Thursday, November 30, 2006

The Legend of England: The Mask of Thanksgiving

Location: London, England
Chips Status: Actually French Fries

November 21

After a truly bangin' 3 hours of sleep, I'm up at the ass-crack of dawn to catch the shuttle to Ciampino airport. While checking out, I discover that Rich, the Canadian guy I'd been partying with a bit, is not only going to Ciampino as well, but he has the exact same flight to London that I do. Fancy that. With a traveling buddy now successfully aquired, we set off on our quest of cityhopping. Ding! RICH has joined the party!

The shuttle ride to the airport is expensive at 8 Euro and long at 45 minutes. Stupid far away airports. When we get there I'm famished, so I grab a quick panini before jumping into the swirling mess that is the check in and security lines. Ever seen a school of carp feasting on Dorito crumbs? This setup is much the same. It takes a full hour to get through the check in line, capped by a minor victory as I have managed to get my pack down to 15.1 kilograms (anything over 15 kilos and Ryanair rips your wallet out through your anus, and no way was I about to let them overcharge me for a tenth of a friggin' kilo). Security takes about another hour and a half, but actually passing through goes off without incident.

There is an almost inaudible announcement over the airport intercom: "Due to security reasons, all flights are delayed." Huh. Oh, well. Rich and I bust out a deck of cards and throw down with some Rummy, prison style, yo. After another 2 hours of delays we hop on the shuttle to the plane, then the plane itself, and we're in for an eventful, 2-hour flight to London. Upon disembarking, we learn that the "security reasons" mentioned in the very unthreatening announcement were in fact a bomb threat at the Ryanair terminal at Ciampino airport. I am not even kidding. We were boarding a plane that someone had threatened minutes ago to terminate by means of high explosives, and no one had seen fit to tell us of the fact. Thanks, dicks.

Let me tell you about British passport control. I had heard from various other Americans that, while British border control agents present a kind and reasonable face to the rest of the world, when presented with an American traveler they morph into a hideous beast that most clearly resembles a hunchbacked, colicky Medusa. Rich and I stepped up to the counter at the same time. He was away in about 45 seconds after a routine, cursory questioning. I, on the other hand, was interrogated in a manner that Jack Bauer would have deemed excessive. "Where are you coming from? Where are you going? Where are you staying here? Do you have an address for that? Where are you staying in Ireland? Do you have an address for that? How much money do you have? What kinds of account is that in? Do you touch yourself at night? What types of woodland creatures do you enjoy torturing most? Do you believe yourself to be Thor, Lord of Thunder and Commander of Storms?" It took me 20 minutes to get through the stupid thing, and even then it was a near thing. I'm now taken of the fact that the purpose of British border control is to keep the Colonials out.

After making it through, Rich and I make our way to the city bus lines, seeing as how Stansted airport is actually about an hour's drive outside of the city and walking would be troublesome. Here we must part ways, for he is going to Victoria and I to Liverpool Street. Dong! RICH has left the party! The bus ride there is like all English transport: overpriced and lengthy. When I finally get into the city, famished, I grab some cheap chicken to settle the rumbly stomach and check out the Tube.

The London Underground (or "tube," since calling it a "metro" or "subway" like everyone else would be simple and easily understood, and thus inherently un-English) was clearly designed by a psychotic child who used his own ulcer-ridden intestines as a guideline. After staring at the map and instructions for about 15 minutes, I come to the conclusion that the whole thing is far too complex and expensive for me to bother with right now, so I settle into the business of walking from Liverpool Street Station to my hostel in Camden town, a trek about halfway across downtown London, or (in English measurements) 72 furlongs. Walking over hilly terrain for an hour with 50 pounds on my back jacks up my badass-o-meter to comfortable levels, especially since I managed to do it without a decent map. Truly I am well on my way to becoming a wandering kung-fu master.

The hostel is 7 pounds for the night and worth every penny. Cramped, dirty, and poorly furnished. Perfect. The night is a simple one. I grab some fish and chips and chill around. The only other guests I meet are a couple of girls from Liverpool who are in town for the Modest Mouse concert a few blocks away (which is sold out already, sadly). They are quite cool, especially since they bought me more fish and chips at 1:30 in the morning because I jokingly asked them to. God bless friendly, good-natured girls. They are far too rare.

November 22

I'm out the door early this morning to meet Colleen at Heathrow airport. It's a bit of a late start, and due to the peculiarities (i.e. tortures) of the Tube, I arrive there slightly after I would have hoped. I manage, though, to get to the Lufthansa arrival gate in time. I am thus confused when Colleen fails to appear at the designated time, and upon inquiry at the information desk I find that this Luftansa flight is arriving at the British Air terminal. Of course! How silly of me not to have known that. A blazing walk to the other terminal and I have located Colleen!

Ding! COLLEEN has joined the party!

Colleen, for those of you who don't know, is another of my friends from Australia. She and I have been trying to get our paths to cross for some time, and ironically (ironic because we both live on the eastern seaboard of the United States) it seems that England is where it was to happen. We will be touring around the British Isles for the next 20 days, so she's an important figure for the next bit. Colleen is the ultimate devil's advocate. She possesses a remarkably sharp wit, tempered by one of the fairest capacities for judgement I've ever seen. In many ways she is a conundrum to me. She drinks but does not dance, laughs but does not sing, jokes and ridicules but is never harsh. She is extremely organized and capable in a way that often makes me look like an idiot child in need of its mother, and affable in a way that makes me feel like an autistic hermit. I feel much of the time that she is the brains of our little operation and I am the heart. It's a good balance. Perhaps most important for this trip, she has a remarkable immunity for the veritable tide of crap that pours forth from my vocal cords. She'll need it.

We have our greetings and then head out to our hostel, one that she has stayed at in her previous trips to England. It's on the west-central side of the city, near Ravenscourt Park, and is one of the most upscale hostels I've ever stayed at (reflected in the price, believe me). We get settled and then try to do some exploring, but are cut short by miserable, rainy weather. Never to be discouraged, we manage to pop into a local movie theatre to take in "Borat." After laughing hysterically for an hour and half, we head back to the hostel, hoping for better weather tomorrow. On the way, I finally manage to get my hands on an English-French dictionary and grammer book. I'm going to need it.

November 23

Happy Thanksgiving! Our first stop on this most American of holidays is a free walking tour of downtown London. This deal seems too good to be true, but it really is just that good. The tour is run by an American chap who is in the habit of jumping European cities every few months and setting himself up as a tour guide, always working for the same company. He happens to have been the one who designed the London tour quite recently, so he's on the absolute top of his game.

