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.

Day 41: Florence.

Sitting in a trattoria by the central market, recommended by my friend Virginia. It is fabulous, no surprise. I am having wine with lunch because, why the hell not? I am in Italy, and I don't have a job to report to. Florence: lovely, as expected. My room is about 50 m from the Duomo, on the piazza. When I got here, I immediately hung my head out the window, all excited about the view. I wondered, why isn't every single other person in these piazza rooms also hanging out the windows? And then I realized, oh yes, they're all out enjoying Florence. So I headed out to do the same.

I really hadn't done any research before I came to Italy, knowing that there was plenty to see and I had no particular agenda. All the more fun: I pull out my map,and am surprised to find that I am about a block from the Laurentian Library. I go there directly: it is purported to be one of the strangest, most perverse pieces of architecture of its age, by Michelangelo. And it is. The famous almost-liquid stairs, pouring out of the library above, are practically moving, and they do puddle at the bottom. It's a really small space, very vertical, which makes the dynamics all the more strange. It's know for taking the classical language and twisting it until things feel wobbly; for example, the columns should rest on something substantial, like a huge base or at least the ground. Here, they just stop 2/3 of the way down, and these little scrolls are set into the wall underneath. Mentally, you feel like it's all about to topple. Even more fun, the scrolls actually crash into each other in the corners, like they're an afterthought and just mashed together- but this is Michelangelo, and he is messing with you. A genius in a lot of areas, Michaelangelo didn't start his career in architecture until he was 40, a fact I happen to really like. One more note on the surreal space: its's an icky, grey-ish green color. The stone itself feels chalky and cold and more like clay than marble. The reflections of light in the space are a bit seasick- it's so odd, for someone who was a master of color theory. So, so interesting

After the library, and aimless stroll, but I immediately run smack into a sign for Dante's house. Brief flashback: when I was here years ago during fall break, on a semester abroad, there were 4 of us stomping around the streets with our backpacks. It was pouring down rain, and I remember being sick and no help whatsoever in finding a place, but we finally found a room on our 6th or 8th try. We dropped off our bags and opened the window, and the clouds parted and in my memory there is even a rainbow....and we looked down below us, onto Dante's house. So today I knew I had to go in. It's better from the outside, actually: the museum made no sense at all, and was mostly a collection of coats of arms, unrelated to Dante. But it's a beautiful little spot.

And so: Ponte Vecchio, and piazzas, and the Central Market, and a perfect meal. Finishing my coffee, we'll see what I stumble across next...

And then later:
After my giant meal: went into the Duomo, just to marvel. The outside is so, so much more ornate than I remembered. The inside is much more simple, but with a staggering scale. From there, I wandered south through the Nuovo Mercato, then (again on my friend Virginia’s advice), made the long climb up to the Piazzola Michaelangelo, on the other side of the Ponte Vecchio, to watch the sunset. It’s really not that long, but very steep. And oh so worth it- from the terrace at the top, you can look back down over Florence, the river, and the tidy row of bridges, at the sunset. It’s also the first time I could see the gentle mountains surrounding the city- this is hill country, after all. Florence is nestled down in this bowl of foothills- it’s as if it filled in every possible inch of flat land, but balked at actually making the climb upwards, and just stopped. (This sounds perfectly reasonable to me, if it had anything like as much lunch as I just did.) At sunset, of course, it’s all lit up with sunlight reflecting off the water.

If Rome is a watercolor, though, Florence is an oil painting. Everything here is more solid, heavier, deeper shades; the light is different, although it’s not very far north, really. Maybe it’s just the Gravitas. This is the heart of the Renaissance, the Medicis, intellectual discovery, literature, and rational thought as we understand it.

Day 40. Culture.

Woke up today refreshed enough to be excited about some culture. As promised, I went first to the Keats Memorial on the Spanish Steps- very touching, as it is coincidentally the anniversary of his death today. The room in which he died looks out onto the stops, about halfway up. I walked away spouting poetry..."When I have fears that I may cease to be, before my pen has gleaned my teeming brain..."

Next stop- St. Peter's. Worth the long wait to get in. It's as beautiful as I remembered it. (I think we might have lost sight of context, though, when tourists are lining up for smiling thumbs-up pictures, in front of the Pieta.) Oddly, I thought some architectural education would make a difference in my appreciation of this place, and it really doesn't. Which isn't a slight against my education, at all- in fact, it reinforces that the experience of being inside great architecture is something you can't explain. I was here at age 21 and remember being deeply moved, I still get nostalgic for that memory every year when I see the St. Peter's midnight Mass broadcast every year on the news at Christmas. It's a powerful place. It says something that, when you are in a sacred place like this, the impact doesn't necessarily come from analysis, that was never the intention.

Vatican: The Sistine Chapel, also as delightful as I remembered. But wow, the Vatican is going to make you work for that moment. Follow a sign to the "Capella Sistina," and you are in for at least 45 minutes of snaking through chamber after chamber of early religious art. And tapestries. Early flat-faced iconic paintings? No thank you. Cappella Sistina, please. Medieval gruesome paintings? Cappella Sistina, where is the Cappella Sistina?? Half a mile of contemporary religious art, and not necessarily good contemporary religious art? CAPPELLA SISTINA. PER FAVORE, CAPPELLA SISTINA. So when you finally get there, whew. I read The Agony and the Ecstasy a couple of years ago- and that greatly increased my appreciation of this place. (In fact, so did the centuries and centuries of religious art you have to traverse, in order to get here.)

By the time I get out of the Vatican Museum, I feel like I have been in Sunday School for about a week, so it's off to find some food- gnocci al pomodoro, con vino della casa, in the Campo del Fiore. I haven't had any gelato yet, but trust me, that's next.

