If it's Wednesday, this must be....Dublin?

Whew.........I've been in Ireland since Saturday with no Internet access to speak of, and so much to tell....

In two days, I'll be home. That's just weird to say, after being gone since May 23rd. It's been a long, fun, educational, and interesting trip. I've seen the beginning of the Tour de France (yea Lance!), the British Open (though in the UK it's just "The Open), and most fun of all, driven a left-hand-drive car around Ireland. Six Hundred miles of driving in five days. In a stick shift (or straight drive, if y'all is a Southerner), which I don't normally drive at home, and haven't driven for any length of time since 1987. Not bad.

Of course, I did have to put up with my traveling companion, who was very helpful at navigating, and of no help with stimulating conversation. Our discussions mostly centered around school - classes, Moot Court and who got in (he did, I have yet to hear and probably did not), class rank, on-campus interviewing (or OCI - and why he should participate, and how those who don't are basically out of luck - just what I wanted to hear after quitting a perfectly good job). What didn't center around school revolved mostly around his adventures, which I find mostly hard to believe. The funniest part occured in Wexford yesterday. Earlier in the week, he'd turned up the radio, saying "this is a good song." Of course, it was a song played over and over and over, and every time, they announced the artist - Beyonce's Crazy in Love. So yesterday, we walked into a music store in Wexford, and what did I see, but Beyonce's new CD. So I showed it to him, and what does he say?

"What's that?"
"Beyonce's new CD."
"Who?"
"The song you like."
"What song?"
"Crazy in love."
"What song is that?"
"Never mind."

The most interesting non-school/self related conversation we had dealt with the women on TV we thought were hot, which was prompted by an episode of Friends. Predictibly, he picked Jennifer Aniston, Courtney Cox and Lisa Kudrow in that order, then told me the hottest woman on Ally McBeal was Lucy Liu. He was shocked when I picked Lisa Kudrow over Jennifer, and said Lucy was only fifth hottest (after Portia di Rossi, Jane Krakowski, Calista Flockhart and Courtney Thorne-Smith). I tried to cover other shows, but.... he didn't know them. Oh well.

More when I get back to the US.....

It has now been 59 days since I left the United States. In that time, I've visited Rome, Florence, Milan, Sorrento, Capri, Interlachen (Switzerland), Bern, Strasbourg, Kassel (Germany), Paris, Luxembourg, Brussels, London, Oxford, and this weekend's entry, Salisbury and Stonehenge. For those of you who are counting, that's 6 capital cities and 7 countries. This coming weekend, I'll add one more to each of those, as John and I head to Shannon, and drive our way across Ireland to Dublin. I have 11 more days here, and four until my finals on Friday.

I managed to have dinner with my professor friend on Saturday. I gave him that list (and details of my once-in-a-lifetime visit to the British Open) at dinner, and his response was simply "My goodness, I just listened to that list and I'm tired." He's not the only one. The only thing suffering more than me right now is my bank account, which is beginning to resemble the Sahara desert. Going to the Open didn't help, as I dropped £160 buying stuff for the family back home (a shirt, a hat, and a green repair tool for dad, who's a big golf fan, a hat for each of my nephews, and stuff for me).

I've met some nice people along the way, learned more about people who I should be hanging out with back home, and met some people who I just can't stand. Of course, some of those in the latter category are people whom I hung out with over the last year, but most are people I'll be having class with come the fall. So that should be interesting.

All in all, I miss listening to my CDs most of all. And driving my car and my motorcycle. And, of course, I miss my family.......

But so far, I've managed to enjoy the whole trip. I've taken over 200 photographs, which will cost an enormous amount of money to develop. And I promise to post as many as I can for those of you who've been living vicariously through my these last - six? seven? - weeks. And I promise stories of this trip for a long time to come.....or until I get a more interesting life back home, which may not take long....

Yeah, I'd like to go to Paris one day....maybe even France.....

Paris

Day One

Because big cities like London, Rome and Paris tend to be pretty pricey, and because money isn't infinite, I jumped at the opportunity to go on a one-day, thirty six hour excursion to Paris with the 'other' Greg and Blake. John M rode the train with us, but was planning on spending the entire weekend. Once there, we were to meet up with Bridget, Art, Kathy, and Tim, (who somehow managed to make getting to Paris via a direct train an adventure).

Our first challenge was finding our rooms. Blake and Greg had booked a room at the FIAP Jean Monnet, which was in the same 'system' as our wonderful accomodations at CIARUS. Fortunately, it turned out to be a little nicer and somewhat quieter, even if the hallway did reek of b.o. (I found out the next morning we were lucky; apparently, the small child problem was so bad at FIAP that the sixteen-year-olds were ready to kill.) John, on the other hand, was staying with Art in a hotel on the north end of Paris (ours was on the south end), near the Gare Nord (for those of you who haven't been there, Gare Nord is the north train station; it's one Metro stop west of Gare Est, the - you guessed it - eastern train station, into which our train pulled.) We agreed to meet in one hour at the Cathedral of Notre Dame.

We arrived at Notre Dame to find two things; one, there were a TON of people around, and two, we were going to have fun trying to find John. Fortunately, it didn't take long until Blake and Greg saw him. We flagged him down, and he joined up to tell us that - he'd just been mugged. Apparently, two men had cornered him in the Metro station after he'd taken a photograph with his digital camera and gotten €40. Now, I say apparently, because there is some doubt as to whether or not this actually occurred. According to John's story, the he surrendered the money only after the thieves brandished switchblades. But luckily, he was able to keep his digital camera, and he negotiated them down to the €40, even though they had seen his wallet and saw that he had more than that on him. You decide if you think it's true. Finally, he said he'd talked to a police officer, but they were unwilling to do anything, even to go into the Metro to see if his story was true.

After hearing the story (and offering support - it wasn't until later that people began to doubt the story), we went through the Cathedral. While it was nice, and fairly interesting, when compared to St. Peter's in Rome, or the Basilicas in Florences, well, it wasn't very exciting. From there, we wandered around, trying to find a water taxi that John had seen in a guidebook. We finally found it, and spent the €7.50 to go from Notre Dame to the Eiffel Tower. On the way, I burned off the rest of a roll of film.

We got to the Eiffel Tower around 6:15 or so. John wanted to take the stairs, but confusion over whether or not we'd be able to go all the way up from the second level (where they end) added to the fact that we were fairly certain that no one was admitted to the stairway after six (they aren't) let to us merely opting to take the elevators all the way up. This involves a two-step process; first, you take an elevator up one of two legs to the second level. Once there, you switch to another elevator which goes up a central shaft to the top, 860 feet up. At the top, you have the choice of staying inside, or going up one level to the outside view (which we picked). We hung out up there for a good hour, and I took about 30 more pictures.

After we left the Tower, we headed off to meet the others for dinner in Montmarte. For those of you who are art buffs, this is where Renior painted one of his more famous paintings (the name of which escapes me, but I believe it's Dancing in the Park on Sunday Afternoon, or something along those lines). Dinner was thoroughly enjoyable, and John got to tell his mugging story several times to an astonished Art, Kathy and Bridget. After dinner, we watched the light show on the Eiffel Tower, then Blake, Greg and I headed home.

Day Two

We woke up around 9, and headed over to meet up with everyone at John and Art's hotel. We all wanted to see the Tour de France start, but no one was sure when it started. Blake, Bridget and I wanted to go to the Louvre, which we thought we could do by 1:20 (when we thought the race would start), especially if we kept to a schedule. We breezed through the Louvre (yes, we saw the Mona Lisa) and headed toward the Champs-Elysees to try and catch the start. Instead, we wound up at the Place de Concorde, across the Seine from the National Assembly, where we found out three things: First, the race didn't start until 3:50; second, it was a time trial, so the riders would go off one at a time, a minute apart; third, since he won last year, Lance Armstrong would not go until last - at 7:05 pm. If we stayed for that, we'd miss the last train back to Strasbourg. So we decided to wait for the parade at 1:20. Afterward, we headed to the Musee d'Orsay, where we were supposed to meet Greg at 3:00. But he never made it; we found out later that he'd spent the whole day sitting with the others at the Eiffel Tower, waiting (in vain) for Lance.

We, however, did get to see the Museum, and I spent a good amount of time in the Impressionist section, soaking up all I could, and even eavesdropping on a tour here and there. We stayed until they started closing. At 5:15, Blake, Bridget and I headed back to Place de Concorde to watch some of the Tour. I had two, maybe three pictures left, and I wanted to get a picture of the first thing I'd seen when we'd arrived, but hadn't photographed - the Arc de Triomphe. We'd seen it as we emerged from the Metro on our way to the Tourist Bureau (which, ironically, would be featured the next evening on the news back home in Chicago), but I was carrying all my luggage at that point, and unwilling to dig out the camera. So, after snapping a photo up the Champs-Ellysees, we hopped on the Metro and got off at the Arc. I took a picture of the Arc by itself, and Blake once again bailed now-out-of-film me by taking a picture of me with the Arc in the background. He'd done the same in the Louvre when my camera developed a new habit of automatically rewinding the film after photo 31 of 40.

After the Arc, we headed back to John's hotel to get our luggage (where we'd dropped it after checking out of the FIAP). Greg finally made it at 6:45, and we began our long five hour journey back to Strasbourg.

Day after day I'm more confused
And I look for the light through the pourin' rain
You know thats a game that I'd hate to loose
And I'm feelin' the strain
Ain't it a shame?

(Chrous)
Oh, gimme the Beach Boys and free my soul
I wanna get lost in your rock n' roll and drift away
Oh, gimme the Beach Boys and free my soul
I wanna get lost in your rock n' roll and drift away


Dobie Gray, Drift Away (recently covered by Uncle Kracker)

The last week in Strasbourg was a blur of classes, tours and - rain. Finally, after more than five weeks in Europe, we had rain. Somehow, it didn't dampen our spirits one whit. Instead, it lifted them, since the rain meant cooler temperatures, especially at night, and, given the fact that among CIARUS' many faults there was no air conditioning, that meant comfortable sleeping weather for all. Except Tim.