There was a lot contained on this tour, but let's see if I can successfully bullet-point the highlights:

-The Monument. Full name "The Monument to the Great Fire of London," it's a giant pillar topped with a golden flame. Erected in remembrance of the entire city going up like a malnourished Salem girl in 1666.
-Church of St. Magnus the Martyr. Mainly notable for the 2000 year old wooden beam from the Roman occupation of the city that sits across the entrance. Emphasis placed on the fact that this is Europe. Where the history comes from.
-London Bridge. Stupid-looking, normal bridge. Great view of the Tower Bridge, though, which is actually interesting.
-Banking District. Rich guys with expensive suits everywhere. Colleen practically salivating over how well English guys wear suits. They're still ugly, though, so my American ego avoids bruising. Statue of Wellington in a banking square on anatomically correct horse. Give finger.
-Millenium Bridge. Very modern bridge that came close to being a lethal architectural disaster. Very shiny. Stare for several minutes.
-Globe Theatre. Seen from a distance. Less wooden than watching "Shakespeare in Love" had led me to believe. Stupid Hollywood.
-Blackfriar's Bridge. Actually 3 bridges built at different times, one of which had to be dismantled due to poor construction and is now just a collection of giant pillars in the Thames. Aren't the English supposed to be good engineers? Did I make that up?
-London Eye. Giant ferris wheel, only not. Shameless money-grubbing scheme from the city. Kinda cute, though.
-St. Paul's Cathedral. Big, pretty church. Epic story about how it escaped bombing and was a (the?) main priority for British firefighters during the blitz. Flip off.
-Covent Garden. Pretty square. Busker central. Eat lunch here, pork and apple pasty (sandwich). Lots of kamikaze pidgeons.
-Temple Church. Home of the Knights Templar in England. Suitably fortressy. Disappointed that no knights are still around wreaking havoc in the name of God. Flip off. Shed lone tear.
-Trafalgar Square. Badass. Big square containing numerous embassies and houses of other nations in the Commonwealth. Also home of National Gallery. Dominated by huge pillar monument to Lord Nelson, surrounded by 30-foot lions. When I die, I want a monument erected to me that has a statue of me at the top in a manly pose, surrounded by fierce giant hunting mammals. Like this guy. I don't suppose being really good at Soul Caliber qualifies me for that, huh?
-Buckingham Palace and St. James Park. Standard palace, really. Kinda lackluster, though. Nothing special about it except that the Queen lives there. The guards aren't even out in splendor. Do get to see the horse guards, though, who are neat in their own right. Even if they do walk like they're drunk.
-Big Ben, Parliament, and Westminster Abbey. All right next to each other. Just like you would imagine they look. A bit of flipping off here. Sit in front of the church for a few minutes as tour guide recounts the tale of Guy Falkes.

And that's the end of the tour. We managed to see most of London in four and a half hours, and I'm freakin' tired. On our way home, we stumble upon a statue of Abraham Lincoln not far from Westminster Abbey. Does this seem weird to anyone else? Why is our president immortalized in stone in England? Huh.

We now embark upon the quest for all of the foodstuffs that we'll need for a bitchin' Thanksgiving dinner. It's a long quest, involving no fewer than 3 supermarkets, but we get the job done. There's also several hours of cooking, but that goes off moderate well also. I don't have a reliable recipe for candied yams, so I kinda have to fake it, and there are apparently no pie crusts for sale in England (proving my theory that the English are seriously desert deficient) so we are forced to use the much shallower and sweeter tart crusts we find with some difficulty. All in all, though, it turns out delicious, and we have a very pleasant dinner, a sort of centerpiece for the American cultural pride that is sure to surface like a mighty serpent of the deep when we are reunited with our foreign colleagues of old.

Tastiness complete. London, we'll be back.

Progress Thus Far:
Countries Visted: 10
Stupid Tourist Moments: 87
Monuments Flipped Off: 69
Free Food Ganked: 14
Free Booze Ganked: 34

so go on
if this'll make you happier
it got you this far
do what you have to
-Guster

Sunday, November 19, 2006

Best City Ever!

Location: Rome, Italy
Local Ruins: Ruined

This is the big one. Rome, the city where all roads lead. When here, you do as they do. The center of the friggin' world. I must destroy it.

November 16

My train out of Florence is quite early, and I almost miss it due to my ludicrous insistence on a morning shower. See, as a backpacker, a good shower is something to treasure, a rare and beautiful beast that might vanish it not clutched tightly to one's breast. My Florence hostel, Albergo Paola, happens to have great showers, and I can't just abandon them without saying goodbye. However, on the tail end of some intense power-walking and no small amount of fantasized witch-burnings, I manage to get on the correct train.

Arriving in Rome - at the correct station, I might add, I realize that I completely forgot to get directions to the hostel I'm staying at. Clearly this is the fault of our languishing American education system. Fortunately, my Daring Commando skills come to the front, and I am able to dash into a nearby internet cafe for a couple minutes to obtain directions without having to pay. Ha HA!

The hostel - known as The Yellow - is a scant four blocks away from the train station, and is extremely large and well-organized, though expensive. Arriving, I find one bed in my room occupied by a hungover Canadian named Dan, with whom I make a quick aquaintenceship, then head out on my own. There is barely any daylight left, and I have ancient structures to wash with my drool before bed.

I'm out the door and speeding down the road to the closest piece of badassery I can find, the Colosseum. I did not get to explore it very much tonight due to the late hour (4:30 PM, yikes!), so I'll save the description for tomorrow, when the real delving begins. I was treated, however, to the rather hilarious sight of a Roman legionaire - "You, take picture?" - tucking his sword under his arm and lighting up a cigarette. Does the tobacco remind you of the fragrant fields of blood-soaked Germania?

Heading home, I manage to get thoroughly lost through a combination of my own absentmindedness and poor maps and end up backtracking all the way to the Colosseum to try again. Second time's the charm, and I'm good to go. Before settling in I head to a local grocery store for some foodables, enabling me to construct a delicious chicken curry in-hostel for the next several evenings. Meat, good.

And I'm done.

November 17

Upon rising this morning, I find myself confronted with the - yet again - hungover presences of Dan the Canadian and his new drinking buddy, Greg the South African. As we are getting up at about the same time and all quite hungry, we join forces for the day for food and sightseeing. Setting off to hit the Colosseum, this time at a reasonable hour, we stop on the way for cheap pizza and some hair of the dog at an Irish pub, the only apparent qualification for "Irish" being the presence of Guinness somewhere in a 3-block radius.

Ok, the Colosseum. Let me put my impressions here in context, because it's important that everyone be on the same page here. I don't want to overstate anything here, but the Colosseum is the single most hardcore structure ever to be erected by man. Nothing - nothing - beats this place. You could have Santa Claus beating the shit out of Teddy Roosevelt inside the Kremlin, and it would not be as badass as the building once called the Flavian Amphitheatre, now simply Russell Crowe's ellipse-o-biceps.

As evidence, I submit the following: this building was constructed for the sole purpose of putting up to 70,000 asses in various seats for the pleasure of viewing millions - yes, millions - of men and beasts tear each other to pieces in as many different ways as the very creative sporting minds of the day could conjure up. Ignore the pretty-boy posturings of the NFL; a football field is not a battle ground. This is a battleground. The men who fought, lived, and died on these stones were the craziest cocks in the civilized world, and it shows. You can just feel your blood boil here, and more than once I confessed that I looked about, hoping to find someone who was about to die, saluting me. No such luck, though. Needless to say, I had a good time wandering around, pointing out that the Emperor sat there, that the lions entered here, and such. It is times like these that I am quite certain I was born in the wrong century.

So that gives you an idea about that.