Day 39, pm: wandering through Rome, and Buon Appetito

After coffee in Piazza Navona: determined to take in some culture. But my coffee was too small, and really, there's no point taking in culture when you're so tired it feels like a chore- so I walk. I walk all around the culture, and up to it, and I take pic tures of it, but I'm not ready to go inside yet, not while the rain's holding off and I can be outside soaking in Rome. As I planned I went to St. Peter's and admired the lovely piazza; I admired the bridge and the castle, and thought about admiring the outside of the Vatican, too- but I had another coffee instead. The lines are crazy long- I'll go in the morning, when it's supposed to be raining for real.

I walked along the river to the Trastavere, one of Rome's medieval neighborhoods; I crossed the river and strolled back near the old Jewish Ghetto; I crossed back again, this time stopping in the middle on the little island in the Tiber; on the other side I had a beer and paged through an Italian entertainment magazine. Back on the other side, I had a sudden desperate yen to get to the Pantheon. Stat. There was a sprinkle of rain, and I really wanted to see it rain in there.

The Pantheon: that oculis is way, way bigger than I remembered. It used to be the eye of the gods, cosmically speaking. Now that it's a church, I guess it's the Eye of God? At any rate, it's huge. While I stood there looking up, a couple of birds swooped across the sky. The giant coffers in the ceiling, tapering to the top, are mesmerizing. They force the perspective, making the dome look bigger, and keep leading yoru eyes upward. It wasn't raining when I got there, but it had been- they just roped off the floor underneath the oculis and left the water there, to reflect on the marble. I like seeing nature and architecture work together.

After the Pantheon: a real treat. Greg and Kate sent me to a restaurant called Alfredo and Ada's. Perfection. I got there at 6 and was the first one for dinner. It's the kind of place where the burden of making decisions is lifted from you- there are no menus. You will take what you are given, and you will like it. For real. I get a "Buona Sera," and Alfredo opens this waist-high slanting bread drawer and slices some wedges off of a giant loaf. I make it through the "red or white wine" part in Italian, which feels like a small triumph. With my wine Alfredo brings a dish of warm pasta, tossed in a skillet with just enough sauce and a mound of parmesan. By this time a few others have trickled in and they are jealous of my food.

I get my biggest choice of the evening: veal, chicken, or beef? Chicken. My chicken is marinated in rosemary and lemon, with a little garlic, served with greens and a scoop of cold vinegar potato salad. As I eat, I have to close my eyes to keep from swooning. Ada, standing in the kitchen doorway when I open them again, is watching me with grandmotherly satisfaction, wiping her hands on her apron. At the end I am served three simple, not too sweet ring-shaped cookies as I finish my teensy carafe of wine. Bliss.

I decide to take the long walk home, down past the shops on Corso Vittorio Emmanuel, and up to the Trevi Fountain. It's great at night, and it makes me want to go home and rent La Dolce Vita. At this point it starts to rain, in earnest- which is fun because all the umbrellas come out in front of the fountain. Heading home, I take a wrong turn, but accidentally manage to short-cut my trip by ending up unexpectedly at the Quattro Fontane. Sigh. Rome.

Day 38, 39: Roma

Ah, Rome. I am writing this from the Piazza Navona, drinking a 6 euro cup of coffee. I will add that it's on the skimpy side, and does not even have the advantage of a small cookie which should always come with a fancy European coffee drink. No matter, I am happy to pay extra for the piazza, and the busker sitting by the fountain playing Pink Floyd's "How I Wish You Were Here," and for the trickling fountain itself, a few feet from my table.

Truth be known, as much as I love every inch of Rome, I am feeling a little bit busted up today. This is not a surprise- one of the things I learned in grad school is that it's not the day after an all-nighter that's the worst- it's the day after that. And today is that day. I arrived yesterday at dawn, knowing that my room wasn't ready; also, it was the best weather day of my Rome visit, so I figured I'd better stay upright and do outdoor things all day. My 5-hour flight from Qatar, leaving at 2:30 am, had the lights off for about 3 hours, so I had dozed a little. And seriously, wouldn't Rome perk anybody up? So it was ok. But still, halfway through the Forum, I was weaving. I sat down a lot. I was worn out enough that by 3 pm, I came in to re-group. I unpacked and surveyed the dismal laundry situation, and decided that I had no choice but a couple of hours at a Roman laundromat.

My first evening in Italy: I put on my dorkiest combination of clothes so I could wash all the good ones at once. It was dark before my laundry and I set off for this mysterious laundromat, a good 20 minute walk away. Once I got there, it was fortunately situated next to both a pizza stand and an exquisite little bakery, so it was all good. At the pizza place they sliced my square into two pieces, heated them till they were crunchy, then served them cheese-sides together in waxed paper. Mmmm. At the bakery I just said, "Per favori- uno...e quattro...et due..." and got an assortment of scrumptious wafers and almond thingies and million-layer bite sized cookies. AND I have a bag full of clean clothes. Not "washed in the sink and dried on a Cairo balcony" clean, but "washed with detergent and dried all the way in a dryer" clean.

I don't remember anything after the buying the cookies- it's all foggy from there. I just woke up in a daze this morning at 9:15, from a dream in which Angelina Jolie, my friend Paula from teaching, and I were all having coffee and commiserating about how hard it is to be famous. Couldn't figure out why it was still so dark...oh. Piove in Roma. Raining in Rome.

Still weary and draggy, I stumbled across my perfect travel destination in a book- Cafe Greco, where Byron, Keats, Dickens, and any other literary figure you could name hung out at some point or other. I decided to get myself there at once, have a giant coffee or three, and soak in some literary air and nourish my inner English major. It's the first time on my trip I have nearly cried from disappointment- closed for remodeling. Tomorrow I'll take myself to the Keats museum on the Spanish Steps to make up for it. But today, hung over from sleep deprivation: heartbreak.

Which is ridiculous- I am in ROME. Yesterday: walked the Spanish Steps, found the twin churches we studied in the Piazza del Popolo, strolled the Via del Corso to the Forum, the Paletine, and the Coloseum. Had 3 spontaneous on-the-street meals, each one to die for. This whole city is like meandering through a watercolor- the palette of creams, peaches, ochres, pinks, misty cloud greys- music trailing out of cafes into the street, clusters of people gathered everywhere practically singing in Italian, since that's how every conversation sounds- it's so, so beautiful.

