London

Two weeks in London was the perfect way to end the trip. It was such an easy city to be in and it was beautiful. I was reminded of Paris, the two having very similar architecture, and histories that wove together so tightly.

On our first full day there, we took part in a walking tour led by New Europe. It's all donation based and very casual, with lots of other backpackers, so we were a very young crowd traveling together through the city. It was the perfect way to get acquainted with such a big and overwhelming place. Without the tour, we maybe wouldn't have realized just how easy it is to walk from one area to another. I think people associate London with being a crazy city that consists of the Tube as the only way to get around. And while we spent a ton of money on our Oyster Cards, we walked so many places.

We also lucked out with our accommodations. On a gamble, I had booked the cheapest London apartment that I could find, having carefully weighed the cost of an apartment versus hostel. Thankfully, the apartment won! But. Having gone with the least expensive option I was super nervous about where we would find ourselves living for two weeks (don't tell Amy how nervous I was). Amazingly enough, the apartment was in one of the poshest neighborhoods of London - South Kensington. I regret not having taken a picture of our street, with the row of white townhouses, all matching perfectly, and the rows of luxury cars out in front. Also, it had a private garden in the back that we had access too, allowing for picnics and it turns out, drinks with our landlords on several occasions.

Our landlady, Holly, was the best. She opened the door to two girls with huge backpacks and bags and probably a ragged appearance, but didn't seem to mind -- after the shock wore off. We didn't realize at that point that Holly and her husband were socialites of some sort and that Holly rented out the basement flat as a little side business, just something to do, but also probably part of the reason that the rent was so low (they don't really need the business... if you get my drift). But Holly, bless her heart, decided to invite us up for cocktails that evening and we graciously accepted.

Over the two weeks, we had drinks with Holly and several neighbors multiple times. It was so fun to get a spur of the moment phone call inviting us up and we felt really honored to even be included with the company that she kept. It was all way too lovely and surreal for two backpackers who were used to hostels and cold sandwiches. Thank goodness we had packed some nice clothes (and also done a little shopping).

Our days were spent going to just about every museum we could handle. Britain thankfully has free admission to their public museums, so we had the best time going to the Tate Modern and the Tate Britain, as well as the National Gallery and a few others. Some of the best art is in London. We also decided to go the West End one night to see a play, since London has such a huge theater scene. We had bought the cheapest tickets to Wicked that we could find and no surprise, they were in the very back row of the theater in the balcony. Regardless, it was wonderful.

I love London. I would go back in a heartbeat.

Scotland

Three weeks away from our departure date back to the US, Amy I caught a train from Manchester Station (home of the friendly emergency room staff) and made our way to Edinburgh. It was so nice to be in the UK, it was a great change and everything felt so civilized. Everyone with accents, some so thick it was hard to understand, but everyone extremely friendly.

The train ride went faster than others and before we knew it, we were on a bus on our way to the home of Judy and Goff -- a couple that Amy knew through mutual friends who had graciously agreed to let us stay at their home for the week. Looking back, this was such an amazing stroke of luck, because the GBP kicked our butt. I'm so glad that we didn't have to pay for a week of lodging in addition to food and activities. It allowed for us to do some great things in Scotland with our 'extra' money.

In addition to seeing one of our favorite museums (in Scotland no less! The National Gallery) we also bucked up (literally) and went into the highlands on a tour. It was a relatively big decision to be outright touristy, but seeing as there is practically no other way to see the highlands, it was a good choice. Despite, however, the bus breaking down for an hour and a half and the group of women with terrible BO who, of course, sat next to us.

The rest of the week was spent roaming around Edinburgh and taking in a truly beautiful city. Edinburgh is one of the oldest cities in the world and the things we learned about the origins and history of it made me fall in love even more. I'm relieved actually, since I was always so mean to my dad about how lame it is to be Scottish. Now, I can honestly say that I'm happy to be from the Robertson clan, even though we're pretty sure our side was kicked out of the country for being criminals...

All in all, I'm in love with Scotland, and I'm pretty sure Amy was enamored as well.

We got knifed!