One of the planned 'events' was a picnic with the students of Nottingham Trent Law School. We met them in the large park across from the Council of Europe on Monday evening, 'round 7. It had spent the good part of the morning raining, to the extent that Dean Jean had made contingency plans should it continue to do so. But in the early afternoon, the rain stopped, even though it threatened to start up again all day. At around six-thirty, myself and about six others decided to walk to the park, even though it was quite a distance away. Sure enough, about two-thirds of the way there, the drizzling began anew. Fortunately, Dean Jean and the Nottingham faculty found a covered place from which to serve the food (cold cuts, bread, etc.) and we were all able to enjoy a simple meal, even if the beer was warm. Presently, a football/soccer match developed, with the Brits against the Americans (helped out by a couple of Brits who crossed over to balance the sides). During the match, the skies (which had stopped raining) opened up, and a downpour drenched us all. But that didn't dampen our spirits; we played on, with several of us (me included) going barefoot in the grass to maintain traction. Tim, the most athletic of the US guys, didn't; he played on with his crosstrainers. Eventually, the rain stopped, but the ground, now drenched, was still slick. And that's when it happened. An errant pass by a teammate sent the ball heading alone for the out-of-bounds. Willis, easily more liked by the Brits than his fellow American students, raced toward it for the British team. Tim raced toward it for ours. Tim easily outpaced Willis, and tried to stop to make the pass and.....slipped. He fell backwards, landing on both hands, but his left hit first, and the wrist snapped like a twig.

Needless to say, our match ended then and there, with Tim being driven to the hospital by Dean Jean. What happened next has become the stories of legend: first Dean Jean got lost on the way (thank God it wasn't serious!), then, once Tim had been seen at one hospital and sent to another for treatment, she nearly made things worse when she tried to take a comparison photo of Tim's wrists. Fortunately, Professor Geraghty stepped in and stopped her. Tim finally arrived back at CIARUS at 1:00a.m., with a cast up to his elbow that he still wears.

We spent the next four evenings partying with our newfound friends, and a couple of their girls (birds, if you will) fancied a couple of our guys (and vice versa, but not the same guys who were the object of the British girl's affections). It made for, as they would say, a jolly bit of fun, and several promised to come visit us in Oxford. We'll see.

Thursday saw our last class in Strasbourg, and Friday, July 4th, was ours to do with as we liked. I decided to head with Blake, Greg K, Tim, John, Bridget, Kathy and Art to a city nearby to which I'd never been (but have been wanting to visit for five years) and which would provide a lifetime of memories in forty-eight hours. Paris.

But you'll have to wait for that....

Week two

I was disappointed to have to come back to the hole that was CIARUS. Having to put up with insolent twelve-year-olds was annoying enough for two days, but the thought of a whole week...........

Nevertheless, come back I did. And every night, the chaperones would tell the kids to go off to bed at 10, then retire for the evening, leaving us to suffer with children running the halls all night, kicking balls against the wall, jumping off beds, screaming and yelling, and throwing things on passersby below. Not once did a chaperone come up to look in on their kids. And more than a few people complained to no avail.

Classes were made somewhat better than Rome, in that the room in which classes were held was larger, more open, had more writing space, and, most importantly, was air-conditioned. Classes were pretty interesting, with some discussion centered around the field trips we took - to the European Parliament and the European Court of Human Rights - but the highlight was the opportunity to hear arguments before the court for a case in which 2 former KGB agents had been fired by the Lithuanian government for whom they'd worked for their KGB association - 8 years later. One of the most intriguing questions asked by the judges (the ECHR sits in panels of 7 or 9, depending on the circumstances of the case) was why it had taken Lithuania so long to fire the employees, when (a) the government had known of their KGB involvement from the beginning, and (b) at least one had taken an oath of loyalty to Lithuania. The decision comes out in September, and I'll be watching to see what happens.

We made it to the European Parliament shortly after the new head of the European Union, Silvio Berlusconi, had slighted a German representative. The representative had been speaking on a mundane topic when he had been interrupted by Berlusconi, who immediately commented the German representative would make a great candidate for concentration camp guard in a new movie being filmed in Italy. The resulting flap was the talk of the Parliament for the entire day, and the lead story on the news in three countries that night.

Kassel (Part Deux)

Tun was an interesting guy. At first he thought I, being an American, only spoke English. Later (after a few drinks), he learned I spoke German, and proceeded to try to talk to me - at machine gun pace. I kept saying langsam, langsam (slower, slower) to no avail. He'd just talk faster. We got to Freierhagen, where Patty's family friend lived, and where we'd be spending the night, just after 8 - in time for a late dinner, which we declined; Patty, because she wasn't hungry, and me, because her mother had just fed me a delicious bratwurst and kartoffelsalat mit sampf (bratwurst and potato salad with dijon mustard).

When Tun failed to arrive as scheduled to pick us up, we walked the relatively short distance to the party location, where we found out why he'd never arrived. Old Tun was already hard at work pulling beers - for the three people who were there. Interestingly enough, shortly after our arrival, we met Rachel, an American and a freshman at Florida. She was gorgeous - long blonde hair, perfect tan, white teeth, pretty smile - and nice to boot. The three of us chatted for nearly two hours, with Rachel expressing frustration that no one her age in Freierhagen seemed to be very open toward her. Of course, once the teenagers started showing up (and show up they did, in droves) it was easy to see why. Poor Rachel, with her stunning good looks, was like a Ferrari in a Yugo shop. She got most of the men's attention, young and old, and the other girls got ignored. Not that the other girls were ugly - there were two or three really cute ones, the rest were average - but Patti and I speculated they must have been quite intimidated by the American girl.

The party itself was a blast. Everyone, including the teenagers (the drinking age for beer in Germany is 16) got pretty plowed. Several tried their English out on me, especially once Patty slipped behind the bar to help out as promised. A few bought me drinks, making sure that as soon as I put down an empty, it was immediately refilled. Others offered to buy me a mischung - a mix of cognac and beer - which I politely declined. They also sold meters, which is a meter-long (ingenious, eh?), fraternity paddle-shaped board capable of holding 11 beers, 10 of which you pay for, and one of which you get for free. Seeing several 16-year-olds down an entire meter was enough to convince me that the 'veteran' drinkers in our group had a long way to go to keep up with these guys. Patty and I finally left the party around 2:45a.m. and headed back to the apartment for the night. While Strasbourg had been swealteringly hot, Freierhagen was relatively cool - we had been given jackets as we left for the party, and walking home we made good use of them. The cool evening weather, and the pin-drop quiet of a small German town combined to give me the best nights sleep that I'd had in at least six weeks, if not longer.

In the morning, Patti's father picked us back up, and took us to the garden club. I spent the day doing basically nothing, just watching TV (some in English, most in German) and vegging out. For the first time in two years, I got to watch an entire F1 race (which Juan Montoya made exciting by spinning out Michael Schumacher), and for the first time ever, watched it live at a normal time (instead of having to set the VCR for 6:00a.m.). It was a nice respite from the constant bitching and sniping and the general where-are-we-eating-today nausea that this trip has sometimes delved into.

Strasbourg

Well, I've finally managed to re-configure a keyboard to US-style, and not get booted off the computer afterward. If it seems like forever since I last posted, it's because it has been.

So here we are, our last day in Strasbourg. It's been interesting, to say the least. Here's a little synopsis of the last 10 days....

Day 1 - Arrival

John C. and I arrived in Strasbourg expecting a short walk to our hotel. To be sure, I attempted to ask a female employee of the train station where our hotel was. Since I heard Willis talking to her in German, I was reasonably confident she could speak the language. She could. She just had no clue where our hotel was. According to her, it should be somewhere on the outskirts of town because "zat's where Hotel Etap is always at." Wonderful. Instead of a short walk, we'd have a cab ride. But to be sure, she said, check with the tourist office downstairs. So we headed downstairs.

The tourist office was located right beside the exit doors. Lo and behold, I looked out the exit, and what did I see across the plaza? Hotel Etap. So the lady was wrong. John and I made a beeline to the hotel. We walked in, and were greeted by an attractive girl of about 18, who acted as if we were interrupting her nap (it had to be her nap, because there were no other customers). After a brief exchange, we were told that our room was up one flight, and given the room access code. We got to our room, walked in and saw - two beds. For three people. And a note telling us to be at the other hotel (where everyone else was staying) at 6:00p.m. I looked at my watch. It was 6:05 already. Taking a shower and cleaning up was out. So was wearing my newly-acquired (in Interlachen) Swiss Military watch. We headed back downstairs to find out where to go.

Front-desk girl was equally unhelpful at getting us to Ciarus. She told us it was too far to walk, that we needed to get the number 10 bus from the train station, but not where at the train station. She did go into detailed explanation of where to get off, but since we didn't know the town, it didn't help. But fortunately, John had grabbed a map which clearly showed Ciarus. We decided to walk.

Of course, because I hadn't bothered to clean up, everyone else had. I looked sloppy in my t-shirt and jeans, as we went to a very nice restaurant for dinner. My slovenly looks, combined with the hotel clerk's indifference (I found out later that Art had, upon arriving, attempted to obtain a cot, or another mattress, to no avail. He'd flatly been told "no" to every question he'd been asked, without any further explanation) and the accomodations, served to put me in one foul mood. I hated France, and I had ten long days to brood over it.

Eventually, Dean Jean came by to take the photo of everyone at our table. I was thoroughly embarrassed by my clothes, and abjectly refused to be in the picture. Dean Jean thought that I was kidding, but Mary quickly told her that I was in a bad mood. Although I was mad at Mary for spilling the beans, it all worked out - somewhat. Dean Jean had an open room in Ciarus where I could spend the night. The next night, I had a room at another hotel (although that was nearly another fiasco), and finally, two days later, a room at the Ciarus, with Blake (whom I'd shared a room with in Interlachen) and.........Willis. Somehow, I was being repaid for all the bad karma I'd spread by being saddled with the most annoying person on the trip.

