San Francisco on film

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The colors were everywhere. Bits of coral, the blue of the sky, the warm hue of sand, the cool grey of the dense fog that engulfed Adrienne’s neighborhood each night. The smells were different- hot asphalt, whiffs of delicious foods not found in Montana, the sterile yet slight omnipresent stink of public transit, of thousands of bodies inhabiting the same small train cars day in and day out. San Francisco felt like a city that was in the midst of a lot of change. Money and youth everywhere, and yet none of it to be found for many.

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We walked through the park, surrounded by massive eucalyptus trees, before breakfast. Logan took a picture of poop in the park with my film camera because he said I was being stingy with my film. We smelled the rich earth and the flora and saw red wing blackbirds and ravens before making our way to the beach.

The beach was engulfed in fog that was slowly retreating, and we walked to meet the waves, letting the edges of the Pacific ocean lap at our feet. The sand felt good in between my toes and I watched as one man in a dark coat walked up and over one of the dunes. The beach felt melancholy and full of gloom, but I loved it. Such spaces are great for letting thoughts wander and unravel and then pulling them back to have new, strange, and better ideas and thoughts.

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We went to the Mission District, which Adrienne had warned us was quickly becoming gentrified. Historically Latinx and Hispanic families have lived there, but as we got off BART we saw the inevitable results of gentrification. We walked a lot around that area and still heard plenty of Spanish, saw groups of school children and church groups outside churches with signs that read, “Jesus te ama”, and I hoped that the people who had been there would hold onto their apartments and stores and churches and habits, but I quietly knew that money and white people were probably sinking their teeth into the area and biting away at what hadn’t been theirs before.

In in the midst of our Mission ventures we found a beautiful, cramped Italian market. One wall was entirely devoted to hanging sausages and I felt myself growing hungry even though we had eaten quite recently. A beautiful wheel of Parmesan cheese sat staring at me and Logan pointed out some meats he had been searching for. We looked at the olive oils and the cans of tomatoes and all the pasta and left because if we didn’t leave soon we would buy meats and cheese that we had no room in our luggage for. We found a Brazilian mercado, and once inside I was the only one who wasn’t speaking Portuguese. People sipped coffee and around us were baskets full of Brazilian cooking ingredients, juices, and random odds and ends like deodorant or romance novels. Logan chatted with the barista and we left to go find a cool place to linger. We ended up at a dive bar with the right amount of sticky counters, grimy interiors, and dark corners and sat down. Adrienne joined us shortly after, and we talked and people watched.

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The rest of our trip was like that- full of lovely places but being quietly reminded that this was a city being inundated with money from tech firms and start ups and that things were shifting and maybe had been for a while. Regardless, we thoroughly enjoyed being able to see and do the things only cities can give you- art, diversity, busy crowds and the kaleidoscope of humanity that buzzes and bustles as each one of us carves out our own space in the world in whatever way we can.

Two Years

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Amsterdam, two years ago.

Two years ago Emily and I were eating apples and going to the Rijksmuseum and seeing MisterWives at Paradiso. I wrote directions to the venue on my upper thigh so we wouldn’t have to bring our phones and we stuffed our cash in our bras and shoes. We found out that the Dutch don’t party on Saturday nights like I thought they would. We were told by some family friends that Amsterdamers prefer to go out on Wednesday or Sunday nights, oddly.

We stayed in the apartment of a family friend close to the Albert Cuyp market and got sushi to go on a rainy evening. We spend time in the Hortus Botanicus and the Artis and ate delicious Indonesian and Vietnamese food. We had proper dim sum for the first time in our lives and I had a love affair with some duck crepe thing and a shrimp dumpling.  I lost close to ten pounds just being on my feet all day every day seeing what this old, vibrant city had to offer, and it was so refreshing to be in the motherland in a place where our long, strange last name was perfectly reasonable, even if Dutch still sounds so strange to my Anglo ears.

I cannot wait to go back someday, hopefully sooner rather than later.

Provincetown and points of view.

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I asked Logan what “Lagosta na Panela” meant after I saw the tiled sign outside of the Lobster Pot in Provincetown. “It means lobster in the pot”, he said over the phone and I laughed. Of course it does. 

