To-Do's: Done.

Back to my original to-do list. I didn't quite check everything off, but I added a bunch of other experiences that I hadn't expected, so it worked out perfectly:

lie on a beach in Bali, although I might be convinced to move long enough to do a yoga class.

Shoot. First bullet point: no check. The Bali beach: the most crowded and chaotic I’ve ever seen; the beaches on Lembongan Island were either working beaches with boats, or rocky coves. All gorgeous- but i spent all my time walking the villages, or taking pictures, or lounging by the infinity pool.


take my Episcopalian self up to the top of Borabodur, to see what the valley looks like through the eyes of all of those Buddhas.

Check. And double check, and triple check. I don’t know how many times I actually went up there; on most of those trips I was surrounded by school groups and curious well-wishers and people who wanted to practice their English. But the couple of hours I spent up there at dawn were life-changing.


haggle in a bazaar in Istanbul. And see what makes the domes in Hagia Sofia stand up. And hear the calls to prayer five times a day.

Check. I am not good at haggling, but I learned that doing a sincere walk-away will probably drive the price down to a fraction of the original. More fun than haggling, though, is just talking to people at the bazaars. They are seriously entertaining (they do this for a living and they’re good at it.) Hagia Sofia: indescribably huge inside. I really miss the calls to prayer; exotic and hauntingly beautiful, and it keeps the culture in rhythm.


eat something that terrifies me

Check. Oxtail Soup in Yogyakarta. Baby squid in Malaga. Blind-faith frozen juices in Cairo. All of them: tasty.


climb the Acropolis and sit on the steps of the Erectheion, mainly because that was the topic of my first grad school paper.

Check. The Acropolis is impressive; the Parthenon is undergoing an incredible renovation; the Erectheion is exquisite. You can’t really sit on its steps- but I did sit close by and draw it. It’s the best sketch of my trip.


stand on a hill on a Grecian island and see the blue domes against the white walls and the blue sea, and maybe even get lost in the Labyrinth (they say the minotaur is gone.)

Check. Santorini was even more stunning, and more photogenic, than I had guessed. The scope of the volcano is something that is difficult to describe, let alone process mentally. I’m told that, despite the desolation during the winter, I’m unbelievably fortunate to have seen Santorini without a crush of tourists. And I saw snow flurries there- extraordinarily rare. It’s a breathtaking place. The labyrinth at Knossos? Meh. It was fun, but you need quite a bit of imagination.


embarrass myself in Italian. I’d like to learn a curse word in every country I visit.

Check. Embarrassed myself in every country, every day. After the first couple of times, it’s no big deal. The only people who were ever snarky about it were Belgian waiters, but most people are really kind.


stare down The Sphinx.

Check. It is magnificent, although it’s difficult to focus on that in the crazy crush of people standing on the platform to photograph it. (I’d also gotten strict instructions from my guide when I walked out on the platform: talk to nobody! Nobody, ok? Watch your bag! Don’t let anybody get close to you! (A little histrionic, perhaps, and a lot distracting.)


hear some crazy loud music in Zanzibar, and hang out with my old friends at a rooftop bar on a narrow windy street.

Check. I don’t know when I’ve had so much fun. Love the rooftop. Love the music festival. Love Zanzibar. Love my friends. Zanzibar in a power outage: magical. What a gift to see Stone Town by candlelight.


If I see a Maasai warrior silhouetted in a sunset somewhere along the way, I will be ecstatic. I want to fly past Kilimanjaro on the way back to Dar es Salaam, just so I can say that sentence aloud to somebody.

Mmm- no check. I wrote this when I had a plan to do a short safari; turns out the price of a safari for a single person is something like $500 a day. So no dice. However: I did see a fair number of Maasai in Dar and Zanzibar. They are beautiful and regal; I may be projecting this from Out of Africa, but I don’t think so. My friend Kate points out that even lions are afraid of the Maasai. They give pride a whole new name.


visit Italy as a grown-up, and slap my 21 year old self for having no idea whatsoever what architectural and cultural treasures she was half-appreciating as a backpacker.

Check. I saw Italy with completely different eyes, although my 21 year old self loved Italy too, and I have forgiven her for traipsing about blithely enjoying herself, as that is the whole point of Italy. Grown-up Katherine is slapping herself for failing to seize the opportunity to drink wine in a piazza with the Colin Firth look-alike.


pet the lions in the Court of the Lions, and have coffee in Parc Guell, and start dinner at 11 pm like the Spanish do.

Partial Check. I had a late dinner or two, and a great people-watching coffee in Parc Guell. I could still cry about the Lions though- it pains me to look at the picture I took of the empty box, where the lions should be. I’ll just have to go back after they’re restored.


see if I can love Paris (I don’t.)

No check. I adore my family, but they are not advance planners, so this part of the trip didn’t happen.


go back to London (which I do indeed love) and visit Primrose Hill, and Covent Garden, and Camden Town. And see what my sister’s been up to in Belgium, and drink a beer at Delirium Tremens with her exotic friends.

Partial check. I didn’t make it to London (see above,) but it was really fun to see my sister’s world. Her apartment is really cool, and her friends are cooler, and her boyfriend Axel is adorable, just adorable. I was not prepared for how good the food is, especially at the artisanal chocolate shop where Axel took us to a private tasting with his family. Delirium Tremens was kind of a tourist trap, and it wasn’t my favorite beer in Brussels.


secretly sketch people in airports (not in a creepy way) and stand on the deck of a ferry somewhere gorgeous, and ride some trains. I want to wear out some shoes.

Partial check. Actually, I did a lot less sketching than I’d planned. It’s too hard in public, particularly in a place where you’re already standing out. I did ride a couple of marvelous ferries (Bali and Zanzibar) and one dreadful one (Nile.) And I rode some Italian trains, and some Belgian trains. And I wore out 3 pairs of shoes. (I didn’t really wear out the chucks. But after they’d been in the ditch in Dar, I didn’t really want to look at them any more.)


appreciate getting warm, after a day spent in the windy cold. Or, appreciate a cold tropical beer after a day on the equator.

Oh, check check check. A travel joy. The list of things I appreciate right now, which I’d forgotten to appreciate before I left home, is staggering.



In short, I want to step entirely out of my life, my routine, and my comfort zone and see what the rest of the world has been doing while I’ve been sitting at a desk for 3 1/2 years. I need, quite literally, to lay my hands on some of the treasures I’ve studied in architecture school. The people who built these temples, monuments, marketplaces, duomos, cathedrals, hamams, and public places had something they wanted to say to future generations. Now seems like I great time to find out what it was, and then maybe I'll be better prepared to go build some of these things for myself. *

*or, at least think about lovely things while I'm waiting tables and job hunting.

Well. Huge check. I was looking for some big revelations about architecture. And I had some wonderful architectural appreciation experiences. But mainly what I got, by surprise, were revelations about everything else. Fundamental things, like reminders that people are inherently overwhelmingly good, the world is a safe place, and there is beauty in the most unexpected places.

Blindsided by the "Under the Tuscan Sun" moment

Oh, here it is. Italy has made me all emotional. It took a whole week, which shocks me- I’ve enjoyed myself, and appreciated it all, but until now I haven’t been transported, or carried away with ecstasy, or lost in another time, or anything like that. But suddenly here I am, on a train back to Florence with Tuscany flying past out the window, and I am having a full-blown Frances Mayes moment.

This one is actually courtesy of my dear friend Virginia. In addition to all kinds of support and cheerleading, plus a ride to the airport, she gave me a splendid travel gift- two CD’s worth of music for my IPod. I downloaded them without listening, so it would all be a surprise, and they’re just listed as Track 1, Track 2, etc. so I never know what’s next. I think I pulled up “Ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-Changes” in the Istanbul airport, and “Sittin’ on Trains” continues to crack me up. The one that gets me every time, though, is my true love Eddie Vedder, singing “Rise up.” Pearl Jam, after all of these years, still has the power to sing directly to my soul. This one goes,

“Such is the way of the world, you can never know
Just where to put all your faith, and how it will grow...

gonna rise up, find my direction magnetically..
gonna rise up, turn my mistakes into gold...”

