Party Like It’s 1999
When I graduated from college with an English Literature degree, I didn’t feel qualified to do anything in particular. I was working in a sushi restaurant and struggling to end an on-again-off-again love affair.
One of my best childhood friends, Jessie, was studying abroad at Oxford and invited me across the pond for a real European adventure.
What follows are some excerpts from the journal I kept during that trip. I hadn’t read this in 25 years, so imagine my surprise when I found that it even includes a message to my 50-year-old self.
August 20, 1999
I am in Keswick (Ke-sick), England — the Lake District that inspired William Wordsworth and John Keats. It is cold and grey (notice the British spelling). We are at the Keswick Youth Hostel, a typical hostel with pink and green “Santa Fe” print comforters on bunk beds, free coffee in the dining room, a slight stench of many people who have passed through, and a good-natured woman at the front desk, Maddie, who got us our bunks and Continental breakfast for the next two nights at least.
. . . We’re very close to Scotland here. There’s a slight Scottish twang to the speech and there are burnt-out remnants of castles and fortresses to “keep the Scots out.” All in all, a very pleasant place with rolling hills, lots of sheep and cows, and few people.
August 21, 1999
Observations about Brits: Very helpful. Like to chat.
They don’t have ketchup for the fries (aka chips) unless you ask for it — and even then they only give you two packets.
Prawns are very popular and kidney pie. Mmm . . . kidneys. Can’t wait for my sausage, bacon, egg, tomato and beans on toast for breakfast!
August 26, 1999
Arrived in Prague — Last night was spent on the train from Paris. Ahh, Paris! It was full of beautiful, stylish women, and men in tight pants on Vespas.
We visited the Musee d’Orsay — the impressionist museum. I enjoyed the paintings most when I walked past them or saw them from far away.
Knowing so little about art, I find it pointless to stare at something I don’t understand for too long. I really loved the sculptures though. Men and women in various poses that are so lifelike you want to reach out and touch them.
We walked along the Seine, saw Notre Dame and the Eiffel Tower, got hit on by a hundred Frenchmen.
Prague was a bit of a culture shock being that neither of us know the slightest bit of Czech and we can’t understand the pronunciation guide, which says things like “E = rzht.” (What the hell is an “rzht” sound?)
We finally figured out the metro and bus system, which dropped us off at our $6/night hostel that looks like an industrial park and has a banner on the side of the building that says, “Sleep cheap. Free beer.”
August 27, 1999
Prague is full of very pretty girls and men with ponytails, acid-washed tight jeans and fanny packs. I wrote a postcard to Hari and told her, “Drinks are expensive. Music is techno.”
We found new accommodations and settled in to the city, got a cup of coffee and went to an organ recital at a beautiful church. It was really cool for the first song or two, but then we realized there is a limit to how much organ music a modern person can listen to.
August 28, 1999
From the Internet Cafe —- Today we visited Prague Castle. It seems to me that living in the 10th through the 19th Centuries would have really sucked. Maybe I overgeneralize. There was so much torture, pain and death in the days of kings and queens. Not that there isn’t now.
I am sitting here surrounded by young Czech people — intellectuals, no doubt. The type of people who were at the university 30 years ago when Soviet tanks rolled through these streets.
But Prague has many beautiful views, especially from the Castle.
It’s a funny place. We laughed because the guide book said that a “common Czech expression” is “I am bad. I’m not well.” And it said that Czech people insult each other by calling the other person a part of the body, like: “You gut!”
I have found lots to laugh about on this trip. Even when we are bad, we are not well.
August 30, 1999
Firenze, Italia — The laundromat. “Video Killed the Radio Star” on the radio. We are very happy to be in this lovely, lovely city. Florence is very compact and the language barrier is much easier to deal with. We are staying at the Ostello Archi Rossi, a very clean place with private bath and four beds. It is 35,000 lira a night, which is about $20 US.
Italians are surprisingly nonthreatening despite horror stories of “grabby” men and pickpockets. You can get a great leather jacket here for $150 US. I of course, want to buy everything.
We passed through the most beautiful store I have ever seen, full of paper mache masks.
September 2, 1999
Well, we have been to the Uffizi, been to the David, been to the Duomo and now it’s time to move on. Five days in Florence have gone by very quickly. I met Adriano, an attractive 28-year-old Florentine with Matt Dillon eyes. He kept saying, “Cara, Cara (but it was Cada, Cada), let me ‘splain you something . . .” Tonight is his birthday and he wanted me to go to the discotheque but practicality won over curiosity and now I am back at Ostello Archi Rossi without being kissed. I would have loved to go out to the disco, but it is not to be tonight, not with Adriano, who I’m sure will have his share of bellas to take up his time.
September 6, 1999
We spent the last few days in Perugia, a beautiful very old Italian town in the Tuscan hills. It was what one imagines Italy to be: hunchbacked ladies, cobblestone streets, fruit vendors, flower pots around the windows. The basilica in the town center claimed to have the Virgin Mary’s wedding ring.
