Table for One

Originally, when I had scheduled my flights back from Malaga to Munich, I realized a nighttime layover in Pisa was less than ideal, but for the sake of saving money, it was fine. But, when I was waiting at the airport in Malaga, I met some Americans whose book I borrowed only to find out that the Pisa airport is fifteen minutes out of the city center. Therefore, I figured, since I’m getting into Pisa at 9:30 pm and southern Europeans stay up ridiculously late, why the heck not go in and see that most famous leaning tower?! Little did I know exactly what I was getting into…

When I got into Pisa, I got on the only bus that was going in and out of the airport, which everyone else was also getting on… Without a map, any information on the city for that matter, or any background in Italian, I decided I would simply get off where everyone with suitcases and cameras got off, thinking that that would probably lead me to the exact area I would want to be. Unsurprisingly, I was right. I got off when everyone else did to find myself right outside the gates of the area where the leaning tower is. Par to what I’ve heard about the tower, it’s much smaller than one would think, but it was definitely cool because it was gorgeously lit up AND you could see the cables that were holding it up connected to another building.

After admiring the tower along with the other buildings in the plaza. I walked over to a restaurant to enjoy a pizza in Pisa. I sat down and when my non-English speaking waiter came to get my drink order, he looked at me strangely and said, “only one?” I smiled with a “si” and ordered a wonderful white pizza with a glass of red wine. In the hour that I sat there, not only did I get to write in my journal with a great view of the tower and people watch, but I had quite the interaction with the waiting staff at this restaurant; with usually a shocked you’re all by yourself question, when needing an extra chair from my table, or putting the centerpieces from tables they were clearing on mine because they needed space to clean. By the time I decided to leave it was around midnight, I had acquired three floral pieces, two candles and two sets of salt and pepper, and they were closing for the evening.

I then decided to lie down in the grassy area by the tower and close my eyes for a few in between people watching, which was mostly couples (which made me want to vomit). But, at one o’clock, they cleared the square and I found myself, yet again, wandering around the small area looking for the bus stop where I learned the busses stopped running at midnight. And when I say cleared, I mean eerily empty. There were no peddlers, beggars, workers, no one, except the occasional tourist like myself. So, I figured I would just get a taxi, which I also could not find. I went to a café, asked where I could pick up a taxi and he told me he’d call me one. While I was waiting for my taxi to come get me, I sat at the café highly entertained because a man was leaning over to a girl at the next table trying to get her to come back to his hotel with him after their meal. Each of them was with a friend, each of them was drunk and apparently each of them already had a significant other. Sadly, my taxi came before I could find out who was going home with whom. Fifteen minutes later, I found myself back at the airport where I slept for a few hours before boarding to go back to Germany.

As much as my mother might argue that she’s glad she didn’t know about my little adventure until I was back in Germany safely, there was never a time in which I felt unsafe. But, in this short time in Pisa, I learned something I feel like I’ve been trying to understand for a while now, something my oldest brother, Matt, learned a while ago: the art of traveling alone.

I remember the first time I drove all by myself after I got my license, and my first road trip all by myself to Washington D.C. to meet my dad, Kate and Will. I even remember exactly what I ate and where I ate my first meal all by myself on that road trip. And, until this point, traveling alone has never ever been what I prefer. Not to mention, I’ve been away from my family and friends for how many weeks by this point? There were points while I’ve been away here in Europe when, if multiple waiters asked me surprisingly that I was all by myself in such a beautiful place, I would have broken down into tears over it. Now, I find something rather peaceful about it.

Honestly, there aren’t too many things in this world that frighten me, but being alone is one of them. And, in the past couple years I’ve been dealt many challenges, which led me to believe that being alone was possibly the worst thing I could ever experience because I lost a few different people who were a part of an important time in my life. But, as I grew up and away from these hurdles, I realized that I’m not alone, and will never be alone. That people come and go in your life, but ultimately there’s a core of people who will always be there, whether you like it or not. Because of that, I now see the beauty in being able to enjoy things all by myself and because of that, I know when I’m done with this ridiculous and crazy adventure, those people will be waiting for me at home.

Yes, Emily Mueller the extrovert can’t stand not having someone to go to lunch with in Butler or Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. And yes, Emily Mueller misses everyone at home dearly. But yes, Emily Mueller finally feels confident and happy with only sitting at a table for one.

Picasso

What is a face, really? Its own photo? Its make-up? Or is it a face as painted by such or such painter? That which is in front? Inside? Behind? And the rest? Doesn't everyone look at himself in his own particular way? - Picasso

Málaga, Spain – the birthplace of Picasso and a city once ruled by the Romans, the Arabs, the Catholics and eventually the Spaniards. It’s on the most southern tip of Spain about as close to Morocco as you can get and can be described in two words: beach city… or so I thought. With a cheap flight from Munich, Málaga was the only summer like summer vacation I was really going to get, and I definitely was anticipating some solid beach time with a sunburn to follow.