Few people like Willis, except of course, Mrs. Willis, who must be a saint for marrying someone like him. He's impossible to describe, but the most succinct version is that he's kind of like Rainman - he has thousands of totally useless facts in his head, and he doesn't hesitate to share them with you, whether or not they are relevant, or if you are interested in them. According to rumor, Mrs. Willis (whom he calls Boo on his frequent calls home, but not in a lovey-dovey voice, but a very flat, emotionless one) has lots of cash. Or at least her parents do. Either way, Willis must have some endearing quality, but no one on this trip can find it. Not only does Willis talk - a lot - but he also invites himself along if he likes the trip you're taking. Even if you tell him he's not welcome. Well, maybe if you were so direct it might work, but otherwise it won't. And when he speaks another language (he knows German fairly well, but not the rules of grammar, so when we went to Interlachen via Spiez {pronounced speerz}, he kept mispronouncing the name {calling it spitez}) he speaks it so poorly that the native speaker usually says "let's just speak English." No lie. It happened in the train station at Interlachen.

For now, I'm just trying to play nice.

Council of Europe

On about day 3 or 4 (it's all becoming a blur, but I do remember it was a Friday) we went to the Council of Europe for a tour. Supposedly, we were going to see the Council Parliament debate, but, as other things on this trip have turned out, it didn't happen. Instead, the Parliament went home, and we got to look at an empty chamber. Which was a good thing, since I got some nice pictures. But to be honest, while it was all very interesting, it wasn't very memorable.

Weekend 1 - Kassel

Patty's been dying to see what I'd write about my visit to Kassel, and I've been making her wait an entire week. But the first thing I'll say is that Patty and her parents were more than kind, and went out of their way to make me feel at home. Words cannot simply say how much I appreciated all their efforts, and how much I enjoyed the visit.

I'd been trying to get a hold of Patty for a couple of weeks, and on Thursday, I'd finally managed to get through. We made plans to meet on Friday, which became Saturday when laundry and other things (including a late class) intervened. Nevertheless, on Saturday I made my way via train (of course) into Germany. Patty couldn't meet me at the station; her mom had gone shooting, and Patty doesn't drive stick, so her father picked me up. We went back to the Garden Club, and I hung around while Patty worked, waiting for our ride for the evening to Frierhagen, where there was a party Patty was supposed to help out at.

Tun (I hope I'm spelling that right) picked us up about a half hour late. He made up for it on the Autobahn, where I had the pleasure of experiencing 230kph (sorry, I don't know the conversion).

Damn. My hour's up, and the gamers are waiting......more soon, but when I can't predict, since tomorrow we leave for Brussels, and on Wednesday we head to Luxembourg. But I will post again before the week's out.....

I am now in Strasbourg, France, trying to get familiar with a new keyboard. How hard is it? Here's the same sentence, typed as if I were using a US-style keyboard:

I q, noz in Strqsbourg Frqnce; trying to get fq,iliqr zith q nez keyboqrd: Hoz bqd is it§ Hereùs the sq,e sentence; typed qs if I zere using q US)style keyboqrd:

So you can see, typing is at a glacial pace, with frequent mistakes. And typing a period involves the SHIFT key. Ah, the French.

Interlaken was great, as I mentioned. The barbeque was a clusterfuck, as I had suspected it would be. No one had bothered to find out how to get to the beach, or where to get food. Then the local self-appointed expert, Willis, decided he knew all (because that's the truth - he knows everything and never hesitates to remind you of that) and led everyone on a wild-goose chase. I bailed, as did all but three others (we began with 15).

Rock climbing was the bomb, baby. We started out at 9ish, held up by yours truly losing his ticket and forcing our guide Stef to get a reprint at the desk. Actually, I lost both the rock climbing and rafting tickets. But Stef was able to take care of things at base camp so I didn't miss out on anything. The scenery where we climbed was awesome, and there is a photo in existence of your truly giving the thumbs up from the top, about 60 feet up. I'll get it posted soon - I hope.

France is beautiful, though the girl at the front desk could use a lesson or six on customer service. We walked into what was supposed to be a trible, only to find it was a too-small double, and a bunk bed. We marched downstairs.

Front Desk Girl (in thick French accent); "Can I help you?"
Us: "Do you have a rollaway bed for the third person?"
FDG: "No."
Us: "Extra mattress?"
FDG: "No."
Us:"Another room, perhaps?"
FDG: "No."

So now I've shuttled between the Hotel ETAP (where that conversation took place), to CIARUS (where I spent the night) to a yet-to-be-named hotel for tonight, back to CIARUS tomorrow and the rest of the ten days we have here, except for..............well, you get the point.

We'll see how French people are, on the whole.

Interlaken

Put on my blue suede shoes, and I boarded the plane
Touched down in the land of the delta blues, in the middle of the pouring rain

Marc Cohn, Walking in Memphis


Ok, I'm on a clock here (no free Internet access), so I'll be brief, and flesh it out later.

Interlaken? Wonderful. Switzerland? Mere words cannot tell you how beautiful and clean this country is. It is definitely #1 on the 'return to' list.

So what have I done here? Well, let's see.

Yesterday morning began with rock climbing. I'm afraid of heights, so it was a true accomplishment for me to climb up 60 feet, turn around and wave. Then, in the afternoon (because I haven't done enough for one day), we went whitewater rafting. Today, I merely went to a restaurant for lunch. Just because the restaurant was at the top of the Harder Kulm, 2,500 feet above Interlaken is a minor detail. We were quite proud that we annihlated the recommended time - 2 hours, 20 minutes - by 35 full minutes. Old, fat, out of shape me made it up pretty quickly.

Tonight's a barbeque. Then tomorrow we're off to Strasbourg. Oh, and the hostel? Very nice. It's called Balmers (look it up). Lots of pretty 22 year old girls, and dorky 22 year old guys. That aside, it's like everything else here - very clean. But much cheaper than a hotel.

Heard Marc Cohn's Walking in Memphis today. Haven't heard it in a while, but it made me think of being back in the US. I've been to Memphis, and liked it, so hearing the song was like a nostalgia trip.

Ok, that's it for now. I'll flesh it out later.....

Well, it's been fun, but it's time to move on. In a few minutes, we'll leave for Interlachen, then on Tuesday, we'll head up to Strasbourg for phase II, hopefully in much more temperate conditions.

I managed to get in a lot of last minute shopping yesterday, including the purchase of a blazer for our trip to the European courts in two (or is it three?) weeks. And lots of photos, which I can't share (yet) 'cause I don't have a digital camera.

See you soon....

It is 11:45 in the evening. The sun has long since gone to bed, and the temperature outside is now a quite comfortable seventy degrees or so. A soft breeze blows across your face. Above you, the rain clouds of this afternoon have long since gone. Behind you, traffic breezes by effortlessly, and, at times, nearly silently. Ahead of you, and to your right, a group of teenagers sits at the base of a tree, chatting. To your left, a young couple sits, arms around each other, enjoying the view. In front of you is the Arc of Constantine, but you're not looking at that. Instead, your looking at the same thing the couple is. Your head is cocked back, attempting to take it all in: the air, the traffic, the smell, the sound. Your friends are immediately to your right, engaged in a conversation you don't hear. You're in the moment. You think of a friend, someone you've traveled with before, someone you've known for fifteen years, but whom you haven't spoken with since the last day the two of you worked together, one week before you left. You have your cell phone with you, because a new friend said he might call and join you for dinner. You take it out and look at the time. It shows that the time back home is 4:48 pm. The only number you know offhand is your friend's office number, and he's probably long since left. You call anyway, and leave a message.

You tell him how beautiful the night is. You tell him what a lovely city Rome is, and how much you are enjoying being there, but how you wish he could be here too, enjoying a cocktail with you like when you both were in college, and the world was young. You describe the scene and then tell him what you are doing.

You're looking straight up at the Colusseum. And everything is all right in the world tonight.

I will remember you
will you remember me?
don't let your life pass you by
weep not for the memories

Remember the good times that we had?
I let them slip away from us when things got bad
how clearly I first saw you smilin' in the sun
wanna feel your warmth upon me, I wanna be the one

I will remember you
will you remember me?
don't let your life pass you by
weep not for the memories

I'm so tired but I can't sleep
standin' on the edge of something much too deep
it's funny how we feel so much but we cannot say a word
we are screaming inside, but we can't be heard

but I will remember you
will you remember me?
don't let your life pass you by
weep not for the memories

I'm so afraid to love you, but more afraid to lose
clinging to a past that doesn't let me choose
once there was a darkness, deep and endless night
you gave me everything you had, oh you gave me light

And I will remember you
will you remember me?
don't let your life pass you by
weep not for the memories

And I will remember you...
will you remember me?
don't let your life pass you by
weep not for the memories

I Will Remember You, Sarah McLachlin

Last night was the going-away banquet. Around the dorm, there was a general buzz of excitement in the air. The banquet did not officially start until 7:30, but people (especially the girls, but some guys) were getting ready at 5:00. The fact that our wing was down a shower didn't help, as forty men and women attempted to wash off the sweat of the afternoon for the cologne of the evening.

I was pretty unfazed by all this. After all, it was my second going-away dinner at the restaurant we were going to, and my second dinner there this past month, so I knew what to expect. I spent the afternoon writing my paper on the prosecution of rape in Italy, and finally floated upstairs around 6 or so. The showers were full, so I wandered the floor, engaging different people in conversation. Motivated by people in the lounge ironing clothes, I decided that I, too, would iron the shirt of choice for the evening (no, I did not burn the shirt or otherwise destroy it - I can iron, you know).

Lisa stopped by my room as I was shaving to tell me that she and Laura and a few others were heading to the restaurant early so that they could get a table and would I care to join them? I said sure, why not. At around 7:20, Scott, Pat and I floated down to the restaurant with a majority of our classmates, who had properly prepared for the evening with a few 'warmup' bottles of vino.

We invaded the restaurant at 7:40. Chaos soon ensued. The restaurant sits on a hill in Monte Mario, overlooking most of the highlights of Rome (only the Vatican and St. Peters - San Pietro to the Italians - is not visible). People greeted each other enthusiastically, took dozens of pictures, drank copious amounts of wine (our table of nine had seven bottles alone), and, at one point, a large group of people joined voices with Freddie Mercury and sang Bohemian Rhapsody. Loudly. We were not the only people in the restaurant, and I can't imagine with the Italians seated near us thought of all these young, boisterous, loud Americans, some extremely drunk, who continuously shouted vongole! (the Italian word for clam - use your imagination as to what they really were referring to). The batteries on my camera crapped out, of course, so I only got about four or five pictures. I'll have to scam some from those with digital cameras. Speaking of which, I now want one. Badly.