And I am spinning off into thoughts of where I’ve been, where I’m going, what’s next, what I absolutely want to leave behind. I have a pretty clear idea of what my values are, and my priorities; I have a really good idea of how I do not want to spend my time, career-wise. What I haven’t figured out yet, is whether anyone will hire me to do the things I love, and not so much of the things I find excruciating. I’m not sure what kind of firm that would be, if it’s a firm at all. Going back a few years, my goal was to make a living doing something creative, and architecture was the most inclusive path of all my interests: social justice, sustainability, fine arts, literature, culture, a good blend of science and art. I’m trying not to lose sight of that train of thought, in a career that seems to start all its newbies out as digital draftsmen and Revit techies. I’m wondering, as I have for a long time, how to reconcile my needs for the next few years, with the realities of being an architectural intern, working on endless construction documents. I’ve been wondering for years whether academia isn’t a better option. Architectural history, or urban design theory would be great, and I’d be just as happy with a PhD as an architecture license, but I want to make sure I’m doing it for the right reasons.

Mercy. Quite a tangent for a happy train ride through Tuscany...but, as much as I’ve been delaying thoughts of this, on the other side of this trip is real life, whatever that looks like next. I’ve said this before, but this is the first time in years and years that I haven’t been able to picture what’s next, partly because I’m not sure what exactly I want, or how much of it is even within my control when architecture is at its lowest ebb in the last 80 years.

Job hunt aside, I am excited about a lot of things when I get home, mainly catching up with my dear ones. I missed some things at home. I missed a record-breaking winter, in terms of snow. I missed a friend’s 40th birthday at a skating rink, an also an elopement party, and three people started new jobs, and two of my favorite little people learned to crawl while I’ve been gone. Mostly, though, as my friends have said, “A lot has happened, but nothing’s changed.”
And I don’t know about everyone else. But I sure have. Of course, it started long before graduation, but that was a big moment. And I do, after just a few weeks of travel, feel so, so much better- my sense of perspective is a lot clearer. Despite the pace of the travel, and six overnight travel segments, I’m way more rested than I was at any point during grad school. I’ve been sleeping as long as I like, eating when I’m hungry, walking everywhere my feet will take me. When I told one of my favorite professors about my trip, she said, “It’s perfect- you’ll start to get your humanity back.” And without the constant deadlines and late nights and all of us living piled up on top of each other in the studio and racing towards design reviews, it’s true: I feel very much at home in the world.

Superlatives

Best View:
Sunrise, Borobudur
Zanzibar Coffee House rooftop
Florence sunset from the Piazale Michelangelo
first peek at the pyramids
snow on Hagia Sofia

Best Meal:
Ada and Alfredo’s, Rome
kebap, Spice Bazaar, Istanbul
Greg and Kate’s homemade tortillas, Dar
Byzantio: Athens, fish dinner with Ellie

Best Music:
Street performers, Barcelona
Busara- Mem Suleyman
Grand Bazaar: Dire Straits from a laptop

Best Hotel Gecko:
Manohara Hotel, tiniest gecko ever
Greg and Kate’s porch
Nusa Lembongan: epic battle with cricket

Best travel segment:
boat with the chicken, Nusa Lembongan
bush plane out of Zanzibar
bus, Granada to Cordoba

Best Overall:
Istanbul, the whole package.

Best Hotel breakfast:
Zanzibar Coffee House
Hotel Side
Santorini

Most Universally Accessible subway:
Athens. Thank you- it made the $1.50 ride back to the airport so much more pleasant than the $70 cab ride into the city.

Best travel outfit:
hands-down, black wrap dress over jeans. Modest enough for Islamic areas, easy to layer, excellent pickpocket defense.

Most Beautiful Language:
Italian
Turkish
Swahili

Best Drink:
Sahlep, Istanbul
Zanzibar cappuccinos
Beachside beer, Dar
Chimay bleu, Belgium

Best Line:
You can have al the Turkish Delight you like, but none of it’s as sweet as your smile....

Best sound:
flipping of train schedules
call to prayer
cheese sellers

Best Piazza:
Piazza del Campo, Siena
Piazza Navona, Rome
Piazza Signoria, Florence

Best dessert:
caramel gelato, Florence

Prettiest fields:
Rice fields, Java
Olive/cherry groves, Spain

Best Pastry:
Nannini, Siena
Butter Street, Brussels

Worst Fellow Travelers:
Rome Airport, semester abroad kids: I don’t know why Rome let them in, but I hope America doesn’t take them back.

Best smelling city:
Brussels

Best Hotel Location:
Hotel San Giovanni, Florence, above the Duomo
Hotel Side, Istanbul, overlooking Hagia Sofia and the Blue Mosque
Acropolis View Hotel, Athens, aptly named
Manohara hotel, at the foot of Borobudur

Best Travel Book:
Shantaram, Gregory David Roberts
West with the NIght, Beryl Markham

Best Market, in the Whole Wide World as Far As I am Concerned:
Spice Bazaar, Istanbul

Most Impressive volcano:
Santorini.
Mt. Merapi

Worst line:
Everything, just everything said to me by the men of Eqypt.

Best Art:
Miro Museum, Barcelona
David, Florence
Caryatid Porch, Acropolis

Hardest Place to Communicate:
Cairo (but it wasn’t a language problem)
Greece
Spain

Best Museum:
New Acropolis
Fundacion Joan Miro

Best Urban Design:
Siena
Florence

Most moving architecture:
Borobudur
Duomo, Siena

Best Fashion:
Italy
Zanzibar

Worst self-inflicted travel injuries:
applying DEET to directly to eye in Bali, brought about by being freaked out by the phrase “Japanese Encephalitis” and having to use DEET in the first palce
bike crash

Worst hotel:
Arabesque, Cairo. Scary.

Most dramatic scenery:
Santorini, Greece
Nusa Lembongan, off the coast of Bali

Best Hotel:
Zanzibar Coffee House
The Tanis, Mushroom Bay, Lembongan Island
Hotel Side, Istanbul

Worst travel segment:
Quatar to Rome. Curry. Ick.

Best bathroom:
outdoor bathroom in Bali.
Zanzibar Coffee House

Worst Cab Driver:
Athens

Best Cab Driver:
Athens.

Best Beer:
Orval, Brussels
Westmalle, Brussels
Chimay, Brussels

Best beer labels:
Kilimanjaro, Tanzania
Serengeti, Tanziania

Tackiest souvenir I should have bought:
sexy priests calendar, Rome
Mannequin Pis chocolates, Brussels

Fun Facts

In Cairo, you hiss to get someone’s attention. It kind of sends chills down your spine. You make repeated kissy noises to get through a crowd. You make movie-vampire noises to get your camel to sit down. If you are a camel, your verbal response to this sounds like a geyser erupting.

In Indonesia, a horn honk means “hello.”

Greek alphabet: B’s are V’s, P’s are R’s, E’s are S’s, upside-down U’s are L’s- it’s like doing a cryptoquote.

Bali- we do outdoor stone bathrooms, with high walls for privacy. It makes SO much sense, sun-bleached and airy, especially in comparison to a dingy interior mildewed water closet.

Many places (Indonesia, Istanbul, Greece) have the small-hose-and-faucet set-up next to the toilet. And rarely is there any paper. Why?? How??

Always ask, before surrendering every stitch of your laundry, whether the establishment in question has a dryer.

Public boat with the chicken: way better than the wave-jumping speedboat.

If you have to have a meltdown, do it somewhere safe. Case in point: white-knuckle it past the the 12 foot swinging rebar and road craters and elderly people and veering motorbikes in Dar, and then find a quiet road and clean ditch into which to crash your bike.

Worth the extra money in advance: substantial travel bag.

Holding the restroom’s toilet paper hostage in order to extort a tip for handing it to you: Not Nice. That kind of karma will come back to get you, people.

Istanbul: everyone walks arm-in-arm. Brothers, friends, family- it’s really sweet.

Jessica was right, my white t-shirt needed to be destroyed after about a week.

Taking the camel route to see the pyramids- totally worth it for the distant view from the Sahara.

The cab driver doesn’t want to see the map, address, or directions to your hotel. No matter what country, no matter what language the directions are in. This is true even if the cab is a rickshaw, or a dala-dala. You will not be able to convince them to look.

Oxtail soup: better than it sounds, and much much better than it looks. Pigeon tongue soup? Can’t report, I chickened out, can that be real? Do pigeons even have tongues?

From Boram, who works at my hotel in Istanbul: Kalamata olive, with lemon juice, capers, and olive oil.
From Ellie, Byzantio restaurant, the plaka: baked feta. Tomatoes, olive oil, green peppers, crusty bread.

In Europe, the messier the dish, the fewer napkins they will give you. I think it’s a game.