We are delighted to find that nearby (as in actually inside the complex), the grand, royal Hollywood is shooting a movie. Specifically, the movie "Jumper," set for release in 2008. In the particular sequence they're shooting here, the principle players are Hayden Christensen - known for his absolute butchering of the Evilest Man Alive - and Rachel Bilson, better known as the O.C.'s 32nd most eligible vixen, Summer. I took great relish in standing nearby and doing my best to foil the production assistents' best attempts to stop us from spying on the shoot. At one point, my compatriots and I were actually in one shot or another, which was pretty neat. A few impressions: Rachel Bilson is not only tiny, elfin, and miniature (our concensus was that she can't be over 80 pounds), but not that hot in person. Her makeup artists and airbrushers are very, very talented individuals. If she and Jen were at the same party, I would be much happier going home with Jen, a realization that resulted in no small amount of self-high fiving. Also, Hayden Christensen is a giant dick. One can tell this just by looking at his drawn, lifeless expression. I would estimate - and now, I cannot think of a way to prove this theory - that most people have more light on their faces while wearing Darth Vader's mask than Hayden Christensen has just standing around normally. Between this observation and my general disdain for the pain he has wrought in his dual Star Wars experiences, I felt the need to flip him off. Several times. And yes, it did make me feel better.

After this little adventure, we tried to head up to the old Roman Forum, but found it closed for the day. On the way up there, we were stopped by a Gladiator in a purely mediocre costume who seemed from the start to be obsessed with his long, poorly-dyed blonde hair. He greeted us from a distance by shouting, "Where are you going?" Confused, we stopped. Is he a strangely-dressed city employee? As soon as we stopped, he continued, looking me right in the eye and yelling, "You! You are not normal!" I am still unsure as to what prompted this, but I felt it was both interesting and appropriate, so we stopped to talk to him. We had about a 10 minute conversation about his work and where we were from, typical small-talk stuff. His name was Claudio. He hates tourists (but not us, he assured us). When asked why, he addressed a passing hot girl. "Where are you from? Paradise?" She laughed off the line and kept going, leading Claudio to explain, "See? One kiss. Give me one kiss!"

Leaving Claudio, we headed back to the hostel for a night of chilling out. Dinner is chicken masala cooked in-house, and the night passed quite uneventfully.

November 18

Early rising today because, for reasons we have been unable to determine, things around here close ridiculously early, especially the things we're off to see today.

Dan, Greg, and I metro down to the Roman Forum and do some poking around there to start us off. This place is awesome. Essentially it's an area of town about the size of downtown Chapel Hill (no small area, given the premium price of real estate in downtown Rome) that's chock full of Roman ruins and has been completely left alone. This is some really good stuff. For example, the Curia is here, which back in the day was the seat for the Roman Senate. That's right. I have now stood in the building where the Roman Senate met to set policy and have slumber parties. It's pretty near when you consider that this is the place, in time immemorial, that laws were drawn and from which the mighty hand of an empire crept across the world. Oh, and there are temples and stuff, too.

After that, we metro up to Vatican City, because we had heard that there might be a quaint little church there, or something. We find the line to get into the Vatican Museums (and thus the Sistine Chapel et al), but it extends literally 8 blocks, so we decide to wait on that until later. St. Peter's Basilica, however, has a much more manageable line, and there we enter. First off, the Piazza San Pietro is immediately in front of the Basilica and acts as sort of a Wonder Bra for the whole place: it lifts, it enhances, it separates. It really is enormous, a giant circle of marble surrounding a cross-topped obelisk and framed by two massive colonades that are 4 columns deep and lined at the top with statues of people who I can only guess were religious by profession.

We enter the church giggling mercilessly at the expense of the Swiss Guards watching over the Pontificus Thresholdus, and quite by accident get into the line to see the Tombs of the Popes. Hey, though, it's all good. The line is quite short, and after all, who wouldn't want to go see the Toooooommbbbssss of the Pooooppppeeeessssss.... Heh, that looks like I wrote Tombs of the Poops.

The Tombs are quite neat, not least of all for the frothing, rabid crowds kneeling in supplication at the grave of John Paul II. I was glad I hadn't intended to give him the finger... the bum's rush there would have been brutal and final. I was also surprised to find the sepulcre of Saint Peter himself. My surprise is ridiculous in retrospect; after all, he was the first Pope, and besides, the friggin' church is named after him. The graves are quite plain and stone, for the most part, except for that of Peter, which is about as golden as a magical goose's vagina. I was crushed that they didn't have the grave of Urban II, because it was he who truly deserves my middle finger's wrath (for starting the Crusades, duh). I guess they foresaw the public's wrath and kept him in the lesser known 'Tombs of the Really Unpopular Popes.'

The exit from the Tombs leads up into the Basilica proper. Holy.... I find myself at a loss for an appropriate term for how crazy ornate, huge, and downright freakish this place is, so I am forced to invent one. Snagglecracking. Saint Peter's Basilica is snagglecracking in its freakishness, and scrumtrulescent in it's beauty. It is, hands down, the most balls-to-the-wall religious structure ever. After this, I am sure that no other Christian monument will impress me. Since, I have found myself walking into other cathedrals - that short weeks ago would have blown my mind - going, "Ho-hum, another masterpiece of retina-melting magnitude."

Since I lack the means to express in words the grandeur of the this mighty deity's palatial estate, let's move on.

I lost track of Dan and Greg inside the Basilica due to a difference in touring speed (they're pretty blazing fast, whereas I like to linger and soak things up), so I wander outside trying to find them. On the way I manage to flip off the Basilica and am treated to the delicious sight of a Catholic cardinal texting someone on his cell phone. Is there a slumber party tonight, padre?

I find my guys again in the line for the Vatican museums, which is now significantly shorter. I had wavered on whether or not to shell out the 12 Euro entry fee (since that represents essentially a day and a half's worth of food) but ultimately decided to damn the expense since it's the friggin' Sistine Chapel. One does not stumble upon this every day. Inside the museum, I am surprised to discover that the signs pointing to "Sistine Chapel" do not in actuality lead to the Sistine Chapel. Oh, no. Rather, they lead into a rat's maze of art galleries, each more elaborate than the last, that comprise the ancestral chambers of the Popes. Honestly, which is more impressive? First, that the walls themselves have been painstakingly rendered into elaborate scenes that comprise the bulk of humanity's finest artwork? Second, that this jury-rigged museum was once the great pontif's palace, housing the most powerful man in one of the world's most dominant faiths? Or, third, that just wandering through the thing is a process spanning hours of time and kilometers of walking? It's a mighty achievement, no doubt, and even an untrained eye like mine is suitably humble in the face of it. Not too humble to give the finger to Raphael's "School of Athens" or the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, mind you, but still humble.

The Sistine Chapel is... well, it's exactly what you think it is. It's a big chapel with really good paintings on the ceiling. I suppose you have to be into painting to really understand why it's such a big deal, but the work is high quality, no doubt. The Last Judgement, on the wall above the alter, is positively crazy. So, yeah, big pretty paintings.

Note: I did take a great pleasure as I walked through rooms decorated by Raphael and Michaelangelo of repeatedly busting out in the theme song to "Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles," startling and confusing a number of my fellow tourists.

