Romeo, Juliet and the velcro pigs

Several years ago, my mom and I each bought copies of "1,000 Places To See Before You Die" and have used it as a travel bible of sorts. We always consult the well thumbed pages of the Big Book to make sure when we visit a place, we hit all the "can't miss" destinations. Mom and I check items off the list as we visit them.   We even compare the number of places we've each been (mom is currently in the lead, but I hope to pass her soon...!)

This past Saturday, we decided to check out the fair city of Verona, Italy.  A quick 30 minute train ride and we arrive. And are shocked.  The Big Book made it sound like a sleepy little town whose primary draw was simply the Romeo & Juliet story.  (I secretly hope to find some small mention of Gnomio and Juliet in the town, the adorable animated take on the love story, though I keep that tidbit to myself. Ha!)

The big book also mentions opera performances in the summer, but since we're there in January, we know that won't be possible.  As we walk into the historic center of Verona, it becomes clear the book didn't full prepare us for Verona.

The historical center of Verona is large, beautiful and has many attractions and museums to keep us busy for several days, not just an afternoon.

There are several big museums, one of which has a Monet exhibit (one of my mom's favorites!). We briefly consider visiting it, but the Saturday afternoon throngs keep us away.  A serpentine river running lazily through the town, creating beautiful vistas and showcasing medieval bridges.

Verona is also home to the arena, a 2,000 year old Roman amphitheater that houses opera performances in the summer. We're visiting in January, so unfortunately, this isn't an option for us, but can you imagine?  It must be spectacular!

We decide that Verona might warrant a second trip and decide to focus our efforts on the Romeo & Juliet story. There are plenty of options including Juliet's house, balcony, tomb, plus Romeo's house and tomb.  We focus on Juliet's house, statue and balcony. It's a beautiful Saturday afternoon and the town is crowded with locals and tourists window shopping and hoping for a glance at Juliet's balcony.

A 10 minute walk through the city takes you to Juliet's house and the balcony where she stood listening to her Romeo, below. He is said to have whispered lovely sentiments and declaring his undying love for her. I remember that Romeo & Juliet were about 13-15 years old and suddenly, I'm thinking of my earliest romances in middle/high school, a lifetime ago.

As I walk among throngs the streets of Verona, I think back and suddenly remember a pair of adorable plush pigs given to me by one of my first boyfriends. The red and white pair had velcro on the hands and the mouths, so when joined, they were perpetually kissing and holding hands.  I loved those cute little pigs, a sweet symbol from one of my very first Romeos!

As I silently wonder what happened to those pigs, suddenly, I look up and we've arrived at The House of Juliet.

We follow the crowd under an old stone archway and into a dark tunnel. What looks like graffiti is Juliet's wall, where people from all over the world sign their names, ensuring their love will last forever. I watch as my parents sign their names.

The archway opens into a courtyard. On the right, Juliet's house.  The balcony itself is quite small, but beautiful. 

I wander over to the wall of locks. Lovers from all over the world write their names on colorful locks and secure it to the wall. It's sweet to read the names and messages written on the locks. 

Next to the wall of locks is the bronze sculpture of Juliet herself. It's said that by touching her right breast, you'll have luck in finding love. I'm 35 and single, so I gave her boob a hearty rub, just for an extra dose of luck!

Next, we decided to tour the house of Juliet. It was 8€ and allows you to take a self guided tour of the house, including standing on Juliet's balcony.  It truly is beautiful and throughout the house, the views over Verona are exceptional. 

The house is sparsely decorated, but gorgeous.

Toward the back of the house is Juliet's bedroom and in it, the bed used in the filming of the 1968 movie, directed by Franco Zeffirelli (never saw it!).

And what good would a house tour be without some period clothing?  I actually loved the dress - my photo doesn't do it justice.

Romeo's outfit, on the other hand...well, let's just say I don't know a lot of men who can pull off a tights.  Leave a little to the imagination, fellas!

There is a guestbook filled with romantic sentiments in all languages (or maybe they're dirty jokes, how would I know what a backwards R means?)

One part was so delightfully ridiculous, I just had to snap a picture.  Towards the back of Juliet's house on the 4th or 5th floor, there are 4 terminals where you can email a letter to Juliet in any language you want.  Let's pretend for the moment that e-mail is the appropriate forum for this type of note. Let's also pretend that some beautiful woman wise in the ways of love will read your letter, when really it's probably a bored intern named Kimberly.

