The Conversation Chronicles: Russian Expressions

me: i have the hiccups.

mom: someone must be thinking about you in the bathroom.

me: what? i thought hiccups just meant that somebody is thinking about you. that’s what you always told me it meant when i was a kid.

mom: that was only half of it. you were probably too young to understand the other half. but where do you do your heavy thinking anyway? the bathroom.

me: not really.

dad: what you two talk about?

me: i have the hiccups.

dad: oh yeah? someone you know go bathroom with you.

me: this changes everything. i always thought it was a sweet expression before.

dad: they have no sweet expression in Russia.

One-Hit Wonders: February 2013

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The Conversation Chronicles: Mom’s Baby Advice

mom: so i saw on Facebook that Jon-David was in town. you guys hang out?

me: yep, he was here last weekend. we had such a good time together. we ate a lot and went to the LACMA.

mom: that’s nice. have you ever thought about, maybe, you know having baby with him?

me: ummmm... never seriously, kind of more like a joke. i am still hoping plan A works out.

mom: what is plan A?

me: meeting someone and falling in love. then comes the baby. you know, the old-fashioned way. 

mom: well, it’s something to consider. you should talk about it with him.

me: wow.

mom: what?

me: it’s just that you have really come a long way — from communist russia to california suggesting to your single daughter that she have a baby with her gay best friend. i’m impressed.

OKstupid

i’ve recently come to understand what so many internet daters already know: joining a dating website does not make dating easy. if anything, it makes it ridiculous. it’s been three weeks since i joined OKCupid (renamed OKStupid), a literal meat market where men are displayed like questionable meat products, flash frozen in glass cases for my consideration, where strangers have messaged me, “hi, how r u” — some of them shirtless, others illiterate, one a bisexual woman and one man who asked my bra size — three weeks of feeling more alone than ever before.

i have not gone on a single date, because nothing has gotten that far. the handful of men i did start a correspondence with were quickly discarded once their messages turned too stupid and/or sexual. i’m frankly stunned by the amount of men who think that reminding a woman that they want to have sex — an unremarkable fact understood by every adult — is the way to make the sex happen, when, in fact, it does exactly the opposite.

i’ve actually come to prefer it when a profile just lays it out there by being overly sexual, usually under the guise of flirtatiousness (though i did see one that read, “message me if you want to fuck,” which i found refreshing). those are better than the creeps who camouflage as seemingly decent guys, like that one landscape architect who lived in my neighborhood (just what i need right now!) and appeared cute, thoughtful and mild-mannered and then engaged in a messaging session with me that mentioned my boobs no less than four times.

(note: i realize i listed “big boobs” in my attributes, which seems like an invitation to discuss them, but their inclusion is really a litmus test to weed out the lotharios, and so far it’s working quite well.)

that guy was quickly dismissed because in this digital minefield, all red flags are fatal. even a pink flag is fatal. and if other indicators seem suspect, a white flag that may have been washed in a load with one red object can be fatal. this endeavor shall be run entirely on instincts, and i make no apologies for this. i admit to being extremely picky, which is probably the reason i’m failing at internet dating. but after 20 years of non-internet dating (except for those three months back in 2004, searchable in the archives), i have a good idea of what will and won’t work for me. 

and why shouldn’t i be picky? this is my life. i want to like my reality. it’s better i end up alone than with a bad match whom i still feel lonely next to. trust me, no one is more aware of the possibility that i’ll end up alone than i am, so spare me the stories of your spinster aunt patty and her cats.

at 36, i already know the odds are stacked against me, yet i refuse to settle, because at 36, i also know myself pretty damn well. still, i don’t doubt that i’ve passed on decent guys just because they had goatees. or maybe they listed “weekends in vegas” among their likes. or maybe they were actors. or listed their favorite book as “The Alchemist.” or they lived in Brentwood. 

it is superficial and no doubt makes me an awful person who deserves to die alone. three weeks in, my profile already reads “replies VERY selectively” in red letters. i know internet dating is a “numbers game,” having heard this from countless people, but i have neither the time nor desire to go on 100 bad dates before going on one good one. i’ve decided to use OKStupid as more of a supplement to my dating life than the main lifeline. i prefer to meet men organically and if OKStupid brings me only a handful of dates a month, i’m ok with this. less than a handful is also ok.

plus, i’m trying to avoid the “overdater syndrome.” i’ve seen it too often with both male and female friends of mine, who spend too much time on dating sites, enduring the requisite parade of stupidity, and then begin to make sweeping generalizations about the opposite sex, with the women interjecting, “ugh, MEN!” any time a story about a man acting foolish is being told, and the men shaking their heads and adding, “that’s because all women are crazy,” when the fool in question is female. 