It’s not as bad as it sounds, but it did include an ambulance ride and a trip to the hospital after a very long night.

First off, the airport in Heraklion is one of the most frustrating places I have ever experienced, run by complete idiots. Amy and I were extremely early for our 3:40am flight because the buses to the airport stopped running at 10:30pm. And seeing as buses are the cheapest way to get around town, we arrived almost 5 hours early for our flight on Thomas Cook, hereafter known as the worst airline ever.

When the airline finally called our flight for check in, we waited in line only to be told they couldn’t check us in with our confirmation number and passports. What? The conversation between the idiot at the desk and I went something like this:

Him: Um, yeah, ya see, this won’t work, I need the ticket.
Me: Well, where do I get the ticket if not from you, the ticketing agent?
Him: Ummm, well it’s an e-ticket that is printed out from a machine.
Me: Yeah, I figure, but where are the machines, then?
Him: Ummmmmmm, I don’t know… maybe go ask that desk over there and they will print you out a ticket from your email?
Me: You mean to tell me that you have no record of my reservation in the computer system using my confirmation code and passport?
Him: Computer? We don’t keep that information in the computer!

It went on and on like this until we went to a second desk where two extremely bored looking women attempted to log on to the internet to print out a ticket from the website. Apparently, if you don’t come to the airport with a ticket from your email printed out from Thomas Cook, that very same company doesn’t possess the means to check a customer in. Absurd. Seeing as we haven’t made contact with a printer in 2 months and the ticket was emailed only days before, this was just a little unrealistic. Anyways, the aforementioned desk jockeys “didn’t have access” to the site, so they sent us OUTSIDE the airport to weird little kiosks with a different type of airline representative. She was equally brain dead. That conversation went a lot like this (really, I couldn’t make this stuff up):

Me: I have a confirmation code and a passport to check in to my flight, but they’re telling me I need a ticket, which I don’t have.
Her: Well let me see what you do have. (I hand her a slip of paper with my confirmation number written on it)
Her: This isn’t a ticket!
Me: No, it’s a slip of paper with my confirmation code written on it. If I had a ticket to hand you, I wouldn’t be asking you for a ticket…
Her: Well where am I supposed to get a ticket?
Me: From the computer of something?
Her: (looks at and motions to her badly uniformed body incredulously) Well, where, where is a computer on me? Do you see a computer on me? (Patting herself down, like it’s hidden in a fold…)
Me: No, of course not on you, but within the records or something? Every other airline we’ve flown has been able to use our confirmation code to check us in…
Her: Well unless you have something else from us, we don’t have anything that we can provide. (Aside: Do you see the logic in this? They want us to provide them with information they would have had to have given us in order for us to provide it?)

In the end, I have an old flight confirmation from before we left and she essentially transfers all of that information on to another piece of paper by hand and tells us it’s a ticket. So ridiculous. But it’s a green light to get on the plane so who cares if they’re a bunch of idiots as long as it gets me to Manchester?

We manage to sleep through the majority of the red-eye flight and wake up in England where things make sense again. As we’re hauling our 30-pound backpacks off the belt, Amy winces and says that she thinks something has just cut her leg. Sure enough, she looks down at her thigh and she’s spewing blood. Without many other options, I give her some pathetic looking band-aids from my bag and she limps off to the bathroom, neither of us knowing what’s cut her.

Meanwhile, I’m left guarding the load of possessions and start looking at Amy’s bag to see what on earth could have cut her – we’re both thinking it’s some piece that’s broken on her bag in transit and become jagged, something small and fluke-y. Low and behold, sticking out of a side pocket, piercing the fabric of her bag is the blade of a knife. Her knife, the same one we fought off the naked guy with in Spain!

Somehow in transit on that shitty airline, it’s come undone from its safe, folded position, has cut through her bag and is now sticking out of the side. Now realizing that she’s been cut by a knife, not just something small and superficial, I leave the bags where I can see them and poke my head in the ladies room door of baggage claim – far enough to shout to Amy that it was a knife that she’s been cut with. She’s shocked, but by this point, not enough to disbelieve it since the cut won’t stop bleeding and has soaked through the band-aids and the tissue that she’s wrapped around her leg. This continues for a bit and after grabbing shorts for her to change into, I go to call an airport paramedic while she guards the bag and sops up the blood – all very brave and calm though, you’d never know she had a knife wound by looking at her from the waist up…

The paramedic shows up (finally, you would think they weren’t supposed to act with urgency) takes one look at the cut and says he’s sending us to the hospital – she’ll need stitches.