Added to which, there are a few other blessings: I look like everyone else, more or less, which is boring to people who are used to dealing with hoardes of tourists, so nobody looks twice. Serenity. The weather here is a cool and pleasant 50's to 60's, intermittent sun. Ahh. And I can drink the water. And it's so easy to navigate in Rome that it's almost not sporting. I can read all of the signs. There actually ARE signs. When you're wondering whether you'll spot your turn onto Via Delle Quattro Fontane, no worries, the Quattro Fontane are unmistakeable, one on each corner. Landmarks! Arrows! Maps with road names and pictures! And everything in the city is within walking distance.

The fun of walking with no agenda: now and then I stop, mid-step, one foot in the air, and raise an eyebrow at something. Hmm...I have drawn that window in my class notes....famous...palazzo....I put my foot down and go investigate. It's way more fun to find them accidentally, scattered around the city for me like Easter eggs.

Days 35, 36: Ahhh.

Kate and Greg had already planned some fun activities for my last couple of days in town, and we girls had plenty to do while Greg was working. Here I have to say again, God bless Kate Giles. After a certain incident, when a fierce African concrete drainage ditch tried to eat me and my bike, Kate surveyed the situation and tried to make the schedule even cushier. "After Dar Reality," she said, "we're going to see how the other end of the spectrum here lives." So on Thursday we had a giant breakfast while watching three episodes of Flight of the Conchords under the ceiling fans. Full and happy, we headed out fabric shopping. I know. I have mentioned this before- but it's great. In Zanzibar we were buying khangas, which are bright rectangles of cloth printed in sets of two, with sayings written on them in Swahili. They're not expensive, which is how I've racked up 12 pounds of fabric this week, according to the scale at the airport. They say that the khangas in Zanzibar tend to be sweet or religious in tone, while in Dar they can get a bit snarky. If you live with 7 other housewives in a Swahili house, for example, you might feel the need now and then to wear a khanga that says something like, "She ain't all that" to get your message across now and then.

So in Dar we went shopping for kitange cloth, also great. I have a thing for African cloth anyway, after getting to spend a month in Ghana studying African design. So we took a dala-dala to the fabric street. (This one was fun- I was leaning at about a 45 degree angle. When we got to our stop Kate yelled, "Katherine! Go towards the light!!" And I actually had to do a backwards pirhouette to get off.) We had planned to spend a fair amount of time shopping, but by the second or third store we'd already bought about 6 different cloths, splitting a few of them. Teal with crazy fan shapes, blue with a peacock pattern, red with black and white dots, a black and grey pattern that makes me dizzy- I love them all.

After fabric shopping, a visit to the custom pillow shop, then coffee at the
Kilimanjaro Hotel, one of the swankest spots in town. Presidents stay here, and we sat next to a magistrate and some ambassadors and a possible gangsta who pulled out a giant roll of cash at one point. Air conditioned bliss and serenity. I can imagine that, if this were all you saw of Dar, you'd have a pretty different slant than most. After coffee: swimming. And homemade enchiladas- have I mentioned that Greg and Kate make their own tortillas?

Last day in Dar, equally cushy. We went to on coffee shop for breakfast, and then strolled over to another and hugn out there, just because we could, then Kate scheduled me a massage with a friend whose husband teaches with Greg. So fabulous. After that I felt like I could face another overnight flight. Two more fun stops: first, a trip to a place called Wonder Welders, a workshop that puts disabled people to work as welders and artists. Their pieces are great- my only regret is that I don't have the luggage allowance for a suitcase full of steel. The Giles household is full of small welded warthogs- delightful. After shopping: Ethiopian food and African beer.

So, I certainly didn't see every facet of Dar. You couldn't do that in a place, even as a resident; we all come with our own perspectives, too. I just read this great book, West With the Night, written by East African bush pilot Beryl Markham. (She was a badass, adn flew with Denys Finch-Hatton and Von Blixen and generally did crazy things and lived to write all about them.) She writes that there are as many different Africas as there are people who have written anything about Africa. That's probably true of every place. Certainly, though, this place could be examined from any aspect- culture, urban design, politics, sociology, economics- you name the topic and it would be a complex and rewardign discussion here. It's very layered, and intricate, and I just saw the tiniest part of it all....

It's going to be such a surreal transition from East Africa to Rome.

Day 34, revisited: Dar Reality Tour

Typing all of this from Rome...it was Tanzania just yesterday, but wow, it all seems dreamy now in this cool weather and pastel streetscapes...


So. Backing up a bit, I owe some details from the Dar Reality Tour, because it's too good to gloss over. Close readers will notice that I have dropped a word, both from the title and from my vocabulary. Certain parts of that tour, I will maintain, Never Happened. But, whatever mode of transport you choose, the Reality Tour was really great. This tour is run by a guy named Maja; he is a twenty-something energetic guy from Kilimanjaro, friendly, well-educated, committed to getting his hands dirty solving Africa's problems. He wears a Rasta hat. He started this tour because he knows that visitors and expats often see one side of Dar, but miss most of it, and all of the important parts. This isn't intended to be a favela tour, or a history tour, or anything like that- just a good range of sites showing vignettes of everyday Dar life. Maja has a good perspective, too, on the difference between outside intervention and grassroots action, and how the two can work together.

We started at a new market space- nicely built, good drainage, near a busy street- which was pretty dead. The planners hadn't really considered location, and market tradition, so nice or not, nobody's coming. It's not close enough to the neighborhoods and to the dala dala stops, and it's too wide and open, and the rent is high so people have to charge more for their products. The only people trying to sell here are the ones too new to the area to know better yet. Interesting. I was late to this stop due to transport issues but I think it might have been built with IMF funds- great idea, but not in context.