i’ve also seen it on countless profiles — this speaking to the bad experiences, where men write to the “liars, the fatties, the bitches who don’t write back,” where people assume everyone is fake and fixate on the deal-breakers over the attributes. to survive in the world of online dating is to have low expectations that need constant reinforcement, as hope can be a dangerous thing when one’s heart is on the line. so it looks like i’m fitting right in.

i hate the way i sound talking about this. i really do. and i know i’m about 10 years late to this roast. this post is so dated, this story so tired and old. trashing online dating is about as cliche and uninteresting as it gets. but considering that i only bought an iPhone a year ago, i’ve always been a bit of a “late adapter.” and here i am arriving late to the school dance only to complain about the music.

i don’t want to be at this dance. most of the time i’m standing around awkwardly and looking down at my shoes. i can’t bring myself to dance with anyone, but still feel compelled to stick around to see if it gets interesting because i know it’s worked for others and i know i’m not giving it its rightful chance. i want to dance. at least, i think i do. it’s just been so long, and the truth is that i feel a bit rusty, a little wobbly on my heels, and also extremely nervous.

plus, it’s never been this much damn work before. love has always hit me like a train and dragged me along its tracks. i’ve only known chemistry that overwhelms and leaves me at its mercy until i can’t see past it. the last time i felt this way was eight years ago when i first started dating Mo. our first date was on a wednesday and by the weekend we were inseparable. in those early weeks, i would throw up before meeting with him, not because i wanted to, but because my wiring had become unhinged and my organs were shifting. i couldn’t eat, sleep or focus and finally landed in bed with a miserable flu that confirmed my suspicion that it was really love. 

i don’t doubt that i’ve done everything in my power to prevent these feelings from returning, and for all the right reasons that rational people would warn against them. i know should keep my head screwed on straight. i don’t want to run the risk of falling in love with the wrong person. i know i should start as friends first with someone new and then ease into it.

that’s no doubt the healthiest approach, though it’s not the one that ensures i’ll stay rapt and dedicated because unless i feel that train make contact, it’s easy for me to be dismissive on the basis that nothing is holding my attention. love has never been a choice for me, especially one laid out neatly in thumbnail images and personal details that read like an ingredient list.

some days, i think it’s better that i just remain on my own. i’ve grown fond of my independence by now and have moved past the idea that i’m searching for my better half. if i learned anything in 2012’s Year of Solitude (and sad, sad celibacy) it’s that i can be happy on my own. i can make all executive decisions about my life without needing to consult anyone and feel confident in my choices. i can feel great about my achievements without relying on someone else’s approval to validate their worth. these were lessons i needed to learn.

other days, there is a longing for someone to sit beside me and hold my hand while we watch TV together. those are the days when i notice how seldom i cook elaborate meals anymore, how empty the bed feels when i get in and out of it, how my heart sits securely in my own chest doing nothing more than pumping blood.

that’s when i enter fantasyland and begin to romanticize the past or envision a future where i wake up next to some tall, smart, handsome, funny, kind, thoughtful, interesting, aggravating, odd, curious, confusing, hairy, smelly and delicious beast who complicates my life in a way that i don’t mind. there’s no fear in this fantasy, no fear of opening up or being vulnerable, of not being able to make compromises that i haven’t had to make in years, no fear of getting it wrong or failing again, of committing to someone who ends up disappointing me, or worse, gets disappointed by me.

then i turn my head and see my dogs snoring beside me, realizing that i’m alone on my couch on a friday night with my phone in my hand and no one to call, so i’ll jump on OKStupid to search for prospects in the same way i search for products on amazon before getting overwhelmed in 10 minutes, closing my laptop, sighing heavily, and then getting up and moving on with the rest of my night. 

One-Hit Wonders: January 2013

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Annual

it’s that time of year again, the time when i immortalize the things i likely won’t do on the tubes of the internets. it’s a weird one this time, because 2012 was a fantastic year that will be hard to top — so hard i almost don’t want to try. i spent most of it floating through the months buoyantly, unwrapping each day like a gift. not since 2008 (the year i bought my house) have i enjoyed such a great year with more highs than lows. of course, i hope 2013 wows me as well, but i’m tempering expectations. something about lightning striking twice.

on the whole, i think i had moderate success keeping last year’s resolutions. i made fairly healthy decisions, particularly with men as evidenced by my lack of one. at least i didn’t distract myself with unhealthy dalliances, choosing the solitary route instead, which surprised me with its many hidden benefits.

