Globetrotting | Bethany Bassett

Tag: Globetrotting

3Sep

Foundations

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The first time I visited Rome was at night. We stepped off the Metro, and there, pulling the dizzy swoop of headlights into its shadows, was the Colosseum. I wasn’t expecting it… at least not right there, looming on the corner of an intersection like a monumental affront to traffic. It stole my breath.

We chartered our own starry-eyed adventure—a right here, then a left, then a hop-skip-jump through this piazza. Jutting cobblestones and spindly alleyways were poems in the moonlight; you should know that Dean Martin’s “Evening in Roma” captures only a hint of the romance that lights the city after hours. It was the perfect Valentine’s getaway, oo la la and all.

So when we returned this last weekend, strollers and juice boxes and sunscreen in tow, I expected Rome’s beauty would fall a little flat. There’s only so much glamour to old rocks when you’re rummaging through sweaty backpacks for the baby formula… or so I thought. Turns out, I was delightfully wrong.

We started with the Old Appian Way, a road almost unbearably quaint and dotted with as many tombs as cypresses. Stone walls jutted out of the ground, just a whiff of the villas and mausoleums that used to reign over the road, and we peeked into a few crumbling structures to see steps leading down into the Catacombs. For an imagination junkie raised on stories of Sparatacus and martyred Christians, this place was a fairytale come true.

We picnicked in a half-hidden sacred field—shhh, don’t tell!—then walked from the pyramid toward Rome’s pulsing center. (Did you know Rome had a pyramid? I did not until it was suddenly there, shooting out of a million-way intersection.) One moment, we were on a roomy residential street; the next, we were racing strollers through the Circus Maximus (where charioteers once tried to kill Ben Hur*) with the imperial palace ruins filling the sky ahead.

From there on, each new wonder was overshadowed by the next. Constantine’s Arch, the Colosseum, the relatively modern monument to Vittorio Emanuele II, the shockingly ancient Roman Forum. It felt similar to entering the Louvre and seeing its incredible art life-size in front of me, except that each Roman structure was a hundred times the size of life, and then a hundred times more. It felt like trespassing on the celebrities of history.

The girls are still too young to understand the significance of this old world around them, but I like to think they absorbed a bit of the beauty. It would be impossible not to. And if nothing else, we fed off of each other’s excitement—mine and Dan’s at the thousand-year-old marble, Natalie’s and Sophie’s at the hours-old sunlight. We giggled and munched potato chips on a gnarled hilltop, and I found myself awestruck by us, the four of us, alive and adventuring together, laying our own foundation. And something told me that one day, not too many millennia from now, we will tip-toe back through the cobblestones and cypresses and sticky-fingers and strollers and whisper, “Wow.”

—

* I’m all for historical accuracy here.

26Aug

Bitter/Sweet

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Not many people know that I left home at sixteen. It’s one of those facts I tend to keep stuffed in the back of my sock drawer unless it very specifically comes up, and that doesn’t happen often. I can’t help wanting to protect that girl who grew up without anyone to protect her.

That statement would probably confuse anyone who knew my family. We were protected from television, from popularity, from music, from current events, from trendiness, from junk food, from differing religious opinions, from school, from doctors, from other cultures, from puberty, from bad words, from the law. We lived in a double-plated steel bunker of protection. But my heart was left wide open—sometimes even pried apart—to deeper and vastly more sinister dangers than tank tops or measles shots.

I only had an inkling of my own identity, but that turned out to be enough. I snuck out of sermons and found ways to cope. I rose my own money each summer to escape to the Pacific Northwest, Central and South America, Africa. And less than a month after my sixteenth birthday, I left home. No one thought it was a good idea except for me, but I knew. I had to get away to give my heart a fighting chance.

In doing so, I made a surgical cut with iron resolve —no more church or high school friends or employers or family, no going back. And what I struggle with these days is what happened after I made the cut. My friends went on to attend college, marry, have babies, and attend afternoon barbecues together. I’ve contacted several of them lately, thanks to the miracle of Facebook, and they all wave awkwardly from the other side of the chasm wondering, Doesn’t she remember burning this bridge?

Relationships feel odder still with my family, which changed in enormous, unthinkably good ways after I left home. When I visit them—less than once a year since I’ve been married—I hardly recognize them. My siblings are happy and close-knit, every trace of their stress-related illnesses gone. After so many years of feeling guilty that I left them defenseless when I moved out, I am delighted to see them this way. But I am a stranger, by my own choice. They are with their family; I am with mine.

For the first time in my life, I feel pangs of homesickness for the people I walked away from. I chose a life of luggage tags and freedom instead of old friends and permanence, and this is absolutely what I needed. But as most choices in life go, this one has turned out equal parts bitter and sweet.

