Dearie me. I have gotten far behind in my bloggings and feel overwhelmed by how much I have been wandering and pondering, how much I need to express, yet at the same time, how much, perhaps, I need to learn to keep in. I'm having a moment or phase of questioning why I need to digest every experience into a story, why I need to have pictures to prove it existed, why, above all, I need to tell everyone about it. There is no doubt that the moment is most special when it is happening, when there is the sound and sight and taste and feeling, and then it passes, and isn't that enough? In this process of being removed from everyone, but feeling the need to report back, I am seeing so much about my own insecurities. Seeing this constant need for affirmation, proving myself, proving that I am cooler, more independent, prettier, healthier, smarter, more witty than everyone else around me. Of course that's bullshit. But when I see that it's bullshit, when I feel threatened, rejected, or just forced to see the reality of my own mediocrity, I simply must set off again into a new whirlwind of learning, improving, exploring. And where the vicious cycle leaves me is unable to enjoy relationships, because I see myself reflected in them. I sense the hint of rejection, and it hurts, I sense the fact that maybe I cannot always be the prettiest and the coolest and the most intriguing, and when that happens I feel the urge to disappear, to set off into new territory, to leave and never come back. To start the cycle anew, just until the mirror cracks again. But what scares me deeply is how good it feels to be alone, and bitter, to sit in the evening with chocolate and the guitar and pour the spiteful feelings into song, to re-write the past until it makes me feel better, to map out the future until I feel secure, to uproot, to escape, to hide. 

Anyway. I've been particularly pensive lately because of turning 24, and because it's been exactly five weeks now of traveling alone, and because it's such a threshold of a time in life. Today was an absolutely epic day: walked down into the village where the market was taking place, bought a sweater and pants for pregnant women, also bought some wool socks for 5 Euro which could have been a rip-off but I didn't care, because I was so happy to actually be able to somewhat have a conversation in Italian. Just for an update, I have been in Greece for the last three weeks and am now back in Italy, staying at a farm way out in the mountains and countryside. Thanks to the family who runs the farm and the volunteers working here, in just a little over 24 hours I have gotten those key words and conjugations I needed to be able to start to at least fumble my way through conversation, and it feels great! It's the third time I'm embarking on this journey through a language, where every purchase, every interchange, is the chance to learn more. Before, I knew so little that even the most bumbling of conversations lapsed into either confused miming, French, or English. Now, I can tell the old Italian man who is coming up the mountain as I am coming down that thank you, but I like walking alone, and I'm too tired to go up with you a second time, and maybe we can get that drink tomorrow. Haha

I also was able to communicate my nationality and where I was staying and what kind of meat and cheese I wanted at the gourmet food shop, and my desire for a fork (I got a silver one, wrapped with a napkin and slipped into my bag- I plan to return it tomorrow). I proceeded to have one of the best picnics of my young life over on some secluded steps in a quiet neighborhood near the river. Crusty brown ciabatta bread with a layer of soft Italian cheese, topped by tuna and a salad of peppers, olive oil and artichoke hearts. I had procured a bar of dark chocolate for dessert but it was the first time I have ever, EVER, had chocolate that was actually too rich, so I tossed the squares aside and sat happily digesting the food, soaking in the sun. 

I was going to start the long walk back into the country toward my farm stay, but when looking at the series of maps they had drawn for me, I realized that it was possible to hike to the church I had noticed in the mountains overhead. Not only that, but I was already right near the road leading toward it. Not only that, but, on closer look at the map, I saw that the trail continued on to end at a castle. 

"CASTLE?!" My inner voice whooped, and started running ahead, and I quickly packed up the remains of my picnic to go trotting after it. Of course, I realized as I turned onto the street indicated on the map and followed it into magenta-graffitied alleyways, green ivy tumbling over gray cobbled stone, that this was going to be a very bad day to not have my camera. But then one of those aforementioned debates took place in my head about why, exactly, I needed a camera and what, exactly, I needed to have in addition to what was in front of me, transient but beautiful, and my own experience from start to finish. So I made up my mind to savor each moment, and I set off up the stairs. 

