Train Rides? I'll Take 25, Please.

This post was from late March and after some tweaking, it's here! 

Trains have a certain romance to them, don’t they? There’s the physical ticket, strong cardstock in your hands, not a flimsy sheet of paper you printed off at home. There’s the noises of the station—lovers kissing goodbye loudly, business women snapping shut their phones as they climb the two steps into the cabins, the “all aboard!” whistle of the conductor. Once aboard, there are the plush seats, the gentle sway of the train like a cradle, and incredible scenery that flashes by. It all feels very 1920s, and I want to don a tweed suit number and matte red lipstick. Instead, I am a frumpy young American wearing the same pants from three days ago with a technical backpack hugging her shoulders.

Blam-o! There's my ticket, from Bergen to Oslo.

As an American, I never fully appreciated train travel until I went abroad. Our train system in the States is pretty deplorable, expensive, and not nearly as well constructed as the rail lines in Europe (though, admittedly, I’ve never been on it…I know, I know). Surely, the grass is always greener, but in this case, it truly is. Mostly, the grass actually exists in Europe. And I can afford it.

I bought a RailPass which granted me 10 days within two months of unlimited rail travel. I thought back to my study abroad days and how much I had enjoyed the train rides and the scenery that breezed by us. On those train rides, my mind wandered through memories and feelings and what to make for dinner. For me, the train allowed me a safe freedom for a few hours to simply ponder.

So I started hopping on trains and flashing my pass. To Lugano, Switzerland; to Paris, France; to Copenhagen, Denmark. I started looking forward to my travel days. They allowed me to take a break from constantly planning, calculating, and figuring out how to get from one place to the next. I was able to let that part of me sleep and recharge, while the thinking part of me took over.

My train rides look like this: I hop on board. I navigate my way to an open seat (or my specific seat if I’ve been forced to make a reservation), and heave my bag into the rung above me. I leave my jacket on because it’s too complicated to take off and hang it. I place my journal on the table in front of me, put my feet on the foot rest below me, and I look out the window. People stream past with large suitcases in tow, some enter my compartment and sit around me. Then there is a whistle, the train hums, and we creep away from the platform. We are on our way, and my mind and I are off to another place.

I learn a surprising amount on my train trips. I ask myself questions, let my mind float to what it thinks is important at the moment, and let my heart lead. Sometimes, the realization is as banal as the fact that I don’t actually like mayonnaise at all, and sometimes it’s as deep as I'm scared to move away from home and my family. Usually, these train rides are very easy on my legs but harder on my emotional heart.

The hardest train ride I’ve had was from Coimbra, Portugal to Hendaye, France. I was tickled to finally be taking an overnight train. It was to be unlike my train from Florence to Austria, in which I had a bed in a berth with two other students. This train to Hendaye I had just a chair that reclined a few inches. The train wasn’t packed, but there were loud people whose voices carried. The heater was on over-kill, and I was sweating out of my long underwear and pants. I woke up every hour or so as the train stopped, bumped and hiccupped along the weaving railway. When we arrived, I felt so fuzzy with lack of sleep and sticky with sweat that I didn’t care I had to make a 27-Euo reservation for the fast Thalys train to Paris. I handed over my Euro in the hopes that I would get some sleep on this comfort train. The romanticized ideas of matte lipstick and kitten heels of the ‘20s slowly began to fray like a flag in the wind.

The best train ride was easily my most recent, from personality-lacking Oslo to beautiful Bergen. The sun ruled the blue sky, and clouds were only a rumor over the tops of mountains. We glided through the mountains and over them, passing by stretches of blue-white snow that curved over the tops of houses like cake fondant. Cross-country skiers flecked the brilliant white expanse, and I felt a sudden desire to ask the conductor to stop the train so I could grab a pair of skis and join the strangers outside. We continued on and curved the hips of ridges and ducked through the throats of the peaks. We’d pass into darkness as we entered a tunnel and then a shocking pop of white would leave me squinting, desperately wanting to see what was out there in the expanse. Small houses cropped up now and then, but the overwhelming feeling was white, white, white.  

Surely, there are times where I abhor train travel. That high-speed, snooty French Thalys train was 30 minutes late, and caused me a bit of a ruckus when I had to meet my couchsurfing host. There are the accordion players and Portuguese rappers that perform for you and you must sit trapped, watching them, and then struggle with what to do when they walk around, their cup in hand for tips. There are the Italian trains that seem to start and stop when they feel like it, and the creepy people sitting around you. I remember when I caught a train from a small town whose name I can’t remember to Porto. The train was quite full, and there was a 35ish man sitting across from me. He had the face of every pedophile, Hannibal Lecter, mass-murderer and cranky civil servant I’ve ever seen. Our knees touched and our eyes met, and I have never felt a colder stare. It still tightens my spine to think about him and what I imagine he’s done. And so, there are the people on the train, too. They come as all sorts, and there is an equally opposite kind person for each bad one,  and I met many of the latter on the trains.

