area around the train station."  Well, whatever.  Rome is Rome.  I found the place with no difficulty, checked in, and literally discovered I was standing in my hostel kitchen, rubbing my hands together sort of absentmindedly while walking in a very small circle.  I had made it to Rome.  I was back, finally, against all odds, and now I had no idea where to start.

I spread my hostel-furnished map of the city on the table and just smiled.  There they were, all my old friends.  Waiting for me.  I familiarized myself with street names and routes, picked out the obvious landmarks:  the Trevi, the Pantheon, the Colosseum, the Vittoriano.  I touched the street where my old hotel had been, Via Bochetto.  And then I put my map in my pocket and I set out.

I was making for the Trevi.  I'd wanted the first thing I saw to be the Pantheon, as it remains my favorite building in Rome and also it was the first thing I'd happened to come across my very first night in the city three years ago.  But given the position of my hostel, the Trevi was kind of directly between me and the Pantheon.  So...

One of the things I remember about the Trevi was that I was always able to hear it before I saw it.  It was a sad sort of shock to realize that wasn't really the case this time around.  I don't know why.  Maybe they turned down the water pressure?  Maybe things are just never quite how you remember them?

In the vein of that last thought, I definitely did not remember the sheer army of hawkers, sharks, sheisters, and one can only assume, pickpockets and thieves that encircled this poor beleaguered tourist-thronged piazza.  I have been traveling for nearly three months and I can say with utter certainty that I have never seen anything quite like this.  They were everywhere, and they straight-out ruined it.  Maybe this has everything to do with the fact that I'm a lot more grouchy and a lot less naive than I was three+ years ago, but I seriously do not remember it like this.  But at any rate, the Trevi sadly did not have the magic or appeal for me that it had the first time around.  All these circling predators were making me uncomfortable.  Last time, I got a pistachio gelato and sat on the railing of the fountain while I ate it, taking my time, observing everything, happy as a clam.  This time, it was a pause for a couple photos and I headed on my way.

My very first night in Rome, I wandered around lost for something like eight hours.  Just when I was thinking of going to bed early, I came out of a narrow alleyway and stumbled onto this:

I remember being so overwhelmed.  I got a glass of red in a cafe overlooking this exact view, and wrote in my journal a quiet and humble prayer.  "I'm here.  I made it.  Thank you."

This night, I wanted so much to sit at that same cafe and remember all that I had felt and thought on that one remarkable night that remains one of the best in my whole life.  I walked up and took a look at their posted menu.  A glass of wine was 7.50 euro.  Ah, those were different times.  And all things considered, I would not trade my life then for my life now, for anything in the world.  I smiled and set off for the next spot on my Rome Nostalgia Treasure Hunt.

I was heading for the Colosseum, but to get there I had to pass the Vittoriano.

My heels were starting to seriously protest this incredible city-wide trek of ill treatment, but I was ignoring them.  I had an agenda.  I had shit I needed to do.

I said Hi to the Colosseo, and then turned my pain-in-the-ass feet up the Via Serpenti.  I was calling on an old friend.

So I kind of fell in love a little bit, the last time I was here.  I don't mean with the city, although that is true as well.  I fell in love with a lady bartender named Monya who remains the single most sensual gorgeous creature I have ever seen.  She worked in a tiny bar around the corner from my old hotel that I have named the Sodium Light Bar in my head because of the yellow light that filled the place.  I found it halfway through my trip and came there every night after that.  The entire place was filled with graceful, feral animals, drumming beats to the American Jazz on a giant bin of olives, breaking out into spontaneous song.  And Monya moved like tending bar was the most graceful sexy dance in the world, a dance that only she knew the moves to.

My last night in Rome, the bartenders of the Sodium Light Bar let me stay past closing.  We chatted and joked as they cleaned up.  I even offered to help but they wouldn't hear of it.  Monya pulled a bottle of vodka out from under the counter and we all did a shot together.  As I stood up to go finally, she fixed me with a sexy glare and said: "You will come back, yes?"