Next stop: the coffee sellers. This was my favorite. There are lots of guys around town selling little espresso-sized cups of strong coffee and sweet peanut candy. This is harder than it sounds, for many reasons, but mainly because they are carrying a coffee pot out away from their bodies on a hanging basket with live coals, and a bucket of water full of espresso glasses, and a tray of peanut candy, all at once. They also get up at dawn to start this process. They start with green coffee beans from near Kili, and roast them in a shallow pan over a small burner. When they're dark brown in about 10 minutes, they blow off the charred skin and grind them in a mortar and pestle. Meanwhile, over another burner on their porch workshop, they're making peanut candy from sugar, peanuts, and a handful of flour at the end, caramelized and rolled out on a wooden bench. We got to watch them do all this, and grind some coffee, and then try the coffee and candy. It's good- but the real point, though, is that this whole enterprise is a stepping stone job for newcomers. It's a long day's work, and work that makes you strong, for about 7 or 8 thousand shillings a day(maybe 5 or 6 dollars.) Novody tries to make this into a bigger business venture, because when you save enough money to move up the ladder to something else, it's expected that you train someone new to town to take your place. That person will almost certainly from your village, and it gives him a chance to make a start in Dar, too. Maja says there are a lot of small industries like this, each one perpetuated by cycles of folks moving to the city from the same village as well.

Next stop was a small neighborhood, where we were fed again. This time it was chapati, kind of like a thick tortilla, and mendazi, one of my favorite foods since I left home. It's a cross between a donut and a crumpet, barely sweet and spongy inside and crunchy on the outside. We fished these out of a bucket with a skewer. This is a neighborhood of Swahili houses, which are 8 rooms: 3 on each side of a small hallway, and two more across a small courtyard in the back. The front porch is for businesses; people either sell things at the front, like the food we tried, or rent the space out to others. 8 families live in these 8 rooms. I'm sure it's a little tight when everybody's home, but we went inside and it was really pleasant, especially the courtyard in the back.

On to another small neighborhood with a water problem. There's a stream running through a gully here, which has been stagnant and polluted for a long time. Maja has been working on this problem; the neighborhood first mangaged to build a small bridge across the gully. The second challenge was to get the water moving, which they have recently done thanks to a small donation from a film crew who was coming through the village. The still have a couple of obstacles- there's the issue of improving sanitation so that sewage is re-directed, which is a huge health problem. There's also talk of a big stream clean-up, and a campaign to get people to stop littering. Maja really wants to get the locals to take ownership in this part, which makes a big difference in follow-through. It's important to him that the neighborhood kids don't grow up learning to wait for outiders to come in and fix problems for them.

After the bridge we went to the big market. An African market is one of the busiest places on earth, and I am including Manhattan here. Piles of everything edible you can imagine is piled up, people jostling and crowding, hot and loud and smelly and everything else that a dynamic market should be. Maja showed us some local products, such as rolls of clay people buy either for vitamins or make'up, and a little bitter eggplant that contains quinine, so people eat it for malaria prevention. Behind the market is a clothing market, bundles and bales of goods donated from other countries. Lots of them are donated, but lots of them are sold. Here, people buy the nicest of the donations, fix them up, and sell them for a small profit in stalls.

There were a couple of stops after the market: a cloth seller, a traditional herbal healer who walked us through her garden, a corn grinding operation, and a cottage industry making handpainted fans. It's pretty amazig- people are really resourceful here, and interdependent, and making do with very little and living joyfully. I've been thinking long and hard about whether I would call this poverty, and how I feel about it. Is it poverty? Is it just less things, which is not the same thing at all? A different way of living? That, for sure. Certainly, from what I've seen in Dar, conditions are far better than they might be in, say, a Rio favela. People don't have much, but they mostly seem to have enough, and to know what to do with it. They share, they live in close quarters, it's an up-close and personal kind of community- but it's one that's functioning well, and allows for a lot of support and upward mobility and entrepreneurial spirit. It's not fair, I know, to try and parse this out through the lens of my experience and assumptions, but there's a lot to be learned here....still thinking.

Day 34. Dar Reality Bike Ride

The reality here is: I am not any good at riding a bike.

Day 33, part 2, holy ****, bush plane

"I booked you a flight from Zanzi to Dar," says Greg. He gives me a time and an airline, and tells me to be prepared to throw an elbow, or step on small children, or whatever else it takes to secure the co-pilot seat. "Trust me," he says.

I get to the airport and am not exactly sure of the procedure- my boarding pass says CA DAR 14:00. My boarding pass is handwritten, on the back of a napkin. In the waiting area, nobody is calling flights, no information is posted- 10 minutes before takeoff I give in and ask. Late flight- but not very. I needn't have worried. A guy with a clipboard walks up to one of the gates and mumbles, "Dar passengers." There are two of us. We approach the plane, packed with six other people. Empty co-pilot seat. "May I sit up front?" I ask. The guy loading us raises an eyebrow and says sure, throw your bags in the back, and climb up the ladder.

I do this- and am sitting, as promised, in the co-pilot seat, controls literally between my knees. It is an antique bush plane, I swear, an actual prop plane, with old-fashioned details and a scotch-taped-on label that says, "GPS not suitable for navigation."

The teenaged Dutch pilot says, "Twenty minutes to Dar, please do not unfasten your seat belts."

As if.

We take off, shoulder first: I have never seen this manoeuver in an airplane. But then, this is no ordinary airplane. It is the approximate age, size, and condition of my parents' 1968 Volkswagon Beetle, on which I learned to drive.

It is light enough that you feel, no kidding, every puff of wind. The payoff, of course, is looking down into that spectacular blue water. Zanzibar is surrounded by shifting sandbars, and the changing depths create every shade of blue, from bright turquoise on up through cobalt. You can even see the directon of the currents, little rivers of water skimming across the Indian Ocean in fingers, since they're more reflective and shimmery than the rest.