Provincetown is a centuries old whaling town with a historic Portuguese presence that turned into an artist and gay colony. The town is saturated with gorgeous old architecture, vivacious townspeople, and a wealth of galleries, restaurants, and beachfront to visually and otherwise consume. You can walk down the “Widow’s Row” which is full of old ship captain’s homes, with windows so that the wives could watch for their husband’s ships to come in- or never come back. Colorful buildings, shingled Cape homes, and lots of old New England history abounds there. I forgot how much I love that weird little town, where drag queens make a living alongside literary celebrities, and where one day it can be gorgeous and sunny and the next rainy and miserable. Oysters and good gin are always called for, but so is Spiritus Pizza, a local pizza joint that serves up delicious pressed apple juice alongside large, floppy slices.

To me, though, Provincetown is also just a place to get lost. It’s a magnificent town to people watch in. I wish I could someday spend a week with my camera and just sit on various benches and photograph the diverse humans that weave their way in and out of Commercial Street as they hunt for a new painting, a place to eat, or perhaps somewhere to just get away from the crowds. When I am there I try to get up early and see the town before it is full of souls, and there is nothing better than

On one rainy afternoon with Exa and Emily, we walked into a little store and browsed. The owner of the store immediately broke into conversation about what we were looking at, and asked us where we were from. We chatted about lots of little things, and it felt really lovely to do so. The same thing happened earlier in the shop where I bought my beautiful blue woodblock printed dress, and again in another store. Provincetown is full of people who have fascinating stories and pasts and are more than willing to engage and share those pasts. I love humans- all of us are a unique sum of all our experiences, both good and bad, and none of us are the same. We all have to survive, thrive, and suffer together and being able to touch on people’s humanness and chat about books, about their store, or about what adventures and activities we were up to felt wonderful in a small, satisfying, the world isn’t so bad way. If that sounds hokey, that’s alright, but I’ll be the sappy optimist over the grumpy cynic that I worry I am becoming any day.

Let it wash over me- the Nostalgia post.

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How much of what I remember is real? How much of it is fantastical, invented by repetition of remembering? How much of Lugano that I possess in image won’t be there when I go next time?

I left Lugano in May of 2011, when I was 20 years old, sure of my return. I have not been back since. I ended up graduating from an in-state university instead of the prestigious, dual-degree giving small college in Switzerland I planned on.

I was surrounded by new things there, when at the age of 18 I embarked on the rare opportunity to learn somewhere entirely foreign to me. Ridiculous amounts of wealth stared me in the face- students in leased Porsches, BMW’s, and Mercedes-Benz vehicles lined the small student parking lot, bags worth my tuition gracefully hanging from fellow students arms, expectations of lavishness that had only entered my eyes previously through magazines. One classmate described growing up being shuffled around in armored vehicles in Colombia due to her father’s fear of being kidnapped. In Montana we keep a winter survival kit in the car in case something happens. In the cafeteria Arabic, Spanish, Russian, German, Czech, and English all mingled. Downtown Lugano was a space of tremendous, blatant wealth as well- I gazed at 800 franc shoes from Ermenegildo Zegna, gorgeously tailored suits, women wearing furs in the midst of May. Limited edition cars so rare that their worth almost couldn’t be ascertained- Bugatti, Lamborghini, Bentley, Jaguar- parked near 18th century Baroque churches. Versace, Bally, Hermes, Gucci, Missoni, Cartier boutiques lined the narrow, car-less streets weaving between quiet, elegant piazzas.

In the autumn, the piazzas were laced with the smell of roasted chestnuts. Sullen Gothic teenagers huddled outside Manor, sharing quiet comradery. Efficient buses hummed around and the funiculare which took you from downtown to the train station cost .10 francs and went to and fro full of passengers up the steep hill. Centuries old buildings with painted on windows, all shades of pastel, created a maze-like town of alleys and piazzas to stumble into. In the winter, one would hear the helicopters as large, regal Christmas trees were lowered into the piazzas. Old men played chess on the many painted large chess boards around the city. Swans, regal thieves, languidly floated near the edge of the lake, waiting to be fed. The sleek, small train station whisked people away to Milano Centrale or to the Zurich Bahnhof, wherever the rider wanted to go. I myself had the utter joy of having a train pass, being able to explore such cities as Lausanne, St. Gallen, Basel, and Zurich, easily and efficiently. Well-dressed older gentleman whose taxis were plush Jaguars asked if you needed their services. If you did indeed take a taxi, the inside was full of the sounds of bad 1990’s American rock and pop music that the drivers knew every word to. (I remember having one very patient Luganese gentleman try to shove my rather tattered bag into the back of his car at 5 am, probably much more used to dealing with more sleek creatures.)

