April, 2001
Trip to Italy by myself, met after a week by two friends.

Ciao!

I got here safe and sound after travelling for a day
straight. The flight to Frankfurt was interminable,
even though I lucked out by sitting next to an
agressive woman who stole two seats in the back,
leaving me with two seats, also. I guess that counts
as 1/2 business class. Still cattle, though. The
transfer in Frankfurt from United to Lufthansa flight
to Venice was a physical challenge; if I had had to
walk anymore, I would have been back in Oakland. Great
beer in the bar, though, waiting for the plane to
leave. Thanks, Suzanne, for the Duetsche Marks.

Got to Venice airport, was terrified that my backpack,
which I had checked, would be stolen by one of the
milling children. The way out of the airport is to
walk past two polizia with large dogs, under a sign
that says Nothing to Declare. Nothing to declare, for
sure, but I declare those are big ass dogs. Bag came
to me OK, thank god. Thank god I didn't overpack.
Caught bus to town, must have been the hottest bus
I've ever been in. Sweating just thinking about it.
The bus dumps you at the main terminal, and I milled
about until I hit the tronchetta, the bus boat.
Managed to buy a billeta, validate it, and got on the
right boat. Got off at the right stop, too, so far so
good, the Ca d'Oro, the Castle of Gold. Walked to the
sqaure near my hotel, the Campo dei Santo Apostoli,
and wandered in circles until I finally asked someone
where the hotel was. Oh, down that street so narrow
your shoulders brush either side of the walls. Hotel
Bernardi Semenzato, a perfect place. My room is
smaller than my bathroom at home, and the walls are
made of paper, but the bed is perfect, and the windows
throw open to the smell of the ocean and the ringing
of the bells.

Today, I've been walking all over, getting hopelessly
lost over and over again, only to find lovely side
streets and many pigeons. Had a coffee in Plaza San
Marco, with the lagoon on my right, and the Basilica
on my left, watched the hundreds of people passing by.
The pianist played Depeche Mode's "Somebody", and I
tell you, it sounds perfect this way.

I have to sign off, the photocopy shop is closing, and
he wants me out. The weather is tee shirt weather, and
all I'm going to do for the rest of the day is wander.
Nothing else on the agenda. Will keep you posted.

Love,
Rachael.

Everyone:

Tell me if you get sick of these missives. I'm
treating them as an alternate journal, but if they bug
you, just let me know. :)

So....

When I got here I promised myself that I wouldn't eat
at a restaurant that offered a "menu turistico." So
when I saw the hostaria across the alley from my
little hotel, I went in that first sleepy night. I sat
at the bar and ate a glop of sweet white fishy stuff
that I highly regretted pointing to until I figured
out how to sop it up with the bread. I smiled a lot.

Last night, my second night, I went back. This time
with all confidence, "Buenna notte! Ciao, Marco!" This
proved I was family, and a tall thin man immediately
grabbed me and started dancing with me to an Italian
dub of a Jewel song. You have to understand that this
is only a long narrow room with 2 tables and a small
bar next to piles and piles of food. And no one, NO
ONE, speaks English.

The tall man then passed me to his friend, and we
danced while Marco smiled approvingly. When I finally
stopped spinning, Marco served me a plate of gnocchi
and meatballs. This I recognized. I don't get much
choice here. I took my plate and a tub of vino roso to
my table with my book, and I read about 3 sentences
before Tall Thin man sat with me. I dubbed him
Casanova, much to the delight of everyone, especially
himself. His friend Roberto joined us and we had a
completely unintelligible conversation about America
and why I wouldn't marry them.

Then Casanova leaned over to me and pointed at a man
standing at the bar, "Sergio, e polizia, shhh." Sergio
raised his cap. I got out my trusty A-town ID.
Casanova and Roberto looked nervous and quickly gave
up their space to Sergio.

A more Italian detective I could never hope to meet.
Tall, on the far side of sixty, with a full head of
gray hair and an enormous nicotine stained mustache,
impeccable dressed in a suit and silk tie, long dark
overcoat. We talked. And somehow, we really did talk.
He showed me the yellowed pictures of his wife and
children that he brought from his breast pocket. I ran
to the hotel and brought back my pictures. He liked
the picture of me at work, but he loved best the
picture of me in the snow. He said that my smile
signaled pure enchantment. And it's true, that picture
was taken seven years ago, the first time I ever stood
in falling snow.