i also maintained a mostly pescetarian diet until that trip to Italy ruined everything with its scrumptious salami. debt reduction did not go entirely as planned, though i managed to cut my house debt by a third instead of the half i was aiming for, which was probably unrealistic anyway. the getting published thing went pretty well, with that whole New York Times thing happening in addition to an album review on the GEEK website.

as in other years, i made a lengthy list offline about the things i hope to accomplish, which read more like a list of bad habits than resolutions. they included such things as “get better about buying gifts for people” and “wash dishes every night.” the usual suspects also made their appearance, with debt reduction, regular exercise, getting published and flossing daily noted. of course, i should also meditate consistently, be a better friend and daughter, lube up my brain with more books in addition to starting a career as a weekend crime-fighter. but i think i’ll just focus on these instead:

• love: it feels silly to write this as i don’t think love can (or should) be achieved like a bullet point on an agenda, but i’m doing it anyway. it’s time for the real thing — for the next one to be the last one. i’m sure admitting this makes me suddenly irresistible to every man, because fewer things are more appealing than a marriage-minded woman who refuses to change her last name for you and can hear her ovaries crying. to avoid being a total cliche, i’ve joined okcupid (“okstupid,” as i’ve been calling it) over jdate. expect bad date stories to start peppering this blog and hopefully making it interesting for once.  

• work: i can’t keep riding my own tailcoats forever. time to produce more than one great byline to tell everyone about. there will also be a book that chronicles the best of the first year of Haiku Wednesdays, the group i founded on Facebook, in addition to the work i do with GEEK (hope to also get a byline in the print mag this year) and my other standing clients. because work = money = debt reduction = freedom.

• house: this is the year for landscaping, goddamnit. it is also the five-year anniversary of being a homeowner, which makes five years of calling various lenders and brokers to see about refinancing, only to be told to call next year when there is less likelihood of being underwater. with the remodel done and home values rebounding ever so slighty, this should be the year when i lock into a lower interest rate.

• heart: i’m as nice as the next person (whatever that means), but there were a number of times last year when the bitch in me escaped from her cage. every instance was followed by apologies, regret and a vow to myself that i would be more restrained the next time i felt the most perfectly cruel words reaching my lips. now it’s time to make good by considering the following buddhist-esque questions every time the urge to say something bitchy strikes: is it honest: is it humble; is it kind? (i think the real buddhist maxim includes “is it necessary”? but nothing i say beyond “please” and “thank you” is really necessary so i’m not including that.)
  
  i don’t struggle with honesty, which is often part of the problem. humility is tricky as i’m full of needless pride that seems impossible to chip away at. i’m trying not to tempt the universe into giving me (another) epic beatdown by doing the job myself. and my kindness is fairly consistent until it lapses, at which point i’m reminded that i’m still far from being the person i want to be. so i will continue to remind myself before i speak: is it kind? is it kind? is it kind?

i also need to work on letting myself show vulnerability to more than just the five or so people i allow to see me without my armor, though as the years pass, this notion seems more unlikely. i’d like to say i’ll keep working on it but i doubt it.

overall, i feel strong going into this year, having finally put the identity crises away. it only took 36 years, but i’m mostly cozy with who i am (the bitch issue notwithstanding) and can cope better with the insecurities that do remain. i’d like to say i wouldn’t change a thing about everything it took to get here, but that’s untrue. there is plenty i’d do differently, none of which is worth harping on. instead, i’ll toast to the new year, roll up my sleeves and get to work.

The Winter Malaise

like clockwork, it happens every year. things truck along swimmingly through thanksgiving and then something wicked this way comes in december. it’s stupid and silly and i know better and  now fear it’s become more self-fulfilling prophecy than organic necessity, but off to funky town i’ll go each winter with my emotions.

the town looks a lot like the inside of my house, where i will move about shiftlessly, refusing invitations in favor of curling up with my dogs to watch movies or read, or sometimes to just lay in bed and stare at the ceiling. i’m not particularly depressed, at least not this year; it’s more of a funk that makes me not want to do much of anything or see much of anyone.

but you had such a great year, i tell myself. remember that whole new york times thing? that thrilling trip to italy? your remodeled house and healthy family and kind friends? you are luckier than most, you pathetic crybaby. get your ass out of bed and go take in the fresh air on your new deck.

i know, i know, i know.

yet still, the ghosts of christmas past come to visit. i know these visitors well. i have baked them cookies and set up cots for them so they could linger as long as they like. grabbing a broom to sweep them out won’t work. they have a job to do and it’s easier to let them do it instead of resisting. better to open the vein and let it bleed than ignore it until it ruptures.