Among all this newness and strangeness, I found my stride, my humble Montana-based stride, in the midst of all. Migros was the affordable grocery store that I regularly patronized. H&M clothed me. My friends and I splurged on warm Nutella crepes or nocciolo gelato, at 5 francs a welcome luxury, from the petite stands that emerged outside Manor and on corners. Churches full of relics, frescoes, and gorgeous, quiet details absorbed my spare time. Flowers in the Parco Civico, changed frequently, smiled at me, and in the early mornings, before most humans were awake, I could have the lakeside, and even the Italian mountains across the lake, to myself. On a few special occasions my dearest friends and I gathered at the Spaghetti Store by the lake to devour pizza with marscopone, arugula, and prosciutto with cheap table wine.

And yet, how much of this is personal mythology I coaxed from the threads of my mind? How many times was my identity as outsider made obvious?

I really hope, in the next few years, to go back and ascertain how much of what I think I know about this beautiful city is false. Human memory is so faulty, beautifully so, and if I find comfort in the ideas I’ve woven for myself,so be it. The curious part of me, however, is not always content with that answer- nor should it be. Lugano, I cannot wait to re-explore and analyze you with my veteran eyes.

Flickr Commons: Around the world.

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C. Ray and large jellyfish. Smithsonian Institution.

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Gezi Park, Taksim Square, Istanbul via SALTOnline

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Unicorn and bird pattern, artist uknown, Bergem Public Library

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British Library, Illustration of a Northern Pike. 

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View of Stuffed Animals Installation, cyanotype, Smithsonian Insitution

 

Acervo Museu do Senado

 Brilho da Noite by Eduardo Meira Lima via Senado The Commons

The National Galleries of Scotland

The National Galleries of Scotland, albumen print, 1860. 

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1902, torfbærinn Sölvhóll á Arnarhólstúni. Ær framan við bæinn via Reykjavik Museum of Photography

Last night I spent an evening as I often do: On my computer. However, I found myself falling deep into the Flickr Commons, a sort of collection of archives from various universities and institutions that digitized photographs, documents, postcards, you name it, and put them available for public use.

Last night alone I explored post-mortem photography (a grim Victorian thing that today is not often done), tin types, illustrations of plants, original treaties from various nations- dozens of different areas.

What I posted above are a few of my favorites. Oddly enough, many don’t post actual art collections, with the exception of the Senado Federal do Brasil, which has a massive album of some amazing modern and early modern art.  The British Library has one of the best collections of fauna (animal) sketches and illustrations I have ever seen, and I spent hours scrolling through early German, French, and English explorer’s depictions of animals from all corners of the world (early sketches of water creatures are especially interesting- sharks often look more like cats for some reason). The Smithsonian Institution has an (obviously) gigantic collection but images from one person’s diving around Antarctica were really damn spectacular.

If you’re bored (which you shouldn’t be, the world is too awesome for that) I recommend simply starting here: https://www.flickr.com/commons. Go get lost exploring what various institutions and places have collected and then made available to you. Find goofy sketches of extinct animals done by some guy with more imagination than observational skills. Explore orotypes (gold-tinted photographs) from over 100 years ago. Find yourself looking at woolly Icelandic sheep living out their days on that wonderfully bizarre island. Delve into photographs of wealthy people fabulously lounging in repose. Look at images of fantastical buildings from different time periods. Wonder how the hell an archivist delicately handles centuries old documents in acid-free cotton gloves without panicking. Begin a thought train and see where it takes you.

Or, don’t. But bookmark the link because you’ll be glad you did when your plans cancel and you’re stuck at home. Or when you voluntarily cancel your plans because being outside and around people is just too much.

The beginning of our trip!

The flights from Denver to Reykjavik and Reykjavik to Amsterdam were monotonous. Plane flights these days are things best done while not fully aware of the conditions you voluntary enter into. I listened to music, watched the free movies, and didn’t sleep much.

We arrived in the early afternoon at Schipol. We were being picked up by Helen, and whisked into the city in her car. She brought us straight to our hostel and then took us to a delicious bakery/cafe, De Bakkerswinkel. We walked around the city a bit. Emily and I were quite tired but I immediately found myself taking pictures of the rooflines. I was entranced by them, looking up. I don’t know how people in Amsterdam or other architecturally saturated cities don’t constantly run into each other- looking up in awe all the time made me prone to bumping into people, running into my sister, and just plain ignoring what was in front of me. (I did at one point step directly into the path of a speeding Vespa- oops.)