But here’s what I love about trains: I am whisked from where I am and what I have done and am en route to where I will be, who I will become, and what I will do. It’s hard to find fault in that.

So I look forward to my next train ride tomorrow. I am taking a bus to Voss, the train to Drammen, and a final train to the out-of-the-way RyanAir airport in Oslo. I am looking forward to who I will become in Scotland, and I am thankful, endlessly, to the trains for getting me there.

*Update: Turns out that the Voss to Drammen train ride was the most nerve-wracking. It was significantly late to the point where an NSB Railway ticket agent gave me a taxi voucher to get to the airport so I could make my flight. I still love trains. 

Soccer, Wine, Writing...I know, I know.

Life is pretty hard as I sit in an Italian pub, surrounded by raucous Italians, drinking wine and watching the Inter-Milan v. Roma soccer game. It’s a Sunday night, the Italians are out in droves at local trattorias, and I have made a friend. Things are looking much better than the sun-drenched and lonely day I arrived four days earlier.

Why the sudden change? It’s a valid question you may be asking. And I’d say: four things.

First, I’m Feeling the Love. Thanks to you all lovely people who care about me; I have received quite a bit of support. It has come in many forms and in many different words, but the overwhelming sentiment is “We like you—we may even love you—and it’s ok how you feel. You’ll figure it out and make it happen.” Thank you. You’re totally right.

There's a tradition in Italy to write your name along with your lover's and clip the lock to a chain, fence post, whatever.  Thanks for your love, lovelies. 

Next, the sunshine. Having spent the last year in Seattle, I’ve been quite bramasole, thirsty for the sun. Here, it is atypically sunny this time of year. The sun has tricked me into many piazzas to read a book or write, and teased me onto many bridge rails, my legs dangling over the railing. It’s been quite the trouble-maker, the sun.

And finally, the realization that how I feel is ok. Expected, even. As my wise mother told me, feelings are just feelings. They are rarely permanent, and sometimes they only represent the truth of a moment, a pinprick in the cloth you weave. Instead of dwelling on it, accept it into your cloth, and see what comes next.

The view from Piazzale Michelangelo.

I’ve also drawn on my experience from the last time I was in Florence and the calming familiarity of some things. For a quick recap, I studied abroad here in Florence three years ago (please see the blog posts from 2008 if you’re curious). My boyfriend and I had just broken up and I was shaken—shaken in who I was, what I believed, what I wanted, what I was doing, and where I wanted to go. It seemed that everything was changing and I was like a stubborn horse—legs locked and being dragged along against my will. Then, too, I was feeling so phenomenally terrible. I woke up crying, I went to bed crying, I threw pottery crying. This went on for weeks. Just like this time, I wanted these feelings to end.

This time, I realized that I was having many of the same emotions just like the last time. I handily took a course when I studied abroad called The Psychology of Culture Shock (I thought I was just fulfilling a graduation requirement—how small of me). Finally—it hadn’t just been a bad break up those years ago. It had been a relocation and forced integration into a new society, and new way of things, and a new language. Just like this time (sans breakup). Got it.

Once I realized that I actually did indeed know what was going on, I knew how to mitigate it. I grabbed the sun by the hand and walked with it to the bookstore. I knew I needed people and familiarity, so I found some familiar books and students. I wrote, wrote, wrote. I accepted my feelings. I read. I made myself feel good, and I did those things which were accessible in any language, any city, any time.

With this new acceptance, things have gotten a lot easier. The loneliness has almost completely vanished. The excitement for being here has started to creep out cautiously, stepping into the sun with me. I walk miles every day, I sit and read in piazzas and bookstores, I eat panini with Italians, and I’ve made some friends. I am no longer alone, and once again, I am more of a citizen of the world. This is why I travel.

Today, Kevin, an excellent young guy I met in my hostel, and I walked all around Florence. We made it up to the Piazzale Michelangelo, but went a completely new way that wended us through quiet Florentine streets lined with villas and olive trees. I felt so content in the fact that I was in a city in which I lived and I found myself in a new neighborhood. This is why I travel.

I do realize that I’m in a state of fluctuating comfort, and in a city I can navigate. I know that when I decide to move on that I may have another day much like my first in Florence. I may cry, and I may feel the loneliness, and maybe I’ll go through that process every time. I hope not. Hopefully I get better at traveling and better at being alone.

Now, Kevin and I sit in a pub that grows more crowded by the goal. Details of the game must be making the rounds, and couples and friends must be finishing up their meals. We have a pretty shitty view of the TV, but at least there is a view. The Italians are yelling “Madooooooonaaaa” and “Dai, dai!”, come on, come on! We are not want for stimuli or entertainment.