I stand there for a minute trying to imagine what I'd say to Juliet.

"Dear Juliet, my love life stinks.  Where did you get that delightful dagger?  Love, Jules."

No...not quite right.

"Dear Juliet, I've been dating for more than 20 years. At this point, I'm running out of things to say on first dates. Love, Jules."

True. But perhaps I should be more heartfelt. I close my eyes, take a breath and really try.

"Dear Juliet, I'm sure you've read a letter like mine a thousand times if you've read it once. I want the same thing that everyone wants...a great love, a partner, a friend. Someone to kiss me, hold my hand and grow old with. Someone to make me laugh and hold me when I cry.  Someone I can trust and confide in and lean on from time to time so I don't have to be so strong all the time. Someone to travel the world with, share my life with, build a future with.  I've been patient.  Will it ever be my turn...and will he be worth the wait?  Love, Jules"  

In the end, I decide not to write anything to the fair Kimberly Juliet.  But as I walk down flight after flight of stairs, catching glimpses of the buildings outside, awash in gorgeous afternoon sunlight, I snap a photo and think of the perfect, succinct email I should have typed.

"Dear Juliet, I rubbed your boob....could you help a sister out? Love, Jules" 

Vicenza and The Ugly Americans

Tonight, we spent the evening walking around downtown Vicenza. Vicenza was founded in the 2nd century B.C. and prospered under Venetian rule from the early 15th to the end of the 18th century. The famous architect Andrea Palladio (1508-1580) designed many urban and government buildings as well as villas, which are scattered throughout the Veneto region. Palladio's work inspired a distinct architectural style that spread to England, throughout Europe and to North America - called the Palladian style.

I love to stroll around cities and take photos, but I don't love to write down what I'm taking photos OF... so forgive me, but I'm missing lots of photo credits. :)

The beautiful Chiericati Palace:

                 
                                                 

My favorite thing about European cities is when you look down little side streets and find something unexpected. As we walked, I found a nondescript little opening and much to my surprise... it opens into a beautiful courtyard with a sculpture.

                                                   

I love the colors in Italy...it's exactly as you see in pictures and postcards, but being here is entirely different somehow.  The buildings are antique cream, pale yellow, warm gold, fiery red and burning orange. It should all clash terribly, but instead, it's the most beautiful color combination you can imagine.

I love big, old, unique doors of every kind, shape and size. Whenever I'm in Europe, I find that doors are among my favorite things to photograph.  These beautiful doors lead to an apartment building in the interior courtyard.  Just imagine coming home to that door everyday.  Swoon!

My parents in front of another gorgeous door!

                                                                        Street signs...

I think Vicenza is a perfect Italian city.  With plenty of restaurants, museums, cultural opportunities and amazing architecture, it's a city not to be missed.  

We have dinner at the Ristorante Paradiso. The food, service and wine were excellent. Unfortunately, I won't remember the restaurant for it's delicious food.  I'll remember it for the neighboring table full of "ugly" Americans, and older woman, younger couple and their 3 year old daughter. The parents let the 3 year old run around the restaurant without regard for her safety (or the safety of the wait staff!). The restaurant is at the top of a large marble staircase and the little girl was running around near the staircase without so much as a glance from her parents. The parents didn't bat an eyelash when their child began wandering up to tables of people and touching things on the table or touching people.  A few times, they quietly and ineffectively said her name "Claire,"but it comes out like a question and the little girl ignores it completely.  I think that people like this give Americans a bad name when they travel.

When my steak with porcini mushrooms arrives, the child appears at my side and starts generously salting the food on my plate before I can react. The parents aren't paying attention and say nothing.  I am shocked and cry out "what are you doing?" while gently pushing the child away from my plate and table. The ugly Americans don't utter an apology, instead they console the (now crying) child, who has apparently never been told "no" before.

The parents are loudly consoling her saying "...it's okay...you were just trying to be nice!" and "don't worry... you didn't do anything wrong..." as if trying to teach ME a lesson in manners.  To make it up to her, the parents then encourage her to empty an entire bowl of grated parmesan cheese (one spoonful at a time) onto one of their plates, wasting it.  As the child does this, the lid to the bowl smashes loudly down each time.