We arrived in Málaga, figured our way through public transportation and made it to our beach side hostel, which was perfect. We were literally a four-lane road away from sand and beach bars/restaurants and the warm Mediterranean water. We set out for some lunch and soon realized that, yet again, we were in a city where English wasn’t terribly known, unless in a highly touristy area. Trying to get butter to put on our bread was ridiculously difficult. But, after a meal in a little café where only locals really eat, we made it back to our hostel and eventually to the beach. The sand was a little rocky and the water wasn’t particularly warm or even that turquoise color, but I couldn’t really complain about our seemingly family friendly beach. Dinner at an ocean side restaurant was seafood, and my eyes were opened to the wonderful tasting swordfish that Brooke ordered. I continued on for an evening walk along the beach, something that I’ve always done since we would go down to my aunt and uncle’s in Charleston. It was a beautiful night and lots of different kinds of people were around, with BBQs and bon fires, fishing poles and friends. The moon was full and out and the air was warm. Yes, no complaints here.

The next day I was determined to go into the city (about a ten minute bus ride) and see some of the sites within the city. I got off the bus and went straight to the tourist information office where they are doing everything they can to boost the appeal to tourists as their goal is to be the European Culture Capital in the year 2014. This included handing me an iPod with different tour routes and maps that I could take to see different parts of the city.

I started out by seeing La Alcazaba, which is one of the largest Muslim military buildings preserved in Spain. It was beautiful, but frankly a little confusing. Confusing how to get in, confusing where all I was walking and what I was seeing.... so truthfully, I appreciated it for its architecture and the fact that I could see the entire city and ocean after climbing to the top of it. According to travel sources, La Alcazaba was not only a fortress designed by the Moors, but also was the location of the first mass in the city following the Christian victory of the city. There is the Christ Arch and Arab gardens and everything in between. At the bottom of the fortress lies the Roman Theatre, which I walked by, but it was under renovation so I didn’t get to walk through it.

My next stop was the Cathedral. Taking 250 years to be built, this structure stands on the grounds of a former mosque. The choir stall was exquisite with 40 carved figures of the saints. Naturally, all I could think about was how much I wished my brother were there… how the only reason I felt it necessary to go into these massive churches was because he taught me how to travel, and that meant looking at every single religious relic each place had to offer. I took my time walking around the church, looking at all of its chapels, lecterns, and altars, but mostly, I just thought about my brother.

When I left my fellow tourists and devout Catholics and Nuns, I took a brief walk to Museo Picasso. Where I waited in line to be admitted. This is a new museum that was only built here because it is Picasso’s hometown. At first, what I loved most about the museum was the air condition. But truly, it was a beautiful museum. Displays of every kind of media of art Picasso dabbled in accompanied lots of his quirky quotes about life and art. The collection was given from the widow of Picasso’s oldest son, including not only those he gave as gifts to his family, or pieces Picasso decided to keep from himself which they inherited. I also hadn’t realized how recently he lived, I somehow always had him living like 140 years ago, not 40. This museum lies within the old Jewish quarter of the city, and the basement of the museum still had the outlines of the Buenavista Palace (Spanish)/Nasrid Palace (Arabic), which was also very cool to see.

For the rest of the day, I wandered around, saw some important things, I’m sure, but really just enjoyed being in a different kind of place. I shopped a little, and then enjoyed some lunch… a lunch which was interrupted by a beggar coming up and wanting money and/or food. Thankfully, this time, my waiter shooed him away. Later on I saw him pestering others at a different restaurant. This is something that I have experienced in very few other places – Wroclaw and Buenos Aires, to be exact. It really startles me, and truthfully makes me sick to my stomach, but we can talk about my emotional problems with homeless people another time.

By mid-afternoon I realized that most of the little stores were closed, and then it hit me Siesta is REAL and that is where all the locals are!! So before heading back to the hostel for my own siesta, I found my way to a post office and department store to find a floaty for the ocean.

Later that night I wanted to go out and Brooke appeased me, but we never really found someplace to be. I think because we went too early. It all really made sense as to why Spaniards near the siestas, it’s because they stay up all night! The party doesn’t even BEGIN to start until 1 am at the earliest! We kind of failed epically and came back and crashed.

The next day, I acquired the sunburn I was expecting, as I laid out on the beach with Brooke and two other girls we met at the hostel. Then I made my way back to the airport to embark on my next adventure.

Málaga surprised me. We picked it because it was warm and cheap to get to… Little did I know it was the vacation hotspot for a lot of Europeans (primarily the English, French and Germans), and at first I didn’t even understand why. Here I was, yet again, on my first day in the city, trying to order a meal, and unable to communicate with anyone. But truthfully, there is so much depth to this city, of which I saw very little, and had no problem realizing its true beauty. I find it appropriate that Picasso was born here, like it makes sense… Picasso was about using art to portray real life things in a different light. That there is no ONE WAY something MUST be. I wouldn’t say that this city is a Spanish city – nothing is clearly rooted in Spain. Some things are rooted in the ancient Romans, some the Arabs/Moors, and some the Catholics until finally it became Spanish. The layers are visible all throughout the city if you know what you’re looking at; but this is something I’ve been learning all summer.

On this leg of the trip I didn’t just travel to the classic beach city in Spain where every city has a bull fighting arena and sangria to drink, I traveled to Ancient Rome, Morocco and the beginnings of Europe. But ultimately, in places like this… you can make it be whatever kind of city you want it to be.