We met a really cool Australian girl named Basia with whom we visited Asissi, hometown of St. Francis, and saw his tomb. We had a lot of fun going out for pizza and looking for a “a place where we can boogie.”
Basia told us that when she went to Bulgaria “common phrases” in her guide book included “I have my own syringe” and “I am on the pill.”
We thought that beat out the Czech: “I am bad, I am not well.”
September 6, 1999
Now we are in La Spezia — looks like Florida: pastel buildings, boats, palm trees and super-tan young people. There are hordes of guys, really good looking too, but unfortunately I do not have occasion to actually speak to them since the most practical thing to do is to keep your eyes straight ahead and ignore any cat-calls or “psst-pssts” that one gets.
They try so hard to convince you that they’ve fallen instantly, madly in love with you. “Ssssst” is their big line. One guy walked by and said, “You are wery, wery, wery, wery beautiful . . .”
September 9, 1999
After my near-fatal encounter with a vicious, woman-eating sea urchin, Jessie and I have settled upon the Cinque Terre, specifically Manarola, for the remainder of our Italian extravaganza.
We got a little apartment just a few blocks from the water with a lovely cafe downstairs where I had the best salad. I never would’ve thought I’d enjoy anchovies so much.
September 10, 1999
Techno-Cher on the Walkman down by the sea. No sun yet. My foot is still swollen and hurts like hell. I think my bank account is finally drained, but I have $400 in travelers checks.
I guess when I’m 50 I won’t care that I was broke when I was 23. I will care that I got to spend a month in Europe after college. I wish I could think of something profound to say, but all I really want is to lay out in the sun and not think about anything.
Italian grunge music is really strange.
Beautiful stupid Italy has left me with sea urchin spines in my foot, a sunburn, twenty (OK, five) extra pounds and a wine headache.
September 17, 1999
Train to Paris — Yesterday was the last official day of vacation. Although we have one more night in Paris and two in the UK. Instead of going back to London, we’re going to Oxford because it’s smaller and Jessie has connections there.
Thoughts on the last weekend of the Euro vacation? Well, I am covered with bumps (bedbug bites, probably?) and a possible allergic reaction to something (anchovies? Greek olives?)
I find it ironic and fitting that after weeks of fantasizing about returning home looking like an Italian starlet, I am now one giant welt. Kind of brings me back to my senses.
Of all that I’ve seen and experienced on this trip there are some major themes: beauty, frustration, indulgence, humor and helplessness — mostly the first and the last.
Sure I am out of money completely and in some credit card debt but c’est la vie! You have to do what you have to do to experience new and different things in life. That is in fact the biggest lesson of all: To never allow money or self-doubt to keep me from experiencing new things.
I have had to admit to myself more times than I can count on this trip that I am ignorant . . . of art, architecture, history, geography and sometimes even common sense.
It has finally come to the point where I have to stop denying what I don’t know and allow myself to learn, to absorb and to see with the eyes of a child. Ignorance is not stupidity (except sometimes in the common sense scenarios), but it is deadly to self-confidence if you let it take over, hiding behind it like some kind of shield.
I don’t need to pretend to know things. There is no core curriculum for life — nothing I am required to know to be a worthwhile person deserving of love, attention, guidance, support, tenderness and generosity.
I feel like I’ve become a deaf-mute on this trip because I can barely communicate except for a ciao and a “mare-see!” I see the beauty of other languages. I just wish I knew what everything was on a menu again.
September 17, 1999
Oh the places I’ve been and the things I’ve seen! Real-life Van Goghs, Monets, Cezannes, Rembrandts, Antibes, Cannes, Nice, the Matisse Museum, the Chagall Museum . . . and the worst bathroom I’ve ever been in, which was in Marseilles: Just two footprints in concrete over a deep, dark, black hole in the floor.
The Cote d’Azur is cool, but nothing compared to the Cinque Terre. Being poor in Italy still feels civilized. The French are more like Americans: Poor is generic, plastic, dirty, gross. Of course, the major problem with my analysis is that I’ve only been to big cities and tourist traps in France. I’m sure if I made it to Aix en Provence or Avignon I would see more similarities between the French and the slower, more laid back Italians.
In Italy, I experienced deja vu when I sat under a tree on a playground reading. Whenever I have a deja vu, I see it as a sign that I’m on the right path, but is there really a “wrong” one?
I just finished reading Under the Tuscan Sun so I have Italy on the brain: Good food, wine, bright colors, warm people, a beautiful and expressive language, varied landscapes.
Frances Mayes who wrote the novel makes it seem pretty simple: a country house, a shared adventure with a loved one, great food, pungent spices, flowers, an openness to new things, a willingness to explore. (Of course a shit-ton of money doesn’t hurt either.) I’m not so deluded as to think that anyone has an easy life — maybe some people have just learned how to take pleasure in simple things. And that is truly the point.