I promised.  I promised I would come back, to Rome, to the Sodium Light Bar, even though at the time I had no idea what life would bring or how I would ever accomplish this.  And now, somehow... holy shit.  I found myself back in the Eternal City.  I wanted, more than anything, to find the Sodium Light Bar and see Monya there.  I had no illusions about her actually remembering me.  But I wanted to see her and tell her.  "I came back.  I kept my promise."  And I am also under no disillusions regarding the turnover of bar and wait staff.  I knew the chances of her actually being there were pretty much slim to none.  All the same I had to try.

The Sodium Light Bar was full to bursting with Italians.  It was the kind of place I never would have the courage to approach normally, but this was a special situation.  I pushed my way through the crowd and up to the bar.

No Monya.  I smiled quietly to myself and ordered a glass of house wine, which turned out to be more expensive than what I would normally be comfortable paying.  I sat at the counter and remembered my teaching the bartenders of three years ago how to say "Through the arch and to the right", these being the directions to the toilet.  Later, as I stood up to go pee, someone actually told me "To the right," and I wanted to shake him and say "I know!  This is my place!  I belong here!"  But of course I didn't, because Monya was not here and clearly this was not my place anymore.  Whatever magic had been here three years ago, it was hers and she had taken it with her.

As I left, I asked one of the bartenders about Monya.  The woman remembered her but said she had moved on.  She even gave me the name of her new place, and later I looked it up on Google Maps, but it was way outside the city in the suburbs, not somewhere easily traversed by someone dependent on mass transit.  I was going to have to leave Monya in my memory, where undoubtedly she is safest.

I said goodnight to the Sodium Light Bar, which, I realized, got its yellow light from cut-glass sconces and not from sodium bulbs at all, and walked past my old hotel just for a lark.  Then it was time to head up Via Natzionale towards Termini and my new temporary home in the Eternal City.

The next morning I would wake up to find myself 33.

Imagine a morning in late November

Well, it's happening.  My grand European adventure is drawing to a close.  I will be home Wednesday evening.  And yes -- I am pitifully behind on my travel posts.  This is why I'll never be a professional writer -- although, if someone were to decide to give me money for the nonsense I spew out, I probably could pony up with a post fairly regularly.  Couldn't vouch for the consistent quality though. :)

Thanksgiving has just happened, and just like last year, I find my blessings far too numerous to count.  Like the stars.  My family and friends, first and last and always.  Strangers I meet along the way, who sometimes even become friends.  My (mostly) healthy body.  And recently, blue-domed white churches and an archipelago encompassing over 3,000 islands.

But Thanksgiving is over, and it's late November.  And, with absolutely no irony intended, it's about to be The Most Wonderful Time of the Year.  As you (may) know, I missed Christmas at home last year, in favor of a unique and wonderful Japanese Military Christmas with my sister and BiL in Okinawa.  But this year, this year I'll be back with the Christmas Mouse.  And I intend to do Christmas at Home justice... from a Christmas Eve walk around the neighborhood to look at all the lights, to vodka crans at breakfast the next morning.

And then there is this.

I remember so clearly the first time my father read us this story on Christmas Eve.  It was years ago now, and I was so very Too Cool for School and didn't want any part of it, but it drew me in anyway.  Every year since then (except for I think one year), my Dad has read this story to the family on Christmas Eve night, as a fire burned in the fireplace and we sipped hot chocolate or apple cider or mulled wine.  Sometimes he would get choked up at the end and pass it to one of us to finish.

Last year, with me and Eve and Brad in Okinawa, Mom and Dad called us on skype and he read us the story over webcam.  This year we'll do the same thing, only I'll be on the other side of the camera.

With that very long lead-in -- I've decided to try and do something a little different leading up to this Christmas.  There are several texts, stories long or short, poems, songs that I've come to associate particularly with this holiday.  Some have very much to do with the topic of Christmas, others, not so much.