At around 11:30, Dean Jean herded us out the door. About half of us went home, the rest went to Elliott's, the local "English Pub in Italy". Theo, my roommate, had to be cajoled out of his seat in the restaurant, and I thought for sure he'd head home and pass out. Instead, he beat me to Elliott's. He wasn't alone. There's one other Greg on this excursion, and he was so intoxicated he could barely walk. Somehow, with help, he managed to make it back. At one point, I looked at Jen (the one who went with to Sorrento) and asked her how she was doing. "Greg," she answered, "I can't see straight." Chip was babbling on incoherently, and Brad was chasing after any girl who'd listen. At 1:30, we got the closing time boot, and a nice, thirty minute walk back to the Rome Center.

Near the end of the evening, my classmate Erin came up to me.

"You ok?"
"Stone cold sober. Why?"
"Someone said Greg had gotten really wasted, and I couldn't believe that you would do that."
"It was the other Greg, the one down the hall," Brad interjected.
"Oh, good, I didn't think it was you, but you never know."

No, you don't. But everyone had fun. And most of them even made it to class this morning.

Time it was, and what a time it was, it was
A time of innocence, a time of confidences
Long ago, it must be, I have a photograph
Preserve your memories, they're all that's left you

Bookends Theme, Simon & Garfunkel

Scratching where it itches.....

In the interest of satisfying copyright law, and at the same time satisfying ev, one of my growing list of regular commenters, here's a rundown of the lyrics I've quoted recently...

June 2: Frozen, Madonna (Ray of Light); Sounds of Silence, Simon & Garfunkel
June 3: Running to Stand Still, U2 (Joshua Tree)
June 5: Killing Moon, Echo and the Bunnymen
June 9: Gold Dust Woman, Fleetwood Mac (Rumours)
June 11: American Pie, Don McLean; Empty Sky, Bruce Springsteen (The Rising); Letter to Elise, The Cure (Wish)

Those are the ones I could readily look up. For some reason, getting to my archives is not achievable right now, so I can't answer those right off, though I do know I quoted the Jayhawk's Save It For a Rainy Day (Don't look so sad Marina, there's another part to play), and of course, Norah Jones' Don't Know Why, but I did credit that one in the entry for the day (as I backhandedly did for Madonna as well). And finally, how could I forget the Clash classic London Calling.

Most of the time, the music I quote is what was on my mind at the moment, but sometimes it serves to comment on the rest of the post, or, in the case of Letter to Elise, a song I associate with a person (not that I'm madly in love with Elise, but I can't help but think of that song whenever I see her).

So there you have it. Hope that answers your question. And yes, I've been a little lax in posting, not because it's suddenly gotten boring here (it hasn't), but because the computer room here at the Rome Center is not air-conditioned and regularly is at least 10-15 degrees hotter than anywhere else. And when the outside temperature is 96 degrees, well, you can just imagine how comfortable it is to sit in front of a computer for an hour (which is how long it takes me to write the longer posts). Plus, I am supposed to be studying here, so I do occasionally have to do homework.

More later. I promise. Just as soon as I find a computer whose keys do not consistently stick.........and just as soon as I revise my paper on rape.

Lazy Day

A young couple stands at the bus stop, gently holding hands, and speaking softly to each other. I stand near them, in a lightweight Italian-made white polo shirt and gray Haggar pants. My shirt is drenched in sweat. I can feel it running down my back. It is the end of the week, the hottest second week in June since 1742. The temperature nudges ninety-five degrees, and the humidity is just as high. The sun is shining brightly overhead, and a warm breeze provides little comfort as it makes its way down Via Balduina.

Presently, the bus comes. Few people are on it; it's siesta time. There is an attractive woman sitting with her mother, and another sitting alone. The couple decides to stand near the front. I sit across from the woman and her mother. The ride is mostly silent, with an occasional soft word here and there. It's too hot to talk. It's too hot to even think.

The bus stops near the Vatican. I get off, and saunter toward Saint Peter's square. Around me, the symphony of languages has shifted to a mixture - here Italian, there German. I walk around the square, between the columns. The square is nearly empty, but the area between the columns is laden with people seeking refuge from the heat. To my right, boys and girls around 10 years old play, smacking each other with wet bandannas while babbling in Italian. On my left, children and adults gather round a seated nun, listening in rapture to her story. I wonder if it's Sunday school, or just conversation. Then I notice she is not alone - other nuns are doing the same, all while wearing the old black outfit and habit. Parents walk their children; families map out where they wish to go. As I near the basilica, a crowd is forming. Flags held high in the air represent tour guides attempting to gather their flocks. The crowd pushes slowly forward. Do I need a ticket? Is that the hold up? I don't remember needing one last time - I just walked in.

But that was May, 2001, and the world was a different place then. We all lived in safety - terrorism happened only in the third world. Then came September 11th, the worst birthday my friend Miguel has ever had. And now we wait at the basilica for the Polizia to pass over each of us with a metal detector.

Once inside, it's easy to find the Cupola entrance, but not so easy to tell where the line is. People mill about in groups, children run about rambunctiously. An American couple tells me yes, they are in line for the Cupola, and I can follow the chains back to the start. But there is no one behind them, and no one coming down the path, so why should I walk all the way back? The Dutch couple doesn't; they simply duck under the chain. I follow their lead. A French couple expresses surprise at the fact that it is not free.

°Does that mean we need tickets?° an American man asks me, as I stand under the sign proclaiming ticket prices.

°That would be my guess,° I reply.

The cost is four euro if you want to walk, five if you want to take the elevator. I wonder how to communicate that I want to walk, since I didn't take notice of the Italian word for lift, and I can't remember the German one, either. But then I notice most people just pointing to their selection on the sign by the cassa (cashier).

Behind bulletproof glass a man sits, collecting money and dispensing tickets. He wears a uniform, and the light blue color of his shirt is broken by dark rings of sweat. Beads of sweat dot his forehead, and run down his tanned face, stopping at his moustache, or rolling on down his neck. He looks hot and tired and annoyed. I pay him four euro and go inside.

The group in front of me waits at the entrance - there is not room for them on the elevator. I show my ticket, and they let me in. I start up the stairs. They are white, and wide. After about twenty, they are low, covered in reddish tile, and take two steps on the outside to cover, one-and-a-half on the inside. Just as I start to get dizzy, they end, revealing a small open-air area, perfect for photos. I snap a few.

Across the open area, the stairs continue, partially inside, and partially outside. I climb up them, and soon arrive inside. Before me is a sight to behold. Is this the cupola? It is magnificent. I look down, and the inside of the basilica lays before me in all it's beauty. Directly below me is the tomb of San Pietro - Saint Peter. I break out the camera and snap a few more photos. The light breeze by each doorway breaks the oppressive heat. No shorts here - you're not allowed in unless your shoulders and knees are covered. Everyone looks hot.

I take note of the exit, and head for it. As I go out the door, I see a sign - Cupola. It points up a narrow staircase to my right. It hadn't seemed like I'd climbed so many stairs, and I was right. Three hundred and twenty more awaited me. Up I went.

And went. And went. The staircases kept getting narrower and narrower. I could tell where the curve of the basilica roof was - I was forced to walk leaning to my right. Every time I thought I was there, I encountered another staircase. My calves and quads began to tighten, but I was not out of breath. Finally, only one staircase remained. Steep and narrow, a rope dangled from its center to provide a handhold. The stairway was barely wider than my shoulders. The people ahead of me gripped the rope for dear life, their strength at its end.

And then, suddenly, there I was - at the Cupola. Towering above Rome, I could see for miles. In front of me, the Vittorio Emmanuele II monument, called °the Wedding Cake° by Romans. It looked more like a wedding crumb. On my left, Monte Mario, distinguishable by the observation dome. On my right, an immense house (the Pope's?) surrounded by beautiful gardens. And all the while, a strong cool breeze blew. I snapped off the rest of the roll. Eventually, I started back down.

Halfway down was a souvenier stand. I walked through it, looking for a rosary for my sister. They had more than enough to choose from. I remembered that she used to love the color violet, but that was long ago when we were children. Of course, I did have my cell phone with me.......

I think I woke my sister up. She says I didn't, but I think I did. And she still liked violet. We chatted for a bit, and I went back inside. I looked for something else to buy, and finally settled on a nice shot glass for my father's collection. An American woman struggled to communicate with the nun at the cashier. The nun told her she'd take American money, but not American change. The woman stared blankly, not knowing what to do, and holding two dollars in her hand. I took the two dollars, and gave her two euro, eating the forty cent loss. She thanked me.

I paid for the rosary, and the shot glasses (I got one for me, too), and managed to do the whole transaction in Italian. That mini-lesson I'd given myself in Italian numbers back in Sorrento came in handy. I walked down the rest of the stairs, wandered through Saint Peter's for a bit, then dropped my pictures off for processing. Afterward, I went over to the Old Bridge Gelateria, and treated myself to a nice gelato.

Helter Skelter in a summer swelter..

Friday - Recovery

After the events of Thursday night, I needed some downtime. Everyone else was too hung over from the night before, so our original plan for the day - Capri - was scotched. Instead, we hung around the pool for a good chunk of the day, getting mostly sunburnt, and somewhat drunk. Lisa, Bridget and Jennifer came over from Capri (where they were staying) and Lisa and I did some shopping in town.

Later, John, Heather and Jeanne showed up, and Art, Bridget, Tim and I joined them for dinner. Tim knew of a pub at the bottom of a long set of stairs, so we followed him down the stairs. Once inside, we found out that the pub was actually two pubs, a club, a game room, and internet cafe and a whiskey bar, all on six levels. Ironically, we ran into the rest of our contingent while we were there, including J and R, who by now had made up, and were once again all lovey-dovey (though she did spend the night in a different hotel.)
The club was very cool, and the highlight of the evening for me was hearing Tim make an utterly horrible attempt to sing The Police's Every Breath You Take. I lasted about two hours before the lack of sleep from the night before did me in.

