I'm not positive about this, but I believe my fascination with Italy stems from, or at least was fed by, the movie "A Room with A View," which I watched dozens of times as an adolescent. I loved the story so much and the framing of Italy as this idyllic landscape full of beautiful sights and people, where love and imagination are born. I'm not sure if I've actually read the book or not- I know I've read other E.M. Forster novels- but at least in the movie the crux of the exploration isn't just about a destination or a country, but the idea of being a tourist and traveling to someplace that reveals to you your inner truths.
Much like the characters in that story, my family, which as far as I know have no Italian heritage, have long been enamored by all things Italian- whether that's food or art or music. Of course now I know that this desire, this obsession reeks of historical practices of the west projecting themselves onto "the other". While Italy itself is a part of Europe- I would say it still holds a kind of exoticism for the English and Americans.
On this trip, I've been acutely aware of my role as tourist, to which I fit the description to a T. Not only do I not speak the language, I didn't even attempt to learn a few phrases, even though this is my third trip to Italy. Thankfully, I'm here with my Dad, who knows very little Italian himself but feels more confident bumbling with his phrasebook.
Yesterday, we took a trip to Herculaneum, an archeological ruin site that was once a great Roman city destroyed by the Vesuvius Volcano. We took the train (Dad has sworn off using the rented car since he dinged it on the first day), which went smoothly enough.
When we arrived in the town, we got out of the train station to be greeted by numerous Italian men waving us toward the tour bus that would take us to the ruin site. Having read the guidebook, it didn't sound like it was a very far walk, so I was hesitant. But dad wanted to and we went to the storefront where the guy wanted to charge us 40 euro for two tickets. Luckily, Dad didn't have enough cash and the guy wouldn't take a credit card, so I persuaded Dad to try to find out where the Ruin site was without the bus. We began to walk to the other train station (due to my misreading of the guide book) but were stopped by an older gentleman who seemed to be a local NOT ready to make his living off unsuspecting tourists. He pointed the way toward the ruins- which was about three blocks straight away from the station.
Though it was a few short blocks, we were inundated by people whose job it was to encourage us to try the various ristorantes and pizzerias on the way. Special deals! Very romantic! Delicioso! No thanks, guys, we just want to see the ruins.
I was also shocked by how many people- mostly men, were just hanging around with seemingly nothing to do in the middle of the day. Was this because of Italy's poor economy? Possibly, as well as the lack of decent employment opportunities that a tourist area offers.
We got to the site and once again I persuaded my Dad away from paying for a guided tour, although we did get the audio tour, which was nice. We wondered around with our devices in our ears and snapped pictures in a pleasant afternoon. It was a relief to me not to have to take notes or really pay close attention. I wasn't that interested in the particular Roman rulers or the names of things. I liked just knowing enough to appreciate it, but not to have to sieve it through my brain into an article.
I managed to surreptitiously snap a decent selfie, something I'm always self-conscious about doing, especially because it usually takes numerous tries before you can actually take one that doesn't look terrible. Meanwhile, I was as I have been on this trip continually frustrated that I can't get online to immediately post pictures onto Instagram (or even more frustrating, use my map app). The level to which I have fallen into #firstworldproblems privilege is quite remarkable.
I'm certainly not the only one who engages in the selfie practice. In Sorrento, the town we are staying, you can find people taking selfies all day at the scenic spots by the bay. At least I don't have a selfie stick. Last night as I was watching the sunset in a spot near our villa, there were numerous people doing just that. It was the main activity at the lookout point.
As I was walking back to our room, I encountered a man on his scooter. "Are you an American?" he called out to me. Uh oh, I thought. I've dealt with this type of experience before. He asked me if this was my first time in Italy and who I was with and as I expected, wanted to know if I would be interested in going to have a coffee or a drink. No thanks, I smiled. This kind of thing fills me with anxiety. I hate talking to strangers, which is partly a being a woman thing and partly a Minnesota thing, I believe. My friends who are from other places constantly complain about this particular trait of my region. But I can't help it.
I guess it makes me a bad traveler. On the other hand, I've never travelled by myself. I'm always with people that I would rather talk to than meet strangers. Maybe one day I will do it the other way, but I think I might be getting too old for that kind of thing. I didn't ever, as my father did the summer after college, tour Europe and stay in hostels and do that young person thing of traveling the world where you can talk to anybody.
Today, our adventures took us on a hike to the "Bagni della Regina Giovanna", which was a little more complicated in terms of getting there by public transportation. We went to the train station, where we were told to go downstairs to the news stand where we could get our tickets.
At this point I should mention how infuriating my father is when it comes to traveling. Despite clear directions that we were to go to the news stand, he proceeded to go outside and randomly walk around and ask people in his broken Italian how to get to our destination, showing them his travel book. Finally, we went to the news stand, where the lady pointed to where we were supposed to go- "on the other side". So we went outside, still unclear where exactly we were going to pick up the bus.
Again we wandered around, and my Dad tried to get this reticent elder Italian man to help him. The man's friend, who was younger and from Pakistan as we learned later, told us to go up the hill to catch the bus. But it turns out he didn't know actually where we were supposed to go. We went up the hill to search for the bus stop to no avail and then down to the block at the bottom of the hill. Nothing! Finally, my Dad and I were split up in search of where we were supposed to go, and the Pakistani guy found me to tell me he figured out what bus we were supposed to be on. Hooray!
Our friend was amiable enough. He asked my dad if he played Cricket- it turns out there's a World Cup Cricket tournament, and he was very excited about the Pakistan vs. India game. He asked about us and Dad did most of the talking. It was nice to meet someone new, and I had the safety of my Dad being there in case he got "too" interested.
The bus ride was rather short, which was a relief because I think our driver might have been a bit drunk. He kept whistling and seemed to enjoy nearly running over pedestrians. That may be just the way people drive here, however. We began our walk, which started in this hallway of brick in what was once an old castle, opening up to a beautiful path that led to a pool of water and then an abandoned bridge with the sign "American Bar" at the front. Two young men decided to climb over the slabs of wood which were the remains of the bridge, but that was too much of an adventure for my Dad.
I did enjoy reading "Walking on the Amalfi Coast", by Gillian Price out loud as we ventured on our way, in part to help us with the directions but also because the language is so flowery in reminded me of Eleanor Lavish from "A Room with a View".
Sometimes, you just have to embrace what you are. So, American Tourist it is.
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