May 1, 2015:

Hello from Italia, My Friends!

After drafts of this email, I still don’t know which way to start it.

This is the official halfway mark of my trip (officially tonight at Midnight).

I want to write you about every little detail-

how I saw teeny tiny red spiders running along a stone railing today and then looked at the red dots in my strawberry gelato and thought- is this a trick?

I want to tell you about how many selfie sticks have been prodded at me so that I would buy them.

I HATE SELFIE STICKS. When they come at me with those things I start shaking my head ferociously and say “NO NO NO NO NO NO” and they STILL put it in front of me and sometimes walk with me a few steps.

I am not a tourist- I am a mourist. I am looking for a deeper travel experience.

I refuse to buy selfie sticks, “Rome” magnets, but I did buy a postcard of the Pope (since I couldn’t meet him).

Since my last email,

I went to Bristol for 24 hours, flew to Barcelona for 8 days, took a 20-hour ferry to Rome and have been here since Tuesday night.

Bristol was a glorious surprise- with sparkling water, perfect blue skies and a slight sea breeze.

I saw that there was a poetry slam featuring 3 National Poetry Slam Winners.

I show up to a small black box style room with no set.

A rapper & poet and he turned us all into putty with his pieces and the way he described them.

Guys, it was honestly killer.

Also please check out Hollie McNish doing “Mathematics.”

When I was in Barcelona, I hit a rut-

you know when your phone, laptop and iPod are all at 5% battery life?

This is kind of how I felt in Barcelona. I went on a few dud tours and had trouble establishing a rhythm there.

I got knocked sideways by the shock of not speaking the language.

This girl loved her some Spanish in high school and I thought that would get me through.

BUT. I hate asking for directions in ENGLISH much less in another country where I look like an idiot.

And I have more empathy now for people who live in America and don’t speak English.

Because of the ups and downs, I threatened to email with the title “We’re Not in Wales anymore, Carlton” or “Bars-Alone-A.”

Having said all of that, there were a lot of really great things..

To sum up Barcelona, the experience was extreme highs and lows- but I loved the place.

I got emotional from La Sagrada Familia.

It’s a church designed by Antoni Gaudi (look him up if you don’t know him).

The architecture of the building, the sculpture of Jesus at one of the entrances brought me to tears.

I would tell anyone to go there if they have the opportunity.

Next favorite thing was Casa Mila, also constructed by Gaudi.

I signed up for an English speaking tour of this building and I was the only person on the tour!

I got a “turistico muy exclusivo!”

Gaudi was hired to build this house for the Mila family and there was a contentious relationship over   cost and the house was scoffed at for it’s bizarre architecture.

Now it’s a Unesco World Heritage Site.

So. Eat it, scoffers.

I had the lucky treat to meet up with a friend I met in London (she stayed in my hostel with her sister). She took me on a tour of her campus and we walked down to the water and sat on the beach.

She and her friends spoke Spanish with me and spent the afternoon with me, which was so kind.

One low point was that staying in AirBnB made it difficult to meet other travelers.

I’ve learned how much I LOVE hostels because you meet people from all over.

For the last two days of Barcelona, I checked into “Bon Moustache Hostel”

On my penultimate day, my phone died when I was almost back to the hostel and I got supremely lost.

I didn’t know the address so I went into a bar, bought a beer, and asked the bartender to look up the hostel address for me.

I had to get a taxi to get me back to the hostel (one street over from where I had been circling for an hour)- me and directions, man. Me and directions.

I get back to the hostel, exhausted, and up sits a bearded Italian who says “Where are you from-ah?” and it’s then that I learn that whatever you’ve heard about Italian accents is true.

It sounds like Spanish covered in butter and skated across with a hot air balloon on the end of every phrase.

Italian sounds like a musical movement.

Mario and Flavio are friends from school who are “on holiday” in Barcelona and they invite me to go to the “disco” with them.

The answer is yes, Mario and Flavio, the answer is YES.

Those guys like to stay out until 7am so eventually Mario “collected me back to the hostel” and I hit the hay. Flavio stayed out. Italian guys: they.somethin.else.

The next day greets me and I wonder around Barcelona for my last day, to wish it farewell inspire of it’s vicissitudes, these are other highlights:

-A Canadian couple took me out for happy hour after the street are tour we went on

-I happened upon a market under the Arc de Triomf when I got back from a day-trip to Figueres (Salvador Dali’s birthplace where his museum is)

-The Spanish are sooo kind and will help you if you look lost (I am perma-lost)

But here comes the icing: I took a 20-hour ferry from Spain to Civitavecchia (outside Rome) and it was more like a cruise boat.

I sat on the bus that takes you to the ferry and I move over to make space for a young gentleman.

I ask him if he is from Barcelona and he says he is from Italy but he’s been working as a bartender in Spain for 6 months.

We speak to each other in Spanish and we manage to have a conversation.

We get on the ferry and I help him wheel his bags on because his whole life, including skateboard, is  in these three suitcases (see picture).

And he asks me if we will meet up on the ferry and I say yes.

Well, we get on the ferry, I’m rolling his suitcase to his room and both of our rooms are full of Italian students dressed up like chefs. The 19 year-old boys in my supposed room yell “Recepcion!” “Computer!” “Recepcion!” and I don’t know if they are mad or just expressive.

So my newfound friend who kind of looks like an Italian Justin Bieber named Stefano Pianu, because you cannot make that up, goes to reception while I watch over the bags on the 9th floor of the ferry. The line in reception is so long- the computer messed up several reservations and the Serbs are mad, and the Serbs on my floor are drunk and wandering around while I watch over the bags.

I wash my hair in the ferry shower (it was the size of an office chair), handwash my laundry and hang it from the vents, and go to sleep.

The next day Stefano Pianu and I run around the ferry but unfortunately this won’t be a Titanic love affair because Stefano Pianu has an ex-girlfriend in Spain who he hopes one day he can return to. He shows me pictures of he and his girlfriend together, and I am thinking: Now Stefano Pianu, this is not how this love story is supposed to go. I am supposed to get the Heart of the Ocean and you are supposed to leave me on the raft to survive.

Well I get to Civitivecchia, Stefano Pianu and I part ways and I ask everyone where the train station is.

Note: ITALIANS HAVE NOT EMBRACED PROPER SIGNAGE.

I miss my train but get on another one and make my way to Rome Termini.

I get on a cab to Erin’s house. Erin works for the company I used to work for, and her husband works for the Embassy.

Yes they live in Rome for work.

And I get the pleasure of staying with Erin while her husband travels for work.

I’ve seen the Sistine Chapel, The Pantheon, and the Colosseum.

Rome is gorgeous and last night I met a waiter, Emiliano, who told me to remember him and that I am on a wonderful adventure. I will remember him.

Miss and love,