First came increasingly beautiful views of the town of Sora below. Pink, yellow, tan and orange houses fill the valley, and a gray-blue river winds through the middle. An elevated highway curves along the mountains in the distance, peaks rise in every direction, blue, snow-capped. An old wizened tree with a bench to rest upon, a square white church with the words: "In Mi Omni Gratia" etched in pink over the doors. Beyond the church, a gigantic cross and a path leading up further into the mountains. 

I perched on a rock and chanted the moolamantra, letting the wind carry it on. I went farther and now the story is harder to tell, because if I told it it would not be mine any longer. When I came back down and walked all the way through town and back up into the hills and the countryside and reached my farm, and they asked what I had done today and I said that I visited the castle, they said "Ah!" and we all said "Bellissima!" But it made me feel a little sad, to hear it be summed up like that, to think that we were agreeing upon having had the same experience of the castle. And that is why I cannot tell you more, or take any pictures, but if you ever go to Sora you should head into the hillside and find it and then you will see. And now I am going to bed with the joy and the bittersweet and the melancholy, with tired limbs and future dreams, and I have enjoyed writing this post for you, whoever reads it. Good night. 

This was Carnivale. An explosion of color and energy and PEOPLE, a shock to my system after so many weeks of feeling like I was the only tourist wandering through Europe. Our hostel was suddenly full, and in our room were a group of American girls on their junior year abroad in Athens, come down by plane for the long weekend. In the next room happened to be a group of guys from their same program, only neither group knew the other was coming, and apparently some drama transpired after conversations were overheard through the thin walls...

Anyway, all I cared about was having people to party with, and on Saturday night I slapped on my glittery purple wig and XXL sunglasses, donned a skirt, drank a whole bunch of cheap wine from a plastic bottle, and that was that. The party went on for the next two days, but I could only take about 12 good hours before having to retreat down a long stretch of quiet beach the next day...

I blew into Crete at just the right time. It was carnivale starting on Saturday, and Rethymno, the city I was in, had Greece's third largest and most well known celebration. My Canadian friends were astounded to wake up in their hostel room on Tuesday morning to see me nonchalantly setting Wobbles down two beds over from them. 

"Oh, hello there!" I said. Lauren blinked. Repeatedly. Was this a dream? What day was this?

I started giggling, and finally she started screeching with joy, which woke up her mom, and I ran over for hugs and jumping up and down. The next half hour or so was of course like an early morning slumber party, swapping stories, giggling again over the insanity of my sudden apparition back into their lives. I merely chalked it up to my oh so synchronous relationship with the universe, although it also had to do with the fact that this was the least expensive hostel on Crete, and so I'd had a pretty good idea that they'd be there. Anyway, there were also some excellent impressions done of the various motley characters who apparently resided full-time on the premises; my favorite was of a toothless, aging, drug-addicted Englishman. 

When Sharon, the mother, went to the bathroom, she returned bursting with news. Apparently the Englishman had been kicked out. He had called a rather burly German a Nazi, and had consequently been chased around the streets of Rethymno. He had hid behind some dumpsters until he thought he was safe, and whatever substance which had driven the Nazi comment had wore off, and he returned to the hostel only to be evicted by management. 

"He looks quite abject," Sharon said. "No idea where he's going to go next." 

So that was my introduction to the youth hostel, and the Canadian women assured me that I would have a book's worth of material by the time I left. I, however, failed to appreciate the humor to quite the extent that they did since, as my friend Courtney repeatedly tells me after our one experience in Dublin, I am not a very good hostel-goer. I like to think I can go with the flow, but when the flow involves dirt, and stench, and smoking, and being surrounded by absolutely, well, tragic characters, I prove myself an absolute hypocrite in terms of peace, love, and compassion. So I won't even sully up my blog with further discussion of the hostel, I will just say that Rethymno in general was a great time of hikes, guitar, sunshine, heat, festival, merriment, and traipsing along the beach. Carnivale was everything I could have hoped for and more, and I will tell you some stories in my next installment.  