Language seeps in over time, even when you’re not trying. A language comes back to you quickly, even if you haven’t needed it in years.

The Dar Es Salaam airport staff is not afraid to ask pointed questions about your toiletries. This is definitely a game. It is not a fun game, but it is a game.

Italian fashion: Want It. All about the boots.

A La Kate: If you see a puddle in Africa, and it has not rained in the last 20 minutes, do not step in it.

People on cell phones in public places, are annoying in any language. Petulant children are petulant, with all the same noises, in any language.

Public restrooms around the Vatican: the nicest in Rome. Thank you.

Curry: a mean, mean thing to serve on an airplane. It looks vile, tastes worse, and smells worst of all. Multiply this by 300 people in a small space, and it’s cruel. I blame you, Qatar Airlines, for two days of The Quease, in Rome. And I didn’t even eat it.

Count your change.

Sitting in Piazzas is just as educational as museums.

Taxi fares will eat you alive. Taxis in traffic = financial nightmare.

Orval: if you want to appear smart, it’s “Un Orval.” Every other beer in Belgium is “Une,” for some reason, Orval is masculine. It’s also delicious.

Lightbulb Moment.

I saw something in Florence which stopped me in my tracks. I was walking along the river at sunset, across from the Uffizi, and saw a blue neon sign, the length of the building, across the back of the museum. It said simply,

all art has been contemporary.

Just like that. All art has been contemporary. And of course, that was the whole point of the trip, although I hadn’t thought of it exactly like that. There were days when I was snarky about some iffy contemporary art at the Vatican, and days when I was a little weary of ancient temple ruins, and days like at the Miro museum when I was moved to tears by the sculpture. All of this art and architecture I saw, from 3,000 years ago at Saqqara to the street performers in the square, have been contemporary at some point. All of them were trying to express something fundamental, to encapsulate something about their core beliefs; as Dr. Schaffer would say, to inscribe their cosmology on the earth and make sense of their universe. The pyramids? life after death. Borobudur? the path to enlightenment. The Acropolis? seat of the gods. Italian piazzas: monuments to participation in civic life. And on and on. I wanted to see these places, and learn what was so important to these artists that they had to inscribe it in stone.

This raises the obvious question, one we discussed at great length in school- what is it we, here, are trying to say? What legacy are we leaving behind? As architects? As people? Nobody is interested in another discussion about sprawl, strip malls, big-box stores, and monuments to the culture of “personal mobility” and consumerism and the automobile. But this is a very personal issue to me at the moment, given that I am at a, shall we say, awkward point in my career. In that I do not have one at the moment. Which, actually, is a great time to consider, what is it I would like to say, given the chance to inscribe something in stone myself? Is it, “All people deserve safe, well-designed, affordable housing?” Is it, “Our American cities could use some sensitive urban design?” Or maybe, “Our buildings need to be as sustainable as possible,” or just “A thing of beauty is a joy forever.” It may be years before I get to design anything, anywhere, for anyone- but I’m going to quit talking about what I don’t want to do, architecturally speaking. I’m throwing my energy behind the “all art has been contemporary” sentiment, and tackle it from that approach for now.

Frequently Asked Questions

So. Six weeks after returning home, I’m finally posting some last entries and some summary thoughts. I’m omitting some details: I skimmed over Brussels, because that was really more family trip than World Tour, and because I shredded a couple of those entries and subsequently imposed a temporary moratorium on family travel, as that is way more stressful than traveling alone around the world. We definitely had some fun, and saw some sights, and oh my gracious merciful heavens, the food....beer made by monks, and chocolate, and frites, and a whole place called Butter Street. It was great. So without further ado, on to FAQ’s since I’ve been home:


Frequently Asked Questions:

What was your favorite place?
Istanbul. Hands down. In fact, I have not let anyone get farther than, “What was your fa....” without saying, “Istanbul Istanbul Istanbul!” Why, exactly, is harder to explain. But then, I showed up in this gorgeous, exotic place in a gentle snowstorm, and was treated like a princess wherever I went, and was immediately assaulted in the best possible way with a barrage of colors and sounds and tastes and smells I’ve never experienced before. There are spiral strings of lanterns hanging in doorways, and minarets, and tiny winding European lanes, and kebap men who look like Luka from E.R., and hamam ladies who will scrub you within an inch of your life, and blue-jean stores sitting on top of Roman ruins, and waterways and bridges and palace harems and Turkish delight, and olives and eggs for breakfast, followed by tea on the rooftop overlooking Hagia Sofia and the Blue Mosque. The hawkers and shillers remember you and treat you like family every time you walk past, and they yell across the street and call you by name and ask how your day was, and you yell back things like, “Hey, Romeo, I just got back from Istaklal Street!” and it’s fun because his ACTUAL name is Romeo, and how often to you get to yell that?

Not to make this all about me, but I’ve been reflecting on this, and Istanbul is definitely the most “me” of all the places I went, or at least “me” as I’d like to be. I really enjoyed all of the places I went, but I’m not really the tropical surfer girl that matches Bali, or chic fashionista in Rome, or the Spanish night clubber, and so on. I’m not at home in places that feel rigid and culturally stuffy (coughPariscough); whatever the opposite of that would be, a place that totally embraced a floaty, free-spirited lifestyle, would probably also wear on me before long. Istanbul, however, is a perfect mix of traditional and bohemian; there’s a sense of being rooted in a European past, with a free-spirited flair, and all kinds of people seem to live there harmoniously. It’s old-world and modern, and eastern and western, and land and sea, and young and old at the same time. I like balance. I like harmony. I like inclusiveness. But mostly, I like colors and sights and sounds and smells and tastes, all together in one big riotous display, in a snowy fairy-tale city.


How in the world did you plan all of this?
Well- I had time for all of this to percolate, long before I left. I knew where I absolutely had to go (Borobudur), and which places would be nice if I had all of the time and money in the world (Kathmandu and Thailand), and which places shouldn’t be wedged into a multi-country tour (Israel). So, I went on the “Know Thyself” principal. It’s easy ahead of time to figure out your comfort zone in terms of accommodation, level of planning, pace, budget, etc. I relied heavily on hostelworld.com, and Lonely Planet. If you don’t want to share bunk beds in a hostel, you don’t have to. If you want to book cabs from your living room ahead of time, do it. If you don’t want to go somewhere, don’t, even if you feel you should. Move quickly, or linger, or change your mind. It’s your trip. And once you have figured out all of the above, my unsolicited advice is,

Do Not Apologize. You owe nobody an explanation, for any part of your trip: your choice to travel alone or with others, your pace, your must-dos, your omissions. I spent the first month explaining, defending, rationalizing to strangers who felt comfortable criticizing my choices and scolding me for moving too fast. I wish I had saved my breath. By halfway through, I had a couple of strategies. the “OH I’M SORRY, MY EARS ARE STILL STOPPED UP FROM THE PLANE. I’M HAVING TROUBLE HEARING YOU.” Say this about twice, just a little too loudly, and your seat companion will probably give up from the awkwardness. Deliberate misunderstanding is fun, too. One guy leaving Africa chastised me for not staying long enough to trace Livingstone’s footsteps. Which, actually, was not a priority for me. He then took issue with the fact that I have no plans to move to Africa. He said, “Next time I’m in America, I’m going to check and make sure you’ve moved!” And I said brightly, “Great! I’ll be there! So nice to meet you!” From here on out, I’m responding to such condescending people with a string of foreign words I’ve picked up: “Karibu! Merhaba! Chocoran! No speak-a! Non Schpreken!”

I mean, sheesh, it’s not like I didn’t give this any thought. I did. For months and months. And what I needed was not cultural immersion, or to sharpen my language skills, or to forge international lifelong bonds, or to trace the source of the Nile, or to rest for weeks somewhere quiet. I knew exactly what I needed. I needed motion, and possibility, and adventure, and to take in as many of the great sights as I could, in the time I could afford to travel. That semester I spent on crutches, and felt trapped and broken down and stuck at my teeny-tiny desk in that basement studio with all of the towering claustrophobic shelves, I got a GPS for Christmas. I cried. Because other than the rest of the people stuck in that room with me working 120 hours a week, I didn’t know anyone else who wouldn’t be able to use a GPS for years. Back then I really couldn’t see a time ahead when I’d be able to do anything other than travel the two miles back and forth between my house, where I spent up to six hours a day asleep, and campus, where I worked the other eighteen hours a day, seven days a week. Things got better. Much, much better, and I really loved the rest of my time at NCSU. But I still didn’t have any freedom to speak of- it was a big deal to accept a dinner invitation, let alone travel. So all I wanted to do, when I finally had the chance, was to hurl myself all the way around the world as fast as possible, and stand in all the great places I’d been studying, and breathe some different-smelling air, and be shocked by the bright colors of piled-up spices in the bazaars, and wade out in thigh-high water to ride a boat with a chicken, and fly in a bush plane out of Zanzibar, and people-watch in piazzas, and wrestle my way through crowds to take a picture of the Sphinx. None of this needed to be defended and explained to the people who felt free to criticize my choices; to them I say godspeed, and please go spend your vacation time and hard-earned money doing exactly what it is that YOU need to do, and I won’t judge. (You can tell it still rankles me though.)