He took me down the Strada Nuova for un piccolo
chocolatina (hot chocolate, the richest I've ever
had). He knew everyone in the shop, and introduced me
to his goddaughter, who stuck her tongue out at both
of us, and kissed him goodbye. Back at the hostaria,
he bought me three roses before going home.

When I passed the hostaria later, Casanova was singing
opera at the top of his lungs to an admiring audience.
Luckily, he didn't see me.

Marco, the chef, has invited me back Wednesday night
because his wife will be there. I don't really know
what that means, but it means something. And I'm sure
I'll find out what.

Today, I took a boat to Burano, a short expedition I
thought, but it ended up taking an hour each way.
Burano is amazing, though, each house painted a
different vivid color, with interesting things in the
windows. My favorite were the shoes. Many shoes in
windows. Drying? It hasn't rained.... Women make lace
on Burano, and while I couldn't afford any, I enjoyed
watching them craft with the tiny needles.

Right now I am in an internet cafe in Campo San
Stefano, very young, very hip. At least 40 stations,
all full, mostly with young guys playing video games.
Expensive hobby, at 10,000 lire an hour. I have to
find my way home soon, though, so I can pull my
clothes off the line on the upper terrace of my
hotel--it overlooks my very own campanile whose bells
chime every quarter hour. Then I'm supposed to meet a
guy from Chicago that I met on a vaporetto and we're
going to Padua for the evening. If he doesn't show,
though, I'll be happy to wander. I'm getting very good
at it. I can't count how many times I've been lost,
today alone.

I still feel like I'm on a boat.

All love,
Raquelina.

Hello, all,

Here it is, Tuesday afternoon. Sunday night, yes, I
met Brian at the vaporetto. He was there, and said we
couldn't go to Padua, he had a dinner engagement, did
I want to come? Of course, he was the first English I
had spoken since I arrived, and he wasn't an annoying
Ugly American.

In fact, it turned out he's a gay porn star from
Chicago. That should be Gay Porn Star, one of the
biggest. Men of all nationalities recognized him on
the street. He has a website that sells coffee mugs
(got to have one o'those). I felt like a star just
standing next to him, but I wondered if people thought
I was a drag queen. You never know. But I'm not tall
enough. Brian-Mark is one of the sweetest, most fun,
and handsome men I've ever met, and we loved each
other, instantly.

We met up with his friends, Susan and Michael from
Atlanta, and wandered. It was about 9pm, and hostarias
were closing, and restaurants wouldn't open again till
about 11pm, but I knew that my hostaria was still
open, so I took them there.

Again, I was embraced as family, and they were, too.
We had food for days, and Brian, being an adventurous
sort, ordered all the things I hadn't been daring
enough to. While chewing on a rubbery clear substance
that had a wonderful, if peculiar, flavor, we tried to
guess what it was. Squid? Octopus? Turned out to be
the inside of a cow's hoof. I stopped eating it at
that point--it had lost some allure--but Brian kept
chewing. And chewing.

Marco and Franco brought more and more wine. Then they
started drinking with us. Then Alberto, Roberto, and
the tall thin man who is always too drunk to talk were
with us, too. Alberto turned out to be a retired
gondolier, whose wife had left him because he couldn't
support her shopping habit (or she couldn't support
his drinking habit? One of those). He bought me a
tulip. Then he bought Brian a tulipo, too, and then
felt comfortable enough to ask about his large heavy
earrings. Brian is handsome, but very obvious. Man or
woman? they asked him. I don't think Brian ever really
answered, but they determined he was too fun to
dismiss, and Marco's private dessert wine started
flowing. He swore there was no grappa in it, but I
could have flown to the US on the fumes alone. We
didn't dare smoke till it was all gone. Didn't take
long.

The rose man came back in. Marco, not to be outdone by
Alberto, bought Susan and me a rose each, and then
surprised me by buying the whole bunch for me. It
seems that the Wednesday thing that I am invited to is
a special night, they are closing to the public to
have a private family party, and I am supposed to be
there. Wouldn't miss it for the world. Marco is
happily married, and wants me to meet the wife on
Wednesday, but flirting is so inbred--I think he
couldn't help the flowers. I was charmed. And by this
time, completely plastered.

