Ode to Rock Island

Camping. Since humankind first moved into towns and cities, the seemingly instinctive desire to return to the wilderness has driven us to everything from the epic treks of the explorers to the backyard tent-outs of suburban children.

I'm no different. While I have a great appreciation for the many comfortable amenities of modern life, there's a part of me that yearns to prepare and cook my meals in the great outdoors, sleep on the ground, live off the grid. And so I, like countless other Americans, set out for the campground - looking for even a small taste of the lost rustic existence of my ancestors.

...well, with the addition of waterproof fabrics and propane stoves, anyway.

A short while ago I headed north with four good friends and The Fella for a place I'd never before visited but is, as it turns out, just a short drive and some ferry-hopping away. Rock Island. A state park set off the tip of tourist-famous Door County, Wisconsin, it's one of those rare, relatively close-by places a person can go for something a little more serious than the "family camping" experience found in most other parks.

It's 912 acres of incredibly rocky soil, pine forests, beautifully blue-green water, no cars, no bikes, and no electricity. You have to take the ferry from Door County to Washington Island, and then the much smaller Karfi ferry from Washington Island to Rock Island, to make it over. That alone seems to weed out the more casual campers.

Once there, you need to be able to carry all of your equipment on your back or, if you're lucky, on one of the very few handcarts available at the landing, all the way to whatever campsite you've reserved. We'd booked two sites on the southeastern side of the island - one that overlooked a small rocky bluff down to the water, where we set up for cooking and loafing, and another that was more set back and sheltered, where we pitched our tents.

There are a couple of backpacking sites that are much further removed from everything else and would take a more serious and thoughtful packing effort to occupy. (Actually, I'm keen to try one of them out next time we make the trip.)

You see, even once you get all of your gear to your site, both firewood and drinking water have to be hauled in from the one spot on the island where you can get them. Firewood is sold from a shelter near the boat landing from only 4:30 - 5:30 p.m. each day, and the only potable water pump is nearby. Getting and hauling these things quickly becomes a crucial daily routine, forcing you to plan all other activities around them.

That's OK, because when staying on Rock Island, time is definitely on your side. Since there's no electricity, there's no television or telephones or internet. Which is precisely one of the main reasons I loved it.

But Emily, you may ask, you're a total internet nerd! How could you handle not being plugged in for a whole five days?

Quite frankly, I've never had issues going off grid. Once I'm away from the distraction of the web, I really don't miss it. Instead, I'm more than content to focus on the world around me and the essential tasks required to stay alive and comfortable.

I really like building good campfires (to the point that, minus one crucial sanity gene, I might otherwise have become a bit of a pyromaniac). I adore cooking meals over them. I enjoy the challenge of putting together a sturdy, weather resistant campsite. I like waking up with the sun in the morning and under the unpolluted stars at night.

Of course, it rained off and on while we were there and made the whole waking-with-the-sun thing a little difficult, but otherwise Rock Island is a great place to do all of those things.

Plus! 10 miles of hiking trails, several rocky beaches and one white sand beach, an over century-old restored lighthouse, rock carvings, wild strawberry patches, and a few good lawn games available at the main boat house (we opted for a bocce ball deathmatch).

And just a few snakes.

*It's worth noting, too, that said boat house and most of the structures on the island were built by inventor, businessman, and rare book enthusiast Chester Thordarson, who used to own the place--because that's what rich folk do. Own islands. Thankfully these rich folk took pretty good care of the place and then the state bought it from the family in 1965, giving us the fabulous park in return.

On finding some solace in being robbed

The past several weeks have been difficult, I won't lie. Certainly not the most trying time of my life by any means (thanks, ages 14 - 16, for providing that perspective), but no fun nonetheless. What's especially interesting is that things have been all about extremes: some really great stuff tempered by the really bad. So it goes.

For instance, as I mentioned before, recently I spent a long weekend in Seattle. I'd never been to the city before and was looking forward to exploring new territory and meeting new people. Officially I was there with my sister to perform our Twins act for something called Freakshow-A-Go-Go (aka FAGG), which was exciting on its own. Unofficially it was to be a chance to tromp around unfamiliar ground and get away from the increasingly depressing hunt for income back in Madison for a short while.

