It’s the next night’s dinner, I’m more than halfway into a half liter of wine (and feelin’ pretty fine) and pizza. Though I swore my last meal in Italy would be gnocchi, I opted for a more veggie plentiful and wood fire cooked pizza. Funny thing about these pizzas here in Italy, they don’t slice them for you. Intriguing at first to pick and choose how you dissect it with knife and fork. Designing a pattern from the inside out, puzzle piecing it from end to end, crusting out the edges for breadsticks. However, it’s just too damn much work to eat a pizza with utensils. The playful efforts soon lose ground to non-symmetric slices that can be grasped with finger and thumb. Speaking of finger and thumb, it’s amazing how the Italian attitude is often spoken as if the middle finger and thumb were involved. Psycho drivers cussed out by a multitude of Italian pedestrians, it’s funny really. Before leaving my hellish accommodations for dinner I tried not to listen to the fist pounding and bantering coming from the hall. What I assumed was negotiations for an extra towel would’ve had the neighbors dialing 911 back in the states. Oh my gosh, how bizarre. The music playing at this very moment is, “red, red wine, make me feel so fine.” Like, wow, that was just going through me head like five minutes ago. And this is by far the best and cheapest house wine I think I’ve experience at a restaurant thus far. €3.50 for 2/3 a bottle, and Mmm, Mmm good. Definitely dented a few bottles in the Cinque Terre with a fantastic crew of folks. That had to be one of the top three highlights of the trip, but who’s counting? OK, to go on with randomness, there’s a dude at the door with the most whack hairstyle. I’m not one to critique, but this town’s got a weird sense of fashion. His clippered head has vein-like stripes buzzed to the skin, he must have lost a bet. The young ones walking around with a compromised mullet spike are another thing. It’s not long, it’s just short in front and back with a patch of hair sticking straight up in the middle. This is not a complaint however, just an observation. One thing I’m sick of is hearing travelers complain about shit. I swallowed an Aussie’s 30-minute rant about the Eurail pass, and I admit it’s about as good a deal as anal penetration without permission, but I swear his attitude is manifesting a boatload of problems that my joyous attitude hasn’t had to deal with. The overwhelming reputation of Italian trains is one of villainous attempts at promptness, they’ve even hired some bilingual chick just to announce late trains and dock changes, but (knock on wood for one last train ride outta here) my experience has been down to the scheduled minute. Anyways, I was complaining about complainers. As if attending a double-header, the same evening as the Aussie I listened to some broad broad (I bit my tongue to ask where she was from because I knew she was an American, the typical American the foreigners love to tell me they judge all Americans by) grumble about every non-existent travel travesty she’s endured until I mentally bitch slapped her a dozen times and abruptly left right out the door. Left, right, left, left, right… I already talked about how exhausted I am from walking like that for so many days in a row.
I sure haven’t felt motivated to write for about a week now. Little did I know I just needed to put on a little solo buzz. I’ve moved from the cozy and quaint pizzeria La Cabazza to my room at the Hotel Frejus. I’m focused on my computer as an avoidance technique. I don’t know what Frejus means in Italian but if I looked it up I’m sure it would be defined as: A rat hole accommodation smelling like French cheese and sewage with faulty wiring and backed up drains, piss infused rugs and cigarette burned sheets meant for junkies and gullible tourist willing to pay twice what’s it’s worth before comprehending their blunder. That may sound like a complaint, but I’m really just irritated with my own judgment. Seriously though, this is the type of place that, if you stayed with a wife, would be grounds for divorce. There would definitely be no sex, unless the sheer discuss compelled her to sleep on you just to avoid touching the sheets. On the positive side, the windowsill acts as a great fridge. Anyway, it is truly amazing how when traveling your accommodations can make or break your whole experience and impression of a place. Right now I can’t wait to get to the arrogance of France. Can you say crepes and Nutella? Word. We’ll hitchallup on the train tomorrow.