so it’s been flowing alongside the wine, sad music and picture books in my head. they look a lot like a big river of regret. there’s heartache and loneliness, too, fueled by holidays that do plenty to highlight the obvious. and what’s obvious is that it’s cold and i’m lonely. also obvious is that i need to repair this situation so 2013 doesn’t resemble 2012 in its solitude and celibacy. this may mean joining the wild world of online dating, as many of my friends have urged.

i’m dreading it as a central part of this winter malaise is laziness. though i’m not exactly content with the State of Things, i am content to lie around and sigh heavily about them — at least for now. though i have a feeling this will change soon as January has finally arrived, dragging with it all those annoying good intentions that seem to kick off each year. i feel them beginning to stir inside me as well.

there is plenty i want to do this year, none of which involve being a pathetic crybaby. this means these days of lying around and daydreaming about a past i can’t change and a future i can’t predict will soon come to pass, forcing me to attend to what’s already looking like a very demanding January. the freelance deadlines have begun to loom. i have a leaky roof that needs fixing. these holiday pounds need to go. there are boxes in the garage to sort through. life has been waiting.

i’m almost ready. i just need another week (or two) to leave the holiday lights around the deck, lie in bed while staring at the ceiling and hug the ghosts goodbye.

One-Hit Wonders: December 2012

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Italy 2012

quintessential Italy: the Roman Colosseum.

in august, i got a call from my friend Kiana saying that she was turning 40 in september and wanted to spend her birthday at an Italian villa with her girlfriends. i don’t think she finished the question before i screamed “YES!” into the phone. the next day, i applied for an expedited passport, scheduled the days off work, secured care for my dogs and began packing my suitcase for a 15-day trip to cities i had never visited before.

i’ll just skip to the punchline now: the trip was awesome in every way. i don’t know how to describe it without sounding like a bragging asshole, so i’ll just describe it as it was (and sound like a bragging asshole). but it was pretty perfect as far as trips go and could only have been made better if i had stayed longer, had more money to spend and the two girls i traveled with were one gorgeous man who was madly in love with me.

but as you go to war with the army you have, you take a trip to Italy any way you can and this was not a trip i would ever miss. “i don’t care if you’re only calling me in a pinch because other girls have pulled out and you need bodies to help pay for the villa. i’m going and you can’t stop me,” i told Kiana.


first meal in Rome: this pizza three times the size of my head. the challenge was accepted. i ate it like i was mad at it.

the arrival: i landed in Rome via Madrid on a Thursday night and arrived at Patti’s house an hour later. Patti is a former New Yorker and proprietress of Expats in Rome, which i had found through an internet search — when i typed in “expats in Rome” — looking for english speakers to hang out with. Rome bookended my trip and Patti played perfect hostess both times by offering me a place to stay, a map to consult and expat events to attend. the photo above is from our first dinner, which had me eating pizza while flirting with cute Italians and then finishing off the night with cigarettes and limoncello.


cougar alert! Amber is the blond (obviously); Kiana is the dark-haired one (who also goes by the name of Stacy, though most times i just call her “Yosh”) and me.  

the next morning: i met Kiana and Amber at the Termini train station, where we took a high-speed train to Naples and then boarded a ferry for Capri. Kiana and Amber both live in Chicago and work as flight attendants for American Airlines. when she lived in Los Angeles and was married to my friend Juan, Kiana and i spent plenty of time together and even took a trip to her home state of Hawaii. i only met Amber on this trip but we became fast friends, especially after finding out our birthdays were a day apart. the three of us enjoyed a relatively drama-free vacation together, save the usual noise that comes with three girls sharing enclosed spaces with one bathroom. we also made fun of each other’s farts A LOT.


Italy or Titaly? D cup and up required to get into this exclusive club.


the dock at gorgeous Capri, home of the lauded Capri pants (but not the cigarette).

approaching Capri: oh, my god, Capri. definitely one of the most exquisite places i have ever been to. the island is a playground for the rich and there was certainly plenty of flash on display, some of it stylish, with the rest being of the short-skirt-and-too-much-makeup variety found on the Jersey Shore. but more interesting was the scenery, which included hill-hugging, narrow roads that caused constant traffic delays, lush gardens with the most perfect landscaping, a view of the sea from every angle, and, of course, the magical blue grotto.


taken on the walk to the Blue Grotto, made at dawn to beat the tour boats. 


Kiana checking out the grotto. entrance is at the right. she swam in it as a 21-year-old and wanted to again on her 40th birthday, which she did. this photo was taken the morning of.