Saturday - Capri

After spending Friday recovering, everyone was itching to get some sightseeing in, and our sights were firmly set on Capri. Elise played organizer, making sure everyone was rounded up in time to head out to the port and catch the hydrofoil to Capri. Hydrofoils are tricky things - they ride the top of the water, so a windy, choppy day can turn into one hellacious ride. But Saturday was not such a day, and the ride to Capri was fast and smooth. Once there, we set about finding somewhere to eat. When you get off of the ferry, you immediately notice two things - all the outdoor cafes and the boat rides to the Blue Grotto - only 7 euro!!

We made a mental note of the boat rides, and blew by the outdoor cafes with their shlocky waiters doing their best to cajole us into eating, up to and including blocking our way while holding a menu. Eventually, the nine of us who'd made it settled on a place called Lo Napoli. We were approached first by a man with a Gape Kaplan hairstyle and moustache, who spoke near-flawless English. He was jovial and seemed nice, answering our questions with patience, even when our little group lapsed into immaturity over vongole, or clams (think of it in phallic terms, kids). After a bit, we felt comfortable enough to ask him his recommendation about the boat rides we'd passed. He disparaged the idea, telling us that those rides only took you directly to the Blue Grotto and back, and for a group as large as ours, we'd have a much more enjoyable time renting our own boat for the day. We asked him how much, and he said he wasn't sure but that two hours should run us about 120 Euro (for the boat, not per person). He also noted that the boats by law could not carry more than eight people, so we'd need two. If we wanted to know more, he'd call over a captain. We looked at each other for a minute, and gave the OK.

There was something very familiar to me about the man who came over. For some reason, he looked like someone I knew, and my first instinct was that he was the father of the guide that I'd had the last time I'd come to Capri, in May of 2001. He quoted us 130 Euro for two hours, water included, but beer extra. And he confirmed that we'd need two boats. We agreed to hire him, and he agreed to return in one half an hour with another captain.

Half an hour later, our guide was back. Because some people had left to use the bathroom or buy film, he told us to meet him over where he could pick us up, and I volunteered to follow him so I could lead the others. On the way, I turned to him:

"Do you have a son?" I asked.
"Yes, I do," he answered, somewhat surprised by the question.
"Is his name Luka?"
He looked quite surprised. "Yes, it is. How do you know?"
"I was here two years ago, and he was our guide. All the girls loved him."
This got a hearty laugh. "You're kidding? What a coincidence! Luka's over in Anacapri now." Anicapri is the town on the other side of the island.

We met up with Giovanni (his name) a short while later, and divided into two boats - Bob, Alice, Jen, Chip and Theo in Giovanni's boat, and Tim, Elise, Art and I in Vincenzo's boat. Vincenzo was nice, if not talkative, and if you asked him a question he'd answer it. Our first stop was the Blue Grotto, which we learned was a private grotto, and which required us to take a rowboat inside - at nine euro a head. We decided it wasn't worth the money, especially when Giovanni told us we could swim in the Green Grotto, and see a similar phenomenon there for free. We did swim in the Green Grotto, and enjoyed the impressive natural beauty that is Capri Island. We'd made it nearly around the island when Giovanni stopped and made us an offer:

"Do you want to swim for a bit?"
"Yes!" came the enthusiastic answer.
"Well, you are nearly out of time - it's been almost two hours. If you want to stay, then I'll charge you 150 euro for three hours, and I'll drop anchor here."

We looked at each other. One hundred fifty euros per boat for three hours. Holy crap, that was only twenty more euro per boat for the next hour! I asked him again, just to be sure, but he repeated that the quote was a total, not - as I worried - another 150 euros on top of the 130 we'd already agreed to. So we said yes.

At 4:15 our three hour tour (which did not feature a storm, a professor or either of the Howells, although in retrospect, Elise does kind of resemble Mary Ann) came to an end. Giovanni and Vincenzo backed their boats into the dock and let us off. Since Giovanni had commented earlier that his boat had drank him dry and then some, we braced ourselves for the bill. Three hundred euro, everything included. Floored, we gave him a ninety-five euro tip, and asked for his card. On average, the nine us had spent around forty euro each for a relaxing three hour boat ride and tour. Everyone agreed it was the best part of the vacation so far.

That night, we went and watched the sunset from a spot above the piers, drinking wine, eating cheese and telling John, Heather, Jeanne, J and R what they'd missed.

I woke up this morning
I could barely breathe
just an empty impression
where you used to be
I want a kiss from your lips
I want an eye for an eye
I woke up this morning
to an empty sky

Sunday - Pompeii

Oh Elise it doesn't matter what you say
I just can't stay here every yesterday
like keep on acting out the same
the way we act out
Everyday to smile
forget
And make-believe we ever needed
any more than this
any more than this

Oh Elise it doesn't matter what you do
I know I'll never really get inside of you
To make your eyes catch fire
The way they should
The way the blue could pull me in
if they only would
if they only would

Elise the Trip Planner decided she wanted to do Pompeii. Others decided they wanted to shop Sorrento, then go to Pompeii. Still others decided that, encouraged by the beauty of Capri, they wanted to try Ischia. I elected to go with the Pompeii contingent, even though I'd been there before, simply because sweltering on the streets of Sorrento (the new NBC series - Streets of Sorrento! With...Michael Douglas.....and Karl Malden! [cue cheesy 70's music] A Quinn Martin production) didn't sound exciting. We walked back to the train station, where we thought we'd just made the train. After sitting for a while on an unmoving, sweltering train, we learned we were on the wrong one, and had to move. It hadn't been without entertainment, though. A woman in full bike gear had brought her bicycle on the train, leaving it to go over to the pay phone and make a call. While she was on the phone, the doors closed, and the train began to move. She freaked. Fortunately, the train moved backward, where it could only go a couple of feet.

Pompeii turned out to be the right choice. Everyone wanted to see the casts of the victims, which I was able to guide them to. Once we'd done that, most people eschewed the standard two-hour tour for seeing some different things, like the theaters and the stadium, both of which I'd missed the previous time. After two hours, we ran into the rest of the people who were coming out, and we all rode the train to Napoli together. We arrived with only minutes to spare before the 5:30 train. Bridget, Art, Elise and I jumped on it, while Theo, Kathy, Chip, Bob and Tim decided to hang back and try some pizza. Later, Chip told me they'd found a wonderful pizza place near the station, and enjoyed a great meal.

After all that had happened, though, it was nice to get back, and relax for a bit. I grabbed Scott, my neighbor, and Bridget, Elise, Scott and I went for dinner. By this time, it was pretty obvious to me that Elise was ga-ga for Scott, but her behavior at dinner made it obvious even to a blind man. More on that later......

In the meantime, we enjoyed telling Scott tales of our weekend, and listening to his.

Oh, and what, you might ask, was Bridget's story? She stayed in Anacapri with Lisa, Jen, Kathy and eight others, where she met a nice Italian man who gave her a ride on his scooter and took her breath away.

His name? Luka.

"Bear with me on this..." - Ed S., whenever he was telling a long-winded story..


Thursday - Off to Sorrento!!!!

Rock on- gold dust woman
Take your silver spoon
And dig your grave

Heartless challenge
Pick your path and i'll pray

Wake up in the morning
See your sunrise- loves- to go down
Lousy lovers- pick their prey
But they never cry out loud

Did she make you cry
Make you break down
Shatter your illusions of love
Is it over now- do you know how
Pick up the pieces and go home.

Thursday Morning started out fairly well. Classes went smoothly, and though I had intended to do some things - like add more minutes to the cell phone - I never got to them. The plan was to meet at 3:30, and get cabs over to Termini, Rome's main train station, with the intention of catching the 4:45 EuroStar to Naples. From there, we'd have to take a local train to Sorrento. The EuroStar is a two hour ride, sometimes a bit faster, but the local was an hourlong excursion to go thirty-five miles.

We made it to Termini with about thirty-five minutes to spare, and proceeded to get into two lines - one for the four people with EuroRail passes, one for the seven who needed tickets. After some English-Italian confusion, Chip ordered the tickets for the seven of us, and we all chipped in for our fare. All that remained was for the cashier to print up our tickets. Problem was, the printer wouldn't work. As the clock ticked, we began to get rather nervous. Three-fifty. Four o'clock. Four-ten. Four-twenty. The train was leaving in ten minutes, and we were no nearer to getting on. I told Bob to check what track it was on so we wouldn't lose time when the tickets came. He said it wasn't on the board. Could we be lucky, and the train late? Four-twenty-five. Finally, we get the tickets, with minutes to spare. We make a mad dash for the departure area and......the train has been delayed. To five-fifteen. We had made it.

The rest of the trip to Sorrento was rather uneventful, although it was a long train ride from Napoli to Sorrento on a local train (but at least we didn't have to ride with gypsies, like John and Heather would the next night).

After we were settled in, we went in search of dinner. Having eleven people somewhat limits your choices, but we managed to find what we thought was a decent restaurant, and the waiter seemed very pleasant. It was a ruse, as we found out. When il conto (the check) came, it had a fifteen percent servicio charge, as was stated on the menu. But our waiter, who had spent much of the evening laughing, joking and talking to us about how much he loved America, must have thought we were idiots, as he told us, 'oh no, that's not a service charge (tip), that's VAT.' VAT? On food? There's no VAT (Value Added Tax) on food in Italy. Apparently, he thought he'd slip it by us and get a bigger tip. As the commercial said, sorry Charlie. We left him an extra three Euro.

Afterward, we went drinking at the Merry Monk, right by our hotel. Mistake. Big mistake. HUGE mistake. I stayed fairly sober, and everyone else pretty much got plowed, save for Elise. R and Alice walked Elise back to the hotel when she got tired, but only Alice returned. R had decided to go elsewhere. J, her pseudo-boyfriend, declined to follow her. We closed the Merry Monk around two, and headed back to the hotel.

It was about four-thirty a.m. when I heard the knock on the door. Initially quiet, it grew louder and more persistent. I originally ignored it, thinking it was one of the drunk contingent who'd come back with me. But finally, annoyed, I opened the door. It was Elise, and the story she told me was a fantastic one - R had come back, incredibly drunk, to the room she was sharing with J. An argument had ensued, the hotel manager called, and J had booted R out of the room. R was now downstairs, in tears, hysterical, and the hotel manager was asking her to leave. Could I please do something.