Okay. We can handle that. No big deal, the emergency room, but how should be get there? An ambulance, he says, like we’re crazy to hint at anything else.

That’s when this really becomes an emergency, because the last thing either of us can afford is an ambulance ride. A few thousand dollars for an ambulance ride is definitely something that would go in the “unexpected expenses” category and would wipe us clean. I ask him about procedure for Americans and we’re both about to say that we’d rather walk to the hospital than pay for an ambulance, when he says with amusement “It’s Britain, love. It’s free!”

Thank God. Sign us up then.

Amy’s wheeled (yes, wheeled) out to the ambulance while the paramedic and another guy help me with bags, all the while complaining about how heavy they are, and load us up into the back of the ambulance. Upon arrival, Amy is sent to triage where she’s called “Lovey” in nearly every sentence and I read tabloid magazines. After 30 minutes, we’re released with a proper bandage and the British equivalent of Steri-Strips in lieu of stitches (thank goodness, easier logistically) and we hitch a taxi to the train station for our 10:15 train.

Oddly enough, it’s our easiest travel day yet. Which really says something about our travel days, but also says a lot about how well we’ve learned to roll with the punches, or stab wounds, in this case. We made our train, Amy was a trooper, and we spoke the native tongue – it’s enough to make us pledge ourselves to the motherland for eternity. After 7 days of wrapping her leg in plastic wrap to shower, she’s allowed to take off the bandage and hopefully the 2-inch gash will only scar slightly since the blade was so nice and sharp. It didn’t slow her down though, really a credit to her. And I did promise to buy her a lollie if she was good and brave.

Stab wound

Jealous?

Greece: Athens in 24-hours

Only one relatively easy day of travel (tram, train, plane, taxi, feet) stands between Italy and one of the most beautiful places we've seen: Greece.

Having learned to expect the unexpected, Amy and I leave plenty of time to allow for difficulties while in transit between point A and Point B. It's not a straight line EVER and it's not the quickest, but with luck, it's the cheapest.

A mere 8-hours after closing the door on our apartment in Rome, we set our bags down in yet another youth hostel in Athens. Honestly, our part of town was a relative ghetto, but it was only a short metro ride to the good stuff and cheap (which is all we care about). The Placa District is the neighborhood below the Acropolis and it's beyond charming. Normal streets open up on to ruins and quite literally, they have built their lives and businesses around history.

Our only night in Athens left just enough time to find a rooftop restaurant under the Acropolis and our only day was filled with walking the streets, exploring the Acropolis and then hoofing it back to the hostel to pick up our bags and catch a plane to Santorini. We lucked out, however, because the one day we were in Athens ended up being a holiday (no mention of this in the guidebooks, however) but for once, a holiday was a blessing - free admission to everything.

More time in Athens would have been great, but I think we both feel pretty good about having used our time wisely. And with the itch to lay in the sun and see the Islands, Athens was 24-hours well spent.

One last bottle of Prosecco

Before leaving Italy, we had one last item on the agenda and it involved a bottle of prosecco, hopefully to be shared with friends from college who had just arrived in Rome.

Having packed everything up and prepared for our early morning as much as possible, we walked to Piazza Navona to wait for our friends. Coincidentally, we've been able to meet up with two sorority sisters while in Rome, both of whom grew up with Amy and the girls' mothers are best friends to Amy's mom. Sarah (younger than us by 3 years and studying abroad in Rome) is the same friend we had over for dinner at our apartment and Katie (our year) and their moms were flying in to town with a 48-hour window to meet for drinks before we went on to Greece and they retrieved Sarah from her spring term abroad.