Perhaps it was the stark comparison to the beautiful Italian day, the gorgeous city or the grace of the Italian people. But as I sit eating my overly salted steak and hear the Americans continue to soothe their "poor child",  I don't miss home one bit.

First week in Italy...

My first week in Italy was a bit lazy but it was also perfect!

I've explored my new neighborhood in Vicenza, learned the bus routes, the process for buying train tickets and have a favorite local pizzeria.

Each day our beautiful apartment feels more like home. We spent the first week in our apartment doing standard stuff, like waiting for the Wi-Fi installer and buying housewares.  My Mom bought a beautiful rug and a cute Corning wear baking dish from the thrift store on the Army base.  I love that she spent just 6€, but the rug really made the apartment feel more like a home to all of us. And now we can cook meals at home!

We were all thrilled to finally have Wi-Fi in the apartment, thanks to the installer who came on Wednesday. He had a loud, booming voice and sang opera in Italian as he worked. Even the servicemen in Italy are charming.

This week gave me time to recover from jet lag and get settled in Italy. But now, it's time to get traveling! I'll spend this weekend with my parents before I head off on my travels on Monday...!

Mariangela

My Italian landlord is a terrific character.  Mariangela (Angie) has an easy going demeanor and is friendly, helpful and very talkative. If you ask her a question, her meandering Italian answer becomes a 10 minute conversation.

I like her immediately.

Her name, Mariangela, is the combination of her grandfathers name on her mothers side (Mario) and the grandfathers name on her fathers side (Angelo). They combined the names and feminized them into one beautiful name...Mariangela, though most people call her Angie.

Angie runs the Hotel Mary in Vicenza, Italy so some people call her Mary as well.  The hotel is a block from a U.S. military base, Caserma Ederle  and Angie has been taking care of people passing through Vicenza for 32 years. American soldiers and contractors might stay at the Hotel Mary for weeks or months at a time while finding permanent housing.  Angie also owns a 9-unit apartment building a block away, where my parents and I have rented a 2 bedroom apartment.

She is a force of nature. She's always in the middle of 3 or 4 tasks, but somehow never seems harried or stressed.  In fact, in spite of how busy she is, she always stops and talks to people and does so without any hint of impatience.  Each guest has her full and undivided attention.  It's Italian time... they'll get to it all eventually...no stress.

When I arrived in Vicenza late Monday night, I was completely exhausted, starving and desperate to lay down. Angie helped us load all of our bags onto carts and (Frogger-style) sprint across the main street dodging speeding Italian cars. Down a dark road, through a locked gate, another locked door, up stairs, and presto, we are in our very own Italian apartment. That night, desperate for a bed, Angie seemed like an angel to me.

The next day, I walked over to the hotel to thank her.  We chatted and I started asking questions and before long, 30 minutes had passed.  She offers to teach me a new Italian word each day. We make a deal - I'll stop by the hotel each day (or email her) and she'll give me a word.  In exchange, I agree to teach her some more obscure English words, phrases and American slang, as her English is already excellent.

The first word she teaches me is persiane (wooden window shutters that block out the light).  I pronounce it slowly.
"No, no," she says. "Not per-see-ah-NAH...that's a Persian person. Nay!  Per-see-ah-NAY."

She asks me to recite the words I know in Italian so far and I slowly and painstakingly pronounce the words Rosetta Stone has taught me - numbers, colors, family members and a few other miscellaneous words. She listens patiently, corrects me a few times and when I finish, she says she's impressed. I don't have any trace of an American accent, she says, which is rare. Lots of Americans have accents, she says.  Someone calls to her and she says "si" and is off to handle something requiring her attention.

"Persiane," she calls over her shoulder, emphasizing the "NAY" sound at the end. "And you come tomorrow for a new word."

...Part 2 and Jose's love story

Getting there....part 2

...so off I went with a hangover and a spotty memory from the night before.  My Air France flight Atlanta to Paris was one of the worst flights of my life. I had a bulkhead seat, but sitting next to two very large men, so I had zero space. I literally ate standing up in the galley because eating next to Andre the Giant's long lost cousin was impossible.

There was also a heating unit under my seat running constantly and blowing hot air on my legs.  It also warmed the seat itself and made my ass feel like it was being slowly burned by lava.  And being located on the aisle and in the bulkhead meant that I was always being (a) hit by someone walking down the aisle, (b) stepped on by someone waiting for the bathroom or (c) about knocked unconscious from the smells coming from the bathroom. All of my hopes of plane sleep to get through my hangover were dashed. I was dead tired.