Once again I had lost my companions (rather early on in the museums), and this time I was unable to relocate them. I headed back east, making my way to the famed Spanish Steps after some minor navigational difficulty. It's literally a big staircase at the end of a small piazza. I'm not entirely sure why they're such a big deal, but in spite of my never having heard of them before they're supposedly pretty famous. I hung around the square for a bit, then up the steps where I was greeted with the sight of numerous paparazzi and onlookers crowding around the front of a very nice hotel. It didn't take long to find out that this is apparently the hotel that Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes are staying at while they get married this weekend. Oh my God. I stick around and play paparazzi for a few minutes, enjoying the atmosphere of pathetic insanity, but get bored after not too long and head on. I did get to see Will Smith as he emerged under a halo of camera flashes, all shaven-headed and smiley, but that about did it for me.

I had intended to go see the Trevi Fountain now, but the sun set faster than I thought it would, and to be honest, I'm tired. I decide to head back to the hostel, but encounter severe navigational problems due to no one outside American understanding what a damn street sign is! As such, I end up about a dozen blocks off course and... huh, what are all those riot police doing in the middle of the road? Ok, I can take this side street. Wow, those guys have body armor and automatic weapons. Is there something going on around this corner? ...Holy Testacle Tuesday, there's a Free Palistine Rally!

That's right. Right in front of this gigantic monument in the middle of Rome (which I originally mistook for the Parliament building), there are thousands of what I suppose are Italian Arabs engaged in a full-on political rally. They've got a flatbed semi truck with a sound system, they're burning flags, chanting, the works. Surrounding them are perhaps hundreds of Italian riot police in full form. It's not going to take a lot to send this whole party into the screaming abyss. Needless to say, I'm on it like white on rice. It's here that, by some form of Afro-Magic, I run into Greg in the crowd. We poke around for a while and have a good time. Though I can't understand whatever language it is that the protestors are speaking, I can clearly identify at one point the words "American" and "discrimination." It's at this point that I - clearly recognizeable as an American by a blind man at 500 paces - make turtle tracks for safer ground.

Tired and a bit shagged out, Greg and I head back to the hostel and chill for a bit. It is around the dinner table that I make a few new aquaintances: Fe (FAY, Australia), Rich (Canada), and Nile and Seamus (Ireland). After no small amount of eating, talking, and drinking, we (the above plus Dan, Greg, and myself) decide to head out to get yet more to eat and drink. This 2nd supper we eat in a nearby Italian restaurant over a bottle of wine that Nile insisted we buy ("Come on, you tight bastards..." By the way, Nile is quite perpetually drunk) and a whole slew of bad ethnic and religious jokes that the Irish start by telling, of course, Irish jokes. After dinner we lose Nile (he'd been drinking for about 7 hours already and was a bit gone), but the rest of us soldier on to hit a couple of Irish pubs across town. The following mini-pub crawl is full of very lively international conversation, exactly the kind of thing that I love beyond all else after a day of sightseeing in a foreign country. By the time we get home, we're all quite happy and pleasantly exhausted, and I sink down into bed grateful for the opportunity to close my eyes.

November 19

Rome, as noted first by my traveling colleague Jo (in Florence) is a bit of an architectural oddity. See, Rome is really old, right? Really old. Quite literally older than clean drinking water. And over a course of several thousand years of being one of the world's primary beacons of power and culture, you accumulate a lot of buildings here and there. The surprising thing is just how many of them are still around. I'm glad that I had various other cities to warm up with on this concept (remember my brick-shitting at seeing the old city wall melded into an office block in Brussels?), because Rome is almost certainly the world capital of ruination. It's not like they're all in one place, either. Every block goes something like, "Restaurant, ruins, bicycle repair shop, gelateria, ruins, ruins, ruins, church, ruins, restaurant, jewelry shop, Prada, Gucci, ruins." It's uncanny.

The morning is a bit too drizzly for anything really fun, quite uncharacteristic of Rome. I had really been enjoying t-shirt weather in November, and this just ruined it. After a few hours lounging around the hostel, however, I had to get out there and see some stuff, precipitation be damned.

First stop is the Trevi Fountain, which as you might guess, is a big, important fountain. Ever seen the movie "La Dolce Vita"? It's that one. Truth be told, the fountain is really cool. It's huge, taking up the entire side of a massive building and filling fully half of a small piazza. The carvings are all big, muscular mythological dudes fighting horses with fins, band geeks with girlfriends, and other mythological creatures. The legend (if you haven't noticed the trend, there's a legend with pretty much all these things) is that tossing a coin into the fountain (salt style, over the shoulder) means you will return to Rome, and some versions say that a second coin grants a wish. More on that later.

The really neat thing about the fountain this particular day is that, in the piazza where it is located, the international Free Hugs campaign is in full swing. I didn't know about this until today. Apparently there are a bunch of people who go all over the place with signs announcing "Free Hugs," and spend hours a day offering hugs to passersby as a sort of pick me up of positivist anarchy. I'm attracted to this immediately for two reasons: First, by the four hot American girls who are taking part. Second, by the idea itself. For those of you who don't know me at all, I love hugs. If I could go through my day doing nothing but hugging people, I probably would. I'm a big hugger, literally and figuratively, and I can't look this gift horse in the mouth. After hugging various people, I strike up a conversation and find that anyone can take part in this little endeavour. After that, it doesn't take long until I've got a sign of my own and am accosting confused locals and tourists alike as if possessed by the fevered soul of Tenderheart Lion. Let me tell you, I had a ball. Of course many people thought it was a scam, or were just party poopers, but you'd be amazed the kinds of people who actually got into this and gave us hugs. I encourage you to try it sometime if you never have. After about 45 minutes I realized that I was supposed to be meeting Greg at the Pantheon, so I said my goodbyes and left, spirits about as high as they'd been in months.

It was only a couple of blocks to the Pantheon, but find Greg there took a few minutes. We eventually did and set about exploring the thing. The Pantheon is generally considered to be the best-preserved building of ancient Rome, despite the fact that it has been converted into a Christian church and most of it's original decorations and things were removed to make, say, the canopy over the alter at St. Peter's. It was orginally the greatest temple of ancient Rome, dedicated to all the planetary gods. It's a pretty good one, as temples go. Essentially it's just one giant room covered by a giant freestanding dome, which I'm given to understand was a pretty significant architectural achievement in the 1st century B.C. Like many of the monuments in the city, part of it has been taken over by construction/restoration work, but much of its beauty is quite unspoiled. It's not very big and thus doesn't take long to see, but I'm suitably appreciative. I did get a kick out of the fact that they have a big sign urging quiet in this "sacred place," when the people who posted that sign belong to the same organization that had no qualms about stripping the original temple of its treasures, defiling its alter, and converting the structure for their own purposes. Who decides what's sacred, anyway? At one point this building was sacred to the Romans for worshipping their pantheon. Does the fact that no one ascribes to that religion any more make it any less sacred to that purpose? Can you really determine sacrosanctity as a matter of degree by how many people believe in whatever something is dedicated to?

Anyway, we're away from that now and on our way to the Piazza Navola, a large plaza nearby that is pretty much busker central for Rome. There we find a performing clown, an old man doing a puppet show, several kids of grade school age breakdancing, and of course numerous musicians and painters. It's a great variety of free shows and I have just a dandy time.