After a flurry of messages trying to arrange a time to meet, we told them where we would be celebrating our last night in Rome, and thankfully they met us with enough time to share a second bottle. It was great seeing Katie since after graduating college, we all have such hectic lives, but Rome gave us a chance to catch up and seeing their moms again was an added bonus.

Packing Up, Shipping Out

Crazy to say it, but it's time to get out of Rome and into Greece.

I'd planned to do so many posts on what it's like to just be here in the city, but after getting our computer back and catching up on all that needed to be caught, I'm spent.

Know this though: One month in Rome has been a wild ride for us. Not in the way it would have been when we were 20, but in a way that I think we can both look at and say, "This was good, I'm better for it."

Fact of the matter is that we're growing up and this trip has made us look that fact straight in the eyes. While we've been here we've gotten news of engagements from our friends back home, weddings have happened that we've missed and housewarmings have been rsvp'd with regrets to our newly mortgaged friends. We're starting to turn in to managers, husbands and wives, homeowners and teetotalers.

The contrast between "us" and "them" right now is dramatic, but only for these three months. In July we get back to our lives, or some version that resembles it, but for right how, on to Greece.

GREAT NEWS

I still fit in my pants!

(insert a collective sigh of relief from Europe and North America)

Roman Kitchen Notes

One of the things that I was looking forward to the most in Rome was the ability to cook. I've always been a baker, a damn good one too, but cooking has been slow to draw my attention. Part of the reason is that it usually seems like more of a chore than anything else -- Cooking is a necessity, baking is honest to goodness fun. And, after getting home from work at 7:00 or later, choosing between a well cooked meal or, really, anything else that still needed to be accomplished always made me choose quick over wholesome, or even appetizing.

But here, I've been reminded of the fact that I can cook and with Amy, we've been going to the produce markets and trying out different things. This recipe for pasta with porcini mushrooms sprang from a desire to copy what we've been having in restaurants.

Pasta with Porcini Mushrooms

4 tablespoons olive oil
2-3 Porcini mushrooms, chopped (about 1-2 cups)
Fine grain sea salt
5 cloves garlic, chopped
1 pound fettuccine
1/2 teaspoon black pepper
1/4 cup Pecorino or Parmesan cheese
Zest of one lemon

Heat 2 tablespoons of oil in a large skillet over high heat. Add mushrooms and large pinch of salt. Saute mushrooms until they release their liquid and begin to brown. Now stir in the garlic and cook 30 seconds more. Remove from heat.

Cook noodles according to package directions. Transfer cooked noodles to skillet with mushrooms and stir in black pepper, cheese, lemon zest and remaining 2 tablespoons of olive oil.

Serve immediately.

Also, I should note that although the mushrooms act as the protein, we added some chicken to our leftovers the following night and it still worked.

Rome: The beginning of the next 30 days

We've arrived in Rome in the middle of a heatwave. Everyday just gets hotter than the one before and locals are saying it's unseasonably warm. Going out into the city is like preparing yourself for battle. We came from nice weather in other countries, but this, this is weather that makes us dread putting on clothes and if it weren't for the sleazy, sleazy Italian men, we might be tempted to give in.

Our first few days in Rome were spent setting up house -- going to the grocery store, banking, and mailing packages. Only the grocery shopping turned out the be the easy task since just when we start to get comfortable, Italy laughs in our face and reminds us that it's a culture unlike any other.

Trying to withdraw enough money to pay rent from a bank here was an education. It turns out in order to withdraw over $300 we needed special permission from Bank of America, permission that only lasts until midnight pacific time from the time it's granted, when at that point, Italian banks had long closed. We literally had 30 minutes where the two banks' hours of operation overlapped long enough to make the transaction. True to style though, it took us 3 days to pull this plan together thanks to inadequacies on both the Italian and American fronts.

Shipping packages was another all-consuming experience. With a broken computer and a load of things we had been hauling since the markets in Florence, we were desperate to have things sent back to the States. Going on directions from a grocery clerk, we started looking for the post office that was supposed to be "over the bridge and to the left."

No post office.