Did you ever feel like you weren’t safe? Was it scary?
My personal philosophy is that the world, by and large, is a safe place. I behave accordingly, after taking precautions against the percentage of it that’s not. I registered with embassies. I took a few travelers’ checks, although they’re a pain, in case of purse-snatching. I got vaccinated. I took malaria meds. I trusted my instincts, and if a place felt iffy, I was extra careful. Thanks to two of my dearest friends, I even took an international cell phone, mainly because they are both attorneys and there is no point in arguing. And they bought it for me, and I appreciated it. Most of Raleigh had my passport info, and my bank knew exactly where I was. Having taken care of all of that before I left home, though- I proceeded as if I were safe, and I enjoyed myself, and other than common-sense behavior, I didn’t give it much thought.

You did all of this ALONE?
Surprisingly, I was never, for one second, really alone. And, for the record I am, at least internally, the most shy person I know. I love people but there is no question that I am an introvert. It’s documented. INFP. So, sure, there were a couple of moments which would have been more comfortable with company, such as arriving in the pitch-black pre-dawn darkness on a Grecian island, or walking the streets in Cairo. But a couple of important thoughts here. Firstly, it’s far more likely that your issue will be finding some alone time, rather than needing company. This is particularly true in places which don’t see many Americans these days, or places where you’re traveling in the off-season and you happen to stand out, or moments when you really, really need a bit of solitude and are suddenly surrounded by quizzical strangers. Secondly, the situations that are slightly uncomfortable are, I’m convinced, really good for you in the long run. People have commented, over and over and over, that I must be really brave to travel alone. I am not particularly brave, but I have learned to embrace awkwardness, because when you travel in strange lands, you are going to feel awkward, a lot. You are going to stumble over words, and make a gesture that you later remember is considered rude, and you are going to get lost, and fumble around with the currency. You may incur some Italian transit fines for not knowing the rules, and you may wreck a bike now and again. It’s all fine. In my daily life, it is so, so easy for me to avoid most of these things which make me uncomfortable. I’m not convinced that’s a good thing. Educators call it “disequilibrium.” It puts us in the zone. We learn. We grow. It’s good for us.

The third point here is really my favorite, though. When I said I was never really alone, it’s partly because of all the people I met on the road, but mainly because I have lucked out in the friends-and-family department back home. My Mom, who was not for one second comfortable with any of this, bought me my plane tickets for graduation, Christmas, and my birthday, which all happened within a week. She also wrote me a card for every single week I was gone, to open on Sundays. My friend Andie bought me a travel bag covered in guitars, which went with me everywhere. My friends Karl and Matt loaned me a compass, an ace Eagle Scout kind of thing which I pulled out now and then for figuring out things like, “is this temple facing east? Oh, they oriented it towards the sunrise!”, but the two times I was lost and pulled it out feeling a little shaky, I suddenly did not feel the least bit alone. My friend Jessica babysat my house so I had no worries about the home front while I was gone. My other friend Jessica gave me a crossword puzzle book: not just any crossword puzzle book, but one with a swank girly cover, and with all of the puzzles partially complete. She laughed about it being a “busted up gift” which I could toss out the window at any time, but I got through every single puzzle while waiting for flights and sitting on trains, and I had company the whole time. My bookmark for the puzzle book was one of my friend Chrisy’s “Intention Cards,” which we get out every now and then and draw one from the deck (one of the many reasons I love Chrisy is that she has things like New Age Casserole recipes, and decks of Intention Cards.) This particular card said something like, “the healing has already begun,” and by the time I caught that first whiff of Bali breeze, I knew it was true. My friend Virginia gave me a neon green suitcase handle that said “Travel Junkie” so I could spot it at the airport, and the most fabulous CD of travel music ever. My friend Tyler tried to buy me a carton of cigarettes, in case I got in a jam and had to barter my way out (Jessica of the crossword puzzles put a stop to this, but I totally appreciated the sentiment anyway.) I had no less than three households charting my progress on maps in their living rooms (my niece and nephew had me as a flag moving around their globe, until the dog ate it and I was replaced by a palm tree.) And I never once checked my e-mail in some lonely spot without someone checking in and sending news, or laughing about some story from my blog. I had a surprise “bon voyage” party, and a last-night-before-you-go dinner with friends, and a home cooked “Katherine’s home” dinner before I’d even unpacked.

Day 50. Malaga.

One. 9 a.m.
Ah. There has been a travel romance. Not mine- I just saw the aftermath of this one, while having coffee at my hostel this morning. A kid who works at the desk is outside, kissing the hand of a blonde girl with a backpack. Clearly, she is headed off in the direction of the square with the taxis. He is deadly serious as she walks off, and he stands there watching her woefully all the way down the lane. There is despair. Coming and going all day, I have seen him 5 or 10 times at the desk. He looks like a shipwreck.

Two. 10 a.m.
Another great street, and another great plaza. Marques de Lanos, ending in Plza de la Constitucion. This street was designed in 1882, in the style of the Chicago School. I actually like it better than La Rambla in Barcelona. On La Rambla, you are separated from the street fronts on either side by busy and congested streets, and you are essentially confined to the pedestrian median. Here, the street is all yours, storefront to storefront. It's a beautiful street, and a Spanish Plaza at the end where people are gathered, and sitting, and lounging by the fountains- for a minute I thought I was in Italy.

Three. 10:15 a.m.
The fake statue people followed me here. There were just three of them today, though, and they seem to be a club: one Gandalf, one Orc, and one Dwarf costume. I don't know why we are doing Lord of the Rings in Spain. But then, I don't know why we are doing any of these fake statue things.

Four. noon.
On a quest for boots. I know. I already bought boots. But I have a specific need. I suffered pangs of jealousy in Italy, over Italian fashion in general and the tall boots in particular. Almost everyone on the street wore some variation of knee-high boots, with some combination of sweater/dress/long coat on top. The first step towards getting what you want, is being able to name it. I want that look.

Five. 3 p.m.
I am wearing my standard Dansko clogs and beat-up travel jeans as I duck into the PIcasso museum to check the closing time. I am bogged down by a shopping bag holding new boots, and also now Spanish groceries, (I decided Italian Pasta night would be more fun if I could also have a Tapas Night at home.) The guard yawns as I walk in. He could not be more bored. I walk back to my hostel to unload. I put on the new fancy jeans I bought at H & M yesterday, and the new black boots I just bought on sale. I am not sure about this look. I do not wear Italian-style skinny jeans tucked into tall black boots. But the only way to find out whether you can rock a look, is just to go out and wear it like you mean it. All the better if you are somewhere far from home with no permanent witnesses.

Six. 3:20 p.m.
Back at the Picasso Museum, 20 minutes later. The yawning guard, who was pretending to be a statue person 20 minutes ago, is now falling all over himself with welcome. He directs me excitedly to the "tickets" window and practically escorts me up the stairs.

I am keeping the new jeans and boots.

Seven. 4 p.m.
Small communication breakdown: I speak no Spanish, so it's all a guessing game which I don't mind. In a Spanish gourmet shop, buying a present, I see a sign that says "bocadillos." They are like 1.80 euros, so I figure it must be something small. They have one with "jamon york," and since I have developed a ham problem here between Italian prosciutto and Spanish serano ham, I order one. The shopkeeper fires a question at me in Spanish, and when it's clear that I'm baffled by this, she smiles and makes a flipping motion with her hands, so I assume it means "heated."

I thank her, pay, and leave; when I open my bag later, I find a football-sized ham sandwich. Ah- not "heated," but "buttered." There is a good 1/8" thick layer of butter on my ham. Wrong wrong wrong.

But it was tasty.