Marco had closed hours prior, and we finally left
after accidentally breaking a few glasses and being
coerced to do grappa shots (not that he had to twist
our arms). Hours of laughing and being friends. In
Italy. It still makes me feel amazed.

Brian and I met again yesterday, and spent the day
wandering. He was wonderful to be with--he wanders
just like I do. We found things, we didn't look for
them.

Everywhere, there are vaporetto stops (bus stops) but
even more prevalent are the tronchetto stops, which we
didn't really understand. They are gondolas that seem
to be used solely by locals. They row you across the
grand canal in places where there are no bridges. We
wanted to cross, so we did. The crazy thing is that
you stand up while crossing. Can't tell you how much I
didn't want to plunge into the canal, and somehow I
managed to stay on board. A real gondola ride starts
at about $100. The tronchetto cost 1000 lire, about 50
cents. And I had a gondola ride. Standing up.

We decided to try to go to the cemetary island, and
while we were walking to the right vaporetto, we
passed one of the most beautiful churches I've ever
seen. Far off the beaten path, we were the only ones
inside. Green and white marble was fashioned to look
like drapes of cloth, and until you touched it, you
couldn't tell it was stone. All day I had known it was
Sunday at home, and I had been looking for a place to
remember Rick, but the churches I had poked into were
high traffic areas with electric candles. My church
here had long tapers and was silent. I stood alone,
away from Brian, lit one, and set it up to burn next
to the only other one burning. Somewhere, he knows
what I did, on the other side of the world.

This is long enough. I'm sure I'll have more to write
later. It's just so easy here--I know where things
are. When Jenn and Alyson arrive (which I can't wait
for!), I'll have less time, and once we start
travelling it will be harder to find the internet, but
for now, I fill your inboxes with greetings and love
from Venezia. I feel at home here.

Love e amore,
Rachael.

I want to tell you about the dogs here. I am in love
with them. This is as strange as if my friend Brian
had suddenly fallen in love with women.

I don't like dogs. Not in the general sense. There are
some wonderful dogs, dogs that I enjoy and appreciate
and love, but on the whole, I don't even notice them
on the street except to say, Ew, that's not a cat.

I love Ventian dogs. They are everywhere, and each and
every one is extremely busy. People aren't busy in
Venezia (except the tourists with the one day
pass--run from the station to San Marco and back),
they stroll and chat and smoke and stroll some more.
There are no vehicles to hurry us, to make us jump and
move out of the way.

The dogs, though, have many important things to do.
Most of them are small, and most are with a person,
although the person may be a full campo ahead or
behind. They sniff, they jump, they bark, they run,
they meet their friends and then catch back up to
their person to say hello and continue on with their
busy day.

Most, no matter the breed, have a curled-back flag of
a tail. I love that.

This is the strangest thing to me. I want to pet them
all. Who am I becoming?

Yesterday was a slow day for me. I'm fighting the flu,
runing an irritating low-grade fever, no other
symptoms, but it's a pain in the butt. Mom right now
is nodding. "Yep, I knew she was overdoing it." But
yesterday I merely wandered from one campo to another
until I finally went back to my hotel and slept the
afternoon away. I found some wonderful vitamin c that
you drop in water. So strong, it would probably purify
the canals. I feel better today.

Made myself get up about 5pm and walk some more. I
hate hate hate being sick while travelling. I can do
that when I get home. Went from caffe shop to caffe
shop, until the caffeine had me zinging. Grabbed my
journal and went for a late night writing session at
my hostaria, not meaning to engage with anyone, but
Marco forced upon me a plate of risotto with shrimp
and mussels, and a glass of fragolino, a dark spicy
strawberry wine. I sat at a table with two men--Luigi
turned out to be a well known Venetian poet and
Giorgio was a direct descendant of the last doge
(Prince) of Venice, Daniele Manin. Luigi and Giorgio
argued for 15 minutes about the exact year that Manin
had to give his crown to the conquering Napolean. Was
it 1797 or 1798? Giorgio had family knowledge on his
side, Luigi had volume on his. They wrote in my book
and we sang "Only You" and "Unforgettable" along with
Marco's little boom box.

It's the connections that I make that are the real
reasons I'm here, not the churches and paintings.

Off for more, my last full day of being alone. I am
looking forward to Jennifer and Alyson arriving
tomorrow, since I think I better see a few sights
before I leave. How can one go to Venice and not see
the Basilica on the inside? I've managed it so far.