So we ask inside a shop and we're told that she doesn't know of a post close by, but she does know of one that is about a 30-minute walk down the road. Great, except she shakes her head at us and essentially says we'll never make it in time considering that it's 1:00 and the post office closes at 2:00. Aside from this being an ungodly early time for a post office to close, there's a difference of 30 minutes that would make us Americans think "so, what's the problem?"

The problem, we learned, is that arriving at 1:40 and taking a number in an Italian post office means absolutely nothing.

After a half-hour long trek with 20 pounds of extra weight, we take a number at the post office, wait our turn, and just as they should be serving us, tell us they're closed. But we're inside? We have a number? It's 1:45?!

They don't care. They are closed as of this moment and will not help us - come back tomorrow.

Thankfully, an American ex-pat leaving the post office tells us that she knows of a post office open past 2:00 that she thinks is near Largo Argentina. Fine, great. We walk there and yes, there is a post office, but it's closed for construction and has been probably for months. We stop people on the street and they tell us they know of only one post office that we would even have a shot at across town. So off we go. Across town with only a smattering of directions, but they eventually lead us to a post office that appears to still be functioning.

Later, we learn that "functioning" is not be the proper term for an Italian post office -- best to use the word "open." The full list of complications would bore a person to tears, but the overview consists of a post office that sells boxes, but no packing supplies, a helper who clearly didn't work at the shipping desk, but saw two American girls and decided to come out from the back room to assist and the half-hearted guarantee that our packages would arrive after 35 days. After 35 days? How long after?

The update to all of this is that of course our gifts were shipped and clearly we received our computer. The good news is that our familes even received our boxes in record time. The bad news is that whoever handled Amy's package had sticky fingers, as half the items she shipped didn't arrive in the States, and it had nothing to do with customs. More than likely it's a product of a system so flawed it's amazing that this culture accomplished so much despite it.

Florence

Aside from seeing the Ufizzi Gallery (which was amazing in its own right) and walking the city, there's not much to tell about Florence. Amy had already been there, and I think that our real interest in the region was actually in Tuscany, but without a car, we were using Florence for a poor man's Italian countryside.

With a lackluster showing of excitement for a Sunday spent in the city, we picked up some of the brochures in our hotel lobby just to see what was out there. Low and behold, 'The Lazy Sunday Downhill" was within reach. For a small fortune, a local bike company would take us into Tuscany where we would begin a 25-mile bike ride that consisted mostly of downhill riding and a lunch in the town of Fiesole. Sold. Despite parting with the money, it was well worth the views, the bike riding and the experience of being above Florence, out of the city.

Our starting point: A 13th century monastery in the hills above Florence

An olive grove, the harvest isn't until September-November, so only the beginnings of blossoms were on the trees.

One of the many pit-stops on the Lazy Sunday Downhill

The view from atop Fiesole, overlooking all of Florence

Proof

Because some some may find it hard to believe that I hiked or did anything requiring an increased level of physical activity, I want to provide photographic proof of our day-long hike through Cinque Terre's five towns.

And while I can hear the protests now -- the shrieks of laughter and the comments like "Define 'hike' for me," I 'll have you know that we received a lot of admiration when we told locals we did all five in one day.*

(mid-pant right here and trying to put on a smile)

*What I didn't tell them as they gave me high-fives, was that I wanted to die for the first bit and that I have never been so gross and sweaty. Amy fared much better then me and at points if it weren't for the old people on the trail, panting and telling me to enjoy my youth, I maybe would have cried. Or I'm being dramatic, but lesson learned was that I should re-evaluate my zero tolerance policy on exercise and go to the gym when I get home.

Arriving in Vernazza

Arriving in Vernazza was a welcome change. Not only were we ecstatic to be in Italy, but relived to be off the inferno of a train that held us captive. Reluctantly following Rick Steves' advice (yeah mom, he's proved to not be the travel god that you say he is), we arrived with no reservations for a room. The logic being that arriving in this particular set of towns with no arrangements is beneficial for two reasons: rooms (not hotels) are everywhere and seeing a room right then gives you the upper hand to either accept or walk away to the next if need be.