14Aug

As Easy As

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Monday, August 11: Day 4 of Vacation (Day 3 here)

“Good morning!” Dan began. “Want to ride bikes to the beach?”

“Sure!” I answered, because 1) I tend to lack common sense among other brain functions first thing in the morning, 2) My husband has a way of bringing out the lunatic in me, and 3) I didn’t realize that the beach was 20 kilometers away, an island called Lido orbiting the far side of Venice.

We got through the rigmarole of finding the beach towels, piling prosciutto on bread, and bathing in SPF 4,000 and set off just as the streets began to sizzle. At first, we wound through lazy neighborhoods, past bakeries and stationary shops and bars all closed for vacation, breathing in the singular thrill of morning. We turned down a long avenue with its own bike path—double lanes!—and a sidewalk for the hundreds of perky dogs taking their owners for a walk. It was beautiful and relaxing, as easy as waking up one pedal at a time.

BUT. Of course there had to be one, and this particular BUT was a doozie. The straight tree-lined path ended, and I found myself swerving through a roundabout—those navigational horrors of European driving that only begin to feel natural once you accept that the other cars will veer into your lane without warning. And then a sudden bridge, far steeper than I expected, and oh my god, we’re on a highway, OH MY GOD, WE’RE ON A HIGHWAY AND IS THAT A BUS? A BUS, A BUS!! SPEEDING THREE INCHES FROM MY HANDLEBARS?! ARE YOU KIDDING, WE HAVE TO CROSS THIS INTERCHANGE, AND HOLY GUACAMOLE HERE’S ANOTHER BUS!!!!!!!!!!

My life, it flashed. Sophie babbled happily behind me as I gripped the lifeblood out of my handlebars and practiced Lamaze breathing techniques all the way down a gravelly merge lane and onto the second terrifying highway. I have never felt so close to death for such an extended period before, even though the bus drivers were exceedingly courteous in that not one of them ran us over.

And then Death got distracted by something more interesting, a drunk hang-glider or perhaps a Qantas jet taking off, and we were finally on the infinite bridge to Venice—long and arrow-straight and glory of glories, equipped with a bike path. I know by this point, you’re getting bored and thinking So are they ever going to get there?, and believe me, I was wondering the same thing as the bridge stretched on in front of us. And on. And then on some more. And then once we miraculously reached the end of it, there were still two mammoth hills between us and the ferry, and a mile to ride once we got off the ferry, and hunger and sweat and my butt weeping in pain…

…but make it we did. I have never been so grateful to lie down in a big pile of hot sand surrounded by topless grandmas and diminutive Speedos. We had our inevitable beach disasters—Sophie catapulting herself into the sea and Natalie disappearing (and my resulting coronary, of course)—but our time there as a whole was deliciously serene. Dainty blue hints of waves, sand castles decorated with copious sand flowers, our own umbrella-niche of shade to relax while the breeze whisked away the effort of our trip.

Natalie on the ferry through Venice

We made it back home as well with 75% fewer hyperventilations on my part, the girls’ sleepy heads bobbing to and fro in the waning sunlight, bike pedals moving of their own accord to get us to our gate. We dragged ourselves inside, collapsing in a family heap on the bed, and I decided that #13 from my birthday list, “Have an adventure”? Is officially crossed off.

13Aug

A Tale of Two Cities

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The first two days of vacation never count, at least for me. We emerge from our car sticky and discombobulated (not to mention caked in vomit and puréed peas), and at least a full 36 hours are needed for the sediment to settle. Once the clean towels have been found, the fridge stocked, and everyone’s shoes lined up serenely beside the door, the real vacation starts. And here it is, piecemeal (one post at a time, for now).

Sunday, August 10: Day 3 of Vacation

I’m fascinated by the cobblestones and weathered Latin inscriptions in our current hometown, the hairpin roads veering sharply upward to spy on vast hills dotted with olive groves and pieces of castle. We live in Italy’s oldest city—Etruscan history is around ever corner—and the view takes my breath away. Still, I’ve never felt quite as settled there as I do here in Mestre, my husband’s hometown. The city can boast no quaint hillside beauty as it sprawls from Venice into the Po Valley, but it is alive in a way that the older cities have forgotten.

Bicycles! They roam the streets carrying old ladies in cotton dresses, little girls with pigtails flying furiously, beaming dads with their sons strapped behind, couples holding hands, entire extended families out for a joy ride. Herds of bicycles cluster around the entrances to grocery stores, grazing warm pavement as happily as ever metal and rubber could. Bicycles have their own crosswalks here, their own parking spots, and their own traffic jams. I haven’t ridden a bike in ages—nobody does in our city, for good reason—so an evening ride with Dan and the girls is an immense pleasure.