So, nice guy that I am, I did. I went downstairs, and talked to the hotel manager. He informed me that he could give R a room for the night - normally eighty Euro, but for the night he'd make it thirty. I told him to give me the room, and paid him. I dragged R to the room and sat her down on the bed. She was hyperventilating, babbling, and crying. She didn't want me to leave; I told her I'd left the room open (in Europe, only one hotel key is given for each room, and the doors are self-locking. It was dark in the room, and I didn't want to turn on a light to find the key). Finally, I went up to the room, and filled in Elise, and now Alice, on the situation. Alice volunteered to spend the night with R. We went back down, only to find that R was just about to walk out of the room. We shoved her back in. She insisted she was leaving. We told her there was no bus, no train and no cab, so her only way back to Rome was to walk. She said fine, she'd do that. I blocked the door, trying to keep her inside. She claimed that I was falsly imprisoning her (leave it up to a law student to bring up torts). I told her that American laws don't apply in Italy.

Finally, exasperated, I gave up, and let her out. She stormed through the lobby, and the hotel manager, now very worried, chased after her, out into the street. I told him to let her go (she's very petite, and no match for anyone in her drunken state). He raced back in, and told me about a bus, direct to Rome that left at six. It was five-forty. Without my contacts or glasses, wearing the shorts and t-shirt I wore to bed (and running shoes), I ran out of the hotel after her. As I neared the piazza where the bus picked up passengers, a good half-mile plus later (she walked fast, I thought), I finally caught her. I told her about the bus. I walked her to the stop. We met an American couple who agreed to make sure she got on the bus. I gave her a hug and said goodbye. I half jogged, half walked back to the hotel. It was five fifty-five. I walked upstairs, told Elise and Alice all was well, and crawled into bed.

At six-fifteen, the phone rang.

"Hello."
"She back. The woman no leave. She come back, and now she sleep in the room."
"Huh?"
"She no go. She back, and now she sleep."
"Great. Thanks. Buen Notte."

Once again, I crawled out of bed. I went downstairs to make sure she didn't make a scene when she crawled back in. I wasn't going to ask about the couple from Texas.

As I was talking to the manager, telling him R was crazy, she came up to the desk. She wanted to talk to J. The manager was having none of it. He and I walked her back to the room I'd rented for her. He told her to go to sleep, and me to go to my room. She insisted that I stay with her. They argued for a few moments, and eventually, I persuaded him to let me stay with her. He closed the door behind me.

R was babbling, and crying again. I closed the windows, closed the drapes, and turned off all the lights. We both lay down on the bed, where she kept talking, and talking, and I just laid there, eyes closed, hoping she'd fall asleep. Then, after twenty minutes, her voice weakened, then stopped. A few moments later, I heard only her breathing. I started to feel nauseous.

I waited about twenty more minutes, to be sure she was sleeping deeply, and then I crawled out of bed and went back to my room. On the way back, I asked for some tea, which the manager had offered earlier, but the offer had been withdrawn. I got to my room, and spent the next half hour in the bathroom. Finally, at seven-forty, I climbed into bed. At nine, I was awakened by the noise and activity around me. I'd managed to get two hours sleep.

Later that day, R paid me back for the room, and went to another hotel.

I'm baaaaack.

And boy do I have lots to discuss. We had beauty, drama, fun, sun, alcohol, food, alcohol, shopping, alcohol, and lots and lots of heat........

But first, I have a class to get to. And likely no room in the computer lab when I come back. So patience, children.....

Got the legal writing grade.

Got an A.

Very happy. Also got an explanation from the Contracts prof on my grade. She gave quite a bit of detail, which, while not making things better, at least made them understandable.

I am now off to Sorrento. Have a nice weekend, y'all. And Miguel, get back to your desk!

Under blue moon I saw you
So soon you'll take me
Up in your arms, too late to beg you
Or cancel it, though I know it must be
The killing time
Unwillingly mine

Fate
Up against your will
Through the thick and thin
He will wait until
You give yourself to him

In starlit nights I saw you
So cruelly you kissed me
Your lips a magic world
Your sky all hung with jewels
The killing moon
Will come too soon

How not to do things, Part I

Tuesday night was, according to Dean Jean, "The most formal night we'll have here." Accordingly, we were expected to wear suit and tie as we were to visit the Attorney General's office. But because Ryan Air had such strict weight requirements, John and I had both scotched the idea of bringing a suit (and more than five shirts each). Therefore, we didn't have the 'formal attire' expected. Fortunately, DJ allowed us dispensation, and told us a shirt and tie would be sufficient. Good thing, too. Imagine our surprise when we found that we would all be taking public transportation to (and from) the AG's office. Imagine as well the surprise of the ten or so Italians on the bus when 75 American law students piled in, filling the bus to capacity in only its third or fourth stop. It was a sweltering day, and jamming all of us on the bus only made it worse. By the time the bus pulled into Piazza Cavour, not a one of us was dry. My shirt was soaked through with sweat, and most of the women's hair had flopped.

We then walked across the Tiber and through a winding maze of streets until we reached the AG's building. Once inside, we were ushered into a large, white room, with a resplendant fresco on one end, and the undeniably pungent odor of fresh paint throughout. There were at least twenty, if not more, tables arranged in rows of two facing the fresco, and seating three people each in plush red-velvet-and-wood chairs. Beneath the fresco was an extended bench, with nine high-backed chairs, and a microphone in front of each chair. The ceiling of the room was a good twenty feet above, and pitched. The walls were white, save for the wall of the fresco, and the side walls had speakers placed about six feet high at regular intervals. The floor was white tile, the only interruption being some kind of design in the very center of the floor, the purpose or meaning of which was never explained. The tables, chairs, and floor, we soon found out, were all covered in paint dust.

Presently, the members of the AG's office who were going to speak to us came out and seated themselves to our right, while the instructors for our classes, and DJ, were seated to our left. DJ started the presentation off with a little speech welcoming us, and pointing out that there was a bit of an echo. And that's the last thing anyone in the room understood for the next hour. Supposedly, the members of the AG's office spoke on Criminal Law in Italy, Civil Law, Administrative Law, and the makeup of the legal professions, but the acoustics were so bad, the echo so horrendous and the accents so thick, no one could understand a word of what was being said.

We had been told originally that this would be followed by a reception, and then we'd be able to watch the sun set over Rome from the roof of the building. But, like something out of a bad comedy, things kept turning out differently. The reception was cancelled; the horrible 'world economy' was to blame for the tight budgets. (Somehow, we all figured that the AG would actually like to blame the crappy economy in Italy on us, but decided against doing that.) The rooftop excursion was worse. The first elevator only fit eight people at a time, so, concluding that it would be a while before 75 of us all got up there, they decided some of us should take a different elevator - which fit four people. To make matters worse, all of the people who knew the way to the roof went up on the first elevator, and none of them waited for us once there. So, of course, we wandered through offices before someone figured out that we might have gotten lost, and found us. It didn't matter. It was raining.

For their efforts in attempting to educate and inform us, DJ gave each of the AG's staff a gift. A nice CD holder, courtesy of Loyola Law School. Holds 12 CDs. Even has our name embossed on it. DJ made a big deal about how nice a gift it was, while at least two members of the staff stared blankly at it, wondering (we guessed) what the hell it was. They flipped through it, looked at each other, shrugged, smiled and waved a thanks to DJ. And secretly thought we were incredibly cheap. Not one of the students wasn't embarrassed by the cheap gift. One commented, "for all the money we're paying this school, couldn't they have given them a Mont Blanc pen?"

Afterward, a group of us made our way to Piazza Novrona, where we had easily the worst meal of the trip. Not only was the food bad, but the service was terrible, and poor Lisa didn't get her food until we were all nearly done with our meals. Fortunately Liz, who speaks excellent Italian and has been nominated our official guide, was there, and was able to at least get Lisa a meal. Of course we first had to go through lots of gyration and argument, but we did get it - eventually.

.....and the home.....of the.....pope.....

Yesterday morning was the 'papal audience.' I skipped it, having went two years ago, when I was here with the MBA school. So for me, yesterday was a day to sleep in ('til 10), go for a run, do some reading, and generally relax. I was one of a handful of students in all the schools that are here (Loyola-Chicago, Xavier, and Loyola-Marymount) who didn't go.

Another reason I didn't go was because it's not what you think it is. You don't go into a room, meet the pope, shake his hand, and tell him what a great job he's doing unless you're named Clinton, Blair or Bush. This papal audience occurs in St. Peter's square, where you're one of thousands. The pope arrives in the Popemobile, leaning heavily on the roll bar which encircles it, waving weakly to the crowd. He's driven up the stairs leading to the basilica, where a canopied seat awaits him. Two assistants help him to his seat, where he flops down and is handed a long list. First he does a general blessing on the crowd, and any items (crosses, rosaries, etc) that they've brought with them. Then he welcomes groups in their native language (at least the ones he knows) - French, German, Polish, English, and so on - with each group cheering loudly as they're mentioned. After reading the list of groups for that language, he says a blessing for those groups and their families. Then he moves on to the next language. All in all, pretty anticlimatic, except for the thrill of seeing the pope, even if it is at a great distance.

Since the audience was in the morning, classes were held in the afternoon, with a 'picnic/barbeque' afterward. Of course, as has been typical so far, things went wrong - they ran out of food before they ran out of people.

This morning, we were told that there would be another 'picnic' after our Supreme Court (Court of Cassation) visit next week. And they promised to have more food. I hope so.

I need to go pack. I leave for Sorrento in two hours. And I do have a picture of me with the goatee. I just need to get Tim to post it.

A long, long, time ago, as a high school freshman, I was selected to be a teacher's aide by an English teacher named Frank Della. Mr. Della was an interesting person, whom I never really felt comfortable around. But he had some influence at old ABS, and his student aides were able to pretty much do whatever we wanted. I don't know whatever became of Mr. Della, but I do remember one cliche he taught me: Familiarity breeds contempt. I didn't know what he meant back then, but I do now. All too well in some cases.

When you're in law school, you spend an inordinate amount of time with the same people, day in, day out. Some are arrogant mothers, who you just want to bitch-slap until they cry like babies. Others are wonderful people whom you can't wait to see. Most fall somewhere in between. Another thing they'll tell you is that "Law School X" (fill in the name of your school) is not competitive. This is complete and utter bullshit. Ok, so there are people who are willing to help each other out. But then there are those who live for grades.