And Seattle was beautiful. It was rainy and cool almost the whole time we were there but I had expected as much, and even so it was still lovely. The rain there is different than what you typically get in Wisconsin. Instead of downpours, there would be short, light showers followed by intermittent drizzle - which sounds more dreary than it was, I assure you. Though I'd probably change my tune if I actually lived there. Still, we stayed with two excellent hostesses who took good care of us, hiked through some gorgeous city parks, gazed out over Puget Sound, and I also made a point to check out the I-5 Colonnade. A spectacular and very cool example of good urban planning, the Colonnade is an inner city dirt bike park that accommodates riders of all skill levels. And it's all underneath a massive freeway overpass, so it stays almost entirely dry year-round.

I took photos of all of this, of course. And I'd be posting them now if it weren't for the Bad Extreme that happened next.

The show was on Saturday at the Rainier Valley Cultural Arts Center, a little venue in the Columbia City section of town. We had to be there a bit earlier in the day for our tech call, and while we were running our act had left some of our bags downstairs in the dressing room. Mind you, the dressing room door was not visible from the street. And there were performers in it almost all day. Somehow, though - and perhaps I'm just the luckiest girl in the world - during the (maybe) 10 minutes during which everyone was watching two particularly talented acrobats do their tech run, some desperate soul managed to wander in off the street and steal my bag.

At first I thought I was just losing my mind and had misplaced the thing, but after another girl discovered that her phone and wallet had been taken from her purse, too, there was no denying that we'd been robbed.

All told, I lost both of my cameras, my wallet, and those wonderful, custom-molded earplugs that had been a very thoughtful birthday gift from my friends a couple years ago.

And this happened about two hours before the show was to begin. I chalked it up to a good lesson in taking "the show must go on!" to heart, called the police to file a report, and went about the business of putting on my costume and makeup and trying to focus on putting on a solid performance. Which I'm told we did. I had fun, anyway.

To the credit of the Seattle police, they sent an officer by in a fairly timely fashion to take our statements about what was surely a dime-a-dozen crime. I had to laugh, though, because the cop showed up during intermission and promptly found himself surrounded by dozens of performers in all manner of weird get-ups, including me looking like the photo at right and the other girl dressed as a cat (she being part of a group called Catittude with which I am now absolutely in love). I'm sure he's seen stranger things in his time as a cop, of course, but he took it all with good humor.

I don't expect to see any of my stuff ever again. At the time I tried to take some comfort in the notion that my renter's insurance might well cover a lot of it, but when I got home and saw that my deductible was $1,000 and the total worth of what was taken only about $900, that shred of comfort went out the window.

But in the midst of all that, I had to make up my mind to have a good time for the rest of my trip. What else was there? And I had some faith in humanity restored by how kind everyone was to me - including the surprise chunk of change that my fellow performers donated at the end of the night. Sure, I had no ID and only the cash given to me, all my vacation photos were gone, and I had to deal with the tedium of calling to cancel all of my cards and such.

But I wasn't hurt, and I was surrounded by good people, and there was still plenty of city to explore. And, ultimately, I got to go home to my beloved fella and city (turns out they will let you fly without ID - you just get treated to extra special security screening fun times).

Strangely, the whole thing left me feeling...lighter. It's hard to explain. I'm still frustrated as hell about losing my cameras and those completely awesome earplugs. They were, after all, things I use in my art and work. I still felt violated and helpless, which I hate. And yet I had/have this sense of lightness about the whole thing. Like it slapped me upside the head and cleared a few of the heavier cobwebs that had gathered there and focused my attention on more important things.

Getting robbed certainly didn't bring me any Buddha-like enlightenment about the impermanence of things - though it was definitely a lesson toward that end - but I have to think that it was a valuable experience. Even if that's all that I can get from it, it's not bad. And if it helps balance one extreme with another, I'm all for it.

(top photo by Chethan Shankar on Flickr)

The journey's a drag, and so is the destination

Now that I've had a few days to recover, I want to tell you the story of my weekend. It was, mildly put, quite the adventure.

The International Drag King Extravaganza (IDKE for short) is a conference and festival that celebrates drag king and queer culture in general. Held every year since 1998, when the first IDKE was put together in Columbus, Ohio, it has since bounced from city to city and grown exponentially in size. This year being the tenth anniversary, it returned to its home city, and I decided to go (this was my third IDKE, the others being last year's in Vancouver, Canada and IDKE 6 in Chicago). But whereas last year I went as a performer with my sister's troupe from Chicago, this year I was just going to observe and have a good time. And it was a damn good thing, too, as had I been performing, my weekend would have been even more stressful than it already was.