next up was santorini. it's an island that's basically fallen apart, been built back up, then blown apart again a dozen times over thanks to earthquakes and an active volcano and sometimes both at the same time. how anyone has the guts to live there is beyond me- i was leery about being there for a visit of less than 24 hours! the feeling of doom wasn't helped by all the ramshackle, abandoned houses along the roadside leading away from the port... apparently, those once belonged to people who were either killed in the most recent geological uprising (in the 1950's), or who fled to athens just in the nick of time, and opted not to come back. the boon of all of this is steady tourism thanks to the crazy violent beauty of the island....

as for my personal journey through santorini, i was, i believe, the only guest at the villa manos, run by perhaps the nicest couple ever to be found in hospitality services. the husband picked me up at the airport, carried my bags to the lobby and later my room, and gave me a glass of wine upon check-in. his wife, the ebullient poppy, gave me a tray of spaghetti and bread and butter to take to my room to accompany the wine. and so began what shall forever remain notorious in my memory as the 24 hour carbo-load of santorini. it actually may have been more like 36 hours, considering i had sandwiches on both the ferry to and ferry from the island. anyway. i don't really like to think about it. but the carbs proved to be useful for what was about to come, since, as usual, i decided to set out on a little explorative traipse around the island.

as usual, i also decided to shun the use of maps, directions, roads, or paths, in lieu of heading where my spirit moved me, which was, in this case, toward the ocean. there were a lot of fields between me and the ocean, and i couldn't tell how much territory, exactly, i was going to be covering. but it was all wonderfully adventurous and i giggled to myself as i hopped from one rocky slope to another, past the occasional farmhouse, imagining the reactions if the occupants were to see me;

"Uh oh...." I imagined them taking a sip of coffee as they pulled aside the curtain, then furrowing their brow. "Who let out their tourist?"

I went further and further onto what was certainly private property, narrowly evading territorial packs of farmland dogs. I soon found myself on a trash-lined dirt path between abandoned houses and some sort of manufacturing plant; my spirit had certainly not led me toward the most scenic route. And at some point, I looked behind me, and that's when I got very doubtful about trusting my intuition, indeed. The sky was black. Huge whirling gusts of wind came barreling through the alley, tossing rubble to and fro. When the rain hit, I was just glad it wasn't a tornado.

And so twenty meters later found me on a main road, soaked to the bone and only getting more so, desperately and futilely seeking shelter while car after car passed by, each driver peering out quizzical, sympathetic, and bemused.

"How did that tourist get all the way out here? And who is responsible for it?"

And so I laughed wildly as I ran in the rain back toward the fields, having abandoned the possibility of finding refuge in what might be an embarrassingly public area in lieu of heading back for what I knew would be a long, cold, wet, and arduous, but at least private trek back home. And long, cold, wet, and arduous it was. On field/slope number 19 or so I started to lose feeling... everywhere. And I still had about 27 fields to go. My mind was babbling incoherencies, and thoughts of hypothermia, pneumonia, and plain old slipping in mud and not being able to get up filled my head. All that kept forcing one foot in front of the other was that glorious mental image of stripping off my wet clothes and entering a steaming hot shower.... and let me tell you, when that finally did happen, it was a surreal experience because of the intensity of which it had already played out mentally so many times. I stood there contemplating every esoteric theory of time being relative, mutable, because the moment didn't seem "real," it seemed like an image I was constructing, had constructed in a dream. But maybe that was just the hypothermia kicking in.

