(This post was written immediately following my trip to Naples, Italy.)

We have had rain every day but two. The forecast predicts rain for the final two days of our trip. Yet, even with all this precipitation, our trip has felt sunny. Besides, the rain has not been constant. It’s sunny right now, and the rolling Italian hills along with the sheep that populate them perfectly match the feeling of this trip. I can see grape orchards throughout the landscape; some are big and some are small. The small ones are likely owned by families who continue the tradition of making their own wine. The large ones are likely owned by corporations that make wine for the millions of Italians who moved away from their fields but still value their culture.

Traditions, especially those revolving around food, seem to be alive and well in Italy. When we arrived in Italy, Alaina and I were greeted with a traditional chocolate treat which our couch surfing host assured us was “made by old ladies.” He walked us to the best pizza place in town before giving us the key to his flat and heading off to work. After cleansing ourselves from the effect of two days travel without a shower, Alaina and I ordered two traditional pizzas for a grand total of seven euro fifty. The pizza chef was stationed behind a translucent glass counter in the fluorescent lit, unassuming restaurant. Delivery boys came and went every few minutes or so, carrying with them five freshly made pizzas. The chef could always be seen grabbing flour from the corner of his counter and then beating, tossing, and spreading it into freshly formed dough. When our pizzas came to us straight from the hot brick oven, I was surprised to see no more than a small handful of cheese thrown on one quarter of my quattro stagioni (four seasons) pizza. That’s just how they do things in Italy.

In Italy, even Burger King has pizza.

Hospitality has followed us throughout this trip. While riding a train we thought was heading towards Pompeei, two middle-aged women who only spoke Italian had an Italian student translate directions for Alaina and me once they learned of our intentions and subsequently discovered we were lost. Our conversation was an enjoyable, awkward-laugh filled exercise in tone and body-language comprehension, because the student translated only when it was absolutely necessary for practicality or the sake of a punch-line. As one of the ladies left, she gave Alaina a friendly pat on the head and said something in Italian. It was apparently humorous, because her new Italian friends laughed. Without knowing what she said, Alaina and I laughed too. Somehow, it felt wrong not to join in.

We almost made it.

After a long day of travel, we made our way back to our host’s flat and prepared ourselves to relax. We originally meant for two more pizzas to cap off our night, but when our host came home and offered us spaghetti, we decided to modify our plans. The kitchen soon filled with the smell of home-made sauces, and, after discussing American slang, Italian schools, and middle-aged women on trains, our stomachs were too. I asked what made up each of the sauces, and our host informed me he could only be sure of the ingredients of the sauce he made. The other was made by his mother, and she had yet to give him the secret recipe. Shortly after dinner, just before I had closed my eyes for the night, our host’s flatmate came home. He rushed into my room and informed Alaina and me that we were going to try his aunt’s homemade limoncello and chocolate liqueur. Unable to refuse, we sat down at the kitchen table and gulped down another dose of Italian hospitality. Our day had been brightened ten times over. When we left the next morning, it was only fitting that we were greeted with the sun.

This is the music collection of the flatmate. Ill be listening to it when I get home.

View my photos on Google+!
Follow me on twitter!