Love and risotto,
Rachael.

I can finally find my way around. It's true what
people say, Venice is the original labyrinth. Twice I
have walked a ways and have seen the exact same people
I saw five minutes ago. Huh. That's strange. They're
even standing in the same positions. Damn. In front of
the same shop! How did I do that? It doesn't feel like
you're going in circles, but you are.

Yesterday it rained, not much, but quite steadily in
the afternoon. I spent a lot of time drinking coffee
and watching people pass. Venice is like Disneyland
except people live here. You get the screaming Italian
school children, the French school children all
wearing white baseball caps backwards, the Japanese
tourists who blow $150 on a taxi ride (you have to
envy them the space though, when you are standing on
the vaporetto bus, packed like the postcards on every
rack), the nervous English tourists who never ever set
their maps down, and the loud Americans who complain
that they'll never get the right bus or that
everything closes from 12-3. I am a quiet one, but I
like my map. Not because I need to know where I am,
but I like know. My favorite question of locals is
"Dove siamo?" Where are we? And I hold out my map and
we laugh and I swear, no one has been able to show me
in a timely manner. It always takes them about 5
minutes to find it on the map--they live here, but it
doesn't really matter where they are, they just know.
As I am finally beginning to know.

Right now I am in Campo Santo Stefano, one of my
favorite sqaures. I like this internet cafe becuase
they play really good blues, and are open 24 hrs. And
outside is my favorite statue--Nicole Tommasei, known
to the locals as "cagalibro", the book-shitter. He was
a voracious writer and reader, and he stands tall
above the sqaure with a pile of books rising behind
him, unfortunately right up to where his coat stops.
Love it.

Picking up Jenn and Alyson in a few hours, and I am
DETERMINED to see some art today before they get here.
Keep avoiding it. Yesterday I was going to go to the
Guggenheim which I saw years ago with Christy and
loved, but I ended up at the most decandent gelateria
on the water instead. Very popular with locals, it was
me and them eating huge sundaes and drinking strong
black coffee at 11am. Just my speed.

My night with the closed hostaria, at the private
famiglia party, turned out to be a private night with
Marco, instead! Or so he wanted, but I got away after
having two glasses of wine at two different places. I
felt badly, he got all dressed up, but not too badly
after all--he lied to get me to meet him. That stunk,
but I chose to be flattered instead. He let me leave
willingly, I think he was as embarrassed by my
reaction as I was by the situation. I feigned illness,
he pleaded a futbal game he had forgotten about. I was
disappointed--I had really wanted to meet his wife!
Jeez. Oh, well, my boys across the street are still my
favorites, and as of tonight, I will have company with
me, and both Jenn and Alyson have been trained to
fight. Mom, don't worry. I'm teasing. Every Italian
man's bark is worse than his bite. I had a young guy
sit next to me on a bench, ask me if I was American,
and promptly start massaging my head. I said "Basta!"
loud enough for the Alameda Com Cen to hear, and he
looked like he might cry. I had to laugh as I left,
and I think he felt better. I know I was amused.

Off to the Guggenheim. I think. Unless ice cream just
happens to jump out and accost me. No basta there.

Love and living here,
Rachael.

Well, not all of you are getting these. And mom says
she only receives some, not all. Humph. Still,
technology rocks.

Not much time to write now--I've left Jenn and Alyson
at the hotel, hopefully to sleep, but when I get back
they'll probably still be in that jet lagged awake
asleep fog. I didn't have that, since I jet lag myself
twice a week at work, anyway.

Jenn's luggage is somewhere in Frankfurt, and I
haven't told her, but I don't hold much hope of it
making it to our hotel tonight. A more hidden hotel I
have never seen, and Lufthansa serves pastrami
sandwiches wrapped in napkins. You do the math.

Couldn't talk either of them of the vaporettos this
afternoon--I leave that for tomorrow. They'll be
boating and loving it soon. I'm glad they're
here--it's so strange to see people you know in one
(American) context in another country. Quite
wonderfull.

Tina Turner is wailing and mi vino is hitting me. I
walked a lot today. Must sleep. More later.

Ciao and love,
Rachael.

Ciao from Firenze! (Florence)

Still, I can only say, what a time I'm having. I was
nervous about Jenn and Alyson arriving--not about
anything real, per se, just that my time would change.
And it has, but in a different, good way.