Friday morning, me and the fella jumped into my "trusty" minivan and headed southeast along the interstate, bound for Ohio. Our journey was relatively uneventful--just filled with abominable tolls in Illinois--until we hit the outskirts of Richmond, Indiana, near the border with Ohio. It was at that point that my fella, then in the driver's seat, noticed the "check engine" light come on. I gazed over at the various gauges on the dashboard and noticed, with some alarm, that the engine heat level had skyrocketed. We immediately looked for a place to pull over, settled on the nearest gas station, and upon stopping noticed a great deal of steam wafting out from under the hood.

Not good.

I opened her up and took a gander at my suffering van's insides: there was a hissing noise, as though some liquid were being released and immediately superheated. I noticed some unpleasant looking green stuff splattered across various of the hoses and bits near the waterpump, but as I am not an expert on the inner workings of car engines, I didn't really know what to make of it.

Hoping beyond hope that it was a simple matter of being low on oil, we poured a container of the stuff down the pipes and crossed our fingers as we got back in and started her back up. Sadly, and perhaps rather predictably, the engine temperature shot right back up, so we cruised down the road into town looking for an actual service station. Fortunately, there was a small, honest-to-goodness mom and pop place nearby, and they took us in. Unfortunately, it turned out that both my water pump and some crazy big hose had gone bad, and even worse, they'd have to order the new hose because there weren't any in town. That's the price I pay for driving a Mazda, I guess.

What this meant was that 1) we'd need to leave the minivan at the shop for the week so they could order the part and do the work, and 2) we'd also need to rent a car to get us the rest of the way to Columbus. Our luck was working hard to balance itself out, though, as a local dealership had a special for that shop where they'd pick us up and rent us a car for $25 a day. Naturally, we took them up on it, and were shortly back on our way.

In the midst of all that, several worried phonecalls came in from various concerned parties--my sister, our friends the Mad Kings, who were also headed to Columbus--with many generous offers to come pick us up if need be. We were grateful for the offers, but yet more grateful that we were able to rent a car instead of putting our friends out by having them drive two hours back to come get us.

The delay meant that we didn't get into Columbus until around 9, which was when the evening's entertainment was scheduled to start. Dragdom is the "open mic" night of the conference, when anyone and everyone can sign up to perform. We were bummed to miss the first half of it, but happy to get to see anything at all at that point. The event was held in a place called the Wall Street Nightclub, which was apparently the location of the first year's Showcase event (Showcase being the final night's big blowout, where you have to apply well ahead of time to get on stage). The acts were great and wonderfully diverse: a group did a Batman and Robin gettin' it on piece, a solo act did a hilarious burlesque-ish piece to a song I must find (innuendo involving used furniture sales), another solo artist was done up like some crazy cross between Klaus Nomi and Nosferatu, etc etc.

We had a good time, but were pretty damn exhausted by the end and decided to go straight back to our hotel rather than stay out for any afterparties.

Saturday dawned clear and cool, and we (thankfully) had all day before needing to be anywhere. After handing off some props we'd brought up for the Mad Kings, the fella and I headed out to explore fabulous Columbus. We ate amazing pancakes and drank good tea at a local tea shop, discovered a really cool bike and clothing shop where a friendly sales clerk chatted with us about what to see and do in Columbus, strolled through the scenic German Village area, and explored some rundown factory areas where I took a billion pictures.

At some point while we were off enjoying ourselves, our performer friends were not having such a good time. Props were breaking, communication from the organizers left something to be desired, and folks were just plum stressed out. I had enough to deal with in the fire I was soon going to have to set to my credit card because of the van, so I thanked my lucky stars that I'd decided not to perform this year.

Despite all of the trials and tribulations that led up to it, however, the actual Showcase event went off with almost no hitches, and the acts were wildly entertaining pretty much across the board. I was especially proud of the contingent of Mad Kings who went on, as this was their very first IDKE and they represented Madison well. My sister and her Chicaco cohorts put on a superb and visually stunning piece (as usual) involving more liquid latex than you could shake a stick at. Tamale, who was the fantastic emcee of "Hot Mess" here in Madison back in July, did some impressive fire spinning. There were performers from all over the US, plus some that had even come from Canada, France, Italy, and even New Zealand.

