Every day when I'm on the Katy Trail, I make a point of saying hi to the bike cops I pass on my jog. Like, wave and smile and ask how they're doing. And not because I'm all that friendly. But because, if something bad were to happen to me, I'd want them to remember having seen me. The spastic girl in the bright red t-shirt.

I was telling my cop brother about it today, thinking how truly morbid it sounded when I put it into words, and then a news item came on one of the local channels. About a woman who was severely beaten (broken pelvis, for god's sake) for her iPod. On the Katy Trail. Less than 20 minutes after I left it.

And then it didn't seem so morbid at all. It seemed more like what my my brother said - a really good idea to be nice to the people who might someday save your life.

Relatedly, I'm wondering if this means the Katy and I need to start seeing other people/trails. I've only felt unsafe there once, and I burned some serious shoe rubber to get to a more crowded section of the trail. Yeah, it was a bad feeling, but this is much more than that. This makes me so angry. I hate the idea that it's not safe to go out in broad daylight. Especially considering that the Katy is really the only piece of sanity I have right now.

See, I'm not doing so awesome at being home. Not even kind of. I feel aimless and confused and restless. Depressed, I think. With so many hours to fill and no idea of how to fill them, I find myself making elaborate meals, just so I'll have to spend time cleaning it up. Sad, right?

Yeah, yeah, I know. Get a job. But it's not that simple. Getting a job - just any old job - would be like giving a falling down house a brand new paint job. It's not a real solution. So for now, I go on long runs - an activity I've somehow parlayed into a reason for getting out of bed in the morning. And if I have to give that up, well, I'm not exactly sure where that will leave me.

Maybe I need a really scary looking dog.

I was driving home the other night, and couldn't help but grin like a fool at all the Christmas lights my little community has set ablaze. Trees with their trunks wrapped with white bulbs, fake candles glowing electric orange in apartment windows. And that's when I smacked my hand on the steering wheel and said, "Oh, man! I have to tell the Internet about the Baby Jesus-es!"

I bring you good tidings of great joy, Internet. There is a street in Napoli, the entire length of which is dedicated to the Nativity.

The irony is that it's packed with people, most of whom are trying to lift your wallet, but I digress. It's a whole street filled with shops dedicated to providing the good people of Napoli with their manger scene needs! It was glorious! If it was the kind of street where it was safe to whip out your camera, I'd have pictures to show you - pictures of a store that sold nothing but the Baby Jesus.

Bins, baskets, heaps, walls covered in the Baby Jesus. It was Italy, so we didn't see too much variety as far as skin color, but ignoring that, there was every kind of Baby Jesus you can imagine. Skinny, plump, clothed, nekkid, curly haired, bald. I love that no one can agree on what his Almightyness looked like, and it doesn't seem to matter. You know, so long as you don't go making him black, or *gasp* appropriately Middle Eastern.

Jet lag is is a real kick in the pants. The way I understood it, you're supposed to come home, programmed to another time zone, and sleep for like, a zillion hours. Me, I can't sleep at all. And worse yet, I'm really freaking perky. My backpack is emptied, laundry done (what clothes I didn't throw away), ironed and put away.

But I'm also really scattered. It took me a good thirty minutes just to type those first few sentences. I mean, how can I sit still when there are receipts to organize and attention-whoring kittens to play with. Jogs to take.

Here's a tangent for you: I ate my way through Italy and lost five pounds. Doesn't something about that sound wrong? I'm not going to argue with the facts, but I am going to change a few things about the way I run my kitchen. No more artificial sweeteners, loads more olive oil. I've never been so stomachly satisfied as I was in Italy and yet, didn't meet with AES. You know, Ass Expanding Syndrome. End tangent.

I'm off to burn off some more weird, jet lag energy, and then to Mom's for turkey dinner. You know, speaking of satisfying.

Happy Thanksgiving, my friends.

I'm feeling a bit mentally messy today - half of my brain is busy with planning my trip home tomorrow (I know! It seems impossible that this is almost over) and the other half is occupied cataloging my experiences in Napoli.

Starting out, I was wary about going. I'd been warned by travelers and Italians alike that Napoli was one scary, godforsaken place. Pickpockets! Thieves! Miscellaneous danger! But then, I'd also heard that Napoli invented pizza. Invented. Pizza. Frankly, I think that can erase a whole lot of wrongs. Besides which, I happen to be the kind of girl who can really get into godforsaken. So I made up my mind to love Napoli - pickpockets, pizzamakers and all.

And I did. For the parts of it I was awake, anyway.