“stricktly” forbidden. got it. if you spelled your sign right, i might have obeyed. (nah, doubtful.) 


me + the Mediterranean = best friends

the grotto: the grotto is tiny, with dark corners, jagged edges and no place to sit or support yourself. there’s a chain near the entrance, probably to keep people out, though it helped us get in across the rocky coral and provided relief when treading water became tiring. i wish i had a photo of the inside to substantiate my claim that it was one of the most amazing things i’ve ever seen and done, but i didn’t think to bring a waterproof camera case. the water looked dark blue (cerulean?) and made me feel as though i were swimming in a precious stone. just being there, in Italy, my first trip to Europe in nearly 10 years, in the warm water of the Mediterranean, with the jetlag and early morning and empty stomach — it made me delirious with joy. absolute perfect moment.


finished our swim just before the first tour boat came in.

goodbye, grotto: we spent just one night in Capri, which was plenty of time to see most of what the four-mile island had to offer, though i’d gladly visit again. we left soon after our grotto swim and boarded a ferry for the Amalfi coast, where the villa awaited us. we would be staying a week.


on the ferry ride from Capri to the Amalfi Coast, about 40 minutes.


the jaw-dropping beauty of Positano. i couldn’t believe this view when i first saw it. it looked like a cardboard facade that would tip over if the wind blew too hard.

approaching Positano: the Amalfi Coast is on the southwestern side of Italy and is comprised of Positano, Praiano and Amalfi. our villa was in Praiano, the most quiet and least touristy of the three, sandwiched right in between the other two, each about 20 minutes away by bus. all three cities are built into cliffs, impossibly stacked on top of themselves with only a few main roads connecting them — all narrow, frightening and facing the sea. a labyrinth of steep alleyways and staircases connect everything else, which made this a very aerobic vacation.


plenty of scooters and scraped up cars on the coast, many missing their side mirrors. 


stairs leading out of the villa and into an alleyway with more stairs. the amount of exercise i got during the week far exceeded anything i would normally get in a week at home. total weight gain: zero pounds despite consuming my own body weight in pizza, pasta and wine.


the Pink Palace.

the villa: Kiana found this place, nicknamed Casa Rosa, and props to her for a job well done. we had the whole bottom floor, which contained a full kitchen, two bedrooms, wifi, a washing machine and a gigantic terrace. the beach, bus stop and market were just a 10-minute walk away. we went during the last week of september, considered the off-season, which offered a much cheaper rate than the summer rate, and when split between three people, the deal was incredible. the weather was also perfect, with rain only bothering us on one day.


the owner set out three glasses and wine for our arrival in addition to filling the place with fresh flowers and fridge with food (per our request).  


mission control for the week.

the bugs: the terrace faced the sea and served as the perfect backdrop for wine drinking, shit talking and tanning. though at night it became a hub of mosquito activity. the only word i learned in Italian was the one for mosquito: zanzara. they are definitely the downside of paradise. it’s no exaggeration to say i had at least 30 bites after a few days. Kiana must have had a good 60 bites, several of which filled with fluid and produced an allergic reaction that had her seeking medical care at the pharmacy. we must have bought every mosquito cream, spray and pill available in Amalfi during the trip, yet the bites kept coming. some of the sprays produced an allergic reaction in me, including a lovely rash that lasted weeks.



the nightly scene: laughing, wining and whining it up with Amber.


wine shop in the city of Amalfi. i’ll take ALL of it.

the agenda: there is certainly a lot to see and do on the Amalfi Coast, but the agenda item at the top of our list was to RELAX. this vacation was no episode of “The Amazing Race.” we were there to sleep late, lounge in stretchy pants and eat until we burst — and we did plenty of each, rarely leaving the house before noon or going to bed before 1am. the wine flowed, men were dissected and naps were taken. this is how forty-something vacations go.


Kiana dancing on the terrace right before our first dinner at the villa, a catered meal prepared by a local chef to celebrate Kiana’s birthday.


Marina di Praia beach in Praiano, with stones instead of sand. easy on the eyes but hard on the feet.

the beaches: when we did venture out for more than just replenishing the wine supply, we mostly hit the beach or took the bus into town to sightsee and shop. i am not normally a beach person as my siberian genes have rendered me and the sun bitter enemies (plus, the whole swimsuit thing), but i spent plenty of time in the water and lounging on the chaise in a state of bliss, my soul at ease and head empty when not filled with thoughts about how i could remain on vacation permanently.


cocktails and literature at Gavitella beach (best beach in Praiano, IMO). the book for this trip was Take the Cannoli by Sarah Vowell. i had it on my shelf for a while and chose it primarily for the title but it proved a great read and the hilarious title essay does involve a trip to Italy.


bitches, boats and brews. taken on the ride from Sorrento to Positano.