Beginning at the train station, be walked down a narrow street and into the center of town. After two minutes, we soon found out that the center actually also doubles as the end of town and the beach, and the marina, since beyond it, there is nothing else but cliffs and Mediterranean. Vernazza was so small that someone with a even a moderately good arm could stand on one end and have their ball caught on the other side.

Realizing that our options might be more limited than we thought, we got to it, asking bars who had rooms, people in the street who called friends, and ringing every bell we saw that had a sign above it advertising rooms. On our third connection with a real person, we were greeted by a little old lady who quickly led us down an alley to a teeny tiny room with a teeny tiny bathroom and our very own teeny tiny refrigerator. Great digs for girls who have been virtually camping and living off of sandwiches for a month.

The woman spoke no English, so Amy stepped in with the Italian asking about particulars and I towered over them, happily accepting my role as "bad American cop" to Amy's "good culturally- sensitive cop." They are carrying on in Italian, sharing pleasantries, talking about the room, and literally all I'm interested in is "how much?" How much is this teeny tiny palace is going to cost us? Amy tells me in English and I counter: "Drive her down," I say. "Ask if there is a discount for multiple nights, see if she'll crack!" And what do you know, she does. We bring her down from 75 Euro a night to 50. A savings of 100 Euro total and to us, a small fortune -- what we would spend in three days.

Feeling good about our hard bargaining, we settled in and went for dinner, a real dinner, to celebrate the start of five weeks in this sideways country. Our restaurant was near the ocean, and as we looked out, it was hard to believe that we weren't in the Caribbean and that Italy could claim ownership of mountins that meet the sea and water so blue and clear you can see right down to the bottom. Truly an amazing place, and all ours for 50 Euro a night.

A Lesson in Italian Train Travel

Pro Imperia

With the end of one country comes an increased anticipation for the next. So much so, that our last few days in Spain were spent talking about how great France would be, and true to form, the last few days in France were spent talking about how great Italy would be. I think it comes with the territory of prolonged travel: you spend so much time trying to embrace all that one country has to offer, but sooner or later, excitement gets the better of you and an antsy feeling takes over -- the need to see something else.

In Nice, we were constantly aware that the clock in the back of our minds was moving closer and closer to Italian time (the true definition of which, we're still adapting to).

Leaving Nice on our nice French train was no problem. We boarded with great efficiency, paid for tickets, settled in to posh seats and prepped for our arrival in Ventimiglia, just over the border where we would continue to Cinque Terre on Italian transportation. I don't know what it was, but literally, as soon as we came out of one tunnel, it was clear we had crossed the border and had left France. All of a sudden, it just looked, and more importantly, felt different. We both sensed it immediately, and when our suspicions were confirmed, we couldn't help but laugh to ourselves that a feeling of rundown neighborhoods and graffiti signaled Italy to us.

At Ventimiglia, the whole "train process" that we had grown so accustomed to turned on it's side. With no postings for our train, we stood in a line 15 people long while one ticket agent answered questions. While spending an eternity in line, however, the couple behind us noticed that our backpacks were from REI, and being from Portland themselves, we united in a Northwest bond. Turns out it was lucky for them, because with the way the trains operated, I don't know if they would have made it had they not been able to follow us.

When we finally reached the ticket window, Amy asked the man at the counter for a train to Vernazza, and in true Italian form, he replied saying only "11:30, platform 4." With that, he took no money and provided no more information or even tickets. So bizarre, since in every other country, we have had to pay additional taxes and fees in with our Eurail Pass, as well as show them documents and guard tickets with our lives. We told the Portland couple what to ask for at the window since they didn't speak Italian and then did the standard "hurry up and wait" that accompanies all of our travel days.

When the train did arrive, it was a total junker. Graffiti on the outside, no air conditioning or guides to inform you of the stops -- just some seats nailed to the ground of a box on rails. The Americans (all 5 of us by that point) camped out in one car and settled in for a journey of unknown duration, since no one had bothered to tell us just how long it was actually going to take to get to Cinque Terre.

Aside from being nervous that we would miss our stop (with our luck, we would miss Vernazza and end up in Hell), the first part of the trip south was uneventful. Then, it did a 180.