They loved Venice. And I have to say, I was a good
tour guide. I should have been, by then. If I hadn't
been, I would have counted my time alone a failure. It
rained all day yesterday, just poured. We went to the
island of Murano, a scary boat crossing with people
packed so tightly that when the boat rocked, we stayed
perfectly upright. Murano is a dream of glass--every
second door is a glass furnace, and they make
starlight and spiderwebs from glass, as well as the
prosaic ashtrays and earrings. The chanderliers, in
particular were wonderful, fairy creations, pastel
shades of hanging grapes, as large as my apartment.
How do you get THAT on the airplane?

We bought $5 umbrellas that proved their cost by the
end of the day, which was good enough for us.
Unfortunately, I had been the one via email to
convince Alyson to leave her second pair of shoes at
home (Jenn didn't listen, smart girl), so Al and I
went out last night and bought shoes. Buying shoes in
Italy, oh, well. Great black pair, I love them.

Today we took the train to Florence, a bright sunny
day. Tuscany is all that the books say it is, and more
than I remember--we spent hours passing nothing but
small ponds and vines and white houses, all amid the
bright green terraced hills. Even the towns with
apartment buildings looked attractive, as they are set
so pastorally.

And I don't think I made any faux pas today (I have no
idea how to say that in Italian, but I should by now).
For some reason, most of my mistakes lie around fruit
(no comments, please). In a grocery store I went to
last week, I put an orange in a bag and went to check
out. Had to leave the line to go back to the fruit,
figure out which code it was, punch that into a
computer, weigh it, and print a code sticker. People
weren't happy with me. The next day, I made it easier,
and grabbed a pear from one of the many fruit stands.
Oh, my god. I learned at fruit stalls you don't touch
the fruit, you point, and they bag it. Boy, did I
learn. I'm glad I know how to say "mi dispiace,"
which, loosely translated means something like, "I'm
so sorry for existing, please excuse my miserable
personality and help me to be a better person." Most
people really like it when you say it.

I have found that when you are being yelled at, it is
better to just move around, all your limbs and
everything in your possesion (bags, food, drinks,
wits) until you place them in the proper position and
the yelling stops. At a cafe today, I moved Jenn's
limbs and soda until they were appropriate.

We are getting on well.

We ate dinner tonight under the Duomo, near an edifice
which was featured prominently in the movie Hannibal.
Not having seen the movie, I gather Anthony Hopkins
hangs someone out a window there. J and A explained
this to me, and we could tell by pantomime that the
same explanations were going on all around us. Rather
sad to think I know more about what happened there in
the movie than in real life, but there it is.

They are excellent companions; both prefer to walk and
look (especially at the open air markets, where the
prices are as low as the quality, but what an amount
of stuff!) and see only what art we really feel we
can't miss. High on my list this trip was to visit
David again. I can't explain him. I am totally
unimpressed when I see copies, or photos, even the
life size replica in the street, but seeing him in
person (marble) is unlike any other experience. You
are in the presence of something so great, so
marvellous. His skin almost breathes, and you can feel
Michelangelo all around you. How he could bring him
out of the stone.... a miracle is the only dumb-struck
thing I can think of. And I love so much the
Prisoners, the men he didn't finish carving, who are
still coming out of the rock, the chisel marks still
evident. Michelango has just stepped out of the room,
he'll be right back. But I hope not, because their
beauty lies in their pathos and helplessness.

My words cannot explain, I feel powerless to explain.
But I bought the postcards, will that help? Kidding.

We have the most luscious room, a block from the
Duomo, four beds, and a jacuzzi tub. Heaven help us.
Jenn's in now, then it's my turn. Alyson will have to
schedule an appearance if she wants a go in the spa.

Don't know when I'll find time to hit the computer
again, so until then,

Love love and David's dirty toes,
Rachael.

Hello all,

We made it to Rome! Hell, I keep hitting strange
buttons on this foreign keyboard which make weird
menus drop down. But I can do this ç § and £ without
even thinking.

We are moving hotels this morning. We had done so well
up until Pensione Fawlty Towers. Actually the real
name. As a hostel, it's perfect--if I were 21, this
would be the place to be. But we have a tiny room with
3 tiny beds, a shower so small that you literally
cannot pick up the soap if you drop it, and the toilet
is miles down the hall, and had no light. We found
another place just around the corner that Rick Steves
likes, so we're moving. I just really like a little
more space, since I am the unpacker. I have to make
every place home--I swore to the girls that I wouldn't
unpack last night, but Jenn later said it didn't count
since I went through my bags and touched everything.