the boats: we also spent as much time as we could in boats, our ultimate joy-maker. considering the winding roads between towns, water taxis often made more sense. many days started with discussions of “what plans can we make today that would involve a boat?” one day, those plans involved taking a boat from one beach to another.


on the “bus” between beaches.

 
me happy on a boat (and rethinking my long-standing disdain for beaches and water).


tuna pizza that is making my mouth water as i type this.

the food: christ, that food. it’s delicious enough to make you come in your pants after the first bite. prepared with the freshest ingredients, it always tasted PERFECT. i can’t count how many times i declared at the end of each meal that “this is the best meal so far in Italy!” but it happened enough times for the girls to start mocking me about it. the pizza and pasta are a given, but i fell most in love with the tuna and had an Italian market in my neighborhood already picked out by the time i landed in Los Angeles so i could score some of that goodness stateside. piss off, Chicken of the Sea. my tuna is only always going to be As do Mar from now on. the Amalfi Coast’s specialty also includes tons of fried fish and when you add a little lemon and aioli... ohhhh, i need a tissue.


fried sardines and calamari.


porcini mushrooms sauteed in oil and garlic, truly one of the best dishes from the trip because these shrommies came fresh, not dried.


unbelievably delicious Italian gelato that is rumored to be less fattening than conventional ice cream despite tasting a million times creamier.


purchase suggested by the wise neighbor who watched my dogs for me. i brought enough home for the both of us.

the seeds: i brought back a bunch of native seeds to grow my very own italian zucchini, two types of tomatoes, arugula and red peppers. considering my brown thumb that has killed every plant i’ve owned that hasn’t been a cactus, i have a lot to learn. and considering my lazy streak, i mean, my heavy workload, i’ll probably hire someone to handle it all for me.


octogenarian neighbor in the villa below who gardened every morning and gave us baskets filled with his spoils.


best fig of my life from the neighbor’s garden.


my new Italian sandals. cost: 50 euros.

the shopping: though a strong dollar made it more tempting, my house debt didn’t allow me to go wild with the purchases, but i made a few here and there. i usually buy jewelry when i travel and searched Amalfi for a nice cameo ring, but all the ones i found were prohibitively expensive, so i bought the next best item: shoes. specifically, italian sandals that were made on demand by a lovely lady named Eva, who measured my feet to ensure a snug fit.


as you all (should) know, Pinko is my dog’s name and i ran into this store as soon as i saw in hopes of finding a shirt with “Pinko” emblazoned on it, maybe in sequins or glitter, but no luck.


Amber in a Limoncello store in the city of Amalfi.

the Limoncello: i also brought back a couple bottles of Limoncello, the lemony-tasting, 150+ proof Italian digestif. despite drinking it almost daily, i can’t say i really loved it (i especially hated the fennel-infused version). it just tasted too damn sweet, but the potency made me forget about that after the first sip, so i finished every serving — only to be greeted with a sugar headache 10 minutes later.


the nightly ritual. i had a theory that the Limoncello could double as that barium drink people having stomach MRIs need to ingest prior to the procedure. i think it could light you up from the inside just the same.


the city of Amalfi, the largest of the three main cities on the Amalfi coast. though its facade is not as jaw-dropping as Positano’s, it’s flatter, less crowded and much easier to get around in. 

the towns: daytrips took us to nearby cities, including Sorrento, where we walked around aimlessly, sat lazily at cafes eating pastries, browsed old churches and shopped. we made sure to eat a meal in each town, even if that meant missing the last bus out of town, which happened once. all the people we encountered were incredibly friendly, the waitstaff in particular who didn’t seem to resent our status as tourists. what’s nice about Italy is that the hospitality industry is seen as a reputable career, not just a stepping stone to becoming an actor. we talked to waiters whose families had owned restaurants in the area for generations and who spent winters in London studying English so they could be better at their jobs. 


streets of Amalfi.


main square (with the requisite old cathedral) in Amalfi.


smoking kills, don’t you know?

the smoking: i should confess to smoking cigarettes on this trip and not only on that first night in Rome when, in my limoncello haze, i announced to my companions, “when in Rome, smoke cigarettes like everyone else does, right? may i have one, please?” to my surprise, my throat did not hurt the next morning despite the fact that one cigarette turned into five. by my third day, i was smoking half a pack just as i did in my smoker days, more than 7 years ago. i could hardly believe myself and offer no defense beyond, “i was on vacation, OK? let it go, mom and dad.” thankfully, the habit has not continued since i arrived home and won’t ever again. i vow to contain my smoking only to nation states in the European Union.


incredible Positano. 


streets of Praiano.


paradise lost among tunnels, tiny roads and impossible cliffs.