Take Heather and John, for example. Heather is a former flight attendant, who is now going to law school full-time. There were four write on opportunities for law journals this past month, and Heather did them all. She also tried out for Moot Court, and spends her time mostly studying. She seems nice at first, but get to know her, and you won't like what you see. She's all about the grades. Case in point: last night, I was in Scott & Patrick's room when Heather came in. First comment out of her mouth? "I checked the website, and no new grades have been posted yet." Hello!!! We're in FUCKING ROME!!! Why do you care what the grades are? Moreover, why do you think I care?

John's no better. When I told him Contracts grades were in, he immediately got up from his chair and went to the computer lab to check. And he's become friends with Willis, arguably the most arrogant asshole I've met here (or in Chicago, for that matter). John would like the three of us to go to Interlachen between classes, and maybe have Willis' roommate join us. Now, God forgive me for saying this, but I don't think I could find three more boring people to spend time with on this planet. I'd much rather pay for Moxie and Joanie to fly to Zurich than spend a weekend with these three. Hell, I'd rather spend a weekend being tortured by Hitler. How arrogant is Willis? Well, it's hard to say, but I've yet to meet anyone here with kind words for him. And he uttered my favorite line last week: "I've already begun formulating my answer to the final exam question." THAT was on Day 3 of class. We still have 3 weeks to go, for chrissake, how the hell can you even.....oh, never mind.

And John-boy pissed me off by asking if I was still chasing Elise. Now, I do like Elise, and if given the opportunity, I'd date her in a New York minute. But 1.) she started seeing someone right before she left for Rome whom she seriously likes, 2.) She told me she'd like to fix me up with a friend of hers, which is a pretty good indication she's not interested in keeping me for herself, 3.) New Boyfriend is attempting to make arrangements to meet her here in Europe. So my guess is, I'm not on her radar screen. But I've learned how fast rumors spread, and my guess is the Loyola rumor mill now has Elise and I as an item. Especially since we are both going to Sorrento together, and since John specifically commented that "I [John] don't know what the room arrangements are." I quickly mentioned she was staying in a room with two other women. Thank God he wasn't at dinner with us last night, when Elise and I both ordered the same dinner, and split a salad. Egads! Even worse - we both had the same gelato!!! Never mind that, outside of asking if I'd like to share a salad with her, Elise didn't consult me on any meal choices, and it was pure coincidence that we got the same food. Nope, that means there's more there. If Elise is attracted to me, she hasn't done anything outward to show it. Either that, or I'm seriously blind. Which isn't out of the question. Either way, I'd much rather have anything that may develop between us do so without interference from miserable, meddling people.

Oh, and I should mention that a hot rumor around school has Heather and John as a couple, something they've continuously denied, even in face of evidence that they're more than friends. Interesting, huh?

The wheel just keeps spinning, no matter where it is.

And so she woke up
Woke up from where she was lyin' still.
Said I gotta do something
About where we're goin'.

Step on a fast train
Step out of the driving rain, maybe
Run from the darkness in the night.
Singing ah, ah la la la de day
Ah la la la de day.

One thing I've learned about national holidays: when they're you're own, they're an event, because you've learned to plan accordingly, or someone has, and you find a nice way to spend the day. When they're someone else's, it can be a long day.

Yesterday was the Italian Unification holiday. Unlike the United States, which was already united colonies which broke away from Britain, Italy was a series of independant nation-states, which were joined together by Victor Emmanuelle II in the late 1800's. Oh, sure, at one time Rome ruled most of the known world, and Italy was one country, but this wasn't always the case. Italy went through several different versions before what we now know as Italy came to be. In his honor, the government of Italy spent 30 years building a monument to Victor Emmanuele II. Immense, white, and illuminated at night, the monument got the nickname "the wedding cake" from the Romans. Most don't like it, finding it gaudy and pretentious. Others just deal with it. It's size and characteristics make it easily the most recognizable of all of Rome's sights, which helps when you're on the hills trying to point out the Vatican, the Colliseum, and other landmarks. You just start with the wedding cake, and move left or right as needed. Another notable point about the monument is that it is where the tomb of the unknown soldier resides in Italy. Closed for a number of years (25 or more) to the general public, it was recently re-opened. We visited it last week, and several of my classmates were admonished by the military guard for running up the stairs (I declined to join them, and so escaped admonishment).

Anyway, I digress. Yesterday was a national holiday. And, like national holidays in the US, everything was pretty much closed. Only restaurants, cafes and the occasional store was open. So, like Sunday, it was a good chance to catch up on homework, and I took full advantage to get up to speed on class reading.

In the evening, Brian, Elise, Lisa, Bridget, Scott, Laura and I headed up to the Zodiac Cafe, one of two restaurants (the Il Bagat that John, Jeanne and I visited last week being the other) on the hills of Monte Mario. It's an up-and-down kind of deal. A nice, sloping downhill walk to the the driveway's entrance, followed by one killer uphill climb. When I was in Rome two years ago, several of us went for a jog. Even the best runners had a hard time making the hill climb.

Anyway, it's a nice, elegant restaurant with a killer view, and indoor and outdoor dining. Unfortunately, with our group of seven (G7?), the restaurant seated us inside. For the first time in two weeks, we felt the coolness of true air conditioning. We sat down, and quickly ordered two bottles of wine - una vino rosso (red) e una vino bianco (white). Now, for the uninitiated, there are three types of restaurant in Italy: the Pizzeria, which is the bottom rung, is often cheap and carries a limited menu - mostly pizzas, salads, and appetizers, though some may have sandwiches; the Trattoria, which serves multiple courses, and is a bit pricer; and the Ristorante, the nicest, and priciest of them all, which traditionally serves a 5-course meal - antipasto, first course, second course, insalate (in-sa-latte, or salad) and dolci (dol-chay, or sweets). The Zodiac is of the latter type. Rule 1 is that when you dine at a Ristorante, you don't just order one course and leave - that's an insult to the cook and the restaurant. Unfortunately, I'd had done that in previous days with others, and was not inclined to do so again last night. So as I declared my intent to do the full meal (or what I could of it), Brian was asking, "are we doing the whole meal, or are we insulting these people?"

Fortunately, my dinner companions were all of the same mind. We got the wine, then we ordered the antipasto. The antipasto came, and we ordered more wine, and the first and second courses. The first course came, and we got some wine. The second course came, and we got some wine. Then we talked for a bit. Then we got more wine. And the dolci. The food was wonderful. we ordered calimari, ham and cheese, and salmon for appetizer (antipasto). Scott, Lisa and I all got the same first course, a seabass/mussel mix which was quite delicious. Brian got the gnocchi, which he thoroughly enjoyed (he also got a nosebleed, which left me to order for him). Brian and I both got the veal scallapini for dinner. (Just thinking about all this is making me hungry again, and I just had lunch.) For dessert, we split Tiramisu, Panna Cotta, and Gelato. Our waiter loved us, and he should have. When the bill came, I grabbed it looked at it, and made everyone guess as to how much they thought it was. Estimates ranged from 550 to 700 euro, so I knew no one would be floored by the total bill - 398 euro. Over half was attributable to the seven or eight bottles of wine that we consumed. We divvied up the total (62 euro each), ignored the unfavorable exchange rate (about $1.20 to each euro, according to someone), polished off the rest of the wine, bid our waiter adieu, and stepped out into the Roman evening.

Halfway up/down (depends which way you're going which one you'll use) the hill, there's a spot where you can stop and take some captivating pictures of Rome. We'd stopped on the way up to do just that, but now, as we were going down, Scott lamented that the gate was locked, and we couldn't take anymore pictures. But then I noticed a whole in the gate that another couple was using, and we made our way through it. Bridget and Brian walked on, but Laura, Lisa, Elise, Scott and I took more pictures of Rome at night.

On the way back to the Rome Center, we passed one of those little photo booths, out in the middle of nothingness. We all piled in, and spent our last loose coin trying to get a picture of the five of us together. It didn't come out as planned. We continued walking back, and the girls peppered Scott with questions about his relationships, who he dated, etc. etc. (Scott's a New Yorker living in San Diego, on the trip with Loyola). I walked about twenty feet behind, clearly out of the conversation, just watching the two single women and one married one battle for the attention of the lone single guy in their age range.

And we all agreed it was the best night we've had in Rome so far.

Sweet the sin, bitter the taste in my mouth.
I see seven towers, but I only see one way out.
You gotta cry without weeping, talk without speaking
Scream without raising your voice.
You know I took the poison, from the poison stream
Then I floated out of here, singing
Ah la la la de day
Ah la la la de day.

She walks through the streets
With her eyes painted red
Under black belly of cloud in the rain.
In through a doorway
She brings me white golden pearls
Stolen from the sea.

She is ragin'
She is ragin'
And the storm blows up in her eyes.
She will suffer the needle chill
She's running to stand still.

Question of the day:

Do I keep the goatee I grew just for fun last week, or ditch it? It's not totally filled in; I don't have a lot of hair around the lower side of my mouth, and it itches like crazy. But a few of the women have commented they like it.......problem is, they're all 'taken'. Maybe I should post a picture, and take a vote...

You only see what your eyes want to see
How can life be what you want it to be
You're frozen
When your heart's not open

You're so consumed with how much you get
You waste your time with hate and regret
You're broken
When your heart's not open

Mmmmmm, if I could melt your heart
Mmmmmm, we'd never be apart
Mmmmmm, give yourself to me
Mmmmmm, you hold the key

Not every day is an adventure; some days are just mundane. Some days you travel, and sit three hours on a train ride home; others you sit two hours in a courtyard, reading about comparative civil procedure, while Madonna floats faintly on the wind.

It's amazing how some parts of life can easily be left behind, yet they seem so essential to us when they're available. Television's a good example. It's not like we're in the boondocks here - there is a TV in the lounge. But save for the first night here, when I couldn't really get to sleep and was wide awake at five in the morning, I haven't watched it. I know - how could I, when it's all in Italian. But there is CNN, and there is a VCR, and English-language movies can be rented from the Blockbuster Video (you read that right) a short walk from the Rome Center.