Yesterday we finished Florence, a beautiful sunny day,
and took a quick train trip to Rome. We have been on
the Eurostar train both times, and they are so new
they smell like new car. Fast and smooth, they have
little tables and cupholders in front of each
passenger, and the WCs are clean and bright. Tuscany
was amazing to train through--just like everyone
writes about--almost unreal and too cliched. Bright
blue sky with small white clouds, vibrant green hills,
vineyards, ruined fortresses on the hills, blooming
cherry trees, mist, and sheep.

Rome is an assault on the senses. Jenn loves it,
Alyson hates it, I am so far rather neutral although I
land closer to like than dislike. We walked for miles
and miles last night, reaching the top of the Spanish
Steps at dusk on Sunday night, when most of Italy was
doing their own strolls. What a crush! We ended up
drinking a beer at the Pantheon, watching while
hawkers sold roses and little GI Joes that crawl on
the ground and blast plastic fire at random. Makes you
think.

We were going to try to move hotels out of
district--right now we are just two blocks from the
train station, but we've decided we like it. Just
around the corner is the national government offices,
under heavy armed guard. As we walked by last night,
we were constantly on camera, and there were dozens of
splendidly dressed guards absolutely everywhere, for
blocks and blocks at a time. We like that. We did
notice, though, that no one has a radio, which we
determined is why they're probably usually all
together. Safety in numbers.

Today, the Coliseum. Tomorrow the Vatican. We will
walk our little feet off, and be as touristy as we
like--no one notices in Rome.

Ciao for now, love and café,
Rach.

Rome isn't Venice, I can tell you that much. But it
has its own charm, one that isn't visible at the very
outset but creeps up on you without you even noticing.
It's a big city with a whole heck of a lot of people.
They move very quickly, except when you want to order
dessert.

The cars and vespas don't stop. Ever. They are like
rocks in a landslide. Pedestrians legally do not have
the right of way, and I have come very close to being
clipped several times. You can look all ways before
crossing and as soon as you're in the middle of the
cross-walk, someone comes around the corner at 80 and
then speeds up.

My feet hurt from so much walking. Yesterday, we
walked to the Coliseum, the Forum, the Pantheon, the
Trevi Fountain, the Spanish Steps, and the (can't
remember the official name) crypts. Today just the
Vatican, the museum there and St. Peters. Enough with
the walking. Rockports are good shoes, but I need
wings. We did take the Metro today--it's what BART
will be in 30 more years. Fast, jerky and full.

The Capuchin (that's it!) Crypts were bizarre and
somehow beautiful--they store the bones of 4000 monks
that were unearthed 300 years ago. They are arranged
in artlike formations--skulls stacked on shinbones,
vertebraes in spinning designs on the ceilings,
chandeliers made out of jawbones. Thousands and
thousands of bones. There are diorama-like displays of
monks, still in robes but without skin, standing up
and doing what monks do. At the end, the quote in many
languages, "What you are we used to be. What we are
you will be." Ouch. And then you must reverse and walk
through it all again to get out. Postcards at the end.
Which, of course, I bought. The monk at the door (the
living one) knew how to say "Just a donation, please"
in every language. He would guess the nationality of
each person coming in the door, and he did very well.

Stood in the middle of the Coliseum--they have put
planks over the maze of ruins--and stared up at the
ampitheater and had the thought that not many people
back then had ever seen the crowds from that vantage.
And if they had, it would have been one of their last
views. A building of blood--they had killed 5000
animals within 3 months of opening. Don't even know
about the people--did Gladiator win best picture? I'm
unsure.

This is a disjointed email, just like the city. I like
it, though. Our new hotel--moved out of the hostel,
thank the gods that be--is perfect except that it's at
the top of 84 steps. Gotta love the bidet in the
bathroom--haven't had a bathroom in Italy without one.
Does ANYONE actually use those, or are they just for
show? I think perhaps they're just a habit of
installation now.

While Alyson rested today, Jennifer and I walked to
the University and looked for the bookstore. She
wanted a sweatshirt, and apparently, my feet weren't
quite tired enough. After asking--no lie--eight people
where the bookstore was and being sent miles in
opposite directions, we finally found a
dean-like-looking woman who said that a university
bookstore didn't exist. We were depressed, but then
walked around campus stealing different posters off
poles. We only took the ones that there were plenty
of, but it was high exicitement on a Tuesday
afternoon.