Periodically throughout the next few weeks leading up to December 25, I'll share with you one text or similar that has particular meaning for me during this time.  I probably should save the best for last, but... I've never been good at waiting.

With that quite loquacious ado, here is a link for Truman Capote's "A Christmas Memory".  Cherished in my heart and in the hearts of my family.  I can't read it without hearing my Dad's voice speaking the words, his pauses, his inflections.  In exactly one month I'll hear it again.

"Buddy, the wind is blowing."

Sorrento: the town I didn't see; and Positano: a town I did

With my trip to see the Napoli Archeological Museum, I didn't end up setting out for Sorrento until 5:30ish.  And then, because I am a savvy -- not to mention SUPER smart -- world traveler, I got on tram 4 instead of tram 1, and ended up on the other side of Naples.

Even though this extended my trip for close to 90 minutes, it turned out being kind of cool because I got myself 100% forcibly adopted by this dressed-to-the-nines blonde Italian woman holding tulips, who stuck bodily with me through the tram transfer (forever), defended my seat on the crowded bus, and told me through very involved charades where exactly to get off.  I guess she figured "This poor girl is too stupid to know the difference between the numbers one and four; I better watch out for her so she doesn't trip over her shoelaces and fall in front of a vespa."

With her very necessary and appreciated help, I arrived in Sant Agnello, the outskirts of Sorrento where my hostel was, at about 8:30 at night, and got to my hostel itself, Seven Hostel, at about 9:00.  As I checked in to this really very incredibly nice and upscale-looking hotel (not even hostel), I noticed a small sign on the desk "informing guests that live music will be played in the lobby that evening".  Um, fantastic.  I inquired as to the nature of the music and its duration.  I was told "rock, then DJ, ending around midnight."  Fine.  I mean, not great, but fine.

My 10-bed hostel room was literally (I mean this) directly over the DJ booth, separated by a mighty cloth awning.  I was not happy.  Eventually, for lack of a better option, I went down to the "club" with a few of my roommates and was cheerfully informed that the expected time of No More Music had been pushed back one hour to 1 AM.  I protested, and was given tokens for two free drinks.  I appreciated this, but also politely articulated the point that these drink tokens actually went nowhere towards actually solving the problem.  I went for a walk with two of my roommates, and when we got back at 1:30 the party was still very much happening.  Upstairs for a quick shower and totally futile attempt to sleep.  And as I lay in bed in the dark, listening to the bass through my earplugs, something inside me exploded.

I boiled downstairs and demanded to see the manager, all politeness gone.  It was not pretty.  I was furious.   It was now past 2:00 in the morning, and to my knowledge not a single person who actually paid to stay at the hostel was actually participating in this retardedness.  It was clear the owners of Seven Hostel had decided to get through the slow season by turning the hotel/hostel into a nightclub for the locals, and just plain fuck the paying guests.  I told the manager I would be checking out the next morning.

Once my righteous indignation had subsided, I considered the wisdom of being in Sorrento with nowhere to stay the next night.  Fortunately I got up early and was able to find another hostel/hotel nearby with very reasonable rates.  Booked it, checked out, had a brief but satisfying exchange of words with the front desk guy (the same one who had checked me in the night before), got my money back for the second night (should have gotten a refund for both nights but they weren't having that), and headed off to find Hotel Londra.

Oh... my goodness.  Why didn't I book here in the first place!?!  The staff were so nice -- let me check in at 10:00 AM, and upgraded me to a single with an ensuite for no extra charge!  The hotel was quiet, spacious, with a kitchy 1970s Italian feel.  I dropped off my stuff, thanked my stars and the front desk guy, and made it on to the 10:30 bus to Positano.

Ever since seeing Under the Tuscan Sun, I've had this thing for Positano; it was the home of that selfish jerk Marcello, so I didn't want to like it, but at the same time all the shots there were fairy-tale breathtaking.  When my sister heard I was visiting Italy, I promised to see the Amalfi Coast for her, so this was me doing that.  The plan was to spend a few hours in Positano and then take the bus on to the town of Amalfi itself.