Music's another matter. I miss having it around, because I almost always have the radio on at home. To me, music defines my life. I remember what song was on the radio the last time I walked out of a job I really hated, even though it was just over nine years ago this past month (Heartbreak Beat by the Psychedelic Furs, if you must know). Certain songs bring back memories every time I hear them. I don't think I'm alone in this regard.

So it was with yesterday. It was a slow day, with the morning spent doing laundry, and a good chunk of the afternoon spent blogging and blog-surfing. I finally decided to enjoy the weather and do some reading outside around 2 or so. Someone with the graduate school, newly arrived from Chicago, brought not only a CD player, but speakers (or maybe it was a boom box). Thoughts of "why did you bring that" aside, it was nice to hear some music for a change, for if there's not a cacophony of voices in the courtyard, there is silence.

Hello darkness my old friend
I've come to talk to you again
Because a vision softly creeping
Left its seeds while I was sleeping
And the vision
That was planted in my brain
Still remains
Within the sound of silence

Presently, the pseudo-DJ was visited by friends, and declarations of welcome and happiness overrode the soft music. Eventually, it was shut off, and silence once again returned to the courtyard. I finished my reading, and went off to lift weights. A while later, I went for a run.

One interesting thing about the meaning of words is that they have different meanings for different people. Your idea of 'dry' is obviously not the same as an Italian's. Or maybe it's your idea of the function of a dryer. Either way, after washing and 'drying' my clothes, I still had most of them scattered about the dorm room, in an attempt to finish what the dryer started, for a good portion of the afternoon. Fortunately, I went for my run around 5:30, and by the time I came back, at least one shirt was dry enough for me to wear.

Around 9:00, I met up with Nicole and Anna, and they introduced me to Paul, one of the undergrad instructors for Xavier University, which is also offering a class here. The four of us trekked to Elliot's, a pseudo-English pub, where we enjoyed the pleasures of Bass Ale, and good American-like steaks. After the usual three-hour dinner, we came back around midnight, and I went to bed.

Not every day is an adventure, but even the mundane ones have their hidden moments.

Firenze

I waited 'til I saw the sun
I don't know why I didn't come
Left you by the house of fun
I don't know why I didn't come
I don't know why I didn't come

When I saw the break of day
I wished that I could fly away
Instead of kneeling in the sand
Catching teardrops in my hand

My heart is drenched in wine
But you'll be on my mind
Forever

Out across the endless sea
I would die in ecstacy
But I'll be a bag of bones
Driving down the road alone

Saturday morning came with a bang. And a thump. And the incessant buzzing of a drill. The workmen were back, working on the bathroom. Didn't they know it was 8:00a.m.? Didn't they know we didn't have class today? DIDN'T THEY KNOW WE WERE ALL HUNG OVER?

Well, not all of us. Just those of us who were left behind, with no weekend plans. I was one; my roommate another. I was going to go with Lisa and Mary and Erin and company to Firenze early in the morning, so I could maximize shopping time. But the alarm found me in a dreamy mood, and I decided to sleep in my comfortable bed. I got up, showered, lazed around for a bit, and finally, after grabbing a quick mushroom omlette panini (note to self: next time, tell Rinaldo to leave the ketchup out of it), I began my journey. Marilyn, who I didn't particularly care for on my last trip here, seemed to be more pleasant this time around. She even gave me a tip on how to get to the Metro quickly. It was surreal, standing in the Italian Metro station. listening to Norah Jones.

I got to Termini station just before noon. I went up to an automated ticket booth to find and buy a ticket on the next train to Firenze (Florence). To my delight, a Eurostar train left in just over half an hour. I punched in my order for a second-class ticket. Alas, I wasn't able to get one. At first, I thought it was a problem with the method(s) of payment I'd chosen, but it soon dawned on me that it might be that second class was sold out. That turned out to be an accurate guess. First class was open though, so I got on.

Eurostar trains are generally nice, clean and very quiet, especially first class. Seating is 4-and-2, with an aisle between the 4 and the 2, so I picked one of the "2" seats. Since I was traveling alone, I figured it would be the better choice. As it were, in the section of four seats across the aisle from we were two young (about 15-16) Italian girls, very pretty, and quite fashionably (if casually dressed). They were joined by a older (mid-40's) woman who arrived breathless from running for the train. Quite generously, one of the girls offered the woman a cup of water, which made me wonder if that was because a.) she was a woman, b.) she was older (that's important here in Italy) or c.) they were always that nice. The last seat in the group remained empty. Across from me sat an early-thirties Italian gentleman, who alternatively read the paper or talked on the phone. The only thing noticeable about him, aside from the fact that the hands-free headset never left his ear, was that he had quite the lisp. I noticed, because at one point I'd had one, and after a couple years of therapy, no longer do. Anyway, the ironic thing about the trip was the topic of conversation between the two girls. One had a binder with her, with a drawing of the US on it, and words that appeared to proclaim it as a study manual about the United States. She spent a considerable amount of time reading from her manual to the other one, complete with commentary, not one word of which I could understand. I SO wanted to ask what they were discussing, particularly when they appeared shocked at something the book told them about Americans. I wound up falling asleep midway through the trip instead, dreaming that I could speak better Italian.

Firenze is a compact city. It's easily walked in a day. Filled with shops, outdoor markets, and outdoor cafes, you hear more American accents there than in Rome. It's sort of a tourist Mecca. There's plenty to see - the Uffizi museum, the Academe (home of Michelangelo's sixteen-foot-high David), Ponte Vecchio, the Boboli Gardens, and of course, the markets. People come from all over the world to shop Firenze's markets, where shoes, leather goods and jewelry rule the day. As Jeanne said later in the day, "every five booths this stuff repeats." And it does. Want a leather jacket? There's hundreds to choose from. But be careful - the prices are cheap (a hundred euro for a jacket, or about $117) but the quality may be as well. And the salespeople can be shifty. In one booth, a vendor with beer-soaked breath pointed out to me the different kind of jackets he had, all for a hundred euro and up. "These are lambskin, these are COW. If you want sommating different, I have dose (as he pointed to ugly suede jackets), or if you want sommating warm, for da cold, I have buffalo, over dere." Now, I'd never seen a buffalo coat before, so of course, I looked. And it seemed to be quite the heavy coat. But since I was looking for a nice, date-appropriate leather jacket, I passed on the buffalo.

Just before I'd met beer-soaked guy, I'd met Carmen. Tall, with big, captivating, brown eyes and long dark hair, her accent was like warm butter on toast, but her English was outstanding. She'd come over when one of the street guys had coaxed me into the off-street store to show me more men's jackets, and was trying to pick my size. She took one look, and guessed right. It was a deep burgundy colored jacket, which looked very nice with the grey Haggar pants I was wearing. She showed me all of the highlights of the jacket - the reinforcing button on the inside of the coat, the two interior pockets, and the lining. She talked about how the leather would give over time, and that's why the one I was wearing was good enough (that, and the fact that the already-long sleeves would be a bit longer in the bigger size). She talked about how the leather was made, and how to properly care for it. And she told me that if I didn't like the color, it also came in black. We spent a bit of time looking at different types (the burgundy was made of lambskin), but she wasn't pushy in the least. In fact, when I told her I wanted to think about it, she graciously wrote down the style, size and price, and her name and told me they'd be open until seven.

Then I went and looked some more. I used my cell phone to call my parents back home, and asked about prices there, to make sure I wasn't overpaying for what I could possibly get back home. They were happy to hear from me, especially Mom (Dad and I had discussed business-stuff the night before, but when Mom came on, I had to cut her short, as I was at a Pizzeria, and dinner was arriving). Eventually, I wandered to the end of the market, where another store was. I went inside, and nearly didn't get out. The salespeople combined efforts. If I didn't jump for joy at a jacket (or even said I didn't like it) I quickly got another.

"Is nice, no?"
"Umm. Well, no."
"You no like? Wait. Mario, (unitelligible Italian, spoken at rapid-fire speed)." Mario ran off. "I send him to other stores. We have lots of styles. You find one you like."

I found one there that was marginally decent. "Quonta costa (how much)?" I asked.

"One hundred forty euro." Carmen wanted one hundred seventy for hers.

This continued on for a good thirty minutes. She'd give me a jacket, I'd put it on, look less than enthused, get another. All the while, the one I'd initially shown interest in kept dropping in price - first one forty, then one twenty-five, then one ten, finally, one hundred even. But the closer I looked, the more flaws I saw. The mariginal interest one gathered when I buttoned the buttons ("that's from the cell phone you're wearing," she said), and it was kind of, well, wrinkled, at the bottom. Another had loose threads. Finally, at five after six, I thought of a way out of this Hotel California-ish situation.

"Oh, my," I said, looking at my watch. "I'm late. Can I come back? I'm supposed to be meeting my wife." No, I'm not married, and don't even have a girlfriend, but desperate times.....

"You wife? Where you meeting her?"
"By the Duomo." This, I knew, was a considerable walk from where we were.
The saleslady spoke with another woman, whom I'll call tailor lady, even though saleslady told me tailor-lady was the owner. "She'll go with you."
"Uh, I don't think that would be a good idea." Clearly, they had no intent of letting me get away without buying a jacket.
"No, no. It's okay, she help you find your wife."
"Well, that's very nice, but my wife might not see it that way."
Quick Italian conversation. "You mean, she'd fight with you, eh?"
"Right. She's a bitch that way. Very possessive."
"Ok. You bring her back." Quick Italian conversation. "One hundred euro. You get nice jacket."
"Right. I'll be back soon."


Carmen was very happy to see me. She brought out a black jacket in my size, and I tried it on. When I pointed out that the little thingy sewn into the collar and the label (ostensibly for hanging the jacket from a hook) was fraying, she looked for another. Failing to find one, she immediately repaired the damage, double stitching to make it fast. "There," she said when finished, "I fixed it. My sewing is not so pretty, but it will hold. And it is inside, so only you will see, anyway."

We made some small talk, and I found out she was from Mexico originally and had come to Europe three years before to travel. "And then I came to Firenze, and I thought it was beautiful, so I stayed for a little while. And then I knew a man.......and I stay longer." I looked at her finger. It must have been some man - she was wearing the Rock of Gibraltar. I wondered if the Brits knew it was missing. Eventually, I left with my purchase, and went to meet John, Heather and Jeanne for dinner.