I may shuffle backwards and stand dumbfounded under a duomo, but the general motion propels forward. There are moments when traveling alone at 61 is tough, lonely, trying. It's like bouncing a tennis ball off the wall vs playing opposite a partner. I had one Italian woman put her hand to my face, as in don't speak to me, when I asked if Castel San Angelo was nearby. It is her perogative to shut a tourist out. There are lots of us and it is hot. Part of me doesn't caste blame; my customer service side shoots darts.
The opposite frame twirls its flip -- today on a train from Rome to Florence, a young man answered my question with dignity as a two way street. He even watched that I went the right direction out of the train station. Humanity glimpsed and saved once again...
The first week at a youth hostel in Rome, I met seven girls from six countries. China, Korea, two from Seattle, Australia, Germany, and Turkey. There are four females in a hostel dorm room. Each girl was traveling alone except the two students from Seattle.
It is lonely and stimulating doing it at this age, always a square peg in a round hole, but out of the round hole emerges some kind of round whole. One brave girl from Australia commented that she hadn't seen anyone over 35 at a youth hostel in Europe. She simply and respectfully wanted to hear my story. It was a beneficial exchange and honesty breeds friendship.
Sunday and Monday I have two couch surfing dates. A woman whose father owns an orchard in the country; they produce olive oil. Followed on Monday by a gentleman who is meeting me at one of the Piazzas on his motorbike. My daughter has traveled in Europe and introduced me to couch surfing. It is not a dating site and my dates are day appointments.
By the way, I did NOT see Mr. Free Spirit Bacchus again, though in his words, he wanted to hang out. He was a random meet on a park bench in the Villa Borghese.
The Keats-Shelley Museum was a refuge at the base of the noisy Spanish Steps and surely one of my favorite stops. It was a place of quiet repose and heavy solemnity cloaked with poetry. Dead at 25 of TB, John Keats wrote:
...the poetical character has no self. it is every thing and nothing. it has no character. it enjoys light and shade ...what shocks the virtuous philosopher, delights the chameleon poet. ...a poet is the most unpoetical of any thing in existence, because he has no identity. he is continually in for and filling some other body. the sun, the moon, the sea, and men and women who are creatures of impulse are poetical and have about them an unchangeable attribute. the poet has none; no identity. he is certainly the most unpoetical of all Gods creature.
I AM BLOWN AWAY BY THE DUOMO IN FLORENCE AND I HAVE ONLY WALKED THE EXTERIOR. I am taking it in doses.
Who knew marble came in pink and green? One of life's discoveries.
ReplyDeletePut that horrible Italian woman out of your memories. I encounter many snotty French people in France that I have long forgotten. Two lovely encounters with ordinary French people are what I will always remember with great fondness. One a lovely older couple who let me take a pic of them. And the gentleman on Juno Beach in Normandy who stopped to thank a Canadian. He told me his memories of the D-day landing when he was a 10 year old boy. He then proceeded to show me his honouraire Royal Canadian Legion card. I hope you find people like that!
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