With very little ceremony, the bus dumped us out on a quiet road overlooking this:

I don't know if you've ever bothered to watch Under the Tuscan Sun, and if not you so should, but that right there is pretty much the exact same view Frances looks out on before Marcello breaks her heart (or at least wounds her pride).  And down there, in the lower right?  Those two triangular pieces of concrete are the ferry docks where she lands.  And guess what?  The waves were huge that day too.

Once again, Italy shows me that hype has really got nothing on the actual real thing.

I explored, took photos of waves, flowers, and cats, and got pizza in a quiet little taverna that had a back terrace overlooking the beach.  After lunch, I followed a trail along the cliff and so accidentally found Positano's second "hidden" beach, where supposedly the locals go.

With the cool weather and ginormous waves, no one was swimming today!  That is, no one except a lone American girl I came across as she crouched picking up bits of sea glass.  Her name was Lisa and we chatted for a while, eventually deciding to head to Amalfi together.  We walked back to Positano proper to see more of the town before setting off.

Positano from the other side, and the enormous waves!

Lisa with bright pink miniature car.  I want one. 

We explored the town some more, and then decided (for reasons now I honestly do not recall) to walk all the way up and around to the far end of town, and get the bus there, instead of where we were current at.  (The bus was going to drive past BOTH locations, so I really do not know...)

It was a longer hike than I wanted, and mostly uphill.  Of course my Achilles tendons started complaining almost immediately.  We finally got there a few minutes before the bus to Amalfi was scheduled to arrive, and Lisa suggested getting a pastry at a bakery on the corner.  When we came back out the bus stop had emptied   Apparently the bus had come and gone in the two minutes we were inside.

So.  For the sake of a cannoli I was not going to get to see Amalfi on this trip.

Oh well.  Positano is on the Amalfi coast, and I'd heard it was actually the most picturesque of all the towns along this particular stretch of coast.  So we enjoyed our pastries and watched the sun set over Positano.

The town was beautiful.  Almost story-book like.  I regret not seeing more of the Amalfi Coast but at least feel I got to see the crown jewel of it.  Plus, I got to get home at a reasonable hour and enjoy the blissful privacy of my single room before packing and heading off to...

Rome.

The best is yet to come, my lovelies!!

Vesuvius and Pompeii: calderas and ash

I guess it is pretty much official:  I have fallen behind.

My trip will be over in nine days (awful), and I have two more posts to go before even starting to tell you about Rome.  Hell, I turned 33 last week and all y'all don't even know about the awesome day I spent in the company of Keats and Shelley, nostalgia, Sicilian swordfish, and unexpected company of friends from Naples.  While I was in Rome I tried to catch up with doing a post a day, but that didn't work out quite like I intended, and now I am here in Greece, and still behind.

Athens is wonderful, btw.  I leave tomorrow for Santorini.  I'm going to be writing travel posts into the New Year.

Well, nothing to do but either press on or give up, and I am certainly not going to stop writing, so I will just have to rely on photos, my journal, and increasingly crappy memory to reconstruct a day from antiquity, back when I was still in Naples and I decided to do yet another splurge and sign up to go horseback riding on Mount Vesuvius.

I can't ride horses.  I've been on one a few times, distinctly of the "trail ride" variety.  And the last time I rode a horse, it was a pony.  His name was Sly and he was one sly stubborn little bitch.  It would be more accurate to say that "he deigned to take me around, at his own pace that-you-very-much" than to say "I rode him".

All the same, riding a horse on Mount Vesuvius just sounds way too cool to pass up.

It was a very Italian experience.  There were no helmets.  There was pretty much no instruction, other than "kick it to make it go".  Um, what about making it STOP???  They pretty much plunked us on horses and away we went up a volcano.  My horse's name was Diamond.

On the trail!