After that, Greg and I line up a lovely string of minor sights to see and knock 'em down one by one. First the Teatro San Marcelo, which is essentially just another ruin on the edge of the forum. Second, the Mouth of Truth, a famous face engraved on the side of some church. Legend has it that if you put your hand in the mouth and tell a lie, it will bite down on you. Needless to say, I did not insert my hand and claim that hate cheesecake. See, I love cheesecake, and I didn't want to get bitten. Whew. That was a close one. Third, we found the old Circus Maximus, which was a bit surreal. Of all these crazy ruins throughout the city, buildings great and small that have survived the ages, the Circus Maximus - the great arena where events of horse and chariot racing were held - is not one of them. It is essentially just a large elliptical park now, with a couple small ruined buildings dotting one end. On one hand it was a bit disappointing, but on the other hand, it was kind of neat to see jugglers juggling, puppies romping, joggers jogging, and couples necking in the place that was once one of the most adreneline-packed places in the western world.

Greg wants now to go see the Spanish Steps, but I've already been and decline, especially since it'll take a metro trip to get there before sunset. Rather, I peel around south of the forum and head back to the hostel. There I grab some dinner and play cards with my remaining peeps for a while. It's nothing particularly exciting, unless you count the bitter rivalry that sprang up between Fe and I in our games of Asshole. I, like I do, got increasingly boisterous and foulmouthed as the games got more heated (I think at one point I actually told one guy that he had a "paper-mache scrotum" ...I don't even know what that means), and Fe held her own quite admirably. It was a fun time, and combined with all the goodness of the day, I feel like I earned my bed.

November 20

Most people that I've been hanging out are gone by now and I've seen most of what Rome has to offer the casual traveler, so today is quite low-stress. I'm flying out to England early tomorrow, and I had intended to sleep at the airport, but I am informed upon checking out that Ciampino airport actually closes at night, which means that I will need to stay in the hostel and get up at the ass-crack of dawn. Fantastic.

By now I've realized that, in the excitement of all those free hugs yesterday, I forgot to do the traditional coin ritual at the Trevi Fountain. Oh, well, I've got time. I make my way there as quickly as I can and this time I take my time in enjoying the thing. I do my two coin throw just as it starts to rain (and no, I will not tell you what I wished for; then it wouldn't come true). Not really knowing what else to do, I head back to the Vatican. Maybe there's something I missed there. I've been coming up a bit shorter on finger givings than I expected, and I have an inkling of a couple more I can hit.

At the Vatican I revisit the Tombs of the Popes. After making sure once again that Urban II is nowhere to be found, I flip off the next best thing: Urban VI. I mean, he's a dumb pope, he never did anything, and he did take the same name, so it's kind of like flipping off the crusader by proxy. Better than nothing, I suppose. Upstairs, I find that since there is no service going on today, there is a lot more room to wander around inside St. Peter's, and I take some more time admiring the place. There is one statue of a guy on the wall that people are lining up to see and rub his feet. I'm not sure exactly what this guy's deal with, but I am in Rome, and I'm sure at least some Romans are in that line. I rub his feet without really knowing why, but get absolutely zero tingles from it. Damn.

It's at this point that I realize that the confession booths - which are legion in this place, lined up like bank tellers' desks - are adorned first of all with little green lights on the outside that light up when a priest is inside prepared to receive a confession (hilarious!), and second of all with little signs that tell what language confession is offered in in that particular booth. All they need now is a "take a number" system and they're good to go. After breathlessly running around to confirm that my eyes were indeed not deceiving me and laughing as quietly as I can to avoid smiting, I head out.

Outside, I finally manage to get a good fingering angle on the Swiss Guards that are surely the freshman hazing victims of the Vatican's policy force, and I'm good.

About this time I head back to the hostel, just wanting to spend the night relaxing and not doing a whole damn lot. I have a lot of internet stuff to take care of, so I end up making it a late night despite my best efforts, but I eventually do manage to fall asleep.

I came, I saw, I conqured.

Progress Thus Far:
Countries Visited: 9
Stupid Tourist Moments: 70
Monuments Flipped Off: 64
Free Food Ganked: 12
Free Booze Ganked: 34


they say these waters aren't what they used to be
and i've got people back on land who count on me
-Billy Joel

The Bird Harvest

Location: Florence, Italy
Local Glass Shards: Understandably Pointy


This is a pretty good one. We're moving up in the world, now into the heart of Italy, where civilization once breast fed from a sunshiny, pesto-covered teat. I have high hopes.

November 13

I rise in the morning and am happy to throw off the oppressive shackles of Hotel Giovanina, veritably skipping toward the train station. I grab a couple of sandwiches at the station's Chef Express cafe, then hop my train, which is customarily late.

You know, after a few days in Italy, one begins to long for an on-time train with such vehemence that I actually began to wonder if Mussolini was really all that bad. After all, a guy who can efficiently get me from A to B can be forgiven a lot of other civil atrocities. Mmm... delicious panini... what were we talking about?

The trip to Florence is an uneventful three hours, mainly spent sleeping and reading. When we arrive, I am horrified to find that the train did not in fact go to the correct train station, which is a mere fifty meters from my hostel. Rather, I am at a station so far across town that it does not even appear on my handy-dandy Lonely Planet map. And I have to pee. Really bad. Fortunately, my skills in solving such problems have increased dramatically of late, so I am able to hop a nearby bus that takes me quite quickly to the correct station, from which my hostel is a hop, skip, and a jump (harder than you think when you've got forty pounds strapped to your back).

The hostel is very nice and very small, run by a tiny Italian woman named Clara, at the same time full of attitude and domestically congenial. I still have yet to get a decent bead on her, and I am sure that if I were an existential poet she would provide much banal material for my words, my tortured words.

There's not a whole lot of daylight left, but I hop on over to The Duomo, which is about ten minutes away on foot. The Duomo - or, as I like to call it, THE DWO... MO! - is a freakish monument of... ahem... Biblical proportions. Seen from a distance it's ludicrousity becomes obvious, as it towers above everything around it, such that gazing upon it's tongue-colored roof from afar resembles nothing more than surveying Bowzer's Castle, World 4-7, on the World Map. As cathedrals go it is not ornate or gilded or carved (save for the facade, which I'm sure has induced more seizures over the years than the entire second season of Dragonball Z). It's just friggin' huge. There is a kind of stately grace about it, though, the enormous expanse of marble flooring unobstructed by anything even as simple as pews, vaulted ceiling soaring overhead atop columns as big around as most college dormrooms. The inside of the dome is a sight both impressive and poignant, as even from the floor several hundred feet below, one can see massive cracks weaving their way across the brilliant frescoes. When I walk into the place, it's understated grandeur is enough that my skin actually crawls, and I have to do a little Michael Flatley dances the robot move to settle myself.

By the time I walk out, nightfall is approaching and I make my way back to the hostel to relax, stopping at a grocery store for some well-deserved sustenance. Back there I meet several neat people, including an aging Dutch woman named Yolanda, a rabbity little New Englander named Joni, and a vegetarian Kiwi girl named Elsa who may or may not be a proper hippy (and from whom I glean a good uber-laugh when she describes her father's employment as a sort of tax collector for kiwi fruit companies). We have quite pleasant conversation (they being quite amused by my manner and several of my habits, among them my fondness for peanut butter bananas and my insistence on going running around the city before bed), but before long we're all out like multinational lights.