ran into a JV soccer team and their coach during a photo shoot. i’m still trying to pick out my favorite (though i think the two in the foreground favor each other).

the men: despite the indulgences of this trip, men never made it off the menu beyond a little harmless flirtation. the men in Italy were... how you say?... weird. (though i’m sure i seemed weird to them as well.) Italy is a very patriarchal society and, as you can likely guess, i don’t fit in too well with this paradigm. i actually had one gentleman in Rome ask me whether i knew how to cook and iron, before adding that i would need to travel to his mother’s house in Sicily to learn how to cook his favorite meals if we were to marry. (i told him politely that he would be making that trip, not me.) and though many of the men looked like Armani models stepping off a magazine page, with their stylish clothes and chiseled faces, too many more looked like Chef Boyardee, with their pasta bellies and sweaty foreheads. chivalry is also dead in Italy. i can’t count how many times i struggled with a bag, only to receive no help from the men nearby, or had sneezes go unblessed and doors not held open. so, sadly, i don’t foresee an Italian husband in my future, but the food more than makes up for it.


cutie pie waiter opening up a bottle of wine. i kept telling the girls to slip him our key.

 
last night on the Amalfi Coast spent at the famed Africana nightclub that’s built into a cave. it was kinda dead inside but we got our drink and dance on anyway before stumbling back to the villa drunk and packing up for the next destination.


taken on the ferry ride from Positano to Ischia, about 2.5 hours.

approaching Ischia: i never even heard of the island of Ischia before this trip, so imagine my surprise when i found myself spending two nights there, enjoying the thermal pools and hot springs it’s known for. Ischia appeared more working class than Capri or the Amalfi coast and seemed more for the locals than tourists, but its big draw is Negombo, a therapeutic spa center that is the size of a small amusement park.


directory at Negombo with its 20+ thermal pools.


one of my favorite pools at the park, the Life Spring pool.

the Disneyland of thermal pools: this place blew me away. more than 20 thermal pools of varying temperatures for various ailments made up Negombo, where people just walked around in swimsuits dunking themselves. some pools had mini-waterfalls that would beat down upon your muscles for a massage; others had steam areas to sweat out the toxins; some pools were super deep, others shallow; and still others had a prescribed courses to follow where cold pools came on the heels of hot pools. all this just walking distance from the beach and regular chlorine pools. i could have stayed for days, maybe years. another big highlight of the trip.


also loved this pool, with one side super warm water, the other ice cold. i took my last dunk here.

 
thermal pool in the hotel basement. i spent a lot of time here, too. 

the hotel: next time you find yourself in Ischia, Grifo Hotel is where you want to stay. not only were the rooms clean and affordable, but the hotel has a basement with steam room, sauna, lounge and thermal pools. they also offer spa services, including massages that will relax the hell out of you and the most thorough pedicure you’ll ever receive. free shuttle service, too. super recommended.


statues enjoying the view.


one of our last dinners together in Ischia. sad we would be parting ways but sadder that we reached the end of the wine bottle.

almost over: after our two nights in Ischia came to an end, the girls and i reluctantly parted ways, with them returning directly to the airport to catch a flight back to Chicago and me returning to Rome via ferry and then train for my final two days in Italy — days that were spent walking around the cradle of Western civilization with my heart happy and senses overloaded by the amazing everything on display.


the Italian countryside, taken on the train between Naples and Rome, about 1 hour.


the Roman Forum in the city center.

the city: what can be said about Rome that isn’t said elsewhere and better? it’s quite remarkable (and huge) with its blend of old ruins, newer construction and an intense alpha energy that rivals New York. it’s a hard-working, ambitious city where you need a doctor’s note to take a sick day. people definitely seem to be on the go, though they move at their own pace, an Italian pace that’s as leisurely as it is frenetic. it’s what i imagine Los Angeles would be like if you dropped New York City into its center and tempered the rat race with a relaxed attitude.


fruit stand in Rome where i bought the best peach of my life.


this “gladiator” initially scared the hell out of me by running after me and asking if i were jewish. i said, “umm... yes. is that OK?” he replied with, “i’m jewish, too. my name is David.” he then told me there were a lot of Jews in Rome and i should visit the jewish ghetto (which i couldn’t find, unfortunately). a nice gesture, to be sure, though i couldn’t stop staring at his nipples.


closeup from the Arch of Constantine.

the surprises: a lot surprised me about Rome (and Italy, in general). i suppose i expected it to be like other European cities i’ve visited — where drugs are legal and people are practically dry-humping in front of you on the metro — but Italy seemed far more conservative. i saw no PDA on display and was told that it takes five years to get a divorce. and despite the well-known caricature of the animated, boisterous Italian (which i sometimes saw), most Italians i encountered were private and reserved. definitely not the most fun-loving culture i’ve come across in my travels (i think the Spanish take that prize), but not as stuffy as the English.


