Rome, Italy-Walking With The Ancients

The best way to see Italy is by train and the train from La Spezia to Rome is a perfect example.

The train meanders its way through the Italian countryside, past picturesque orange and yellow homes, vineyards thick with fruit and a shinning green sea.

All on it’s long journey to the ancient city in the center of Italy.

Rome.

The city is a city of light and dark.

During the day, tourists flock the streets wearing shorts with heavy cameras bouncing from their necks. Locals dressed for autumn maneuver through the crowds, ignoring even the lines of street vendors.

But at night, Rome bursts open with lights and music streaming from bars quiet during the day and the locals cram the streets outside of them until the early hours of the mornings.

But the oddest thing about Rome, as well as the most beautiful are not the statues or the fountains, the locals or the tourist shops. It is not even the Vatican or the delicious and hidden cafes scattered throughout the city.

No. The most terrible as well as the most wonderful thing about Rome is the ruins.

Evidence of the Roman times appear in the weirdest of places. Strong pillars, crumbling stone and beautiful carved faces peek out from unknown squares, alleyways and from between shopping centers or parking lots.

Although all are beautiful, they all speak to a dark past, a past one can guess at during the day but can almost feel at night.

The best place to sense Rome’s history is, of course, at the foot of the Colosseum and the ruins surrounding it.

During the day guided tours tell terrible tales of days long gone but at night...At night one can practically feel agonized souls looking out from the darkened chambers of the ancient arena.

The rest of the city is as rich with history as the ruins. 

Fountains tell stories of myths and have stories around themselves as well. Fontana di Trevi is rumored to ensure ones future return to Rome if a coin is tossed into it’s depths backwards over ones shoulder.

The city is filled with squares all of which are surrounded by lovely buildings that would be an architect’s dream and fountains that are bound to attract love-struck couples.

The squares are surrounded by tiny and eccentric shops or cafes and filled with street vendors and artists and musicians.

But the best cafes and gelato are to found not in the tourist squares but down the curving little streets.

One such cafe is Pasta Imperiale which offers 5 euro pasta dishes and further down the block there exists a lovely gelato shop with such flavors as fig and almond flavor or my personal favorite chocolate and wine flavor.

But the most beautiful places in all of Rome are not the well know tourist spots. 

A walk along the river is a stunning way to spend a sunlight afternoon, exploring small alleyways leading off from the river can offer astonishing views and L'Isola Tiberina in the center of the river is a perfect place to relax in the shade letting the river drown out the sounds of the city.

Then there is the Pincian Hill garden or park, probably my favorite spot in Rome.

The park balances atop a hill overlooking all of the ancient city, the perfect destination for a lover of Rome.

My first night in Rome I decided to see some of the ruins by the light of the street lamps before seeing them by the light of day.

The moon hung in the sky as if watching the ancient city from afar and the old Roman sights sent chills down my spine.

The next day I explored such places as the Fontana di Trevi, the Spanish Steps and numerous other squares and fountains dotting the city with a girl and boy I had met in a hostel in Florence where we had agreed to met up in a few days in the old roman city.

The following day I made my way to the Vatican. Here, on the last Sunday of every month, tourists may enter this corner of the city and its multiple museums for free.

That day the Pope happened to be speaking before the crowd who had gathered in the large square before the Vatican.

The square was so packed that children sat upon the flagstones playing games while adults prayed awaiting the appearance of the Pope. 

When he entered the square the thousands gathered there sprang to their feet cheering and clapping. Woman clutched rosaries to their chests, men prayed in Latin. The entire crowd sang and crossed their chests and nearly everyone took video with their phones.

The entirety of Rome has a power all of its own, not just the Vatican.

It’s power seems to creep into your skin and infect you with a kind of rawness. The city feels wild and rich and it seems to pull the same senses out of those visiting it.

People seem more confident in Rome, more open to being themselves and not so willing to hide behind self-drawn curtains.

Visitors seem more compelled to break their everyday habits for something out of the ordinary or to follow sudden inspirations or impulses.

And I was not immune.

On my last morning in Rome I fell for the wild richness of the central Italian city and, arriving in a darker, more coarse corner of Rome, followed an impulsive idea that had been stirring in my mind since I had entered the wild city and got my nose pierced.

The ancient city had worked its magic on yet another traveler, granting them the feeling of the wild strength and power within themselves.

The feeling, I think, came from walking a city which was filled with the sense of millions of old lives peeking out around every corner.