The rain followed me from Rome to Napoli and so did the cold that I picked up in Lucca. So after exploring Napoli for an afternoon, I trudged back to the hostel, and crawled into bed. With my laptop and a pizza. So far, the Napoli-haters were seeming like a bunch of chumps. What could possibly be better than a whole pizza for under 3 Euros? Nothing. Unless it's eating it in your pajamas after spending a few nerdy hours at the archaeological museum pouring over Pompeii artifacts. Turns out, I'm kind of a sucker for mosaics.

The next day I headed out to Pompeii - I'll probably end up writing about it more on the other blog, as it was one of those educational, touristy experiences that fits better there than here, but the moment I get back to the states, I'm renting every single documentary on that place I can find. It was fascinating. And cold. Really freaking cold. Lest I had any notions that Southern Italy might be a warmish sort of place, I was speedily corrected by the snow on Vesuvius and the wind in Pompeii. By 4:00 I was back in the hostel for pizza and another nap.

I'd booked a car tour tofhe Amalfi Coast before I arrived, thinking it'd be the best way to take in a lot of territory in a little time. In the end, it was a fantastic idea, because yesterday was the worst of them all - heavy rain and steadily dropping temperatures my capilene long-johns couldn't keep up with. I think my guide was surprised (and totally relieved - she said her hair thanked me) when I suggested we didn't actually have to get out of the car to see things - that if she just pointed, I'd be more than satisfied. By Sorrento, the rain had turned to sleet, and I was nodding off to the rhythm of windshield wipers. I'm sure you can guess how the afternoon wrapped up. With a nap and.. not pizza! I had a big bowl of Gnocci that an Australian hostel-mate had picked up in the market, with prawns, tomatoes, basil and buffalo mozzarella. Drool.

In the end, the only thing dangerous about Napoli, was the quantity of food I consumed there. If I don't fit in my airplane seat tomorrow, I'm going to be really irritated with myself.

Between the food and the people, it's hard to say what I've loved best about my last few days in Rome. It certainly isn't the monsoon we're having right now, or the nasty cold I picked up somewhere along the way - that is one thing I'm sure of.

But the food! The food isn't exactly your typical Roman fare. In fact, I've only eaten out twice since I got here on Monday. I've devoured the rest of my meals right here in the hostel at the Beehive Cafe. Vegetarian and mostly organic, the yummy meals are made right in front of your very eyes, from vegetables grown in the on-site garden, by Francesca and Gianluca.

Pumpkin/Gorgonzola quiche. Yogurt with granola and fresh fruit. Chickpea, lentil and broccoli soup. Tagliatelle with arugula, sun dried tomatoes and Parmesan. Multi-grain oatmeal with fresh pears and honey. Minestrone with crusty bread. Nutella crepes with ice cream. Wine. And tea. Lots and lots of tea with honey.

You get a pretty good idea of what's for dinner while you're eating breakfast. Francesca starts tossing vegetables into a big pot, and then it's only a matter of waiting. Dinner every night is a parade of exquisitely good food and a riot-a-minute conversation. Throw three Americans, a Canadian or two, a couple of Aussies, a few Brits, and a Greek gal into the same room with overflowing plates of pasta and free-flowing wine and the result is... well, it's the receptionist coming down the stairs to remind us that quiet hours have begun. Twice.

And then there's Carlo, the young Italian guy in the dorm. In common, Carlo and I have a bunk-bed and a cold, and not a whole lot more. But that seems to be enough to keep the conversation flowing. He is, I think, the most earnest person I've ever met and he goes to the greatest lengths to hurdle that language barrier.

This morning, I teased him about his snoring.

"Oh, no! Really? I snork?"

I choked on a giggle. Snork.

"Only a little," I told him. "I'm just teasing you."

"Tonight, if I snork, you..." he made a gesture, indicating that I should punch his bed from below.

"I would never!"

"Only for you, I tell you to do this."

And then this morning, when I saw him at breakfast, he asked if he had snorked again the night before.

"No, no. I slept like a baby," I lied.

There was no way I was going to tell him the truth. Just like I'd never, ever tell him the word isn't snork.

I hadn't been in Rome more than a couple hours when he stepped out next to me on the sidewalk - from the doorway of a bank. He was dressed impeccably in a dark gray suit with all the trimmings - right down to the shiny cuff links. As he moved onto the sidewalk we made eye contact, and as I began to pass him, he commented (in English) on the beauty that was my hair.

I smiled politely. I do have a nice head of hair.

And, as I got a few steps away, the well dressed bank man amended his compliment with a politely-worded question.