Amsterdam was chaotic. We stayed at Hotel Internationaal, right in the Red Light District. It was noisy 24/7- Emily and I were armed with ear plugs, thank goodness. (We mutually agreed that if we had known how chaotic it was we would have stayed elsewhere.) There were so many people, and so many bikes. We heard Dutch everywhere and I came to the conclusion that it was indeed akin to very very drunk German with more guttural noises.

I remember when we stopped at a bar and I attempted to order a beer. I was dead sober and struggled mightily to pronounce the phrases properly and in the end reverted to the most Neanderthal action ever: Point and grunt. Well, not quite grunt but gesticulate in the direction of the beer I wanted. That, sadly, was more successful than words. (I’d like to clarify here and point out that 95-100% of the Dutch speak excellent English and this was more me trying, stubbornly, to work in another language other than my own.)

Anyway, Amsterdam was magnificent to walk around. If you ever go bring sturdy shoes and explore. There are enough church towers and markets and squares that you can easily find yourself if you’re lost. There are lovely quiet pockets and louder more crowded areas, all scattered across the remarkably flat landscape. Do beware of the bikers though! I have to say that riding a bike in Amsterdam to me seemed akin to suicide or homicide- you would surely either kill yourself or slaughter others. The  Dutch ride their bikes with a speed that borders on reckless- they use their bells ferociously and dodge humans, cars, and other bikes fiercely. If you’re a visitor and you’re up to speed on biking in cities, go for it, but if you’re like me and from a largely rural area don’t unless you’ve got organs lined with steel and a skull made of sheet metal- collisions are imminent.

Now to the important part: the food culture that exists in Amsterdam is one to take full advantage of. Thank god we walked everywhere or I would have come back quite a bit larger. We had incredible Indonesian, Thai, Vietnamese, Dutch, Italian, and Spanish food, among many others. For me, one of the best parts of traveling is eating and drinking the culture, which I believe can give you a lot of ideas about who the people are, what they think they are, and how they define themselves or want to be defined. There’s a lot of complexity in food and drink woven into cultural landscapes. Not that I’m delving into this sort of thought while I’m devouring a plate of food, but I have to justify my eating habits somehow. I will definitely be elaborating on all the food we ate, because eating is one of my favorite things to do.

More to come! Til then, tschüß!

Currently: an update

We are currently avoiding the miserable and relentless rain and wind as they pelt the windows of our small cottage in Hafnarfjöður.

The complete lack of posting is all to blame on this: the longest holiday I have taken in a very long time. We have been in Amsterdam, Brussels, and Bruges, and Iceland is our final stop. We (sadly) depart this Wednesday from Keflavík Airport to fly back across the sea.

In the meantime, here are a few iPhone photographs from our time in Amsterdam. A wonderful family friend, Helen, picked us up from the airport at Schipol and took us to our hostel.

We unwittingly ended up in the heart of the Red Light District, with noise unabated 24/7. Nonetheless we were able to enjoy this fascinating city, navigating the narrow streets and crossing bridges, all while dodging the homicidal bikers that fly with dizzying speed around corners, seemingly fearless.

One aspect of Europe that never ceases to amaze me is just how old it is. America is a toddler compared to many European cities, and as we walked past buildings that were 500 years old and still standing I was left with my mind reeling.

We visited gardens and zoos and walked for miles, a visitors map in hand. Truth be told, Amsterdam was often a struggle for my mind and body, as the large masses of people clogged streets and bars and seemingly every available space. I am not at heart a city dweller; the comfort of Montana and it’s expanse of space and my largely rural-ish (relative to this) upbringing can make me bolt and dodge people as if escaping from something.

Regardless, we had a blast. The food scene in Amsterdam is certainly one that will get praise in upcoming posts, and many gems of the city we encountered I want to delve into further.

I hope that these images suffice for the time being, until I have access to a computer (I am posting from my iPhone, and apologize if formatting or image sizes are off!). Farewell for a few more days, friends!

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North feels right

We went into Glacier and it was breathtakingly beautiful.

I love living where I do because I am constantly surprised. I am always amazed and shocked and the opportunities that abound here aren’t like any other.

We encountered a man carrying a cigarette and a walking stick simultaneously. He was walking at a decent pace. He got out another cigarette after he finished this one.