It was as if the strength of all those who had visited or dwellled within these city walls could be passed on to Rome’s new travelers, combining and condensing into each traveler willing to open their heart to the feeling.

Rome can grant it’s visitors a confidence of and within themselves if they are only willing to except it.

And that, I think, is the reason people love Rome so dearly, because Rome opens ones heart up.

“Come along Life, take my hand, let’s have an adventure together.”

~KrystleLyric

La Spezia and Cinque Terre, Italy-A Dream Fulfilled

Leaving my soul city of Florence was hard, but a childhood dream lay only an hour train ride away.

So, with sadness and joy, I boarded the train to La Spezia, a small city near the Western coast of Italy.

Despite its size, few of the people of La Spezia spoke any English.

Having not written down the directions to my new hostel which lay outside the city, I spent nearly an hour searching for a wifi connection and asking for “Bus 19” which was supposed to take me nearly to the hostel’s doorstep. Because of the language barrier, and finding it hard to relay what I was looking for through hand gestures, I reverted to the written word by approaching locals with the words “Bus 19” scribbled upon the back of a receipt I had not yet thrown away.

Despite these complications, the locals were excited to help.

I first asked a young woman who was waiting for a different bus for help. Neither of us understood a word the other said but when her bus arrived, she spoke to the driver who beckoned me onto his bus and, without asking for payment, drove me several blocks to the stop for my “Bus 19.”

There, with many a hand gestures, he showed me what time the next bus would be and left me with a smile.

As the bus drove away, the young woman gave me a hopeful look and waved goodbye.

By now it was beginning to get dark and had started to rain and I still did not have the address to my hostel. 

So, with nearly an hour to spare before my bus, I backtracked several blocks until I found a small shop boasting an “Internet Spot”.

At such shops throughout Europe, travelers may pay a few Euros or less to enter a cubbyhole and use a rather ancient desktop for as long as needed. This took longer than it should have because the site I had saved the hostel’s address on did not recognize the computer I was using and wanted me to verify my identity. Via my cell phone, which does not work in Europe. Finally I was able to find and write down the name and address of the place I was to stay that night and left.

Having had very little to eat all day, I ventured into a small store front resembling a bakery where I met the next local more than willing to help me. Discovering that I did not have enough Euros for even the cheapest item, I gestured to my credit card only to receive a polite but negative nod. The owner must have recognized the smile I gave him as being one of those desperate smiles you give people when you’ve had a tiring day and it is not about to end anytime soon for he gestured, said something in Italian, and handed me the bit of food anyway, waving me out the door without even a penny of payment.

I spent the next half hour sitting in the rain waiting for Bus 19 with my bakery treat, clutching the hostel’s address to my chest.

The stereotype that Italians are always late is a true one as I discovered when my bus arrived 30 minutes late, an action I had not anticipated and therefore had me extremely worried. However, the bus driver understood my gestures at the address I clutched quite well and yet again asked for no payment as I boarded and collapsed upon a seat, my heavy backpack resting on more of the seat than my wet body.

After a half hour ride up into the curving Italian hills, during which I found a remarkable respect for the bus driver’s ability to handle the long bus, the bus pulled to a halt, opened its doors, and the driver beckoned me forward pointing to a big yellow building barely 12 feet from me. That nights hostel, located in adorable and yet unimaginably small Biassa.

Map of Biassa

I had chosen this hostel in the middle of the remote Italian countryside for one very specific reason.

As I child I had wandered into a local thrift store and had found a framed photograph of the most lovely village. It’s buildings clung to a rocky cliff side, the brightly painted walls balancing precariously 100 ft or more above the water of a rough ocean. The photograph gave no indication as to where the village stood and no one in my small city recognized it but I had already made up my stubborn child’s mind to someday visit the brightly colored homes. The photograph still sits upon my dresser-reminding me of dreams yet to be fulfilled.

Several years later I stumbled upon a similar photograph online and discovered that my initial guess of the village existing somewhere in Italy had been correct.

And then, as I was thumbing through the pages of a rather large book preparing for this trip I suddenly saw it; a tiny photograph in the corner of a rather nondescript page, my dreamed-of Italian fishing village. Now, I finally had a name: Manarola, one of five similar fishing villages known as Cinque Terre which hugged the western coast of Italy.

And that night’s hostel had a 2 Euro shuttle to and from the villages every day.

The next morning I awoke early, shivering with excitement, and boarded the tiny shuttle.