Tomorrow the train to Cinque Terre, which everyone
says is the most perfect place in Italy, but I'll let
you know in a few days. Doubt the place has email. But
does the bathroom there have a bidet? I have big
questions.

Ciao and love,
Rachael.

Damn the forwarding:
> So we get to Cinque Terra. We train from Rome to La
> Spezia, quick-like jump to the train just leaving that
> carries us four towns north to Vernazza. Huffing and
> puffing, we get into town and find the house where Ana
> Maria should live. Ana Marie has our room reservation.
> There's a small note on her door, "For rooms, walk
> across door to my restaurant la terre" and an arrow.
> We wait for a while, fully loaded down. It starts to
> rain. We send Jenn on reconaissance up the hill toward
> whatever restaurant this will be. Ten minutes later
> she comes back down, having had some sort of
> conversation with a Franco who said Ana Maria is in La
> Spezia and is due back at 1:45. Or 2:00. It's just
> after noon. We all trek up about 7902 steep rock steps
> up a cliff to Franco's restaurant, and drink wine
> while we try to get Franco's tongue to loosen. He may
> or may not be related to Ana Maria, who may or may not
> have a room for us.
>
> Finally, at about 2:30, Ana Maria calls him, and I
> talk to her. Franco is her husband and he'll show us
> the apartment. She obviously wears the pants. He was
> not ABOUT to show us any room till he cleared it with
> her.
>
> He took our cash and led us back down the cliff and
> then told us to wait at a green metal door affixed to
> a rock. He disappeared and returned with a key to open
> it.
>
> It opened to a wide terrace, hung on the very edge of
> the cliff, looking over the Mediterranean, and over
> all of Vernazza, the castle, the church, the two clock
> towers, and all the multi-colored houses clinging to
> the hills. We could see the fishing boats in the
> harbor, and listen to the waves breaking directly
> below us. We had 3 beds and two bedrooms. A little
> dining area. Shutters that opened to the wind and
> surf. We decided it had been worth waiting for Franco
> to make contact with the elusive Ana Maria. It is
> impossible to describe exactly what the wildness of
> the ocean married to the time-worn village looked
> like, but I would like to still be drinking it in. I
> decided never to leave. Ever ever ever.
>
> Back down in the village was a pharmacy, two gelato
> shops, several small (excellent) restaurants, a
> butcher, and a tobacco shop. And a whole lotta boats
> tied in the square. In Vernazza, they make their
> living on fish and wine. I could get used to that. And
> even better than the small boats waiting to go out
> were the myriad cats waiting for the fish to come in.
> I took a roll of film of just cats on boats. Under
> boats. Near boats. Cats gobbling stolen mackerel under
> benches. Every cat is missing something, an ear, an
> eye, part of a tail, but each is friendly and small
> and perfect.
>
> There are no cathedrals, no crypts, no great works of
> art. There is wine, best drunk on your terrace, or in
> the square watching the kitties. And later on, there
> is fresh gnocchi, and mozarella and tomatoes soaked in
> olive oil. In the morning, strong coffee with the
> cats. Alyson and Jenn hiked some of the trails. I
> didn't. I spent quality time sitting and thinking and
> planning how I could sell my one extra pair of socks
> and my watch in order to stay a little longer. (The
> apartment was $30 each a night. I could have stayed a
> while.) Jenn and I hopped some trains to the other
> towns, and once got on the wrong train so had to kill
> an hour lying on the beach in the sun waiting for the
> next train. Life is very difficult here.
>
> Unfortunately, we got on the train this morning, and
> we're back in Venice. Still my favorite place--I am so
> glad to be back, but Vernazza would be a fine second
> home.
>
> Alyson flies home tomorrow, and Jenn and I will play a
> little more, then she leaves early Sunday and I leave
> late Sunday morning, so it's almost over. So worth it.
> Can't wait to see my little babies again, but at least
> I had a good dose of kitty love. We even had one adopt
> us on our terrace. Named her Luna, for the drastic
> moon that hung over the castle last night.
>
> First priority upon getting home--developing the
> pictures. Then you will see....
>
> Love and arrividerci,
> Rachael.