November 14

Clara has a very unusual habit. Every morning at 9:00 sharp she walks into the room, flings back the curtains, opens the window, and shouts, "Buongiorno!" to everybody there, then proceeds bring in trays full of sumptous breakfast goodies, including scrambled eggs, yogurt, cereal, and fresh-baked breakfast cake. Presented with this, all of us are unsure whether to thank her for the food or brutally murder her and dismember her sinful body. A wake-up call for backpackers is never well-received, but breakfast goes a long way toward distracting us. The food is filling and delicious, and I find that sitting around that table, trading conversation back and forth with people from all around the world while sipping juice and eating salty eggs is one of the most civilized times I've had in months.

Joni and I join forces for the day since our agendas are pretty much equivilent, and we set off into the city. We swing by to see David, but decide upon seeing the crazy-long line to come back to it later, when the gray-haired wobblies are tuckered out and retreated indoors. Thus we head west, past the Palazzo Vecchio and Galeria Uffizi to the Ponte Vecchio, the only Florentine bridge to escape destruction at the hands of the Nazis (without understanding the particular history behind that, I can only surmise that the Nazis were so crazy they actually bombarded their allies).

The Ponte Vecchio is pretty hot, loaded down with bunches of shops and such, so much that it almost looks like just another street of the town rather than a bridge. Things are built out on struts from the bridge proper, so most of the buildings seem perpetually on the edge of plunging into the abyss. Above the street-level part is the large passageway the Medicis had built some time ago for their own private use, leading me to believe that every American bridge should have attached a separate Jones Passage. Why this has not already occured in preparation for my grandeur is beyond reason. That bit of corridor does prove once and for all, however, that having crap-loads of money can get you pretty much anything. Not content to have a palace? Ok, have two. Not happy with two? Ok, here's a private bridge connecting them. You greedy little cockheads.

Across the bridge we take a wrong turn or two, then finally find a good passage up into the hills, where we have been slyly informed there is a kickin' view of the city. At this point I do need to credit Joni. She was an excellent walking around companion, with the right spirit of adventure and enough of a sense of humor to listen to me nattering for a day without using me to demontstrate her knowledge of the five point palm exploding heart technique, and from time to time she actually joined in the hearty, irreverent banner. All props.

Now, our spirit of adventure guided us up a rather large hill, past Fort Belevedere (yes, there were butler jokes made), and eventually down a street walled on both sides, over which we could see olive groves and villas. Seeing as how the sidewalks were about six inches wide, it was a little dangerous whenever cars came rocketing around the blind curves, but otherwise very beautiful and decidedly Tuscan. At one point, peering over a wall into an olive grove, we discovered that, rather than barbed wire, the locals had imbedded into the masonry at the top of the wall shards of broken glass. How hardcore is that? It may not be as effecting as wire at stopping intruders (or it may be, who knows?), but I respect the creativity and artistic panache it takes to stick shards of broken wine bottles into the top of a fortification.

After about an hour we surmise that somewhere we took a wrong turn. Fortunately, the damage was minimal since we finally came to an intersecting road that took us around to where we wanted to go. We had simply taken the long way, which, given the scenery, I can hardly count as a negative. From here the views over Florence proper just kept getting better and better, from an embankment over some houses to a church on a hill. It was incredible. Florence really is a gorgeous city, and I can understand why people would be willing to give four feet of their lower intestine for a villa in Tuscany.

Now on the verge of stavation, we descend back into the city by way of Michaelangelo's Plaza and a whole lot of stairs. Before we can cross the river, we are approached by an American girl who asks if we, too, are American. I hypothesize (incorrectly, I later find) that she suspects us of Yankeehood because I was in the middle of the chorus of "America: Fuck Yeah" when she passed us. Her name is Jo, she is lost and looking for where we just came from. We give her directions and I give her my map (which I don't really need at this point anyway). We also extend an invitation to come drinking with us tonight if she likes, and she accepts. She is staying at a nearby hostel and will drop by ours later.

Joni and I head for David, on the way grabbing some cheap pizzas at a local cafe. By this time the line at the Galeria dell'Accademia is nonexistent, and we jump right in.

David is awesome. My appreciation of fine art basically extends as far as I can make fun of it, but even my very untrained eye can see that this is a magnificent piece of work. I stand and just gape at it for several minutes, checking it our from every angle. Well done, Mike, it's a good one. There is some making fun, of course, most notably in a conversation between Joni and I resulting in the thesis that Michaelangelo should have carved David's taint. Yikes.

Heading back to the hostel, we settle in for a siesta for a bit, and I grab some more simple fare for dinner from my fridge stash. In the lounge I find Elsa and a newly arrived British girl named Laura. In no time at all Jo arrives and our fivesome for the night is complete. Laura and Jo make extremely good company as well, both boisterous and crazy and full of comedy-quoting goodness. I'm sad that we won't get to hang out much after tonight and tomorrow, but what can you do?

We settle quickly into wine drinking, venturing forth once for fresh bottles and sandwiches from local crappy restaurants. There's a great wine deal down the street (3 bottles for 10 Euros) and before long we are quite sloshed. Laura knows some people in town who are out at a bar, and we stumble to join them, drinking wine from the bottle as we move across town and even pausing for a few minutes to pound back wine on the steps of the Duomo in all our sacreligious glory. Or is this sacramental wine? While wandering, I have a number of priceless performances involving the copy of David outside the Palazzo Vecchio, including playing "This Little Piggy" with his toes.

At the bar we join up with several (I never got a specific count) new people, mostly from Britain but with one notable German who offered some insightful tips on Berlin that simultaneously educated me about the city's history and its nightlife. That's talent. The place is dark and classy and very neat, and it's only after another bottle of wine that I see fit to head out. Jo and Joni left earlier, sadly, but Elsa, Laura, and I head back happily toasted, stopping along the way to get more pizza for them.

On the way home we're waylaid by a group of men presumably also returning from a night of drinking. They may have been Arabic or they may have been Mexican; in my inebriated state the best I could ascertain was their status as ethnic. One of them, seeing Elsa and determining even through his drunken haze that she is young and female, advances upon her and begins stroking her cheek, much as he would a dog he wanted to buy. Elsa is understandably creeped out and, being their patron dude for the evening, I step in and shoo away the offending bastardo. He is not happy about it, and with vigorous gestures offers me non-English threats about how he is going to beat my ass. I stand my ground, however, and am even a little disappointed that he didn't decide to start something, as I'm fairly certain I could have ended his miserable life with ease, and opportunities to fight to defend a woman's honor are far too rare.

Adventurer: Out.

November 15

If my missionary practice of giving various things the finger for the benefit of a camera could be considered fruit, than Italy would be a vast orchard, from which I might reap my most terrible harvest. So far in country I have hit more famous things than I had in all the rest of Europe: The Duomo, Basilica San Marco, The Bridge of Sighs, the Pala d'Oro, David, the Ponte Vecchio, and more. Not only that, but Rome promises to be an even more virile defiler of virtue. My company of late has proved fascinated by my ersatz quest, and I find that each mighty success lifts my spirits and those of my companions more and more.