"Would you like to f--k?"

Oh, Rome. You know just what to say to a girl.

Words, when I can find them. But for now:

Sometimes, when you're in the middle of a kiss, you realize that it's not just a kiss, but a really good kiss. And the moment you realize this, your stomach flips, your toes curl, and your brain goes very, very soft -- so soft that you wouldn't be able to think any important thoughts, even if it became absolutely necessary. And you sigh. In defeat as much as satisfaction, because the kiss has won out over everything else.

That is what Lucca is like. A very good kiss.

The trees raining their leaves - dinner plate sized sheets in yellows and browns, and the smell of bread baking, and the voices of old men arguing about politics and sports as they shuffle by, and the winding cobblestone streets almost vacant of other tourists. I've walked the top of the city walls for hours, once at sunset, to watch the sky turn pink against the hills. My camera is useless here. There's just too much to take in.

I am beginning to think this place is enchanted. I tried to leave -- only for the afternoon, to see Pisa and its all-important tower -- and met with a train strike. The man at the Tabacchiere smiled as he told me.

"No trains until... cinque," he said, holding up five fingers.

I smiled in return. "No trains," I repeated. "I guess that means I should get some gelato and go for a walk."

He grinned again. "Good, Bella. Very good."

So I walked, and then sat in a shower of leaves, read some Paul Auster, and thought, "Yes. Good. Very good."

(A permanent link to my travel blog, On the Road, is in the drop down box on the right)

The six bed dorm in the Venetian hostel had become seven beds for the night.

On Sunday night, it would be just me and Daniel, the boy with the ripped jeans from Melbourne. I would sit in my black slip on the bed across from him, darning his jeans, first using up all the red thread (cotton, to him) and then the green. We'd tell stories and laugh and drink red wine out of flimsy plastic cups. And before going to sleep, we'd set the alarm for 8:00, to get up early to pack and go in search of Internet and coffee. And after, I wouldn't say good-bye, but leave for the train when he'd gone upstairs to pee.

But before all that, in the beginning, there were seven beds in a six bed dorm and we were all a little drunk.

(You'll have to forgive the typing and spelling errors in this post. I'm using an Italian keyboard on what has to be the oldest computer I've ever seen, with a blinking green screen that might make me fall into a twitchy fit at any second.)

Several people have asked how I feel about traveling alone. It must be miserable! Or wonderful! And yes, yes it is.

I guess I shouldn't be surprised about this, but I am not homesick. At all. I miss my cat and my big, comfy bed and such, but I don't want to go home (though, in all honesty, I do have to remind myself of that when I am having a particularly frustrating TrainItalia experience and my back hurts and I really, really want a hot bath). It's Because of the way I'm wired that I don't get lonely. At least, not as a result of the absence of people. I get lonely when I don't feel wanted or appreciated. That is isolation. Exploring Venice without a partner, is not.

Most of the time, I've found that I love traveling alone - walking by myself, eating while absent-mindedly flipping through a guidebook (there are tomato stains all over mine), not stopping to see important works of art because I just don't want to. Spending twenty-two minutes trying to get just the perfect shot of some chubby-cheeked urchin trying to decide if feeding the pigeons is a safe activity to engage in. God, he was cute. And I love not having to worry about being somewhere or pleasing anyone. It's selfish and it's satisfying.

I miss touch, though. I could use a hug, or sixty, right about now.

And I wish, so much, that Sarah could be here with me. We wanted to see Italy together. And when I see gorgeous red shoes or a smoking hot gondolier, I think, Oh, Sarah. Where are you? But even Sarah and I would have to take alone time if she were here. Hours of it. Because I know that she, like I do, revels in the experience of swimming around in her own thoughts, and the freedom of stopping to take just one more picture of pretty window boxes without having to care if it holds anyone up.

When she asked how it was for me, being by myself, I wrote:

You know what's hardest? Being alone in my wrong-ness. Like when I go out to eat, and fumble around trying to find words, or to get what I want - I'm the only one looking like an ass. There's no one to turn to and say, "God, I hope I get the trout and not the tripe." That's what's hard.

But that's how it is. The selfish and the satisfying can turn so quickly into the empty and meaningless if there is no one to share it with. Which is why, dear Interweb, I thank the Baby J that all of this possible. Sharing things, without proximity or touching, with miles and miles between me and the ones I love. A photo sent to Sarah of beautiful red shoes. A message from Jamie, "Dallas misses you." An email to my mother that says, "Venice!" And one from her that says, "I worry. I'm glad you are safe."

So you see, I am alone here. But I am not lonely.