The Many Glacier Lodge we went into was built by the railroad companies as tourism destinations, but they are in the “Swiss” style- it made me a little nostalgic for my real Switzerland, although real is entirely subjective.

We hiked 8 miles to Bullhead Lake that day, quietly soaking up sunshine and hearing waterfalls and the breeze blow through the alpine flora. Glacier is beautiful, despite the people we encounter. I enjoy solitary moments while travelling but being somewhere so popular doesn’t always afford those.

Regardless, last weekend was absolutely lovely!

I’m not a city person but I had a good time in one once.

I am not good at operating in New York. Or Boston. Or most cities. I act like I am- I am merely very skilled at covering up the fact that I am very, very lost. Mostly because once I reach a place with any significant population (i.e. over 50,000) I seem to be consistently bad at figuring out where the hell I am.

My lovely aunts hosted me in Connecticut over spring break this last year and I was able to head into the city several times. Each time was it’s own unique perilous journey. One morning I met Exa at the train station, and I wanted to cry seeing her! Another time I successfully got into the city but was supposed to meet an old friend from high school at a vegan Japanese restaurant.

I was given an address but since at that point I owned no smart phone I merely had to guess. I was almost late, I was confused, and I had spent 90 minutes circling blocks, trying to gauge where I was. Finally, I hailed a taxi and got in. Giving him the address, I expected to feel relief. Upon repeating it though, he says, “Listen, it’s literally two blocks from here dahlin’. I can take you there but you’re pretty much already there.” I refused to walk any further and rode the taxi two blocks.

Another time I went into the city and rode the subway to the Met. However, I was so relieved to finally be on the right line I fell alseep in my giant black rain slicker and woke up in the Bronx some time later after having passed the Met long long ago. Oops. I simply stayed on the train, and waited until I got back down to the Central Park ish area.

New York was lovely. I ate fantastically well- noodles, mimosas, whoopie pies, Italian food, French breakfasts, sushi, you name it! However, my appetite was fueled by the pure ridiculousness and stress of being in New York. I love cities for a jaunt or for a bit but I think I’ve slowly come to realize that heavily populated areas deprive me of the greenery and forests I take for granted. I feel claustrophobic and yet lonelier than ever. I love being able to go into one for a bit to visit museums and hear the multiple languages and see the culturally different but for me there is nothing like getting up and hearing the trees scrape against my window and be surrounded by mountains, or driving for only an hour before I hit pristine streams and campsites rarely visited. I like it when my traffic jam is caused by deer in the road.

 

The impossible things are often the most beautiful

Vladimir Tatlin’s Momunet to the Third International might be one of my favorite non-existent pieces of art.

It is considered technically impossible to assemble in the state Tatlin sketched it in. It was meant to be taller than the Eiffel Tower. It was meant to show the aspirations of the USSR, and define the age of modernity, among other things.

Is it a sad thing that Tatlin’s dream structure cannot actually be built? Or is it beautiful that we can imagine it and sort of bask in the wonders of the human mind, in all the far fetched and delusional thoughts, plans, and wants?

Lugano on the brain.

Sometimes one needs a little nostalgia. I seem to constantly relive these moments- cooking in Girasole (which means sunflower in Italian), hitting up a discoteca and dancing until 5 am, shaving Hannah’s head and making her look super convict like, roaming around little Swiss villages and drinking wine on wood floors, all while absorbing the Neo-Renaissance architecture and classic piazzas scattered around the town.

Palermo: The Past Posts

It’s rather rainy and cold today, which means a blog post! WOO! I haven’t done one in a while…er, less than week, but in a young person’s life that can feel like forever!

Anyway…

Palermo is largest city in Sicily- the island off the coast of Italy, essentially being kicked by the boot. Sicily has a long history of being taken over as a vital trading/geographic place on the Mediterranean, and so the Arabs, Spanish, Greeks, English and Sicilians (and many other cultures) have been dominating the island for thousands of years.

Palermo is amazing in that it reflects all of those things in once place! On one corner of a street will be a Fascist style building, and down three blocks will be a Baroque church, cornered by a Greek-temple like building. Arab influence in the patterns on the windows and the language are still very much there. Sicilian itself is a mix of Arabic, Greek and Italian- a weird, hybrid language baby that nobody can understand except the 5 million Sicilians that speak it (A fair few, eh?)