I'm not sure if this crossed your mind, because it rather didn't cross mine, but going up (and then down) a mountain does mean the horse will be either going up or downhill for much of the time.  The trail was at times pretty steep for me as a novice rider, but my horse had walked (and trotted, and cantered, and galloped!) this trail about a million times previous, and knew what to do.  We didn't get as far up the mountain as I had thought, but stopped at an overlook with a great view of of both the caldera and Naples down below.  (Naples is totally fucked if Vesuvius massively explodes again, btw.)

Horse-riding group, with Naples and the sea in the background.

Caldera

Proof of horse-related happenings.

 After all the photo ops, we headed back down again, a process I found much more nerve-wracking than going up!  The Italian trail guides kept yelling at us to "Wake them up!  Make them go!" and I was all "Dude.  This horse is picking his way down a steep mountain trail filled with roots, mud, and slippery rocks.  The human on his back has never done this before and you better believe he knows that.  I think I'll let him choose his own pace and as long as he doesn't outright stop, I think we'll be okay."

Once we got back to flatter ground, the Italians decided it was time for all us helmet-less novices to... gallop.

I did not terribly want to gallop, but I had no say in the matter.  The horse in front of mine started galloping and Diamond knew that This Is The Time On Vesuvius When We Gallop.  So he did, and thus so did I, flopping around on this poor guy's back, gripping the pommel so hard I got a bruise on my palm, and praying.

It was actually pretty fun.  We did it a few more times.

Also, riding a horse is hard.  My knees were killing me when I finally tumbled off, not to mention the muscles in my legs, abs, and lower back.  No wonder my sister has the flattest abs I've ever seen!

All in all, I would say this was a fantastic experience and a really excellent way to see Vesuvius.  Not cheap, but just like paragliding, when was I ever going to get the chance to ride a horse on a volcano again?  I was very happy I did it, especially with the no falling off and no dying.

After we said goodbye to our faithful steeds, the hostel folks drove us over to Pompeii and left us to our own devices.  I hooked up with a really nice couple from Canada I'd been on the ride with, Arity and Brian.  We were all starving so grabbed pizza and beer at a local cafe.  Pizza was good but not as good as in actual Naples. :)  As we finished up it started pouring.  Sadness.  We went right back into the same cafe and shared a bottle of wine.  By the time we finished the rain had stopped and the sun was coming out.  Lovely!

So, Pompeii is huge.  Who knew, it being a city and all.  I guess I really didn't know what all I'd be seeing, but it really is a city, complete with roads and shopping districts and wealthy neighborhoods and not-so-wealthy neighborhoods.  And more freaking temples than you can shake a stick at.

Pompeii

Vesuvius in the background.

Walking all around Pompeii, down the very same streets that Pompeiians were walking the day Vesuvius blew up, was surprisingly chilling.

Pompeii street

We had to be out of the site by sunset, and due to our rain-and-wine break we were unfortunately a little rushed.  We trekked all over, taking in as much as we could.  At the far end of the city was a huge amphitheater.   We channeled our inner Tomb Raider and climbed through a barricade to get to the top!

Fresco

Illegal views are the best views.

Having toured a fair few of ancient sites in Italy, and now in Greece, I have to say I have never seen a place quite like Pompeii.  I guess being buried under ash for almost 2,000 years went a long way to preserving it almost perfectly.  There were buildings outside that still had painted street signs visible.  Back during the first excavations, all the rooms still had furniture inside (of course, where was it going to go?)

And then there were the people.

I know you can't really see it from this photo, but this guy has toenails.  Toenails.  There were folds in their clothing.  And you could see their expressions.

I did not expect that coming face to face with death that happened 2,000 years ago to affect me so jarringly. But seeing these human ash statues made it impossible not to be affected.  These were people.  Dying horribly.  It's not every day you get to stare into the frozen-in-time face of what that looks like.  And it was all instantly very real.