Eight. 9 p.m.
I just did a bad thing. I decided to go to a tapas place, recommended by my hostel, for dinner. They had a note posted saying, "The puntalitos are great!" So of course I ordered some. I was curious about what they would actually be- some form of vegetable? some kind of bread-y thing? Something with ubiqutious ham?

No. Puntalitos are baby squid. Teeny-tiny fried baby squid.

I am fine with calimari- and if it's sliced in rings and looks like something other than squid, all the better. But these: whole, deep-fried, crispy, BABY squid, no bigger than a quarter. Baby carrots are great; baby corn, baby peas, what have you; miniature vegetables, no problem, but eating baby animals of any kind just seems wrong, wrong, wrong, too. Right?

But they were tasty too.


Nine. 10 p.m.
Last food adventure. On the way home I spot something that looks glazed, crunchy, and sweet in a window. I get a choice of honey or sugar. When I order it in my best Spanish, which is bad, the girl tries to give me ice cream. I finally manage to communicate. When I get it, is....wet bread. I have no idea what it was supposed to be- but, essentially, I have wet bread, with honey on top. Yuk.

But, I have had communication difficulty all through Spain. My sister and I figured out later that I'm used to hearing Mexican Spanish, because I have at least watched Dora the Explorer with my godson and I know a handful of words. Nothing here sounds like Dora the Explorer. I say, "Gracias," and they say, "Glathia." It's tricky. But Analucia is its own place, and so is Barcelona, and well, by now, I'm quite comfortable looking like an idiot anyway.

Day 49: Cordoba. La Mezquita.

Bus to Cordoba: one of my nicest journeys so far. It's about 2 1/2 hours, through olive groves and steep hillsides all the way, passing through villages here and there. My reading material, tragically and prematurely, came to an end last night, including 3 books people gave me along the way, but even better: I have audiobooks on Ipod, so I can stare out the window and just listen.

La Mezquita, the Great Mosque: I needed one last treasure of architectural glory and wonder. And I'm so glad I came. I would have hate to have missed this place. For sheer architectural spatial experience, I've never been anywhere like it. It's the mosque with the forest of columns, with the red-striped double arches at the top. And there are so many that it does feel like a forest, and the hundreds and hundreds of double arches feel like a tree canopy. There are way more of them than I would have thought possible, as far as the eye can see. Standing mid-arch, you look down and see one arch inside another, almost to infinity; if you step sideways, of course the perspective changes, and it's dizzying diagonals of arches veering off in either direction. You want to take a picture every few feet. The rhythm changes when you get to the most important places, and there are niches with poly-loved arches and other kinds of detail. I walked round looking straight up, with my mouth open I think, for a long time.

Despite the spectacular space here, what's on my mind today is religion, with the general theme of "Can't we all just get along?" Because inserted directly into the center of this beautiful forest of columns, is an unspectacular and jarring cathedral, courtesy of the Spanish Inquisition and its aftermath. It's invasive, and it's disharmonious. I am not railing against the Catholic church, or any other church, but it's just such a tangible example of conflict, and conquest, and attempts at subjugation and oppression. This process has been going on back and forth as long as there has been culture, but it seems so tangled, and so timely, here in Andalucian Spain.

Another reminder of conflict: there are more police officers here than I have seen at any point during my trip. Van loads of them, and they're surrounding the mosque-cathedral, and walking around it in clusters, and patrolling the perimeter. I don't know whether there's something up, or whether this is normal behavior, since I am so entirely out of the news loop. But it makes this place feel like contested ground, still.

I have, in fact, 3 pages in my travel journal on this topic, which I will spare you, my friends. But it includes thoughts on why people have been apologizing to me for two months for the radicals who have given Islam such a bad name in recent years, though I have never once broached the subject. It wasn't my intent to travel to so many Islamic places, I just followed the architecture; but I found nothing but welcome and cheerleading for America and Americans, and sincere pain about the conflict, and what it´s done to the relationships between America and places like Indonesia, and Istanbul, and Egypt, and Zanzibar. I can't count the number of people who told me in these places that they were grateful I came, because the threat of terrorism has been so hard on their morale, and their livelihoods, and their opportunities. To that I would say, if you let terrorists dictate where you do and don't go, then you have let terrorism prevail. I am a cautious traveler and I believe in common sense, but I am not about to start living in fear. All of that is a far cry from where I started this morning, at La Mezquita in Spain, but looking at the swarms of security officers and the remnants of the Spanish Inquisition, it feels kind of appropriate. It's a tangled issue, and it has deep roots, and I have no words of wisdom to offer. But it pains me.

On a lighter note, I loved the rest of Cordoba. The old city is really charming; I strolled and shopped and resisted the urge to buy a pair of flamenco dance shoes, and I tried a tapas sampler including octopus, and two kinds of potato salad, and chorizio sausage. Back to Malaga, where I was surprised with a giant H & M at the train station: new clothes, after wearing the same 4 or so bedraggled outfits for weeks....

tomorrow, family time. Off to Brussels and chocolate and lace and Delirium Tremens beer.

Day 48: Alhambra, Alhambra, Alhambra

I think it's one of the most beautiful words, in any language. When I was dreaming of coming here, I'd say it out loud, Alhambra Alhambra Alhambra. In fact, I had one version of this trip based entirely on great place names: Borobudur-Kathmandu-Mumbai-Madagascar-Zanzibar-Istanbul-Azerbaijan-Alhambra. But that one would have left out some crucial spots for world architecture, so I just left the list up in eyeliner on my bathroom mirror, for about two months, because it made me feel good to look at it.

But I digress. Alhambra: truly, a treasure of world architecture. Granada itself is really nice, and the bus trip here was especially a treat. Once you get out of the icky 70's high rises which stretch for miles around Malaga, the countryside turns into rolling hills with olive groves and cherry trees just starting to bloom. There are also orange trees everywhere, for a Mediterranean twist. It gets hillier and rockier as you approach Granada; I hadn't realized it was so close to the Sierra Nevada. And despite the fact that I'm just about on the Mediterranean here, it's chilly.

The Alhambra itself: part city, part fortress, part royal palace, all with a gorgeous view of the mountains and the city down below. To get into the main complex, you walk through the old city part, the Medina, which runs along a royal road lined with cyprus topiaries. The old shops are filled with tourist things; tacky, but then, commerce is what would have been happening here, so it's ok. I started in the Alcazaba, another great word to say, which is the three-towered citadel. It makes the Alhambra look like a ship from a distance. The Alcazaba is very citadel-y, your standard medieval fort with an exceptional view.

What you're really here for, though, is the Nasrid Palaces, where the royal family lived. It's know for ornate, lavish detail, lovely vaulted spaces, the intricate and practical carved privacy screens for the women in the royal harem, and the water features everywhere to cool the air. There are two legendary courtyards here: the court of the Myrtles, with a large reflecting pool, and the Court of the Lions. The Court of the Lions, my friend, is what I came to see. It's a lush, richly carved, sumptuous but slightly whimsical place- whimsical because of the famous fountain, in which a giant stone bowl is supported on the backs of a ring of gentle and smiling lions. From this fountain, rills of water representing paradise flow in the four cardinal directions, capturing light and animating the space. The fountain is even more remarkable because, technically, in an Islamic household, there shouldn't be any representations of people or animals. Nasrid art has some different precedents though, and there's a connection to Judaism and the Temple of Solomon, so it's really special. It's an amazing thing. I have been antsy to stand in this space for ages, even if it meant jostling my way through hordes of tour groups to see it.

A further complication: I have a small camera situation. I have bad Camera Karma; this is my third camera in three years. The first met with an unfortunate water bottle catastrophe; the second fell victim to a bottle of linseed oil with a loose cap. I have learned to purchase idiot protection on my cameras, since I carry one at all times, so this will be fine- but this one, I dropped. Truth be known, I dropped it because I was carrying a small paper bag of Italian dolci in my hand, and snacking on said dolci, when I came across a palazzo in Rome that needed photographing. I didn't drop it far, and it didn't look damages, but that night when I tried to pop it open to charge the battery, it was stuck. This means two things: I can't charge it, and I can't swap out the almost-full memory card, without intervention. And I haven't found anyone yet who can intervene.

This is kind of a loaves-and-fishes situation: it should have given out ages ago, either due to overuse of the battery, or the 1200 pictures already on this particular memory card. This camera, since The Fall, has made it through half of Rome, Florence, Siena, more Florence, Barcelona, and Granada. All along I have been saying, please please please, don't give out before the Court of the Lions. Anything but the Court of the Lions. After that, I'll just draw pictures and buy postcards. Just let me get one picture of the lions.