Twice during the flight, there is a series of piercing warning beeps. I stopped breathing, particularly as there were controls between my knees. I had the worst, I mean the worst vision of a scene from "Airplane," in which the pilot keeled over and I, because I was sitting in the front, would have to land the plane, while translating radio-tower instructions in Swahili. I questioned, seriously, every single decision that had led me to this point. Turned out not to be a big deal; out of my peripheral vision (I was pretending to be a statue) I could see that the beeps didn't make my pilot flinch, so I relaxed.

To round out my day of adventuresome transport, I also got to take a tuk-tuk and a dala-dala. The tuk-tuk was on the way to a beachfront restaurant. Greg was leading the way, and Greg is tall, and fast. I'm tall, sort of, but I had to trot to keep up. Before I know it has has flagged down a tuk-tuk on the street and the three of us wedge in. It is slightly smaller than my bush plane- kind of like a moped with a shell and a bucket seat in back. "Did you see my bargaining skills?" Greg asks. "No, how'd it go?" I said. "He wanted 3 thousand," said Greg, but I got him all the way down to 3 thousand." I was in the middle so I had the safety seat- Greg and Kate were hanging on to the rails to keep from getting bounced out from either side. The turn we took across 3 lanes of onrushing traffic, in what is essentially a glorified Big Wheel, was exhilarating.

Coming home, two beachfront beers and a large dinner later, I am again trotting behind Greg when he swerves and jumps, without hesitation, onto a half-stopped minibus, or dala-dala. Kate, used to these sorts of transitions, steps in gracefully, fitting herself neatly into the closely nested crowd. As I step in the people-packer, actually serving as a safety net because the door won't close, yells up to the driver, not unkindly, "Mzungi!" It's one of the 4 Swahili words I know, and it means something like (I hope I'm not offending anyone here,) "Whitey." I am half on one step, half on another, and it gets to be even more fun at the next stop when a few more people pile in. I know a lot, I mean a lot, about my fellow passengers now. We hop off and make it the rest of the way home on foot. I feel like I have done some things today.

Tomorrow: I am booked on the Dar Reality Bike Tour- 6 hours, a bike, the streets of Dar. Have mercy.

Day 33: Stone Town Snipe Hunt, success

After I wrote about Cairo being a less-than-pleasant place for a female traveler, I got a couple of great messages. My friend Lyndsay was on a trip once where some Israeli men tried to trade camels for the women in the group. I thought that was great, because who among us knows our worth in camels? (Lyndsay does- but really, she's priceless.) Kristin, who won a huge travel grant and spent 10 weeks traveling last summer, commented that great experiences always follow the bad ones while you're traveling- to the extent that, when she had a small misfortune, she's immediately starts anticipating a great surprise.

And it's been true for me, too- when you start looking around, all kinds of great things will fall into your lap. Zanzibar has been even better than I wanted it to be- and I was afraid I was overly excited and I knew my expectations were high. Zanzibar in the dark? A really surprising gift, as it just added to the allure and mystique of Stone Town. Stone Town itself? So lively, so colorful, so diverse. The thrill of starting to find my own way, though I stayed lost about 50% of the time- so satisfying.

So while Greg and Kate were here, I kept almost finding my project site from studio. I can find it on Google Earth in about 4 seconds, or on a detailed map in 10, but I had no detailed map with me, and I can't get high enough for the right rooftop view. And my landmark- a huge interior courtyard- is all but invisible from the street. And of course, on the ground, everything looks remarkably similar. I kept saying, "Oh wait! Maybe...no, we're too close to the water. Oh there's a ...wait, which way is north? Isn't the fort over there?" And I felt like I was on a snipe hunt, and dragging very patient Kate around with me. And lordy, it's hot here for extraneous movement.

In the House of Wonders, the old sultan's palace so named because it was one of the first places in East Africa to have electricity, there's a great museum and a giant wall-sized aerial map. Another gift- I figured out every turn and landmark and went for it.

My site, is has to be said, was lacking in on-the-ground information beyond building footprints. I knew there was a mosque, but had to guess at everything other than the roof lines. In my presentation, I used photos of a sample Zanzibar mosque, unidentifed in photos, and a typical floor plan from another source. Because Stone Town is so, so small, although it looks big on the map, it was less than 5 minutes from the palace to my site. Wonders never cease- the typical unidentified mosque I'd been using- was actually my mosque. I peeked in- same with the random floor plan. It looks, but exactly, like the itty bitty model I made. I decided, as I knew I would when I got there, that my project is all wrong and I want to start again- but it was really great to stand in front if it. For the record, the buildings I hypothetically demolished to make room for my building are new and awful and out of place, so I no longer feel hypothetical guilt. I could see beautiful almond trees peeking out over a makeshift corrugated scrap fence, which would be perfect for the small courtyard I designed. I practically ran to the internet shop to e-mail my professor.

One other little bit of travel magic I've already shared with a few of you: I have been waking up every morning to the sound of school children singing chanting songs. I love this. I do not miss being a teacher, but I wouldn't mind a roomfull of these precious little Zanzibaris. The are beautiful children, happy and running about in the streets after school, in full robes and head coverings, no matter how tiny. I want to scoop them all up and read them picture books and buy them all ice cream. My Zanzibar studio project was an Islamic school for girls. When I located the source of the singing this morning, it's an Islamic school, for girls, right underneath my bedroom window.

Day 32, Night in Stone Town

This one's brief. Greg and Kate went back to Dar today, and I'm staying behind for the two more days to relax, sketch, take pictures, coughbuyjewelrycough, and find my studio site. Way harder than it sounds.)

Now that I'm navigating on myown, I really have to test my skills. Kate warned me about the rookie mistake of picking out landmarks in the daytime, like shoe shops or book shops, because when the shopfronts close at night, you get a sea of blank walls. And this is a place where you get and give directions like, go left right right right right left, and then veer left at the trash pile, and then take a right at the scrambling pile of cats. But I think I've figured some things out. Leaving the concert tonight on my own, I hired a walking taxi, but he had no idea where my hotel was. I was game to try it as long as I had a big guy with a flashlight with me. In the dark, I walked us straight back to my hotel, no false moves, no wrong turns. I was so excited I high-fived my taxi.