Exa and I were in her dorm room one cold January evening messing around on the internet, when we decided to see what the cheapest place to go was on EasyJet. For less than 50 euros, we got round trip tickets to Palermo! Naturally, without thinking about it, we bought them. We knew Palermo was in Sicily, but we didn’t even think about the fact that we were going to Sicily, or how to prepare for such a random adventure.

The day comes when we get on the plane. Sicily is not known for it’s safety, so Exa boldly attempted to bring a Swiss army knife onto the EasyJet flight. Unsuccessful, it was taken from her- yet, somehow, I got pepper spray onto the flight. (It was in the bottom of my bag accidentally, I swear!) We had our hostel name, address, and we had the information we needed- I had scribbled it all down on a couple of useful notecards.

It wasn’t until we landed in Palermo (which is a very interesting landing situation), that we realized I had left the notecards on my desk. Noooooo! Shit happens when you travel, and so we merely embraced this small hurdle, determined to not let it interfere with our adventure.

Unfortunately, the directions to our hostel were on the notecards. We boarded a dark, smelly shuttlebus which went past deserted, decaying buildings in the pitch black for about 30 minutes…Exa and I were both nervous, clutching our bags and wondering how the hell to get to our hostel at night in Palermo. Italian cities are not know for their orderly and easy to find streets. Luckily, I had programmed our hostel’s phone number into my cheap pay-as-you-go Swiss cell. I called a number, and a heavily accented voice answered, “Pronto! A Casa di Amici!” (The name of our hostel). I got vague, fuzzy directions, and decided it was alright- we could get there!

We hopped off at a random shuttle bus stop…and realized we had no clue where we were. We were in a big, fancy square, and it was lit up. Some nice fellow on the street gave us directions on GoogleMaps on his iPhone, and we set off- surely the taste of victory was sweet in our mouths! Alas, we set off in the opposite direction- meandering senselessly into the labyrinth of Palermo at night- dimly lit streets, no sidewalks, and general chaos. We finally gave in and found a hotel and got a map, where a very sympathetic hotel employee highlighted our way.

We arrived at the Casa di Amici 2 hours later. The hostess, who I had spoken to on the phone, was livid in the way an Italian mother would be- mostly with worry.

“You girls! I thought you would never show up! You were supposed to be here hours ago!”

Regardless of the fact that we had never met, she treated us like her daughters, and ushered us in, relieved that we had survived and gotten to the hostel.

“It’s not safe at night, especially for you American girls, all pale and with your packs.” We agreed with her, got our keys, dropped our packs, and walked to the restaurant around the corner to celebrate our victory. We ordered pizza and wine, and then collapsed into a food coma.

The rest of Palermo was a blur- a delicious, complex, confusing, and scary blur. We wandered around to the ocean, got confused as German girls for most of the trip (our Italian has a German accent to it, apparently) and ate like kings- arincini, hot chocolate, pizza, lots of red wine (we would split a liter each night before bed) and tiramisu galore! We walked through Communist rallies after shopping at H&M (Palermo was having a mad sale on something), we went and saw The King’s Speech in Sicilian at a local theater, and mostly just took in the sights while trying not to be conspicuous (pick pockets are rampant in Palermo).

The Vucciria truly was the highlight of the trip, though. If you are ever in Sicily, you must go to the Vucciria- a mile long street bordered with food stalls and shops on either side. Sicilians hawk their goods and food loudly, shouting at you, and the streets are wet with sea water. The air smells like fruit, meat, cheese, and the freshest seafood I’ve ever seen. Octopus jostled for space with a stall of fragole (strawberries), and a cheese shop was entirely layered in giant wheels of cheese, shelf upon shelf of it. The Vucciria is one of the oldest food markets in the world. Vespas laden with new produce beep past customers and patrons through the cobblestone walkways, and the senses are delighted in everyway- it looks amazing, smells even better, and the spaces are so packed with food you image you taste it!

We bought fragole and ciliegi (strawberries and cherries) from an enthusiastic vendor- we bought so much he winked at us and give us each a DVD of him playing guitar and singing traditional Sicilian folk songs.

The next day we got on our plane home to clean, safe, and almost lifeless Lugano- at least compared to Palermo. It’s dirty streets, extreme noise level, beautiful architecture, and constantly busy atmosphere was amazing to spend three days in. I have days where I’m craving something really delicious and I think back to Palermo…a gourmance if there ever was one!

A dopo, ciao!