What's been great to see at more recent drag king events is the embrace and inclusion of more burlesque and cabaret elements, with even hardcore kings stripping down, plus sword and fire dancers, live singing and rapping, and just about anything else you could think of. It's fantastic.

After four hours of being on my feet and snapping away in the front row, I was pretty beat. So instead of getting my dance on after the show, I sat, content, and simply watched the people around me celebrating.

The openness and creativity of that community is, simply put, both awe inspiring and comforting.

We had to return our rental car to the dealership in Richmond the next day, so we rented yet another car while still in Columbus so we'd have a way to get back to Madison once that was done. The trip back was, happily, without incident, but I now have to drive back to Indiana this weekend to pick up my hopefully fixed minivan. It was worth it to see the great performances, but I certainly could have done without the added expense and hassle. Ah well, chalk it up to experience, right?

Next year, I'll have to get the ol' girl a full check up beforehand: we're off to the desert in 2009!

For the full photo set (with more to be added soon) from my IDKE adventures, check out my Flickr page.

Kino in Kentucky, plus stupid Democrats

I'm just in from a weekend trip to Louisville, Kentucky for their local Kino chapter's 48-hour film festival. It's a lovely city, and I wish I'd had more time to explore, but me and my fellow Wis-Kino buddies managed to make and screen a whopping four films (I'm dressed as a character from one of them in the photo at right), and had a great time. Many thanks to Kino Louisville, especially Whitney, for their hospitality.

While I recover from the drive and get my head back on straight enough to make a proper post, I'd like to point out this little gem for you to ponder and be somewhat baffled/enraged by: Debra Bartoshevich, an elected delegate to the Democratic National Convention this year, is apparently such a sore loser after her candidate of choice--Hillary Clinton--failed to come out ahead, that she's openly endorsing John McCain.

I understand the disappointment felt when the cause or person you've supported so fully for so long doesn't succeed as you'd hoped. I am a liberal after all. What I don't understand, however, is being so bitter about it that, instead of supporting the candidate with similar views and goals, you switch over to backing the candidate that is about as polar opposite as you can get.

This goes for all Clinton supporters who've been threatening to back McCain. It doesn't make sense. It is, in my opinion, wrong-headed. But when applied to an actual elected Democratic delegate, we're now talking just plain stupid.

I'm glad that Wisconsin Democratic Party has now voted to strip Bartoshevich of her delegate status for this. It's absolutely deserved.

Seriously, I can't think of a single good reason to back McCain instead of Obama because you preferred Hillary. His politics and ideas are not remotely similar to those of Clinton, and I would argue that it would be insulting to all that Hillary has worked for to vote McCain.


h/t Steve N.

EDIT TO ADD: Arianna Huffington has an excellent article explaining why it would be ridiculous for liberal-leaning voters to support John McCain, including his terrible record on reproductive rights.

How to Become An Overnight Rock Star

Not to be confused with "How to Become A Rock Star Overnight," my handy guide will simply teach you valuable techniques for overnight forays into rockstardom. That is, when your whirlwind musical life leads you to an out-of-town gig for one evening only, and not a full-length tour. I'll cover things like:

• Packing all of your gear into one vehicle
• Making friends with your fellow musicians
• Navigating icy roads
• Great East African eateries of the Midwest

Follow along now, and you too will be well on your way to mastering the art of the overnight.

Last Friday, I took the day off from work and headed north to Minneapolis for a show with the Buffali (otherwise known as Clare and Andrew, who I've been playing drums for lately). Sound check was to start at 5:00pm, so we Tetris'd all of our gear into my trusty minivan and headed out from Madison just before noon. You may scoff at me and think "Emily, what kind of self-respecting rock star drives an effing minivan?" But my response, as always, will be that, as a drummer and frequent traveler, there is little better than a minivan. For instance, on this trip it fit my drum set, two guitars, a keyboard, luggage and three people comfortably. Try that in your shitty little sedan.

The drive there went much more smoothly and quickly than we'd anticipated, and we arrived on the U of M campus shortly after 4:00pm. Luckily, there were a few union staff already at the venue who let us in and helped us unload all of our gear. That's Midwestern hospitality for you. Our venue for the evening, the Whole Music Club, was actually pretty impressive. Especially when compared to the live music spaces at the UW's two student unions, the Whole distinguished itself by having a spacious stage, good sound system, very decent lighting and a lot of dancing and sitting room for spectators. All of the walls in the place were also covered in chalkboard paint, allowing for all sorts of works of chalk art and obscure phrases to be scrawled. My favorite art, however, were the various graffiti style portraits of various musicians, including Sleater Kinney, Liz Phair, Atmosphere and Henry Rollins. I snapped a photo of the Henry Rollins picture, because it was too amazing not to document.The likeness is uncanny.