The first of the Cinque Terre villages is Riomaggiore, boasting small and hidden shops, twisting roads and the oddest train station I had ever seen.

Train Station
At Riomaggiore

Here I spent the better part of two hours, wandering the streets above the town and people watching at a local cafe. At the cafe I encountered a nice Italian man who understood a limited amount of English since Cinque Terre has a small, but still present, tourist scene. During a small conversation I found myself trying to explain to him the term “bless you” after he involuntarily sneezed, a task I quickly gave up on simply saying “it’s an American thing” which is not at all true but was the only way to stop him from looking at me like I had sprouted horns and a tail.

Riomaggiore

I then boarded a small train at the foot of the village which meandered along the cliffs between the five villages.

Although my dreamy little Manarola was only one stop away, I decided to take the train to the last of the five villages first. Monterosso overlooks a lovely beach and houses a monastery atop a hill overlooking the green ocean.

Monterosso

After another two hours of lounging in the sun, climbing rocks in the ocean, eating Gelato, and climbing to the monastery and taking in her views, I returned to the train and was whisked past a green ocean and through dark tunnels toward my childhood dream.

Manarola.

The town was as beautiful and dreamy as I had always imagined.

I emerged from the train station to cheery accordion music, beckoning travelers into the little village.

Everything about this village was different-different from  anywhere I’d ever been.

Fountain At The
Edge Of Manarola

I drifted to the shoreline, walked the streets needing to get lost in the feeling of my tiny dream and climbed above the houses to gardens and orchards and a view of the village and the sea.

I walked, dipping down to where the waves pooled against rocks that jutted skyward.

There I sat staring up at my tiny Italian village, filling my eyes with her colors and my heart with the knowledge that I had made it here-despite it all, I had made it here.

I walked out along the cliffs on a trail that connects all the Cinque Terre and sat among the rocks of the cliff side. 

And there I sat for nearly an hour, fulfilling my dream.

The next morning I returned to La Spezia preparing to move on to one of Italy’s most sought after cities, Rome, but first I had a stop to make.

I returned to the bakery from two evenings before and experienced yet again Italian kindness and their eagerness to help.

There I spent nearly twenty minutes trying to explain to the shop owner and his worker that I wished to repay the bakery for the previous free treat.

Since neither of them could understand English, a policeman who happened to stop by for a snack tried to help. When he could not help either he brought in his partner who knew more English but still was of no help. 

Finally yet another shop owner from a few doors down was brought in to translate my wish to give back what I owed. Only to be dismissed yet again.

“I don’t want her money,” the shopkeeper informed his friend and waved me away again.

As I left the store feeling stunned by the owner’s kindness the other shopkeeper followed me out.

“You are traveling alone,” he asked. “And you speak no Italian?”

When I answered both questions with a nod, he pointed down the road. “Go to the end of the road and knock on the last door, the people there will help you.”

Smiling, knowing I would never forget the kindness of small town Italy, I boarded my train.

I left feeling confident that dreams, no matter how desperate, can always be accomplished.

“Come along Life, take my hand, let’s have an adventure together.”

~KrystleLyric

A Tip For Female Travelers

Italy is beautiful, stunning, gorgeous and eccentric.
And because of this intensity, it's men have an appreciation for beauty in all things-especially women.
When traveling Italy's cities, female travelers will become so accustomed to hearing the term "Ciao Bella" or "Hello Beautiful," often from people wanting money, that you will begin to ignore it.
Sometimes however, the men will become more forward, cornering girls on streets, taking their hands and not letting go or trying to kiss them.
"No" is the same in Italian as in English but as I was warned it is often considered a sign to try harder rather than an actual response to their advances.
So please, for your own sake girls, stand up for yourself and don't be shy!
Be forceful and strong in yourself-you know what you do and don't want, what is acceptable to you and when the line has been crossed so don't let some dashing Italian try anything you don't want him to.
Walk away, he will find another beauty within minutes who may be more willing.
Fight for yourself.
You are beautiful but you don't deserve to be treated like candy in an expensive shop window if you don't want to be.
Compliments can be flattering and the attention is nice but you have control over you, not some random horny Italian.
So be strong, stay safe and experience as much of Italy as you possibly can, it is worth every second you spend there!!!

To Go Or Not To Go...I Choose Not

October 30th has come and gone.
Although this has little or no relevance to the rest of the world it means a great deal to me.
As 1 pm came around I was intended to be rising above the city of London on the long flight journey back to the States.
Instead, I was boarding a train in Italy having extended my trip another 20 days.