My glass is empty, and I’m looking forward to tomorrow. I have vague plans to go with a student from my old school around the city. Maybe to Mercato Centrale with Kevin. Maybe I’ll hideout in this bar tomorrow all day long and only leave when the sun has sunk to its knees, ready for more playing tomorrow.

I feel better. 

Here's Why I (Sometimes) Suck at Traveling

Things haven’t started out quite as I’d planned.

When I first started thinking about taking this trip, I remembered the days I’d spent walking along cypress-lined roads in Assisi; the caprese salad I often made myself in my brilliant apartment that looked over all of Florence; the happy walk to classes along the Arno. I was happy, content, and delighted to be in such a world.

I did not think about the incredible displacement, loneliness, and fear I felt when I first arrived. Guess which emotions came first.

Ha! Fooled you. It was actually the first batch. But they only lasted a few hours until I was all alone in the hostel dorm, looking out the caged window at tall buildings that shielded my window from light. I felt like this trip was a mistake. What made me think that I could travel alone?

I’m such a homebody. My parents graciously let me live with them this past year after I graduated from college. My parents are a large reason I am on this trip—I was able to save the money to do it thanks to their generosity. But I also lived with them because they’re great people and I love our home. I love banging through the sometimes-there screen door and seeing my dad. I love walking up the path to see Emma, our beagle, scratching at the window like I’ve been gone for a thousand years. I love seeing my mom at work through her office window. I love the sound of our laughter combined. I love home.

Here, there is no home. I was reading a shitty travel writing book a couple of weeks back and the author claimed that his view of home was where “one spent the night.” I do not function under the same reasoning. Sure, home is where the heart is. But home is also where I go to cry, to bake, to cook with my dad, to play on the floor with Emma, to lean against my mom on the couch as we watch TV. More aptly, home is my heart.

Here, there is a desk for checking in. There is a decent kitchen with hot plates. There are rooms stuffed with beds and overflowing backpacks. There is a bathroom with a row of sterile white sinks. This is where I spend my nights, but it’s not home.

And so, I found myself typing through my tears to my boyfriend, my mom and dad, anyone who would entertain my tears. Why was I feeling this way? Why wasn’t I joyful and excited to be here?

I am alone here. Being alone is not a very common state for me, and never for more than a few hours. Loneliness is rarely something I feel.

Plus, as familiar as this city is to me, it is still foreign. While I understand the language, it is not my own. I am alone here.

After a fitful night of sleep, I woke up and did my best to start the day well. I ate with the German girls I’d met the night before. They hadn’t been to the epic Piazzale Michelangelo, and we walked up there together, the sunshine on our faces. I took them to the train station so they could be on their way to Nice. And then, alone, I went to the English bookstore. I found it with no problem, and went inside. A few of the first books I saw were titled Loneliness and Loneliness as a Way of Life. Perfect.

But then I met some girls that go to my former school in Florence, and I wound up giving them my email. We talked about getting dinner and maybe doing some yoga.

I read in Piazza Republica. I walked to the Italian bookstore. I people watched.

Finally, the familiar feeling of being happy amidst chaos and unfamiliarity came back. Just a little, but the tense knot in my chest had loosened a little. I finally was able to feel why I’d come back and what I’ve been looking forward to the past two years since I left.  

This trip isn’t about being comfortable. It’s the exact opposite. This is a challenge for me. I am not good at being entirely alone. I am not good at navigating train stations and timetables. I am not good at eating alone in hostels.

So here I am. I opened my computer this afternoon, scraped off my tears from the touchpad (apparently I have very, very salty tears with mighty staying power), and wrote. And I felt a little bit of home, a little bit of my mom and dad, and my heart a little bit calmer.

Amanda's Off Again!

Well, my blog has clearly been in hibernation for the past two years (sorry 'bout that), but I'm waking it up for a really good reason.

My contract at Microsoft has reached its 365-day limit, and so I'm off to something new. I'll be traveling from February 3rd through April 28th. Destinations include Italy, Portugal, Scotland, parts of Scandinavia, and Montenegro.

The goal of this trip is to do exactly what I want. Read in a cafe for six hours? Ok! Hop a train to Lugano for some skiing through the palm trees? Don't mind if I do! I think what I want is to explore and to write. Those are things that I have missed so much the past year. So, as far as I can tell, that is exactly what I will do.

I'm not sure how frequently I'll update this. I'll send a quick note on facebook to let you know when I've updated the blog, but sometimes I'm pretty bad at things like that. I'll shoot for once a week. Pictures, you ask? If you're lucky (while I worked at Microsoft, I'm still terrible at all things computer).

Thanks to all who are reading! No pressure, no guilt if you don't. I'm writing for fun and for curiosity, and it seems that you should be reading for the same.

Feel free to write me at my personal email, too. If I've given you my email address, please use it. Otherwise, facebook and this blog it is!

Buon viaggi!