Ahem.

Anyway, as we'd obviously arrived quite early and as sound checks never start on time anyway, we opted to head back outside in search of dinner. A friend of Clare's had recommended we try an Ethiopian place in the city, and as luck would have it, we'd passed by the very restaurant on our way in. I wish I could remember its name, but I do remember that it started with a "u" and was on Cedar Ave. It was, in a word, authentic. The place was no more than a room with tables, chairs, and a big screen television broadcasting Al Jazeera. When we walked in, everyone stopped what they were doing for a moment and stared at us. Yep, definitely the only pale skinned folks in the house.

Despite that initial awkwardness, we were treated very well, and the food was absolutely delicious. I ordered what ended up being a huge crepe with spiced and cooked veggies on it, and in the tradition of the place's home country, ate with my hands. We were each also given a banana for desert (no extra charge) and a bottle of water, and all told, for the three of us and our huge, tasty meals, it only cost $14. Well worth it.

Afterwards, we headed back to the club and met the other two bands we'd be sharing the bill with that night: Le Concorde, a synth-pop band from Chicago, and This World Fair, a rock band from Minneapolis. They were both very friendly and helpful, which was downright refreshing. You never know what you're going to get when working with unfamiliar bands, and musicians can be notoriously off-putting. That wasn't the case at all, though, as everyone was sure to introduce themselves and offer help to one another. We then went through the sound checks, got ready in the band green room (seen above), and waited.

We were on first, and there was a good sized and responsive crowd during our 45 minute set. The Buffali's very lyrical, storytelling style seemed to go over well, and afterwards I was happy as a clam when the other bands had really complimentary things to say about us. Afterwards, we went out into the audience to enjoy the next acts, both of which were quite good. Le Concorde had excellent song craft, with heavy influences from 80's new wave/synth-pop but without being what you'd call "retro." This Word Fair was the most polished of all three groups, probably bound for more mainstream popularity, and their lead singer's voice was stellar.

The next morning, we hit the road back to Madison, only to end up in the middle of yet another foul weather day. The interstate was deceptively icy, and as I did 30 mph, we saw car after car in the ditch, some flipped over, some just stuck in the snow. It was a little nerve wracking, to say the least, and I've resolved not to take another long car trip until spring rolls around. I'm done with that crap for the year and can't imagine it'd be a good idea to push my luck and further.

Still, we arrived safe and sound around 5:30pm, and aside from the trip home, had a great time. I hadn't been to Minneapolis since I was a little girl, and I think now, having seen it even so briefly, I should go back and explore the place a little more thoroughly. In the summer.

Travel Tales: Stumbling Onto the Ultimate Pizza

I want to tell you a story. Do you have a minute? It's a pretty good one, I promise.

Once upon a time--actually, late May of 2006--me and The Boy saved up our pennies and had ourselves a totally excellent adventure. The itinerary was Rome for three days followed by a ferry ride to Croatia, where we would be staying on an island called Korcula in an apartment we'd rented with three other friends. It was an amazing trip: we were able to squeeze in a side trip to Pompeii (where my inner history dork positively wallowed in the scenery), we explored the Eternal City, discovered how beautiful the Dalmatian Coast is, walked the entire length of the walls around the city of Dubrovnik, and ate seafood caught fresh from the Adriatic (a novelty for us landlocked Midwesterners).

Still, one particular adventure stands out the most: our quest to eat pizza in Naples, the Holy Land of pies. This is the story I want to tell, in the hopes that it will lead one of you to find this same pizzeria some day so that you, too, might know true bliss.

On our second day in Rome, The Boy and I met up with Cory, a friend of ours from back home who had been traveling abroad solo but was coming with us to Croatia. We decided to take a day trip to see ancient Pompeii, and to get there by train, it's necessary to go through Naples. I had recently read the book "Eat, Pray, Love" by Elizabeth Gilbert, in which she extols the heavenly virtues of Neapolitan pizza, and so I suggested that we stop in the city for lunch. Everyone enthusiastically agreed.

