When in Rome

"When in Rome, do as the Romans do" - said someone, sometime in the past. During the days before my departure, my mom and I would laugh about this phrase; Whenever I'd bring up a serious concern her answer would be "It's easy, just do as the Romans do", after which I would say "Remind me again of what it is exactly that the Romans do?!". And so on and so forth until the trip began and I actually got on a plane to FCO airport in Rome (will the flight be overbooked?? Have I forgotten my passport? Etc. etc., * 1000).

When I'd finally collected my luggage (did it get lost on the way????) at FCO airport, after a too-long connection in Istanbul, I still didn't have an answer to the question regarding the typical "Roman" behavior. I was sure of one thing, though - I was nowhere close to resembling a local in anyway. You know how before you travel to a fancy place you imagine yourself sitting there in some avenue, sipping a Cappucino, dressed to the latest style, having tourists asking you for directions because they mistook you for a local? Spoiler alert: none of the above ended up happening.
Hints that suggested I was in fact an utterly lost tourist (that's right, I know we all prefer the cooler word "traveler", but when lost in Rome, call yourself as the Romans call you):
1. A 17kg backpack on my back and a 8kg daypack on my front
2. Jeans, a flannel shirt and work boots
3. The huge map constantly blocking my face
4. The endless muttering of "non parlo Italiano" whenever approached by an English-refusing Italian

And so I miraculously got to the meeting point with my Couchsurfing host on that first afternoon, sweaty, exhausted and with a broken back. "Ciao!!!!", I embarrassingly yelled when I first noticed him - thank god, a somewhat familiar face. I was even happier when I got into his air-conditioned Audi, and again later when I entered his top-notch apartment, and again later when he opened a fine bottle of red wine and offered me a glass - si, grazie!

I spent my days in Rome, accepting the fact that I'm just like any other tourist (except for you, rude American with Hawaii shirt who cut me in the line to the Vatican - you know who you are!). I never ended up entering the Vatican church, by the way, as my spirit eventually broke by the infinite line. Generally, I didn't follow a guide-book and simply wandered around, searching for nice places. I never had to search for too long because 99% of Rome is stunningly beautiful. Every "Piazza" you accidentally find yourself sitting at, every ruin of something ancient (I never took the time to actually read the info), every tree and brick of the floor. It almost seems unreal and surely is unfair that some people actually get to live their daily lives there.

I walked, and walked and walked, until I got tired and/or hungry, which are two great dangers for the budget traveler. In Tel Aviv, one of my favorite pastime activities was sitting in a cafe, listening to my ipod and reading a book for a few hours on one cup of coffee. I brought lots of books to Rome and carried them around with me every day, expecting to find that gem of a cafe/bar where it would be legitimate to order one thing and just sit for a while. But big was my disappointment - I could find no such places (here that guide-book might have come in handy). Even when wandering around the smallest and farthest of allies, a cup of Capuccino at a cafe usually cost around 5 Euros and I had exactly 15 minutes to sit down and drink it before that family of 20 Japanese tourists replaced me at my table. I was a very unprofitable client everywhere I went, so the waiters would simply stare at me angrily until I gave up, paid my tiny bill and left.

Hence, I found myself alternative ways to rest - brought a sheet along with me and laid down in parks and piazzas (depending on weather's mercy), made sandwiches in the morning at my host's place and had them for lunch (allowing dinner to be the one real fancy meal a day), hung out in bookstores, music stores and public libraries. All in all, after 5 days of exploring one of the most expensive European cities, my budget remained somewhat balanced, which I was very happy about. And even while being a cheapskate, I'd managed to have lots of fun, see cool places and make new friends - success!

See you at the next post, where I will tell a little bit about my first impressions of farm life.
Till then - ciao and thanks for reading!

Decisions, anxiety and Murphy's Law

When I told my friends I've decided to quit my job, leave my apartment in the middle of the lease term and buy a one-way ticket to Rome, Italy, most of their responses were "Coooool". No doubt, self-fulfillment is very popular these days. So popular that it almost seems like people study computer science and work in high-tech just so later the Huffington Post title would say "After ten years in front of the screen, Wilma finally left everything and became a farmer".

Most my family members'/older acquaintances' responses were "Really? Why?". And really, why leave a perfectly good, well-payed job, a nice, comfortable apartment, a (wreck of a) car and most importantly, the hip Tel Aviv scene to go work on organic farms in Italy and France? Sometimes, I have no answer to that question myself. Sometimes I just shrug and say "Because.", while my insides twist and shout 'What the f*** do you think you're doing?". But more often than not, I find myself being able to answer that working with my hands has always felt most right to me (no, beloved colleagues – hands on keyboard doesn't count) and that nature has always had a therapeutic effect on my body and soul. Urban life, interesting and full of action as it may be, is also extremely hectic and stressful; every step you take, you're required to pay someone money for something; the air is polluted and hence not ideal for my asthmatic lungs (mom, I promise living in nature will reduce my smoking! I mean, I hope…).

A previous attempt of mine to do something different

And so my trip started to take shape. 5 months, 2 countries, 7-8 farms in total. Yesterday I even bought my return ticket, so there is a deadline. There is only so much adventure my anxious self can stand. Signing up for agriculture studies next year is just another one of those decisions I question every other day, but it's currently still part of the "master-plan" to become… seriously, I don't know what one becomes after studying agriculture, though something inside tells me it might just make me a happier person.

Yet another attempt.

Until the trip starts, I'm spending my days at the office and my nights worrying, or drinking my worries away in one of the bars I'll miss after I leave the neighborhood, city and country. Before I fall asleep my brain involuntarily makes lists of the things that could go wrong between now and the moment I first land in Rome; between now and the moment I land back in Tel Aviv; between now and the moment my life ends. The lists are longer than I can bear because they're endless. Murphy's Law states "Whatever can go wrong – will go wrong" (trivia fact - all the other "Murphy laws" are actually just people's variations on that one) and I couldn't agree with him more. Not in the manner of "if I move to the other line it will surely become longer than the previous one and so on, and then I'll check-in last so will be on stand-by on my flight and my Couchsurfing host will have to wait for me at the meeting point and get angry and leave after not getting a message from me that I'll be running late, while I desperately try to save my phone from dying after it fell on the airport floor and someone stepped on it". So not like that. But in the sense that there is actually no "right" and "wrong" and when something gets "messed-up" there is no parallel universe in which it didn't get messed up. When things get complicated or unexpected all we can do is smile about it because that's the only course of life we have (said by the girl who's often not able to breathe when she misses a bus. I try, though).

Gonna miss you, balcony

So, spiritual talk aside – I'll miss you, Tel Aviv. And hopefully the next post will be written from Rome with a cone of Gelato in my hand.