Zanzibar, Part 3: Are we on day 31? 32? Island time...

At last, some overdue words about my hosts in Tanzania Greg and Kate Giles. Both Texans, both former Raleigh-ites, both artistic souls, and two of the coolest people I know (together and separately.) I know this twosome via Greg, having met him 10 years ago on another trip to Africa. This one was a teacher trip to Ghana to study design through the NC Art Musuem, and we ended up as co-workers at Centennial Middle School after that. There Greg taught art and created all kinds of mischief. He was captain of our bowling team (Face Down in the Gutter), and I'm pretty sure he instigated the faculty/student basketball game. He was responsible for cleaning us all out of nickels at his annual last-day-of-school poker party. Greg has always been unflappable. He reminded me recently of an incident with one of our most lively students, haggling in the hall with our assistant principal. She said, "Time to go back to class with Mr. Giles," and the student said, "Mr. Giles? That old bitch?" To which Greg responded, "Who you callin' OLD?" (Pure gold.) Furthermore, if you play croquet with Greg, he will make up rules on the fly, such as, "Now you've done it. You are two inches away from the Wicket of Death. Now you have to drink a Rogue Shakespeare Stout, do a cartwheel, and tell somebody a lie. Fast." So that's Greg, or Greggae, or Greggorio, or Gilesy-Wilesy, or G-Snap, depending on the day.

Kate Giles: equally fabulous. These two are a perfect pair, as attested to by the fact that they are one of the happiest, sweetest couples I know, and they've been married for 15 years despite their tender young age. If you ate at Edible Arts, or ate a wedding cake of any kind from, say, 1995-2007, then you also know Kate. One of her many talents is cake decorating, which at this point she'd like to keep under wraps or she'll never have a moment's peace in Tanzania. Additionally, Kate is a fantastic cook in every other category. Making tortillas by hand? Making collards edible? Making cocktails out of fresh vanilla beans? No problem. The Giles Calzone Party, consistently, was the highlight of my annual social calendar: house stuffed to the rafters with hungry people, vats of Kate's homemade tomato sauce and gobs of fresh dough, mannequins and fairy lights in the bathtub, 1950's freezer in the den full of CD's, round after round of make-your-own calzones coming out of the oven. I already loved Kate but now she is a lifetime friend: instead of the agreed-upon cab driver with a sign to meet me at my obnoxiously early 5 a.m. arrival in Tanzania, there was Kate instead. She shepherded me onto the ferry in a daze and we watched the sun come up over the water at dawn as we came into Zanzibar. She has been navigating these streets like an Eagle Scout, showing me all kinds of treasures and keeping me from getting ripped off by the fabric sellers and run over by the motorbikes. (Fun aside, these are called "piki-piki's" because that's how they sound: piki piki piki piki piki.)

So, between the two of them, everything you want halfway through a long trip. Greg and I have toasted old colleagues and reminisced about bowling shirts and listened to East African music. Kate and I have wandered the streets for at least a couple of hours every day, shopping and chattering. All three of us have shared great food, and all three of us love the roof.

Greg, it has to be said, wins the prize here. Greg, in fact, has a master's degree in Roof. He's up in our breezy rooftop lounge long before I'm up, with breakfast and coffee and book. I straggle up there as Kate is finishing breakfast, and we do coffee and chit-chat while Greg chills. We head out for fabric shopping; Greg, unswerving in his focus, camps out in the lounge, not missing a moment of steady breeze and the sea of rooftops below. We all head out for a great lunch somewhere else breezy; then, in the heat of the day, we Roof again.

Today I spent two hours napping across two of the Arabian lounge chairs up there- except that it was too great to actually sleep. I would look up at the stained glass above the shutters, backlit with Zanzibar sun and blue sky, then close my eyes and see the reverse pattern floating around for a couple of minutes. Then I'd stare up at the ceiling looking for the fan and remember that there is none- just a stiff steady perfect sea-breeze. I lounged there with Kate reading on one side, and Greg reading at his little balcony triangle table on the other, and thought about how lucky I am, and how perfect this is, and how I wish all of our old friends were here with us, and that all my new friends could come meet them too- trust me, you'd have a great time.

Zanzibar, part 2

Other than the street wandering, which is full of wonders, there's something else amazing about Stone Town: the power is out. The power, in fact, has been out for weeks. Again, nobody cares. I know of entire states that would be shut down by such circumstances; here in Zanzibar, they're used to a spotty power grid. The bigger hotels (which are still small) have generators, which are on and off at scheduled times. The music festival, also running on generators, has proceeded wtihout a hiccup. Nobody has explained to anyone exactly why the power is out, or why it will take weeks to fix it- something to do with a severed cable from the mainland, and probably some politics. And it has not slowed anyone down. The best thing about all of this is gettng to walk the labyrinth of Stone Town streets, a complete and utter maze in broad daylight, in the dark. And I'm not being sarcastic- weaving through these canyons, it's dark, indeed- but as I've said before, there's dark, and there's dark. This is not a scary dark- I'd call it a dynamic dark. WE have flashlights, and as you walk through the streets you see a few houses with candles, and a small bonfire at the odd open space. Small bands of children (or bands of small children?) are out playing in the alleys. At one spot there's a bit of an expanse and a wall for sitting; someone has rigged a small TV to a generator, and people are gathered like it's a movie theater. (For the record, last night it was Wanted with Angelina Jolie, and as we walked past even I was riveted by the scene on top of the Chicago El when she does that cool move to duck the tunnel. Showstopper.) Lots of people are out on their stoops chatting. If someone walks by with a cigarette, you can see him coming from way off as a pinpoint of light. The stars are phenomenal, and there's music off in the distance. This place feels so much older than it is, anyway- the darkness at night seems to feel right, and it's a really nice way to see the city. And we approach our hotel, all lit up and waiting for us, after the music festival late at night.