Anyway, we're not to that moment yet because of course I somehow got lost on the way back, and ended up on some very high field/slope indeed where, looking down, I couldn't tell one white villa from another, and it was beginning to get dark, and I would be damned if I went in anywhere and asked for directions since I looked like a partially congealed swamp creature, anyway, that was an unexpected turn of events that made the final discovery of my villa and sneaking in the back way so no one saw me, and stripping of the clothes and immersion in hot water that much more satisfying. i couldn't quite believe i had reached my destination. i couldn't quite believe it when i put on warm, dry clothes. and i really couldn't believe it when i went, fresh and dry, as if nothing out of the ordinary had ever happened, to the lobby to inquire about where i should go to get dinner, and the wonderful husband informed me that i could just call in for take-out! i had been entertaining that very fantasy in the shower, but scolded myself for the idealism; in such a small place as santorini, it would certainly be too good to be true, especially on a sunday. but it wasn't, and when i realized i had no money the angelic man insisted that he loan me twenty dollars, and so i ordered a pizza AND a salad, and a bottle of wine, why not indeed? and part two... or was it three? of the 24-36 hour carboload ensued.

It was warm in my room and the pizza was divine, and the wine must have been good because soon I found myself incredibly invested in an obscure Sandra Bullock movies from the 80's, with a bunch of angsty yuppies and artists, lots of sex, and really bad dialogue. the next day I jaunted up the hill to see the cliffs of santorini, in between spurts of stormy weather, and I took these pictures, and then it was time for my wild ride to Crete which I'll detail in my next installment. Blessings, love.... the wanderess.

and then there was paros. the first day i walked as far as i could toward one end of the island. two dogs joined me in the journey, and showed me all their favorite spots along the way; secluded beaches, gardens. when at one point i started to deviate from our path, they came running back, yipping, to find me. we walked out to the church and watched the waves and i gave them some of my water, and then we turned back toward parikia as the sun sank low over the ocean. the dogs left me the moment they smelled an evening barbecue wafting up over the hedges of a beachside bar and grill; they did an about face in unison and disappeared up the driveway. 

the next day, i walked as far as i could toward the other end of the island. i took a random stairway which led me to seaside grottoes, and a church cut into the rocks. i knelt and prayed, listening to silence between waves outside. i sat and wrote in my journal, ate a portion of my picnic. i got up and moseyed along and took a random path that led to fields overlooking the ocean. i sat, wrote in my journal. ate some more of my picnic. i walked and walked some more, through backyards and along roads and out onto cliffs covered in rusty moss. i marveled, i thought about geology, the devastating beauty of volcanic activity. i picked up a snail shell, never imagining that it would come alive four weeks later on a train in rome. i found an empty beach and fell asleep on it, and when i woke up i had some more of my picnic. and then it was time to head home. 

impressions of athens: 

gangs of dogs, city-owned, roaming the streets

evening romp in the warm breezes on the rocky ledges near the acropolis

hike up to church overlooking city at sunset. spectacular. and then my camera died. 

and the ultimate: 

flying in, coming down through clouds to see the vast, all-white metropolis spreading before us.

dark storm front approaching on the right, puffy white clouds moving left, celestine rays pouring through onto a lone tug-boat, motionless on the pink-gray water. a visual orgasm, but too afraid to take a picture lest it jinx the plane. it's hard for me to accept glory without a little doom and gloom superstition to balance it out. 

oh well; the moment will be forever etched on my memory. 

At the end of our stay in Sorrento, a very bittersweet parting took place. No, not between me and Miguel. Well, I suppose that was a little bittersweet as well. But between me and my suitcase. Old Bertha. I think it was Miguel's innocent "Are you carrying another person in there?" upon check-in that finally proved the last straw. I decided I was NOT leaving Sorrento with Bertha, even if it meant leaving her on a corner somewhere, or in the middle of the street. My parents, after getting over the initial parental concern about me abandoning my expensive Samsonite, suggested that I try to pawn it off alongside the men on the sidewalks selling fake Louis Vuittons and Guccis.

But everything fell into place once we consulted Miguel; I knew it would.

"Hmm," Miguel thought about it, furrowing his brow. "There is a man named Fernando, who is Sri Lankan. He lives in Naples, and he works here during the summertime. He has a large family to support."

"Perfect!" I said. "Bertha is going to Fernando!" 

And so on the last day I dragged her- empty but still heavy, with a bow tied around her handle- down to the lobby. A grand celebration ensued, and then the Canadians and I were off to Athens. Not two minutes out the doorway, my new suitcase started to wobble. But that's a story for another time...