I spent most of the flight standing in the back of the plane where the refrigerators were to escape my seat and the broad shouldered Czech man leaning on me. I chatted up the crew and remembered how much I love the French people and language.  It made me ever more excited to be spending 2 weeks in France in April. I fell asleep standing up at one point.

Best Love Story Ever...

If you'd have told me I'd hear the most romantic story ever in the back of a Boeing 777, I wouldn't have believed it. But it was at the back of the plane by the refrigerators I met a very attractive man named Jose from Valencia, Spain. Truth be told, I'd seen him in the gate area in Atlanta while waiting to board.  Jose is 32 and very attractive. He has that effortless European style...jeans that hang off his hips perfectly, a button down shirt, brown suede boots and the perfect 5 o'clock shadow. Even his hair was perfectly tousled and he was wearing glasses which read "Porsche" on the side. (My gawd, you guys...Porsche makes glasses??)  He reeked of coolness. I, on the other hands, was wearing pajamas and reeked of whisky and guilt, both coming out of my pores from the night before.

So as I sat chilling my ass on the refrigerators, Jose suddenly appeared and we started talking. We ended up talking for nearly 2 hours in the back of that plane and the time starts passing quickly. His smile is so dazzling it seems fake and he smiles often.

We had that easy, effortless conversation that happens so much traveling. You start by comparing current travel plans (he's returning home to Valencia, Spain via Paris) and places you've been (he's been everywhere and gives me recommendations as we chat).  We talk about our jobs, our families, our dating lives.  We talk about places we want to visit and I have a list as long as my arm. I want to see the world, I tell him, and this trip is just the tip of the iceberg! This will be my most romantic trip, I assure him, as I describe some of the romantic cities I'll be visiting - Paris, Prague, Budapest, Florence, the Amalfi coastline.  We disagree on what romance is and Jose tells me he dreams of riding a Harley through the Grand Canyon and Route 66. That's romance to him, he says. A pair of jeans in a backpack and nothing more. I believe him.

We talk about finding love and romance on the road. Suddenly, he is telling me the sweetest love story.  8 years prior, Jose met a Mexican woman during his travels. His eyes met hers type of story.  They have a wonderful romance and fall in love. They agree to keep in touch and for a long time, they do. One day, she simply stops returning his emails. He checks everyday, waiting for her reply. It never comes.

As we stand there on the plane, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his passport. He opens it and perfume tester strip falls out into his hand. He holds it to his nose and his eyes close as he breathes it in.  He holds it out for me and I inhale. It's an amazing scent...vanilla and something I can't quite put my finger on. I love it immediately.  He tells me it's her perfume, Dior Hypnotic Poison.   For the last 8 years, whenever he travels in the West, he looks for his lost love.  He searches the crowd for her face in Canada, the USA and Mexico.  And he passes through each duty-free shop, Jose always sprays her perfume on a test strip and into his passport so he can be reminded of her.

He has a new girlfriend whom he loves and they're very happy together.   He would never tell his current girlfriend about the Mexican woman and it occurs to me that his search for her will never stop because the old wound hasn't healed.  If she'd only written to say she was moving on, things would be different for Jose.  He would have closure and could move on knowing instead of wondering.  But as it is, one of the great loves of his life is out there in the world and he is constantly searching a sea of faces for her.

The story is so romantic it makes my chest feel tight. It's sad, yes, but mostly, I'm struck by how beautiful the story is.  We are beginning our decent into Paris and they ask us to take our seats. We exchange contact information and I head back to my seat.  As I do, I realize that no one has ever loved me the way Jose loves the Mexican woman. I feel a different sort of tightness in my chest and shake my head  to erase that sad thought from my brain.

In the Paris airport, Jose waves to me as we go into the restrooms and I tell him I'll meet him after customs, but I lost him in the shuffle.  I try to find him at his gate in Charles de Galle to say a proper goodbye, but I can't find him and have to abandon the hunt to make my connecting flight.

But Jose knows my blog address and perhaps one day he'll read these words.  I board my flight to Venice and it's blissfully quiet on this plane. I have space and a non-heated seat. I am drop-dead tired. I fall asleep before we even takeoff but before I do, I imagine Jose going home, tucking his vanilla scented passport into a drawer and trying to forget about the Mexican woman. As the wheels liftoff the ground, I imagine him kissing his girlfriend and I wonder if he's happy to embrace what's real or if he will dream of his long lost love tonight...