St. Peter’s Basilica in Vatican City, where i tried to get in a word with the Pope (unsuccessfully). Rome is the land of a million churches, and there are nuns everywhere.


everyone is talking on cell phones at all times in Rome, even the nuns.


streets of Rome.

more observations: in Rome, so much seems to happen in storefronts, where shop owners hang out on their stoops with a cigarette while either talking on the phone or with neighbors and friends who’ve stopped by for the daily deal. even when on the phone, Italians are gesticulating wildly with their hands, which is hilarious to watch. at one of the expat events i attended, the locals taught me how to tell someone, without uttering a word, to fuck off, to give me a break, to quit bullshitting me, and to keep what i’m about to say a secret.


the Tiber River outside of Vatican City. 


even the horses are overwhelmed.

two days was not enough: i’m not sure that two weeks would be enough to see everything in Rome, considering all the ruins, churches, museums and landmarks. i spent my one full day in the city walking around until my feet felt as though they would fall off. i didn’t have the time to wait in long lines so i never saw the inside of anything, just covered as much space as i could before getting on the right bus going in the wrong direction, which gave me the opportunity to see even more. this means i must return to do a proper tour.


Roman punks pissed off at all the beauty that surrounds them.


new friends made at an Expats in Rome event. only the gentleman at the left is an expat (Frank from North Caroline). the two others, nicknamed the Priest and Stifler, are locals who attend the events to practice English and joined me in a hilarious and thoughtful conversation i can’t at all recall.

the people: despite the earlier shit i talked about the patriarchy of Italian men, i want to emphasize that everyone i met on my trip was polite, warm and gracious (save a few cabbies who ripped me off). people were welcoming at every locale and never acted put out when i stopped and asked them for directions or advice. i exchanged info and Facebook friend requests with some of the folks i met and intend to nurture those relationships for future visits.     


ciao, Italia! grazie per un meraviglioso viaggio.

whatever i discovered about Italy is no well-kept secret. in fact, everyone i’ve spoken to who’s also visited has agreed that, yes, there is something magical about the place that has a certain effect on people that few other places do. there’s a sense that life is perfect in Italy and lived as it should be: eating great food, drinking wine at lunch, and enjoying leisurely siestas in the warm sun and fresh air. there’s a simplicity about it that appears low-stress and inviting.

of course, vacationing in Italy is different from living in Italy, and i heard many stories about the bureaucracy and inefficiency of the Italian system, with people having to pay their electric bill with the butcher and city officials giving different answers to the same question. yet from the outside looking in, Italians have it easy — the scenery is perfect, the food is the best in the world, and life moves along at a serene place.

this takeaway made it challenging to return home to the bustle of bills, deadlines and unanswered messages awaiting me. though i love traveling, there is always a touch of relief about returning home to see my dogs and sleep in my own bed again, but i could have continued on this vacation in perpetuity without missing much from home. it was that good.

and like any good vacation, stepping away from my life in Los Angeles gave me the opportunity to reflect on it. it let me hit the reset button and evaluate what’s been going wrong and right, to form new habits that incorporate what i learned abroad, to understand what was really important about life — chiefly among them: learning how to prepare food the Italian way. (i plan to take a cooking class next year.)

the time away also made me understand that i really need to slow the fuck down. perhaps it was that warm Mediterranean sun, leisurely Italians or just the lazy nature of this vacation that forced me to disconnect, sit quietly and watch the sunset, but i came home resolved to incorporate more lazy beach days into my life. i promised myself i wouldn’t feel so guilty when my days were unproductive. i told myself i could have that extra glass of wine and stay up late if i felt like it and eat dessert if i wanted it and just enjoy the hell out of life because that’s what it’s there for.

my biggest issue has always been my restlessness, which has thankfully mellowed with age and maturity, but still manifests itself as a drive that compels me to produce and achieve and produce and achieve — without ever taking a break. most days, this is far from being a bad thing and i do generally love my work, but underneath it lies a fire that keeps me moving when it’s time to sit still.

now i know that i need to sit still more, to vacation more, to give myself unstructured days off, to stay in my pajamas all day, and to not feel bad that it’s taken me two months to write the blog post about my great Italian vacation. so far, i’ve been delivering on these promises — perhaps too much given the amount of dessert i’ve been eating — but if i should find myself losing my way and getting too wrapped up in the merry-go-round of modern life again, which is likely, i’ll be sure to plan another visit to Italy.