It seems weird, after writing that, to say I enjoyed Pompeii.  That's not the right word.  I felt very privileged to be able to visit this incredible piece of history, to walk the streets, run my fingers over stones, climb the steps of their amphitheater.  To look into their faces, and wonder what on earth they might have been thinking.  To them it must have seemed like the straight-out end of the world.  And for them, it was.

Naples: The Best Pizza in the World

So, I'd heard Naples was a tough town.

In '09, I met a guy from Naples in a Roman wine bar, and he cautioned me strongly against going.  (Probably this had something to do with sleeping with me and not very much to do with Napoli, but that's what he said.)  Stories floated around various hostels:  "Like, doesn't the Mafia totally run Naples or something?"

Nonetheless, there was no way I was not going to Naples.  For one thing, the tragic story of Pompeii has fascinated me since I was a child.  And also, everyone knows that in Napoli you find The Best Pizza in the World.

I booked five nights in Naples, intending to use one for Pompeii, one for Vesuvius, and probably one as a downtime-day.  My Hostel, Hostel of the Sun, was distinctly above-average.  Not the newest building, and my eight-bed dorm was pretty cramped when full, but none of that mattered because the staff were awesome.  The most helpful and friendly since Lisbon.  Would definitely recommend them!

Right away I started chatting with two girls staying in my dorm, Asia and Sami.  They were on their way to Gino Sorbillo's, one of the famous Napoli pizza places (the hostel circled the top three on our maps), and invited me out with them along with another girl from the hostel who actually knew how to get there. :)  I was happy to have company for my first night out in Naples; my first impression of the city when leaving the train station had not been the best!  Naples is quite unlike any other city in Italy that I've seen.  It reminds me strangely of Eastern Europe, with the graffiti everywhere, laundry strung across grey apartment buildings, and people shouting all over the place.  It has its own beauty and certainly its own very distinct character, but is not exactly what comes to mind when one thinks of Italy.

That is, of course, until one thinks of Italy and PIZZA.

Could not imagine a better introduction to Naples!

There's really no way I can adequately explain the uniqueness of Napoli pizza.  The thing looks enormous,  and it is, but aside from the crust which puffs up a little when cooked, the majority of the pie is so thin it's almost crepe-like.  The toppings as you can see are minimal, not a ton of cheese, sauce, or pepperoni.  Just one sprig of basil in the middle.  With nothing overpowering, the whole concoction just sort of... comes together.  Perfectly.  The subtle tastes and flavors all come together in a way that I've never quite experienced in a pizza before.  And because there's not a ton of toppings and the dough so thin, it IS possible to eat an entire one of these and still have room for gelato.

(Oh, and Georgia?  Seriously.  Either get your shit together or just plain stop making pizza.  The idea of having to face one of your mayonnaise-covered monstrosities -- after THIS -- makes me want to weep.)

Next to Gino Sorbillo's is a wine shop that has 12 different kinds of wine on tap.  They'll let you do a couple tastings and then pour you wine by the litre into repurposed plastic soda and water bottles.  I got a litre of sparkling red (sounds weird but was awesome) for 2.40 euro.

Post-pizza, we hung out in a Napoli square for a while and sipped our wine alongside all the locals.  It was a perfect first night in this crazy, delicious city!

So Asia and Sami kind of ended up adopting me.  They invited me out with them again the next day, first to the market for supplies (trying to be good and buy food to eat at the hostel!), and then out to explore the city.  You know what they love in Naples?  Christmas.  Pretty much every kitch shop we passed was already decked out for the holidays, complete with every Christmas thing possible for sale and giant animatronic Santas at the front beckoning you in.  We saw a Nativity scene made of bread.

We got what turned out to be the best gelato I've had in Europe so far, and checked out the beautiful Napoli Cathedral, including the crypt where we found a vase full of bones.

One more long-shot of a church.

Famous bones on display.

Then we decided to take this massive hike up a hill in the center of the city, to see a castle up there.

Me and Naples

So we got all the way up there and then the girls didn't want to pay to get in the actual castle.  I was a little confused as to the point of the trip, but at least we got some nice views.