So today, I was positively giddy. I was giddy to have made it this far with my limping camera, giddy to have made it seven weeks to Spain, giddy, to be standing in the Alhambra Alhambra Alhambra. Giddy for my 1 p.m. entry to the Nasrid Palaces, even in the crush of people. By the time I made it in, and through to the Court of the Myrtles, I was actually bouncing up and down on my tiptoes, with giddiness. Lions lions lions, Court of the Lions, I can't wait to see the Lions, and I round the corner, and

There are no lions in the Court of the Lions.

There is only a giant box, covering the fountain's bowl, and a sign saying, ¨renovations.¨ The lions are all way being polished, and the fountains are being cleaned. There is no water in the paradise fountains. The rills are just dry ditches. I am left standing in the courtyard, pouting, like someone has just stolen my lollipop and kicked over my sand castle. No lions. No lions, in the Court of the Lions.

My list of monuments under renovation so far this trip:
Borobudur (part of it is always in scaffolding being preserved)
Prambanan (1/4 being preserved and roped off)
Suleymaniye mosque (closed entirely)
the Parthenon (scaffolding)
the Temple of Athena Nike (invisible)
the pyramid at Saqqara (interior closed)
the Pantheon (scaffolding)
Sagrada Familia (total construction zone.)

All of this I have taken gracefully, with the view that preservation is a good thing, and that taking care of these places takes priority over the needs of visitors. But the lions...the lions are the last straw. I want my lions. I want my rills.

Oh well. The rest of the Alhambra, in fact, is worth all of the effort. I'll just have to come back. I need to come back anyway- I think the effect of all of those fountains and water features would be much more dramatic on a hot day, when their purpose is clear. The carvings, the craftsmanship, the serenity of all of those royal spaces is so powerful that even the crush of people doesn't diminish the experience. And the gardens: small pocket gardens, interior courtyard gardens, linear gardens lining the walls of the Alcazaba; so placid, so regal. I would, in fact, like to see this place in the summer, with everything blooming.

One last architectural wonder on the agenda- tomorrow, the Great Mosque at Cordoba. Actually, I had it on the agenda, then decided I needed to slow down and spend some extra time in Grenada and Malaga. After today, though, it's back on. It will involve 3 hours on a bus and 2 hours on a train, but I think it will be worth it. I need one more burst of brilliance and beauty and architectural treasure. Today was great, but I feel like I started to sneeze, and then couldn't. I'm unsatisfied. No cathartic lions. After Spain, it's on to family time and mother-daughter-sister bonding in Brussels; tomorrow, really, ends the big architectural wonders tour. So...Cordoba. It's on. It is SO on.

Day 47, Barcelona to Malaga

One thing I just love about Spain: Time. There doesn't seem to be any. Or if there is, nobody's keeping track. When I checked in at my hostel, the guy in charge gave me a big fat notebook of fun things to do. ¨Read it at your leisure, of course,¨ he said. ¨This is Spain.¨ And indeed. For all the rambling and promenading, nobody seems to be in a big hurry. Of course, I don't have a job, so I'm not feeling any pressure, but it's definitely different here. I got up this morning at 8:45, made it out the door by a leisurely 9:30, and by 10 am, lots of places around me are still struggling to take down chairs and start serving coffee.

I like a place where I am an over-achiever, in terms of the wake-up procedure. Since grad school, left to my own devices with no alarm clock, I will routinely sleep 10 hours a night, for days on end. I used to have a job where I was at work, smiling, and conversing with middle schoolers by 6:45 or 7 am. I did this for years, on probably 6 or 7 hours of sleep a night. I'm assuming my current pattern will eventually balance out, and I'll be replenished, and start waking up at reasonable hours. But for now, a toast to the Spanish, for encouraging me to sleep in.

Best $12 I have spent in a long time: The Miro Museum. It's on Montujuic, in Barcelona's steep, ritzy Jewish quarter, and it's a beautiful walk up there. It's so steep, in fact, the city has thoughtfully provided dozens of outdoor escalators to get people up to all of these museums and parks up there. My favorite thing about the museum visit was all of the groups of preschoolers. I counted 4 or 5 separate classes, the cutest of them all dressed in red. They hopped and ambled up the stairs and some of them wandered in circles while their patient museum educator was talking (thinking of you, Jessica R!) but most of them were enthralled. And that's why I love Miro so much- accessible even to tiny people, but so multi-layered and complex that adults can stand in front of a piece for hours, pondering love and longing and loss and the fragility of existence and tenderness and war and patriotism and peace...and on and on.

The sculptures were stunning, I thought- spare and simple but really, really potent. The big idea I took from my sculpture class last semester is that scuplture is a lot, I mean a lot, harder than it looks, in terms of proportion and balance and movement and joinery. Miro's are wonderful. There was one called ¨Monument in the Middle of the Ocean to the Glory of the Wind.¨ There was another one, ¨Homme i Dona en la Nuit,¨ with two slightly different barstools, one upturned, with a crescent moon. One of the paintings I loved was something like, ¨Numbers and Letters Attracted by a Spark,¨ and dozens of other beautiful titles. I had 3 stops to make today before leaving for Malaga, but I didn´t make it past the museum.

After that, one last walk around the Barri Goti, during which I got lost one last time. (I´ve been playing the game here in which I always go toward the darkest, narrowest, crookedest streets, on the hunch that that will take me deeper in and lead me to the interesting things. Twice, from different places, it's taken me directly to my hostel, without looking at signs.) Kind of a long journey to Malaga, although it shouldn´t have been; getting to the airport involved a 20 minute walk, a subway, a city train, and a 10 minute bus ride to the terminal. I was prepared to do an elaborate procedure in Malaga to get to the train station, check my big luggage, find a bus, and walk from the city center to my hostel, but in the dark and the rain, I said, screw it. Cab. So worth it.

Tonight, one of the best meals yet, especially in Spain. My hostel has a bar in the foyer, and one of the desk guys (improbably named Fabio, of all things) had cooked dinner. They take turns. Some sort of Spanish soup with greens and veggies, and a giant plate of baked tomato-potato-veggie deliciousness. Oh, and two homemade sangrias. Tomorrow, the real reason for my trip to Spain: the Alhambra. Update soon.

Day 46? That can´t be right...Barthalona.

In Barthalona. My friend Greg thaid it like that for fun, and now I can't thtop. Try it, it's dangerous...but really, I love the way they say it here. Bar-che-lo-na, with a ¨che¨ like in ¨cello.¨ Sitting now in Parc Guell, and it's a sunny and breezy 60 degrees this morning in Spain.

I have stumbled onto another really nice place to stay, in the Barri Gotic, the old gothic core of the city. It's a bit like Stone Town, actually, with a maze of narrow streets, and all the landmarks disappearing when the storefronts close. I got here yesterday and had my first almost-disaster of planning. The directions to my hostel were really, really explicit- which is good because, from the street, it's completely invisible. So, in fact, is the street itself. There's a row of graffiti-covered garage-style doors, and a small number "4" and a bell that says, "Marcela 3A." The door itself is cut into one of these larger doors, so it's hidden, too. I ring the bell and...nada. I ring it several times....nada again, and I am standing in pickpocket central, with all of my luggage. I don't care if they take all my clothes at this point- it's all just laundry, really- but I will fight tooth and nail for my Turkish boots and Zanzibar presents and Italian groceries.

I re-group. I drag my luggage to the first place I can find to sit down. I have a sandwich and a coke and decide, if I can't get into my hostel, to just find an new one nearby and eat the cost. It doesn't come to that. I drag my luggage back down the winding streets to the hidden street and the secret door, and by great good luck, this South African guy named Clinton is there to let me in. Clinton is my new best friend, because there is no elevator, and he cheerfully carried my biggest bag up three flights. I was just going to abandon it for three days, it's ridiculous, but he was still smiling when he got to the top and just said, ¨"That's quite the heavy one, isn't it!" Bless him. And he showed me my room, which is fun and really funky, and he takes out a map. He writes all over it- the place with the 75 cent champagne, and the place with the cool fountains, and the subway stop and the two towers I need to look for to get there, and the best tapas place.

He shows me something else I didn't know on the map. Barcelona used to be three villages, and you can see them still on the city map with lots of small and winding streets. They were knitted together at some point in an expansion called "l'Eixample," with a grid in between to unify the whole city. It's really easy to tell when you've stepped out of one of the villages into the grid. Here, the buildings are pulled way back from the corners at all of the intersections in gentle curves, and the area in the intersections looks more like the shape of a roundabout. Most streets have huge medians, which are either for pedestrians or huge bike lanes.