Clara, on request, has included bacon in today's breakfast, and it is delicious, if a bit salty. A new companion arrived during the night, a Midwesterner named Devin. I'm feeling a bit sick to my stomach, which I deem a hangover symptom, despite my normal consistency in avoiding such plebian ailments.

Laura and I head over to the Palazzo Vecchio and poke around for a few minutes, making a near-successful attempt to get up into the staterooms there without paying. They caught us only after I'd gotten a good look around the main room, though, so I count it at least a partial victory. It was cool, but nothing of particular note.

After we leave there, we head next door to the Galeria Uffizi, where the famed "Birth of Venus" and other artworks lie. I had intended to go in there, but the $12 entrance fee dissauded me. I didn't care much about the gallery in the first place, and hell, I gotta eat. Laura, being wealthier than me, heads in while I tool around on my own. There are a number of statues outside the gallery, and I manage to consecutively flip off several Italians of historical importance in a matter of minutes. I head to another basilica, but it too has a steep entry fee, so I do without. By this time, my stomach has started to feel worse, so I head back to the hostel and lie down with a book.

Later on, Yolanda invites me out for a coffee and I accompany her, grabbing a kebab on the way for lunch. Bad idea. It sets my belly in a foul way and I can barely concentrate on anything until I can get back to the hostel and lie down again. I remain that way for pretty much the rest of the day. My roomies, fortunately, want to eat in tonight, so we grab some stuff at the supermarket and eat sandwiches in the common room. The conversation is quite lively, mainly centering around the more horrifying stories in Chuck Palahniuk's collection, "Haunted." I go to bed still feeling very queasy, now convinced that hangovers have nothing to do with it. Hopefully I'll be all right tomorrow for my trip to Rome.

Progress Thus Far:
Countries Visited: 9
Stupid Tourist Moments: 62
Monuments Flipped Off: 52
Free Food Ganked: 11
Free Booze Ganked: 30

america! fuck yeah!
coming again to save the motherfucking day, yeah!
-from "Team America: World Police"

Monday, November 13, 2006

A Better Kind of Waterworld

Location: Venice, Italy
Arteries: Cheese-laden

There is an interesting feeling that one gets when traveling by train across Italy. This has been one of the great (if not the great) nest eggs of world culture for the last 2000 years or so, and it is palpable to even the most casual passerby. One watches the rocky hills and azure waters streaming by with a feeling of growing self-confidence, that it is just a matter of time until this is once again the seat of wealth and power throughout the civilized world. The feeling is somewhat lessened by a conspicuous absence of an unshaven Russell Crowe, but hey, you can't have everything.

November 10

I rise and breakfast with Orsola, filling my veins once again with fermented curd of at least three varieties, much to the horror of my labor-swamped ventricles. A long shower later, Orsola graciously escorts me to the train station and offers me a fond farewell as I hope a train to Venice. The journey is short and uneventful, but my first glimpse of the Adriatic in its full, sparkling glory is a damn fine one.

The hostel where I am staying is in Mestre, the mainland suburb of Venice. The town is quite ideally located, being a scant 10 minutes by train into the city yet without the Blackbeard-esque price gouging associated with the island. There are a number of problems that present themselves right off the bat, however. First, the "hostel" is total crap. In reality, it is a hotel that wants the best of both worlds. It advertises as a hostel to rake in the cheap backpacker crowd, but then constructs itself as a hotel to avoid having to provide any of the usual comforts of a hostel, such as a backpackers' kitchen or any semblence of human contact. All in all the place is a ripoff and quite unpleasant to stay at.

Second, I don't know how people in Mestre eat. Over the course of my three-day stay here, I wander all over the town, augmented by nightly runs of several miles that allow me to cover most of the ground in the city, and yet I am unable to locate a single market. Not one, save for the snickeringly sterotypical Asian corner markets that provide noodles and onions - everything a growing kung fu master needs - to the enormous local Chinese population. All of the restaurants are hideously expensive and virtually never open for, despite the continued observance of their treasured siesta time, Italian stores keep hours roughly determined by when the proprietor is able to cease sucking off the local Mafia boss in time to get to jaunt to the front of the building, which as near as I can tell amounts to about 15 minutes a day. Such things present immediate problems, and I, being without my trusty companion Dr. Watson, have difficulty overcoming them.

Shrugging off such mortal difficulties, I hop a train for the city in hopes of doing a bit of wandering before bed. The train ride is, as noted, quite short, and after a scenic sunset ride across the bay, I arrive at Venice - Santa Lucia train station. Now, the view upon stepping out into the station and into the city is quite as expected, the Grand Canal looming in front of you, across which is visible Bitchin' Church Dome #131. The sunset over the canal is quite mysterious and beautiful, much like the rest of the city. With no particular place to go, and knowing full well the tendency for tourists to get lost in Venice, I set off to explore what I can. I get all the way around to the south side of the island, beyond Piazza San Marco, and am walking along the bay when, through some benevolent intuitive leap, I realize that my return ticket back to Mestre is not in my pocket. A thorough search of myself reveals that yes, somehow my ticket has been lost.

I should explain something here. The last train to the mainland leaves at just before midnight, and I have plenty of time to get back to it. However, the ticket office itself closes at 9:00 PM, meaning that if I do not make it back to the station to purchase a ticket at that time, it seems I will be stranded on Venice without any place to sleep. This is unacceptable. I am now put in the interesting position of having to haul ass from one end of Venice to the other in order to make it back to the station in time (being without cell phone and watch, I have no real idea what time it is, only that time is short). Remember the underwater bomb-diffusing stage in the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles game? I am now living it's tragic race.

To fully understand my difficulties, you must understand that Venice is not constructed in a sensible manner, as many other cities have been. Indeed, it appears to have not been built by humans at all, but by some deranged rabbit/army ant crossbreed. Over hundreds of years, these exoskeleton-toting rodents have built upon the stones of Venice a warren of alleys and tiny, winding walkways that would thwart even the most determined of the Viet Cong. The warnings about how everyone inevitably gets lost in Venice are quite accurate. Finding one's way is quite impossible, except for the barest notion of the sun rises in the east. It would be entirely appropriate if, as one entered the city, a spandex-clad David Bowie greeted one with an enthusiastic lecture on Dance Magic. The city as a whole could be taken as proof positive that there are no Italian ninjas, for if such might warriors did exist, truly the place would have been reduced to a completely uninhabited battle-ground as sword-bearing assassins clad in tank tops and red-and-white-checkered veils fought like demons over the vast farmland of dark, spooky alleyways, which are truly their most valued currency. I mean to suggest that the city is confusing to navigate in.

As such, my exeunt from the city quickly degenerated into a powerwalking flight for survival. Despite my best efforts I was forced to backtrack sometimes for hundreds of meters as the pavement beneath my feet dropped suddenly into the sloshing blackness of a canal. I have never been so happy to see a bridge heaped with tourist traps in my life as I was in the form of the Rialto and Scaltzi bridges that bore me, skipping, to my iron carriage (note: only figurative skipping occured). I bought my ticket and sat happily down to ride home.

At the hostel that night I met and talked with two lovely ladies, an American and a Columbian, both of whom were quite neat. After a couple hours of enriching conversation, I showered and was off to bed, quite content and excited to see the city the next day.