And I really didn't care about castles, because that night we were going on a pilgrimage.  To the Pizzeria Da Michele.

Anyone who's read or seen Eat, Pray, Love knows that supposedly The Best Pizza in the World is made here.  There was no way I was coming to Naples and got getting this pizza, but I was a little nervous about braving this mecca filled with shouting Neapolitans all by myself.  So the fact that Sami and Asia wanted to do this on their last night in Naples could not have been more perfect.  We showed up "early" for dinner, around 7:30, and only had to wait about 10 minutes for a table!  (This is even more amazing than it sounds, given the crowd we fought through when leaving, and the even bigger crowd I saw on my last day.)

This is their whole menu.

To tell the truth, I was a little apprehensive.  For one thing, hearing that something is going to blow your mind for three straight years really does make it unlikely that the actual thing, whatever it is, is going to be able to live up to the hype.  And then there was the fame.  Pizzeria Da Michele, pizza itself aside, was now one of the most famous pizzerias in the world, thanks to Julia Roberts.  Fame tends to change things.  Would this still be the tiny hole-in-the-wall that Liz described?

Little did I know that Pizzeria Da Michele, which has been around since 1870, could not give a crap about fame or Julia Roberts. (Although there is a picture of her on their wall.  It's not a huge picture.)  The three of us ordered beer and the Doppia Mozzarella, and I was even able to order in Italian which our waiter thought was adorable.  And then the pizza came.

Yeah.  What can I say.  I had an actual emotional moment taking the first bite of this pizza.  I was just so relieved.  Over three years of hype and this pile of dough, tomato sauce, cheese, and basil just spoke to me and said "Calm down.  We wouldn't even think of being disappointing."  I wanted to hug it.  Instead I hugged it with my tummy.  It was, simply... the best pizza I have ever had or will ever have in my whole life.  It was spiritual.  It was The Best Pizza in the World.

And then it was back to the hostel to embark on our new callings as Da Michele Prophets, telling everyone we saw about this moment of Holy Pizza Perfection that we had just experienced, and how they must, simply must, go and experience it as well.

(Fast-forwarding here, because the next day I went to Vesuvius and Pompeii which gets its own post, and then the day after that I stayed in for laundry and recharging.)

And so it happened that my last full day in Naples was actually my first day on my own in the city.  I had a good but pretty quiet day, visiting the Castel Nuovo (for six euros) and the Castel dell'Ovo (free.)  The Castel Nuovo was okay but not quite what I was expecting.  A large part of it had been taken over by municipal offices, and then there was sort of a small generic art museum.  Very little of it remained actual castle.

Castel Nuovo

Bones found in the castle foundations.

Castel Dell'Ovo

There is an interesting legend associated with the Castel Dell'Ovo (Castle of the Egg).  Apparently in ancient times an egg was hidden somewhere in the castle.  As long as the egg remains unbroken, the city will never fall.

I wanted to head over to the Napoli Archeologial Museum, but my goddam Achilles tendons were freaking the fuck out again.  And this just after a day off!!!  I limped home and decided I'd see the museum tomorrow before getting on the train for Sorrento.

That night I ate at the third famous pizza place, Di Matteo.  It was good but NOT as good as Da Michele!!  I kind of had a bunch of pizza in Naples.

So, yeah.  Last day in Naples, I stored my pack at the hostel and headed over to see the Archeological museum   They have one of the largest collections of ancient Roman statues, as well as a whole bunch of art from Pompeii.

Mosaic art taken from Pompeii

The best thing about this museum was the "Secret Room", that housed all the naughty paintings and sculpture from Pompeii.  These were some randy folks.

Penis, with wings.  And bells.

"Are they playing leapfrog?"

Post-museum, I decided to try my luck one more time, and headed over to Da Michele to see if I could eat there for lunch.  Yeah... No.  The crowd outside was enormous.  I sighed and limped off to eat another, far inferior pizza.

And then it was off to Sorrento.