Here's where the "rest for the weary" part comes in. This place, the Zanzibar Coffee House Hotel, is probably the coolest place I've ever stayed. For starters, it's an old Arab house- meaning, thick stone walls, very inwardly focused, and designed around two different light wells. Technically they might be called courtyards, but they're tiny- just enough to let a tiny shaft of light down into the lobby, which most of the day just washes down part of the wall. (Good plan. You don't want to be standing in that shaft of light here.) The rooms branch off around the two light wells, and it's even kind of a maze inside the hotel, because another two twisting stairways lead you up to the roof. This makes perfect sense; it is dark at the bottom and gets lighter and breezier as you go up. You'd think the darkness at the bottom would be a bid thing, but coming in off the street and out of the tropical sun, it's delicious. And the heat rises up and out through the airshaft.

The alternative, also great, is to climb a few flights of stairs to the shaded rooftop lounge. It's one of my new favorite places in the world. It's high enough to catch the sea breeze, and stays comfortable even in the hottest part of the day. It's got a balcony on all four sides, with triangular tables tucked into each corner. There's a room in the middle with shutters you can open and close as needed. That room: filled with low chairs and cushions. Perfect height for reading, beer drinking, lounging horizontally in the breeze, or, in Greg Giles fashion, starting upright with a book and slowly sliding to horizontal napping mode. There's a stocked fridge at the bottom of the stairs, so you grab your alternating cold ginger ale and cold beer, write it down on a little notepad, and head up to the lounge for a couple of hours.

And speaking of lounging, there is my room, my other new favorite place in the world. Because we booked this room at the last minute, over 4 months ago, the only one left was the "Arabica Suite." They will have to drag me out of here, I mean it. The ceiling, at my best guess, is 18' high. There are 6 arched window alcoves with layers and layers of carved shutters. There are two enormous window seats. These are about 6 inches off teh floor, with curved backs, covered with what the brochure described as "loungey pillows." I am lying on one to write this, right now.

The other fabulous feature: a huge, huge I tell you, Zanzibar bed. It is so elaborately carved that I want to cry with joy. A Zanzibar bed is usuallypretty tall, and instead of 4 corner bedposts, there are carved pieces coming up from the center of the headboard and footboard. These hold up the canopy frame, and the yards and yards of mosquito netting. I feel like a princess. There is a candelabra over my bed. And a cool stone floor, and beautiful wood furniture. This room is as big as my house. It's my only non-budget hotel room of this trip; truly, if I'd had much choice, I would have felt obligated to go cheap. But I'm glad I didn't. My travels have been miraculously smooth so far, but this is such a great rest. After Cairo, and an overnight flight, and a few weeks of changing time zones and gadding about on different continents, I need it. Today: I woke up whenever. Breakfast on the roof; shopping and strolling with my friend Kate; then all 3 of us had a great lunch, got our books, and spent the hottest part of the day reading and napping on the roof. Blissful and breezy. It's such an embarrassment of riches: it's so much fun in the streets that it's hard to come in. The rooftop is so relaxing you never want to leave. The music festival is so great you don't want to miss any of it. And the room....well, as I've already said, they'll have to drag me out of here.

Much more to come- I hope nobody is feeling obligated to read all of this verbiage, but I can't help it!! My entries are getting wordy but there is so much to say- the only solution, obviously, is for you to come join me here. Best to all on Valentine's Day back home-

Day 30. Zanzibar, Sauti Za Busara, and Rest for the Weary (part 1)

Oh sweet slice of exotic tropical heaven. I love Zanzibar. This is not news. Anybody would love Zanzibar. This is a fascinating, fascinating place, and lovely in a way unlike any other place I've ever been. This particular part of the trip is a Big Deal to me, personally and academically. Personally: two of my favorite people, Greg and Kate Giles, live in Dar Es Salaam. When I told them I was studying Zanzibar and also that I would love to come by and see them on my world tour, they said hell yes, and invited me to a music festival in Zanzibar. One does not turn down such an invitation. They get their own blog post later. Academically: because Paul Tesar is a fantastic professor and understands that people work harder when they're excited about things, he let us pick our own sites for our last studio project, and thus I got to study Zanzibar.

A brief bit of background, for anyone who hasn't heard me yammer on about it for the last few months: Zanzibar is a small island off the coast of Tanzania, about 90 minutes by ferry from Dar. It's been part of Tanzania since 1964 (Tanganika + Zanzibar = Tanzania) but it's semi-autonomous. What makes it such a facinating place: it's a spice island, and for centuries because of its spices and safe harbor and trade winds, it has attracted all of the following: Persians, Indians, Arabs, Chinese, the British, the Dutch, and African mainlanders, to name a few. Because of the trade wind situation, people didn't just come through Zanzibar- they stayed for six months at a time, until the winds reversed and they could sail home; they all brought their cultures with them. And because of the money to be made here, many stayed permanently- the majority of these being Omani traders and Indian merchants, with a good mix of everything else.

Too late for this to be brief, but a bit more: Stone Town, the main city on the island, is a World Heritage Site due to its unique history and design. It's in danger, literally, of collaps: 80% of the buildings here are decaying or damaged, due to a lack of funds for upkeep, and problems with using a porous stone as a building block in a tropical climate. For all that, which is everywhere evident, Stone Town is really lovely. To create shade (just south of the equator, after all) people built tightly. The streets are no more than 8 or 10 feet wide. Most places you could lie down and touch the walls on both sides. The buildings are tall for such narrow streets, 4 to 6 stories, so it's like walking through a canyon. Details vary, but gorgeously carved doors are everywhere, and every single building is made of the same coral limestone and plaster. All along the streets, every kind of bench, stoop, and step is carved into the buildings and shopfronts, so people are hanging out everywhere, quite comfortably.

Despite a few mishaps I am generally pretty good at navigating, particulary if I have looked at a map ahead of time. I spent weeks and weeks documenting this place, so I should know it fairly well, at least in concept. I mean, I drew diagrams color-coded with everything from architectural origin to level of decay, for every single building in Stone Town, and mapped every single landmark and significant street. On paper. On the ground, I could not navigate my way across town for love nor money, since everything looks the same. And if you figure out a few landmarks in the daylight, forget it- once the shopfronts close, the whole streetscape changes again.