The most famous street here, La Rambla (or Las Ramblas, if you string a few of them together) is for promenading. In fact, this city seems to have a different take on the public realm than Italy did. Here it's all about movement. Promenading is a big deal, and the public spaces I've seen are either these long, wide pedestrian districts, or full-on parks. There are little expanses here and there, plaças, but they're not really gathering spots. In the pedestrian areas, there are cafes with tables, but no benches to speak of for the general public. You're meant to keep moving. The word "Rambla" has something to do with the movement of water, but it sounds like ramble, and that's what people are doing. There are different Ramblas scattered about the city, in addition to the main one. Another "movement" word- there's also a street nearby called the "Passeig de Gracia," which I love.

My thoughts on Las Ramblas: I´m sorry. I don't like it. But it has nothing to do with Las Ramblas itself- it's one of the great streets of the world, and I know this because it's in my Great Streets book. The problem: it's infested, just infested, with those fake statue people. For those of you who don't know this personal quirk of mine, THESE PEOPLE CREEP ME OUT. They creep me out like clown dolls. I pass them and I feel awkward, and then embarrassed for them, and I wonder why they feel like standing still entitles them to any of my money? There are some clever ones around here. There's a creepy soldier in camouflage holding a rifle, which is even scarier; there are some headless bodies with floating hats and spectacles; some eerie all-in-black-lace ghost women. Right now in the park I'm watching a caveman put on makeup for his ¨homo barcelonus" diorama. He's been doing this for 20 minutes. But again I say, they are not street performers, they are just standing still. When I walk past them, I always have the look on my face that Will Ferrell has in Elf, when he's testing the Jack-in-the-Boxes. Creepy. So, Las Ramblas on a Sunday means dodging these people every 15 or 20 feet, and trying to snake through the crowds gathered all round them, waiting for them to ...what?? What is it they think they're going to do??

In other news: pickpockets in Barcelona. They are legendary. I have found them, in the form of Gaudi ticket sales people. They separated me from 10 € today to get into Sagrada Familia, but didn't tell me in advance that, due to construction, I would be able to tour all the open spots in less than 2 minutes. You're not allowed to use the stairs, but they will sell you a ticket for an elevator ride. Mean mean mean. I wanted to love it, but between the jackhammers and scaffolding and crane action, you really can't see much of anything in there. Some of the details, like the beautiful doors and the strange sculptures, are worth a close look. Some of it looks like...a drizzle castle.

Pickpocketed again at Casa Mila, but that one's only 6 € and totally worth it. Again, strange. After Parc Guell, and Sagrada Familia, and now Casa Mila, I'm starting to wonder about this man. I love Gaudi in theory: I love Art Nouveau; I love his color theory; I love that he tried to work outside the box and push the envelope. Up close, though, it's all so snaky and reptilian and spinal. It's supposed to be organic, but it's a little unsettling. On to Casa Batilo, my last Gaudi stop of the day. The thieving scoundrels and hoarders of culture at the gate want 18 €. For reference, the Uffizi is 10; the Louvre is 9, a ticket to the pyramids is like $6, at ticket to the Acropolis, or the Roman Forum, is like 7€. Leaving Italy I had a come-to-Jesus meeting with myself over the travel budget, so I decided to skip that last one. Criminal. Gaudi is everywhere here, though, and so is Art Nouveau, and it adds a really nice atmosphere to the city. So I won't complain about them trying to capitalize on it. Much.

Tonight: budget picnic, delicious actually, in front of the cathedral. I found the perfect antidote to the fake statue people: three of my favorite street performers of all time. They actually had a dance-hall piano out there, and a banjo and a trumpet. The lead singer looked like Kurt Cobain but sounded like Louis Armstrong. They sang "Makin' Whoopie" in front of the Barcelona Cathedral. A perfect moment.

And now: off in search of the 75 cent champagne place.

Last day in Italy

Rejoining the urban design and public realm treatise I started way back in Italy:

The whole public realm thing is even more clear in Siena than it is in Florence. Since it's a gothic city, and essentially a fortress, the streets are pleasantly narrow, and the buildings are all fairly tall. Walking through the streets you get a real sense of shelter, of protection, of compression- and most of all, community. You're not in a car, you're face to face with your neighbors and shopkeepers and elected officials and family and tourists, all the time, and everyone rises to the occasion and behaves accordingly. In a place like this, you can feel the ¨We're all in this together¨ spirit. If the enclosure of the street starts to feel a bit much, you just duck down one of the slanting arched passageways into the Piazzo del Campo, which is a sudden vast and sunny expanse. Here, the behavior changes dramatically, The openness and wide, slanting piazza seems to make people a little giddy. Tiny people start spinning or jumping, teenagers do teenager things, and everyone else just plops down to enjoy it all, either at a cafe table or onto the brick piazza itself. There are eleven streets leading off this piazza- but they're pretty well hidden and tucked away. The buildings surrounding the piazza make a varied, but consistent, wall around it all, so it's a really nice street room. A huge one.

And so, to wrap up this whole urban design tangent, we need more of this, everywhere. Raleigh's working on it, and making some good progress. More pedestrian, thoughtfully considered, dynamic spaces, wehre people in the community interact, face-to-face. It's much harder to participate in civic life, and feel like a part of the fabric of the community, when you have to spend your days moving from enclosed house to enclosed car to enclosed office, and back. I'm all for more truly public places for people to gather- informally, to have a drink on the sidewalk, or riotously, like a carnivale parade, or politically, whether it's a health care reform rally or a Tea Party fest. We all know which side of this I'm on, I just went off on Sarah Palin again, but one of the great things about a democracy is that everyone has a voice. You don't like something? Speak up. State your case. It keeps us balanced. And where does all of this healthy activity take place? The public realm. It needs expanding.

Back, then, for one more night in Florence, and tomorrow to Spain. One week in Italy: not nearly enough. But I'm leaving with some lovely, lovely* sights tucked away in my memory, and a shopping bag full of Italian groceries, which I will share when I get home.

*I am throwing the double ¨lovely¨ in for Arrie. She and Jess, two of my favorite Raliegh-ites, have been following my trip on a map this whole time, and commenting on my progress. When Arrie mentioned they need to do some catching up on both the blog and the map, I suggested they just make it a drinking game, and take a drink everytime I say ¨lovely,¨or change cities or something, and then guzzle for a bike crash or a failed Italian love affair (not sure which is more scarring in the long run.) If you´re in the same catch-up boat, I invite you to do the same. Lovely lovely lovely.

Day 44. Oh my gracious merciful heavens. Siena.

Siena: I was not prepared to be so smitten. I know, you've heard ths before- Istanbul, and Zanzibar, but now it's Siena. I am fickle, but traveling from one fabulous place to the next, it's unavoidable.

So- Lonely Planet says people tend to fall hard either for Florence or Siena. Florence's glory days were the Renaissance, and Siena's were the Gothic era, so the atmosphere is really different in each. Who knew, I am a Gothic girl. But not the gloomy, brooding kind. Italian Gothic has about as much in common with weighty, French, "Hunchback of Notre Dame" Gothic as, well, Italy does with France: not all that much. In either case, Gothic is all about the wall, and breaking it down, adn all about the engineering feats of creating giant vaulted interiour spaces. In Italy's case, it comes across with a certain lightheartedness and joy- again, like Italy itself.

The Duomo here: all white stone inscribed with stripes of dark grey pietra serena, with pastel candy-colored stone doing all sorts of beautiful and unexpected things. The carvings around the baptistry, for example, are pinks and sages and creams, pulled and twisted like taffy and arranged in ribbons of color. The crypt shows you just how massive it all is, with enormous piers for structure underground, but inside the Duomo itself, it's etheral. Some of my favorite art of the trp is inside one of the chapels- frescoes all around, showing what has to be some of the earliest examples of flawless use of linear perspective here. (Quite nice after all the early religious art.)