We set off just as the air begins to cool. At first, we are mirages of sweat and insect repellent, wobbling down the street as we slap at mosquitoes and scratch fresh welts between fingers and behind ears (how do they know?) But intoxication sets in soon. We pedal faster until our faces are bright with wind and sunset, ringing our bells because why not? Churches and pharmacies fly by, and long, colorful streets canopied with trees—giant symphonies of trees, overwhelming green, trees that swell my heart to bursting after a year of scrubby olive groves. A stop at the neighborhood gelateria is compulsory, and within seconds there is chocolate in cones, on fingers, and, of course, dripping off delighted little chins.

We ease our bikes back down the street, past the carabinieri (Italy’s version of military police) fingering their machine guns which are pointed straight at us as they call “Ciao!” with huge smiles. Past the enormous park with its duck ponds and soccer courts and happy memories of Dan and I as newlyweds, riding through enchanted paths at night. Past houses and houses, all perfectly Italian in gorgeous muted colors and tiled balconies spilling over with flowers. Then back to the house we’re staying at that we both kind of wish were home.

[More to come. Don’t touch that dial…]

4Jul

Pause

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July feels uncertain this year. We’re finally back in Italy, recovering from a stateside vacation I didn’t know how to write about, and my finger’s on the pause button. Only, time doesn’t pause; just myself.

Is today really a holiday? I vaguely remember promising our friends a hot dog cook-out, but I’ll be caught under the tide of jet lag and personal culture shock until well after supper. Tomorrow’s a holiday for us too—our fifth anniversary!—and more than any other time of year, I want to bounce and sparkle… but I get the distinct impression I’m still going to wake up as a human bathmat. Enthusiasm today on a scale from 1 to 10: Flubbb.

I can’t be sure on this of course, but I think this vacation may have been the toughest we’ll ever have to pull off. There were relaxing bits and fun bits, and the two even coincided from time to time, but they were sandwiched between the longest, cryingest plane rides ever a Sophie was taken on.

Re: that –
6/28/08
Dear incisors,
I understand your innate need to poke out of my daughter’s tender gums; it’s gotta happen sometime. But did you really have to make my baby scream and flail and refuse to sleep for five whole days? And which of Satan’s minions possessed you to wait until our LONG LONG INTERNATIONAL PLANE RIDE to saw your way out? Thanks to you, I’m going to have to buy Benadryl for all our fellow passengers on the return flight just to satisfy my conscience.
If you need me, I’ll be in the lavatory giving myself 30,000 feet swirlies,
Bethany

So, long trip, teething, Texas. Soon after arriving, we ran headlong into some old family tension—the complicated, spiderwebby kind that leave tendrils of guiltpitydisgustangerbetrayalremorsesadnessannoyance sticking to everyone’s faces. However, there were also important conversations and Krispy Kreme excursions and rollercoasters and tiramisu and so very many activities including the extreme wearing of leather pants.

Re: leather pants –
Dear [14-year-old brother],
I want to be as cool as you when I grow up.
Love,
Bethany

Besides the teething and the tension and the lack of sleep, we had fun… but it was mostly the kind of frantic fun that requires intense scheduling and secretarial help. And then catching the 6 a.m. flight to Florida? The English language needs a new word to describe our level of exhaustion at that point. Like “death.” Anyway.

Re: vacation part 2 –
Dear Florida,
You divide my heart. On one hand, I kind of hate you. You’re freakishly hot, everything is at least half an hour away, and room-service cereal costs $22. All this, and your drivers are really, really bad. I mean, terrible.
On the other hand, I love your glittering beaches and blue, blue water. I love the thunderheads piling above your oceans and the warm nights. Your wildlife is great—pelicans and herons and ‘gators, oh my!—and you make relaxing effortless.
If you would just work on the driver thing, oh, and maybe give me a lifetime membership to Disney World, I think we could have a future together.
Sincerely,
Bethany

Time with the in-laws was great as usual—Natalie’s never had so much fun in her long three-year-old life—and Dan’s and my getaway to the beautiful Marco Island was just what we needed (even though I was lame and spent vastly more time reading in bed than sunning at the beach, but you have no idea how lovely it felt to read in bed! hello, lame).

Re: my main inspiration for reading lamely in bed –
Dear Sony “not Kindle” e-book reader,
You have just exempted me from other birthday or Christmas gifts for the next nine years, but I have only this to say: I love you madly.
Yours,
That person who spilled crumbs on you because she wouldn’t stop reading Dracula during breakfast

So we were finally so relaxed that we were smiling on a regular basis again and enjoying the last few days of our vacation when we found ourselves rushing to the emergency room, trying not to panic, praying breathlessly that we would be able to take both girls back to Italy with us.