Getting there, part 1

My life has been a blur since Thursday.

On Thursday, I closed on my house, dropped my dog at my friends house, where she'll stay for a little over 3 months. Insert lots of tears here.

On Friday morning, movers packed all of my worldly possessions into 3 PODS and shipped them off to storage in Detroit. I load my Italy and St. Petersburg bags into the trunk of my car and left the car in a parking lot for my friend to retrieve.

I hopped a train to the airport and arrived in St. Petersburg, FL for Dan and Alexia's wedding Friday night. I headed to a pre-wedding celebration at a local brewhouse with the bridal party and friends.

Saturday was wedding day.  It was a beautiful Greek Orthodox wedding ceremony and the reception was fabulous. Instead of a DJ, the bride and groom had a standards style band... my absolute favorite. I love Sinatra and Ella Fitzgerald and Nina Simone and all the divas and crooners from days gone by.  So the music was exceptional and they managed to rock out standard wedding classics like Brick House and Shout.

I danced my booty off the entire night until my legs ached and I was sweating.  I love dancing and hadn't danced like that in far too long.  After the reception ended, a group of us headed to the after party. I drank too much and made a few bad decisions. Isn't that what you're supposed to do at weddings?  Well, I sure did anyway.  I think I fell into bed sometime around 5.

Wake up a few hours later. It's Sunday. I'm hungover. Exhausted. Piecing events together in my head from the night before. Oy vey. I really did make those bad decisions, didn't I?  I'm too damn old for this.  I toss back 3 Advil, start drinking water like it's my job and hop a cab to the airport. I have a long and painful day ahead of me.  I'll head to Atlanta, then Paris then Venice. I just want to get there.

To be continued....

Please, pass the tissues.

If you're not familiar with my adventures in restoration, read the post HERE before you continue. 
See the finished product...my fully renovated house HERE.

One week from today, I'll sit at a closing table and sign my dream home over to complete strangers.

On the horizon is adventure beyond my wildest dreams.  For the next 3 months, I'll be living in Italy, traveling through Europe and finishing with 2 weeks in France. I am over-the-moon excited for this trip. When I return, I'm moving back to my home state of Michigan! After 14 years away, it'll be amazing to live near my family and friends again. Lunch with my sister! Antiquing with my mom! Activities with my nieces and nephews! I cannot wait.

I am very excited for the next chapter of my life to begin.
And I am also so sad, I can barely breathe.
                               
The sadness crept in this week as I started packing up my house. This is the end of a really big chapter in my life. I left Michigan at the age of 21, spent 3 years in Los Angeles and the last 11 years here in Atlanta. This will be my 3rd cross-country move and let me tell you...it's always hard.

In a lot of ways, I grew up in Atlanta. It's the place I've spent the majority of my adult life, where my friendships have developed, where my career has grown and where I've had 1,000 amazing experiences.

It's where I learned improv and did my first Zip!Zap!Zop!  It's where I first sang on stage, performed spoken word poetry, ran my first mile and completed my first triathlon.  It's where I have tried new things, failed, succeeded, grown and learned. It's also where I purchased, renovated and sold my first two homes, which has turned into a passion for me.  I love my life in Atlanta. This house, this neighborhood, this city feels more like home to me than any place on Earth.

I've told a few friends how I feel and the replies have been "But Michigan will be so great!" or "Just think about your trip to Italy! It's a grand adventure."  It's almost as if the wonderful events on the horizon mean I can't also be sad that this chapter of my life is coming to a close.

I'm sad. And that doesn't mean I'm making the wrong choice. It just means I'm sad. Change is hard. Leaving people you love is difficult. Moving cross country is stressful.  Selling the home you imagined spending your life in...is heartbreaking.

The last few days have consisted of mostly packing and crying. Last night, I found myself on my kitchen floor sobbing amidst boxes and bubble wrap.  Thank God for my best friend, Erin, or I might still be there on the floor.

So, for now, please don't tell me how great Michigan is (it is!). Please don't remind me that Italy will be amazing (it will!) or that I should be excited for the adventures that lay ahead of me (I am!).

Just hold my hand and try to understand.
This was an exceptional chapter in my life.
And please, pass me the tissues.