The beautiful thing? Nobody cares. The whole point of wandering Stone Town is to spend a few hours being pleasantly lost. It's not nearly as big as I imagined it, anyway, and the streets are lined with shopes and people sitting in the shade and children playing games. Walking in the shady streets, even the equatorial sun is no problem. Eventually you'll hit water, or a road for cars, or the old fort, then you re-orient and dive back in.

The labyrinth I was looking for at Knossos? Here. But one fun thing: you can hire a walking taxi if you need to. For about $1.50, they'll cheerfully guide you back to your hotel.

(to be continued!)

Day 27. Islamic Cairo

Decided to give it a go, alone on foot today. This is bigger than it sounds- Cairo is pretty overstimulating, and I actually feel a little dazed. I struck out on foot yesterday for a couple of hours, in search of food and general orientation; ino two hours I found nothing that I was sure was a restaurant, and certainly nowhere to sit and have coffee. I found water, and grocery stores with canned food, but not much to eat. As I had missed breakfast at my hotel due to the Giza tour, and skipped lunch while touring, this was getting to be problematic. (At this point, a big thank-you to Mom for the Whole Foods snacks!)

I did make one friend, at a juice stand. He gave me the only real smile I have seen in my 4 days in Cairo. He was ecstatic when I went in for water. "Thank you!! Hellooo!! Welcome!!" So I also asked for an orange. He looked crestfallen, so I said, "...and also juice?" So he clapped his hands and said, "For you try this." And he poured a small splash of something white into a glass from a milk bottle he fished out of a giant freezer. Sweet slushy ice-cold coconut mikk. Fabulous. He gave me something else to taste, which he said was from India; tamarind juice, I think. I thought too late, "Hmm- I wonder if that was crushed ice, or just frozen coconut milk? Was there water mixed in that drink? Do I have a bout of water-bourne illness coming on?" Oh well, if so, I have Cipro. If that didn't do it, the handsful of salty roasted pumpkin seeds my cab driver kept plying on me today will. But they were really good, too, and it's so hard to refuse people who are trying to be nice. (Which is how I got giardia in Costa Rica, but that's a separate story.)
And, frankly, not so many people I've met this week are particularly nice.

Today's desination, on foot, is Islamic Cairo. My guidebook points out that it's no more or less Islamic than the rest of the city, just so-named for the number of medieval mosques in the neighborhood. This walk is by turns beautiful and chaotic. Cairo is one of the dirtiest places I've ever seen, but there are spots that are swept clean and are bright and open. Winding through the main pedestrian street in the medieval quarter, I discover all the hassling and unwanted attention I had mistakenly expeceted in Istanbul. This time it was aggressive and not at all charming. You'd accept a handshake, only to find that that person wouldn't let go. You'd walk down a lane only to have someone fully block your path to deliver a sales pitch. I went down one street and was proposed to, in a vulgar way, six times. The entrepreneurial optimism in places like this is actually kind of endearing. People seem to have a belief that, for the right price, they can sell you anything. Bicycle tire. Tacky t-shirt. Water pipe. (I can't pass one of those without laughing about the "smug hookah" in those "Unhappy Hipsters" photos.) But I was at the end of my patience when, trying to buy a gift in one stall, the guy said, "What, why not sit down, I'm not going to kill you." Which did not, in fact, feel all that welcoming.

I fought my way pack out of that particular nest of the old city, and came back through a produce market, the nicest part of the walk. Favorite scene: a small baby, sitting happily in a pile of lettuce on top of a vegetable cart. People here were a little friendlier. The loveliest part, through here, was a quiet alley with shafts of light coming down through a wooden roof, lined on both sides with Bedouin tent makers. Beautiful.

At the end of this walk, I see the Citadel, my destination, in sight. A kid, about 17 years old, stops me and says hello. He asks where I'm from, and I say USA. "You need help? What are you looking for?" And I say, "That's the Citadel, right?" And he says yes, and I'm thinking, how nice. "One more question," he says. "Do you want to kiss me?"

"No," I enunciate. "No, I do not."

Still fuming half a block later at a cultural milieu which makes this kind of behavior seem rational to young men, I am waylaid at the back side of the Citadel by a helpful man who apologizes and says it's closed until 3 for a visiting dignitary. He says he's not a guide, doesn't want mone, maybe I want to go visit the Cairo Blue Mosque and then come back? He'll show me the way. He leads me down a side street which is packed with people so it's not scary, but his story is fishy. He talks about the 40 pound entrance fee to the mosque, and I say, "Oh, that's fine, then I'll just take some pictures outside," and he is so dismayed that I realize he is working for the mosque. When he realizes I am not a cash customer he kindly points me the rest of the way and turns back. I double back as well and go to the front of the Citadel- which of course is open. And it was worth the trip, ancient and quiet.

So. I am not proud of this fact, but I am writing this from a cafe- in the mall. After a few hours of full-on hassling, I need a break. I saw this mall in Lonely Planet and scoffed, "what kind of a desperate lame Westerner would come all the way to Cairo and end up in a MALL?" And now I know, exactly, what it takes to drive someone in search of new vistas, to a coffee shop in a mall downtown. I just drank two cappucinos, with dark chocolate on top. And I ate chicken . Clearly I am in mild culture shock. But I am sufficiently fortified- I think I can head back out.

(note from a day later, things actually deteriorated after that. The incident with my obnoxious and amorous 21 year old cab driver, who bought himself a ticket on my Nile dinner cruise and tried to be my date for the evening, probably deserves a full post. But it's too awkward and I am still mad. Another day of Cairo travel under my belt and I can say, with confidence, I am so glad I came. I am so glad I saw the pyramids. I am so glad I rode a camel. I am so glad I saw the Egyptian Museum. And I am so glad I am leaving, in exactly half an hour.)