Our little Sophie sat limply in her car seat, her face bulging and purple, eyes rolled back in her head, breathing heavily like an animal – “hunh hunh hunh.” I had never felt such a rush of fear before, terror instead of adrenaline coursing through my blood. I still don’t know how to describe that drive to the hospital except that I hope never to experience it again.

The doctors assured us later that it was no big deal—“only” a seizure, “only” a spike in fever—and I couldn’t figure out if their words were meant to comfort or belittle. Neither mattered, though, once we could look into her eyes and see our baby there again.

I don’t think anyone really relaxed after that point. Amidst the flurry of packing up, my mind swam with the image of Sophie’s purple face and the ludicrous hospital bill and all the What Ifs that I couldn’t not think about. I felt a thousand times more a mother than before yet hopelessly inadequate, and I shook the last hours of our plane trip back to Italy while Sophie wailed in my lap.

That brings me here—back, but not really. Suitcases are still piled around the house, and I fully intend to unpack them once I can drag myself out of the Twilight Zone. If only time would pause for a day or two or seventy-four…

20Feb

When In Rome

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When in Rome…

Breathe slowly under the ancient weight of the Colosseum. Inhale the centuries of legend engraved on its stones, the faint anxiety that history waits to repeat itself in this place. Exhale under its watchful shadow, now the keeper of Metro stops, busy streets, and bustling gay bars. Breathe. Stand. Marinate in your smallness.

Let your heart race at the sudden sparkle of turquoise on white, the Trevi Fountain against a backdrop of stars. Caress the sculptures with your eyes, following each curve, each breathtaking intricacy. Kiss for the camera, but really for love. Close your eyes and intoxicate yourself with lips and tingling breath and the sensuous rush of waterfalls at night.

Navigate the mid-morning crowds surging toward the Vatican. Weave in and out and around and through–the tourists with their guidebooks and cameras and perpetually open mouths–the devout Catholics with their quick, reverent footsteps trailing determination like a wake–the vendors with their wiry glances and blatant flouting of personal space. Join a line inside the gates, a line like an eternal wave, carrying you around and up and crashing down finally in the most sacred spot on earth.

Forget about nonessentials like speaking and thinking and breathing the instant you step inside St. Peter’s Basilica. Just see, look, gaze. Let your eyes understand lavishness for the rest of your body, at least until they overload on gold scrollwork two minutes in. Give yourself mental vertigo by realizing that people, real, living, human humans made this gargantuan cathedral, this redefinition of opulence. Get goosebumps.

Ride the Metro plastered in graffiti. Wander through the open market. Take pictures of funny signs. Ascend slowly to reality; decompress. Come, see, conquer, and leave dizzy with the hope of returning.

11Feb

Globe Trotters

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I’m decompressing from our weekend trip to Milan in the scrumptious glow of a strawberry IKEA candle and trying to remember where I packed my words. Or perhaps I left them behind? As always, I’m wading through the Twilight Zone until all our suitcases are empty. (On that note, grumph.) I know there’s significance in venturing out our front door. I know there’s a vast, luminous value in our impromptu travels, small children and spirits of adventure in tow, and once I’m over car lag, I’ll be able to fully appreciate these steps we take to live in 3-D.

{Gah. Also, Agh. I’ve been trying to finish this for hours, but I might as well be typing on a dinner plate. Did I lock my brain in the trunk? Also, GAH.}

The highlight of my trip was more a sensation than an event, though it was disguised as individually-wrapped moments throughout the weekend. Exploring castle ruins with Natalie–peeking into stone coffins, taunting rabid cats, moat-diving, and running in traditional medieval circles–and seeing her lit up with discovery… Wading through rivers of Carnevale confetti while more was tossed into our hair by short, giggling Power Rangers… Wandering through a National Geographic photo exhibit and suddenly starving for each exotic, breathtaking piece of the earth I’ve never seen…

All the pieces came together on the drive home when I asked Dan what was on his list, his do-before-dying-or-turning-thirty-whichever-comes-first list. He immediately said “travel,” and I couldn’t help smiling. That’s my list too, even above a hot air balloon ride.* We daydreamed the car ride away, talking about Egypt and Kenya, Nepal and Japan and Thailand, Jamaica and Brazil. Surfing in Indonesia, snowboarding the Andes. Losing minor limbs to Amazonian piranhas.

It’s one of the things that pulled me inextricably into love with Dan, our shared wanderlust. It’s why we live in Italy. It’s why we will have to work until we’re 107 because we will have spent our retirement fund on trotting the globe. Which will be worth every penny, absolutely.

*Now 2% more exciting than an afternoon nap!

(Did I say “peeking into stone coffins?” Because I meant “inhabiting.”)

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