To Italy and Back

I’ve been in France for four weeks. While I like to say I have travelled and can adjust to any culture, the French have worn on me. Please don’t mistake me for a weary traveler. I have  traversed the prison like chamber that is the JFK airport with ease and rode in hot underground trains with what seemed like the entire population of Tokyo. France, however; is a different beast. 

One of my first days in Cannes, I ordered a crepe from a street cart. I thought I would try to use some French as not to be that American tourist. I say, “Je voudrais un crepe.” The French woman stares blankly at me. Maybe she’s hard of hearing? I ask again, “Je voudrais un crepe.” Still nothing. Maybe I’m not committing enough, so with my best faux-french accent I say, “Je voudrais un cr(insert stereotypical French phlegm sounds here)epe.” At last, she understands. 

Sure there might be an actual difference between crepe and “crghghghrrepe”. I don’t know, but the difference can’t be so vast that a woman WORKING AT A CREPE STAND wouldn’t understand what I was trying to say. Needless to say, my weekend in Italy was a welcomed change to my stay in France. 

My first attempt at speaking Italian was a complete failure. Delirious from waking up at 4:30, I stumbled into at cafe after getting off my first train in Italy. All I wanted was a cappuccino, but all my brain could muster was a string of strange French phrases. Every “Merci!” was followed by a “Errr, I mean…. Grazie!!! Clearly some language adjustment was needed. 

I was only in Italy for forty eight hours, but I managed to pack in a tour of Lucca and Pisa, a trip to the beach in Viareggio, and a hike up a mountain that made me want to call bullshit on the jaunty ending to The Sound of Music. (Sorry for the two Sound of Music references in two posts, but in my opinion you can never get enough of the Von Trapps.) 

To say I loved Italy would be an understatement. Even on the train ride, I was drooling as I looked out the window onto the ocean and then the country side. Then I got to listen to five old Italian women gossip while I ate my breakfast. It was a perfect introduction to northern Italy.

Lucca was beautiful. Kayla and I got lost in the winding streets. Luckily for us though, the city is surrounded by a medieval wall. When all else fails you just keep going straight and you will eventually hit the stone walls, that or some Italian designer store. I wasn’t complaining. 

Saturday was Pisa. You get off the train, and it just looks like a random Italian city. I don’t know why, but whenever I travel I expect there to be huge signs pointing to all the famous landmarks or the tourist sights will be right next to the train station or airport. With Pisa, you have to walk across the city from the the train station to get to the tower. 

We really had no idea where we were going. We passed a piazza, a bridge, and a street packed with stores and restaurants, but no tower. I started to try to follow all the other people with cameras at the ready, and eventually the street opened up to the Leaning Tower of Pisa. 

I find it hilarious that something is so famous because it’s a screw up. It gives hope to middle children everywhere. In the courtyard with the tower is a beautiful dumo and church, but no one really seems to care about them. Sure you take a picture of them, but not a “Look how strong I am that I can hold up the Leaning Tower of Pisa” picture. I myself opted for the much more realistic “Look at how weak I am as the Leaning Tower of Pisa starts to crush me” picture.  

Sunday was a quick trip to Viareggio. I got to shop and hit the beach for a bit before making the train back to France. It wasn’t a long trip, but the entire time I was there I just kept feeling like I wanted to stay. I was talking to an Italian woman on my train back into France and she asked me if I liked France or Italy better. Without hesitation I said, “Italy. Most definitely Italy.” 

Obligatory lamp post shot.