At one of the smaller towns along the line, the doors to our car swung open and in poured the rowdiest group of Italian soccer players you have ever seen. Instantly, the car went from being nearly empty to every seat full, or rather, they were more so piled on top of each other, moving around, standing, all the space full EXCEPT for the two right across from us.

One brave soul did sack up and sit down across from Amy, though, and while we were trying to act like pandemonium wasn't taking place around us, the soccer team immediately went into a frenzy giving their teammate a hard time in Italian. I, of course, couldn't understand anything they were saying, but as they were roasting this guy across from Amy, she couldn't help but laugh occasionally while trying to act like she was reading her book and then whispering to me what they were saying.

It didn't take long for them to figure out that the two blond girls were somewhat hip to what was going on, so from that point on they were talking non-stop to Amy while I waffled between smiling and nodding like an idiot and then losing interest and going back to my book. For Amy though, it was incessant. Very few of them spoke English, so the poor girl was thrust back in to Italian at full speed and with an entire soccer team. I don't know if some of them realized that I didn't speak Italian, because one of the few things they did say directly to me was "Are you shy? Are you nerrrvvouus?", to which I could do nothing more than indignantly respond with "No, I just don't speak Italian" and a few "ch's" and "puh's" in mock offense, having mistaken my ignorance for timidness.

After a long 2 hours on what was now the hottest train in Italy thanks to it being 80 degrees and overcrowded, the soccer team disembarked for their match. But, not before sufficiently hitting on us and leaving with promises to come see us in Rome (yeah right) and a barrage of "ciao bellas". When they got off, a calm came back to our car and the other Americans immediately turned around with dropped jaws and just started laughing.

It was really the most obscene, comical display of Italian 'machismo' that you could ask for after being in Italy for mere hours. Really though, every American girl's fantasy of being trapped with an Italian soccer team was somewhat lost on me and exhausting for Amy, but it made for a good welcome wagon.

With that, we fell back in to a peaceful silence and waited out the duration of what ended up being an almost 6-hour train ride. One of our longest rides yet and also most anxiety filled since we had no idea where we were the entire time, or even if we had gotten on the right train to begin with. Eventually though, the terrain started to look right and upon arriving in Vernazza, we began what was to be one of the most memorable weeks of our trip in one of the most amazing regions.

Back Tracking: Avignon & Nice

Now, to where we left off: Winding down on France

In all honesty, leaving Paris was pretty difficult as I think we both would have been fine staying for more time, but as it's strongly discouraged in the couchsurfing ettiquette book, we didn't beg for another night on the couch and instead packed up and caught a train to Avignon.



In total, we spent 4 days in Avignon and while we had a great time and appreciated the small little city for what it was, it was no Paris. We did spend one day taking a train to a neighboring town and spent another day trying to connect to Arles (but wouldn't you know, Rick Steves, the trains do not run all that frequently) so the amount of time felt pretty perfect.

Unofficially though, highlights would be the wine and the cheap hotel we found that gave Amy and I our own room and the ability to lock up our stuff and spread out. I'm probably selling it short, because it really was a great pace and really beautiful.

On Thursday of that week, we took a short train to Nice for a little bit of the Riviera, after having done a large city and a gotten a small glimpse at Provence.

Nice was a shock. For the first time in a month, we walked down the street and heard English, everyone was a tourist and the sales people and restaurants knew it. Prices were totally rediclous for really simple things and the food -- not so hot. While there, a friend wrote to Amy and asked if they should schedule Nice in to their trip and she politely referred them to Cannes.

Sure, being able to eavesdrop on the table next to you is a little comforting, but as for culture, it wasn't what we thought it would be. After a few days in the city, we were turning to McDonalds for a trusty euro cheeseburger -- our logic being that a cheap meal would not be the thing that ruined the cultural experice for us.

Despite the let down, a day a the beach and a day in Monaco were worth it.

The beach from the boardwalk -- it's about 7:00 at night, that explains the jacket because otherwise it was extremely hot.

This old guy's butt is a perfect example of the sightseeing in Nice .

Monaco - really charming little principality. The blue bleachers in the foreground were being set up for the Grand Prix.