The book had given the name of one pizzeria in particular, but once we actually arrived in Naples, I realized that I had forgotten to get directions to or even write down the name of that place. Undaunted and ever the plucky traveler, Cory approached a young man on a taxi scooter just outside the train station and proceeded to ask for recommendations. He broke the ice by offering a cigarette--the international friendship currency. Thing is, Cory didn't speak a lick of Italian and the young man spoke very broken English. Still, they gamely engaged each other in a round of charades and two word sentences, eventually leading Cory to believe he'd understood something resembling directions to a good pizzeria.

We set off on foot, something that many guide books and seasoned travelers had warned against in this, the city of purse-snatching "centaurs" (guys on scooters who drive by and take what they can from you) and other hooligans. Still, we took some comfort in being in a group and in the fact that none of us were wearing Rolexes.

Our path took us straight down a major thoroughfare, past gangs of uber fashion conscious Italian youths, gobs of street vendors and the noise of construction. Finally, we reached the turn-off we were pretty sure our guide had indicated to us. It took us back into a working-class neighborhood full of narrow, cobblestone streets, colorful flags hanging between buildings, limoncello vendors, and people going about their day-to-day business. Caught up as we were in the sights and sounds of the back streets, we soon realized that we had no idea where we were going anymore.

As The Boy and I discussed our options, Cory disappeared. We found him down and across the street, surrounded by a throng of emphatically gesticulating men. Our first thought was that he was being mugged, and so we circled around from two directions, The Boy looking for some large blunt object he might be able to use as a weapon, and me just trying to figure out what was really going on.

As I closed in, it became clear that Cory and the men were engaged in some kind of discussion, and by the time I finally walked up beside him, I could hear him repeating "pizzeria! pizzeria!" while the confused Italians repeated back, "piazza? piazza?"

Before taking the trip, The Boy and I had divvied up language duties one to the other: he would learn basic Croatian, and I would attempt basic Italian. Now was the time for my extremely shaky skills to shine! I actually understood where the gap in communication lay, and so I put my hand on Cory's shoulder to stop him, turned to the men, and managed to say "Pizzeria molto bene?" (roughly: "very good pizzeria?").

The men burst into a chorus of understanding, waving their arms and hands in the air as if to say "Why didn't you just say so?" I was hard-pressed not to start laughing at how stereotypical it all seemed. But they were more than happy to recommend a good place to go. They kept repeating the words "Cleen-tone, Cleen-tone, il presidente!" which was at first baffling, but I just figured the name of the place was "The President" and they were referring to our last decent example of such a thing as a way to make themselves clear. We thanked them, and the merry band of Italian men saw us on our way.

And just where they said it would be, we found Pizzaiolo del Presidente, a place that would soon become my food Mecca. It would also turn out to be one of Naples' most famous pizza destinations, its profile significantly raised when, in fact, President Bill Clinton had paid it a visit back in '94. Because of it's somewhat remote location, however, the restaurant stays relatively tourist-free (except for the three of us, of course), and is a favorite amongst the locals.

We took our seats, and each one of us ordered an individual pie. Normally, I can't even come close to finishing a whole pizza, but I took this to be one well deserved exception. If you ever find yourself lucky enough to be eating at a pizzeria in Naples, do yourself a favor and don't share. I had the traditional margherita (fresh tomato sauce, fresh mozzarella, fresh basil and oil), The Boy had his with "buffalo" mozzarella, and Cory had some similar incarnation. None of the pies vary by more than two ingredients. Why mess with a good thing?

I can't begin to describe how amazing they tasted. The crust was phenomenal--they prepare it in secret, and it cooks in pretty much 30 seconds flat--all light and flaky and bubbly and ohmygodI'mgoingtocrythisissogood! We ate in stunned silence, occasionally exchanging awestruck glances and uttering simple things like "wow" and "oh my God" until we finished. Our only regret was that we couldn't take more with us for the road.

Since then, every pie I've ever eaten has been, at best, a sorry approximation of that glorious of that Neapolitan masterpiece. That's really the only downside.

The moral of our story is that it's always worth wandering off the beaten path, and that asking the locals for their recommendations is the way to go. Hold on to your purses, but don't be afraid to put yourself out there, too. And for the love of God and all that is holy, if you're ever remotely close to Naples, eat the pizza!