And now an urban design tangent: the Italians understand the Public Realm. They've understood it for thousands of years, dating back to the forum; they udnerstood it during the middle ages when the created these enclosed and dynamic gathering spaces, they understood it during the Renaissance, with the attention given to all the lovely Florentine piazzas. They understand that you need a place to put your carousel, and a place for your teenagers to lounge, and a place for your street festival, and soapbox orator, and coffee drinkers. You even need a place for your megalomaniac religious fanatics like Savonarola to burn books and host the "bonfire of the vanities," because any reasonable populace will pretty quickly come to their senses, and that same fanatic will meet with the same exact fate, in the same place, a year later. (That one's for you, Sarah Palin: people who endorse censorship in a nation of reasonable people always come to a bad end.) This whole public realm situation is pretty important, actually, since so many of our ideas about democracy came from the Roman Republic and its views on the responsibilities of a citizen; our ideas bout individuality, and the importance of participation in civic life can be traced to the the enlightenment and Renaissance Florence, when "we" became "I" for the first time in history. We talked about all of this in Western Architecture, and its suddenly all very clear. It's especially clear why I want to spend hours a day enjoying these public spaces, because they're rare at home, at least the lively ones.

To be continued, fighting yet another ticking clock and another foreign keyboard. Can't wait to get home and proofread and spell check...

Day 43. Very Expensive Train Ride. And, Siena

If I do not write it down, it did not happen. I did not fail to read the fine print on my train ticket, insisting that I validate this ticket, although I did not need to validate the last one I had, which came from the SAME MACHINE, before boarding the train. (Isn't that what the nice men walking through the train punching tickets do, really?) I did not walk past a small ashtray-sized validator, surrounded by teenagers, while I was trying to discern whether I was train 1, or 1A. I did not just pay a 40 € fine for this omission. I further did not miss my transfer during the distraction of paying said fine, meaning that I did not actually just purchase yet another ticket for this 40 mile trip. (This does not include the ticket I bought yesterday, with the machine that ate my 20, which, as it happens, was only good for yesterday.) I did not, in fact, just spend 75 €, for a 6.20€ ticket.

As my Australian friend Patrick would say, the only way to be an old hand, is to be an old hand. You can avoid some rookie mistakes with a little research, but for the most part, friends, it's live and learn.

None of this has ruined my day. I am in Siena, in the mother of all piazzas- the Piazza del Campo, where Il Palio takes place. I am already in love with this city, and all I have managed to do is walk directly to the Piazza for a late lunch (vino Toscano, and ravioli with butter and sage.) I know Siena has much, much more to offer, but I'm having a hard time prying myself from this beautiful, lively spot. I have to find my hotel, but I'm surveying the number of piazza cafes and trying to work out a reasonable rotation, so I can hang out in them all.

Day 42, assorted thoughts

Having a small fit of pique, in Florence. It's all mild, really- went to the train station to get tomorrow's ticket to Siena; my credit card won't work, which means a $20 international phone call to sort out. Switch to the machine that takes cash, which tells me after I have deposited my 20 €, that it does not intend to give me change. And despite this being quite a civilized place, it is by far the most difficult in terms of internet access. I stop at two places, both of which insist on seeing the passport I have locked in my hotel room. Mille grazie. I will now have to go back to the place across the bridge I found yesterday, with the loudest snuffling pug dog you have ever heard.

The only thing for a fit of pique, in Florence, is to sit in a lovely piazza and drink wine. This comes with a little surprise assortment of snacks. Today it's olives, and some sort of cheese-pepper crackers, and a little dish of snack mix. So, forgetting the last hour, some snippets from Florence:


On Rooms With a View:

I really do have one. It's a budget hotel, but it's on the piazza with the Duomo. How did they pull this off? It seems to be a crumbling corner of a glorious old plazzo. I suspect this because of the fresco on my ceiling, which is beautiful- and cut exactly in half, by the new wall subdividing this space into two guest rooms. I want to go knock on my neighbor's door, just to see the other half. Also, there's the smallest, oldest, scariest elevator I've ever seen, which takes ylou 3 flights up with a lot of banging and creaking. I wouldn't mind the walk, except that there are no lights in the stairewll, so even in the daytime you have to feel ahead with your toes on the landings before you commit to a step. All of this just adds to the charm. Upstairs it's cozy and cheerful.

On David:

I went to the Galleria dell'Accademia today, to see Michelangelo's David. (I stopped at the beautiful Ospedale degli Innocenti on the way, for those who are interested.) I've mentioned that statues, most of the time, are not a very moving art form for me. This one, of course, is different. I stood there, staring, from every angle, for something like 20 minutes. There's something about that left foot, bearing no weight, making it look like he's just about to step off of the pedestal. The hands, other than being just a little bit on the disturbingly large side, are practically moving. He is so alive that at one point, I actually turned my head to see what he was looking at, before I realized what I was doing. I'm not the first to say it's a masterpiece, but that doesn't make it any less true.

On Food, Mostly Beverages:

Every city has challenged my budget with a different surprise. In Cairo, it was camels; in Istanbul, it was boots; in Athens, it was taxis. Here- it's beverages. I can't seem to go more than a couple of hours without hanging out in a piazza, which means cafes, or vinos, or birras, or at least mineral water. It's just part of the cost of living here- this whole pedestrian city is designed around piazzas. There are tiny ones tucked in between buildings, giant ones full of fountains, and long thin ones full of market stalls. So it's begging you, really, to sit down and enjoy yourself, and linger over your drink to people-watch. And the food...these people have a tight relationship with prosciutto, which I fully endorse. And olives, which I've come to love. Their sweets are just barely sweet, which is perfect. Except for the gelato, which is in its own category. I had some in Rome, which I have to say, I found uninspiring. I'm not a big ice cream eater anyway. But, determined to conquer this culinary obstacle, I tried some again last night. I bought a cone of caramel, outside the Duomo. The guy behind the counter packed my cone full, then took a tiny little spoon and carefully placed some diced caramel cubes on top. Creamy, but light and airy, with chewy little bits of candy. Wow.

On Playing Hookey:

The closer I get to the end of my trip, the less I feel like being inside. It's so odd- I love art history, and experiencing architecture, and this is one of THE world's best places for both of those things- but all I want to do is walk. Walk, and sit in piazzas drinking coffee and wine. I think that's ok. this trip is about experience, not academics. I have been studying, and learning, and sitting inside, for quite some time now. And so: I am skipping the Uffizi. There. I said it. In Virginia's list of Florentine suggestions, she mentions of the Uffizi, "It can start to feel epic towards the end..." And she is right. It contains treasures, and would enrich me as a human being, and expand my understanding of art and culture. But I am not in the mood for Epic. The Vatican Museum sapped my energy, for Epic. I have seen the Uffizi, years ago, and it was memorable, and it was Epic. And so I'm skipping it. It feels like skipping class: I appreciated every minute of grad school, and almost never skipped. All the more decadent, and therefore fantastic, when you do- an afternoon movie the week before a studio review; a nap when you should be in the carpentry shop; watching Glee with friends when you should be working on your portfolio; all of these, on occasion, a wonderful thing. Just like skipping the Uffizi, to hang out in piazzas and drink wine...

On Amore, Idiocy in the Face Of:

Oh, this one pains me to write.

Last night I was sitting in the Piazza Signoria, having a glass of wine. (This is a recurring theme.) A young man walks by, says, "Buona Sera," to the people at the corner table, and then "Buona Sera," as he walks past me. I respond in flawless Italian, "Buona Sera!" and he says, "Ah, Americana." So my Italian is not remotely flawless. We chat for a minute about Florence. He is charming. He looks a little like a young Colin Firth. And we all know how much I love a young Colin Firth. I totally chickened out when he said, "You need-a some-a company, eh?" It has become a total reflex, to politely dodge people trying to sell me carpets, or ply me with mystery drinks, or offer to be my Egyptian husband. So without thinking I smile and offer a lame excuse, thank you but no thank you, and he is not pushy so he says good night and walks away.

And then I realize what I have done, and am completely and utterly dismayed. So now I am left sitting in the piazza with wine and time to reflect, and what I am reflecting upon is this: when a charming and handsome young Italian man, Colin Firth with an accent, strolls by and asks if you need-a some company, YOU SAY YES, you fool, what are you, just AFRAID OF HAPPINESS? Damn. This is is an even worse decision than, say, committing to a six-hour bike ride in Dar. I had a fight with myself on the way home. There was cursing. "Sure, join me for a glass of wine," would have done nicely. "Absolutely, pull up a chair," would have been fine. And I remind myself, you have to be careful about your Travel Face. You use it when you have to, to keep from being beseiged in markets and, well, anywhere in Egypt. But your Travel Face isn't who you are, and it shouldn't be used out of habit, because there goes Colin Firth. Again I say, damn.