They say that a picture is worth more than a thousand words and after all the time I spend taking, organizing, caption-ing, and editing pictures I most certainly hope that’s the case. After 9 days in Italy for Spring Break and some 400 pictures later, here I am. I did some serious traveling in Italy, starting in Rome and the Vatican for a few days; then off to Florence to meet the girl I would be spending the next week with because she offered up her place in Bologna. From Bologna I was able to visit small towns (Ravenna, Ferrara) and tourist towns (Verona, Venice) by train for tickets averaging about 12 euros and one hour per direction.

I had no plans before I left Madrid on Thursday—no cities I had to see or even a map. I played everything by ear and visited every place without many expectations so it was all the more enjoyable and exciting. Of course, I “missed out” on some things because I didn’t research the open-and-closing hours ahead of time or read the books with all the “hidden” (and sometimes obvious) things to do in the city, but I really enjoyed simply exploring and walking around all these places. I didn’t ever have to feel bad about walking too quickly or not spending enough time somewhere because I was by myself during the day, going wherever my instincts took me.

I literally picked cities off the list on the screen for train tickets and bought a map once I arrived; so un-organized and free-spirited that you might not even have recognized me. The trains ran frequently and exactly on time, and with great scenery and their popularity among the Italians (hence good people watching), they were an excellent mode of transportation and way to see the country.

To keep from getting too lost, I often would pretend I was a car and follow the main roads until I got to a landmark on my map, using the street signs as my guide. I also learned to not be afraid of asking for help, be it directions or confirming the train you are waiting for and even getting on—only, remember to do this before the train pulls out of the station…

The gloomy rain and clouds complemented by cool temperatures from Tuesday through my return back to Madrid on Saturday definitely dampened my spirits and there was always a warm bed with a rented DVD from the shop around the corner tempting me to stay inside—especially because there was this neat, automatic system of checking out a DVD whereby you search for the title in the database and it spits out the disk like an ATM would distribute cash. Between the layers of clothes and staying in constant motion, it didn’t end up being too bad. Thank goodness there were no big storms, but I imagine I would have seen more museums if that were the case. (In fact, I really didn’t go in any museums. I wanted to see how all the cities lived and experience their atmospheres.) Plus, there were always signs in the storefront windows advertising air conditioning and gelato (which I never ate because of the weather) as a reminder that I could have been visiting during the tourist-crammed, sweaty summer that nearly every town was preparing for with restoration efforts blocking my experiences.

Every town in Italy has gorgeous, ancient, and huge churches/basilicas/cathedrals. I am still not sure quite what the difference is between all the terms. I must have visited at least 50 such buildings during my time there and, yes, they do all start to blend together in my head despite all the unique attributes each claims. I’ve seen so many that I am getting to the point where I feel like I am not appreciating them as much as I should. They are so beautiful, but you really can only absorb so much beauty over such a short time period before it all plateaus to a flat climax. I’ve seen so many stunning paintings, statues, chapels, organs, mosaics, and other decadent religious paraphernalia that I just can’t compare them anymore. People will probably gasp or rollover in their graves when I say this, but I just can’t tell the difference between one beautiful paining in, say, the small-town cathedral and the Sistine Chapel. Am I an ignorant fool for not being able to distinguish it all? It’s all just beautiful. Period.

Right alongside the religious buildings the next most common things in Italian cities are boutiques. Italy is King of fashion. Men, women, children, grandparents—they all dress fashionably, and proudly so. From the calf-high leather boots and metallic tennis shoes to sunglasses, perfumes, scarves, and not to mention handbags, they really care about what they’re wearing.. The only exception might be the rebellious teens with the destroyed jeans and mohawks. The Italian and, I’ve noticed, overall European attention to detail and striving to be an expert at your specialty is such a contrast from the mass-production lifestyle in which we are immersed in the US. But, on the other hand, there are a fair amount of knock-off venders and street markets run mostly by immigrants (Bangladeshi or African are the most common) to compensate for this extravagance.

Considering heavy meals of pasta, cheese, bread, and sausages are my American conception of Italian food, I was kind of worried about what I was going to find to eat. Psh, fear not. The food was cheaper, more varied and available, and better tasting than Spain. I was ecstatic to find baby carrots and very low prices on produce; it was hard to pass by and only once did I do the stupid thing of buying heavy food from the store when I had a long ways home. Good pizza, paninis, and rolled-up sandwiches—Italian fast food—were everywhere and for less then 3 euros. It wasn’t hard to find a place with plates of pasta (fresh, if you were lucky) for 5 euros and the concept of a salad or plate with lots of veggies for a meal exists in Italy, unlike Spain. But, I guess when you add-on the “service charge” or “silverware” price of 2 or 3 euros per person in restaurants as is set by the location, things about even out. Mind you, this “tip” is much more than the American 10-15% for whatever service you happen to get. You definitely have to read the fine print in European restaurants, as some will charge for bread that they put on your table and almost always for water.

One of my favorite things in Italy was something called “apertivos,” whereby a restaurant or bar will offer an all-you-want buffet of foods (olives, cheese, chips, salads, sausages, bread, rice, pasta) with the purchase of a drink (wine, beer, cocktail) and all for 5 to 7 euros. Any drink from their pretty extensive list or maybe you’d suffer through an Italian wine with as many plates full of food until they decide to stop bringing out more. What a deal. Maybe people get dinner afterwards, but I would see no reason to do so and we usually didn’t.

Since getting used to being a meanie and completely ignoring or looking through people on the streets, I did not notice the stares of the Italian men that bothered my friend so much. As soon as she pointed it out a couple of times, it was really easy to be aware of it. They are so obvious about it, it’s hard to believe. The face will pass and then out of the corner of your eye you will see the face again, instead of the back of their head. I have no idea what is going through their minds, but they most certainly have perfected the art of stare. Once I lingered and subtly turned the corner of my lips for a split-second on a man’s face (because my brain was trying to register that he looked like this actor in the movie we were watching) and he walked my friend off the sidewalk because he stopped looking where he was going. You might think it is a complement and I am sure some people would appreciate it, but I think it’s a bit weird; I know I’m not that drop-dead gorgeous to deserve such attention. This talent for staring didn’t stop, either, with the men as I watched the women sitting across from me on the train openly eavesdrop on this group of teens talking in the pod across the aisle from us like she was watching television or something. Oh, the cultural differences.

My overall impression of Italy was excellent, though I was glad to return to the warm sun in Madrid and not be running around so much. With my Spanish background I could actually understand a lot of Italian, but don’t ask me to talk. I’ve heard that if you speak Spanish with an Italian accent and intonation, you might be able to get by but the one time I did that the woman just talked back at me in Spanish and assumed I didn’t even know English. I always felt safe walking around, even in the graffiti strewn streets that are unfortunately all over.

I took over 350 pictures, which you can get to by clicking on the names of the cities in the post or visiting all my albums. There are lots of juicy details there and you can always get a nice summary from my where I’ve traveled page.

(Just as a comment on my on post, it’s no wonder I am so late to write anything because I have so much to say that I know it is going to take me a long time to write it all. Word count without this comment: 1599. Which is better, a picture or 1000 1599 words?)