November 11

One cannot help, upon wandering around Venice, realizing that one is inside a floating city. In pretty much every way that matters, the "islands" that make up the city are man-made, the stone foundations of the buildings resting only on marshy sub-soil, so that the pavement, and even the floors of many buildings, rise and fall like waves, showing the inexorable flow of the tides that will eventually reclaim the city. It's a little creepy.

My Columbian friend is departing today for parts unknown, but the American and I make plans to walk around the city together, meeting up on Ponte dell'Accademia after she has joined forces with an old friend of hers who is in the city. The first bit of the plan goes well, and after a relaxing morning I train into Venice and make my way to the Accademia Bridge to meet them, arriving in plenty of time. The bridge is one of only three crossings over the Grand Canal, and as such exists in a constant wash of tourist flotsam, most of which is aged about 50 years and arguing in pairs about the directions that their concierge gave them to Piazza San Marco. I stand and people watch for a bit before my two associates show up.

Here is where the trouble starts. The two ladies with whom I have thrown in my lot for today - they do not deserve real names, so I shall henceforth refer to them by their slave names - are neat enough, indeed the first, "Ponce", was fun enough to generate hours of lively conversation the previous night. However, I am shocked to discover that, despite their individual merits, when they are together they turned into giant, giant losers. They seemed to desire no lively conversation, prefering to trudge about with a barely-contained sense of impending doom, half-heartedly snapping pictures and generally offering no entertainment, education, or anti-pidgeon defense. I discovered by and by that I was having a worse time hanging out with them then I would have walking around alone. Needless to say, this was an incredibly trying event for my backpacker's optimism, and this, combined with trouble back in North Carolina, put Will Jones, Unlikely Hero Out For Adventure under great psychologial duress.

I discovered this only after walking around Piazza San Marco. The Piazza is considered on the grandest in the world, and for good reason. Surrounded on three sides by massive, elitest shopping arcades rendered in rococco-baroque post-modern chinchilla styles, the opposite end is dominated by the incredible Basilica San Marco, which resembles nothing so much as Liberace's fantasy boy scout tent, rising in a massive series of domes and layered facades that could easily inspire "Lode Runner II: Mountains of Exile." The square is massive, easily two football fields side-by-side, and provides a breeding ground for the famed Venetian death pidgeons, which swarm upon tourists by the hundred.

There is a small issue with getting into the Basilica toting my daypack, but it only sets me back about five minutes in leaving it with a nearby bag check. The inside of the place is absolutely ridiculous, layered with more carvings and gold plating than they seem to know what to do with. I can understand the reasoning behind all the hullabahoo, though. See, the reason this is the Basilica "San Marco" is because it is the final resting place of the Apostle Mark. That's right, this building holds the casket - and thus the corpse, for those of us keeping track - of one of the 12 men emotionally closest to He Who Is Called "I AM." He's an important guy. Myself, I didn't know that we actually had bodies for any of the disciples. I had thought that they had disappeared into antiquity, buried in mass graves or eaten from their crucifixes of martyrdom by the crows, or something like that. Apparently I was mistaken.

The altar surrounding the body of St. Mark is easily the craziest thing I have ever seen in my life, at least in terms of wealth and opulence, particularly when it comes to the Pala d'Oro. This is a sheet of solid gold about the size of an average tablecloth that is carved with religious scenes and studded with hundreds of gemstones, most of them the size of the last joint of your thumb, everything from emeralds to rubies to sapphires to opals and beyond. It's value is so far beyond estimation that I couldn't help but gape at the incredible show of wealth used to honor this man who, by all accounts, purposely spent his life as a pauper. Messed up.

Outside the basilica I wander through a sea of pidgeons so densely packed that I actually managed to step on one. That's right, I stepped on a freakin' pidgeon. Mainly remarkable because it simply never happens. I was concerned for a moment that I had killed the thing, but fortunately I jumped back soon enough and it fluttered away in a quite pidgeonly manner. I hope I didn't rupture any of it's internal organs or anything, but there's really no way to tell.

Tool around the church a bit more, then we head back outside. The girls want to climb the belltower nearby, but between the price and my growing dislike of them, I opt out. From here I'm wandering solo. I check out the Bridge of Sighs, which is quite pretty but nothing special on the face of it, then grab lunch in the form of a very cheesy sandwich at a local restaurant. I'm trying to have some fun, but the day has turned cold and I'm very discouraged, fighting off a very bad funk. Before too much longer I just bag it and head on back to Mestre in hopes of making tomorrow a better day. A meal of Chinese food, when I actually manage to catch the restaurant open, helps a bit, but when bedtime rolls around (aggravating enough because of the three overbearing Italians I'm sharing a room with) I'm seriously considering just moving on to Florence tomorrow and leaving Venice to its own devices.

November 12

The entire time I am in Venice I am seized with an incredible desire to steal something off of one of the overly ornate gondolas that carry lovers down secluded canals at a euro a minute. Maybe a paddle, if I coiuld manage it... or maybe one of those ridiculous red heart-shaped pillows. They're just begging for it.

The day dawns happily, thank God, with good news from home and a shining sun. I breakfast on sugary rolls purchased from a corner market (basically the only thing that I can have without facilities to cook noodles), have some internet time, and make an early kebab lunch in a nearby park, all of which helps my spirits for another try at Venice.

Upon training into the city, it's a whole new ballgame. Sucking up the expense, I jump on a vaporetto (water bus, the primary means of non-foot transport in the city) to cruise along the Grand Canal. It's a lovely little journey and allows me to see Venice the way it was meant to be seen: from the water. I have a merry time waving to other passing boats, taking pictures, and soaking up the scenery.

While I'm on the vaporetto, I am treated to the rather hilarious sight of 3 smaller taxis, each built for perhaps ten people yet packed with at least 20 Asian tourists apiece, rocketing by in the opposite direction. Mere tourists, or elite aquatic death squad? You be the judge.

On the extreme far side of the main part of the city I disembark, setting foot for the first time in the Castello district of the city. Compared to the most tourist-swamped areas of the city, it is incredibly peaceful. This is where the trees grow. It is so nice that I am compelled to sit on a bench and people watch for a few minutes before continuing my walk. I gradually make my way back across the city, an affair taking several hours, but this time I actually enjoy myself, gazing off into the distance quite a bit and stopping to hear the performing street musicians. One of them, on a flute, is piping out a version of Louis Armstrong's "Wonderful World." It's the perfect mood-setter. On my way out I manage to find a church that is hosting an exhibit of Leonardo Da Vinci's inventions, and I sneak in for a mildly interesting peak at the man's genius. It's a good capstone for the day.

I hit my hotel tonight pleasantly ready to move on, having left Venice on good terms. I get to chat a bit with an American chap who is my roommate for the night, then drift off into a lovely sleep and dream sweet dreamy dreams.

Progress Thus Far:
Countries Visited: 9
Stupid Tourist Moments: 58
Monuments Flipped Off: 42
Free Booze Ganked: 10
Free Food Ganked: 27

i see trees of green, red roses, too
i see them bloom, for me and you
and i think to myself
what a wonderful world
-Louis Armstrong

Sunday, November 12, 2006

As Seen in Tacitus

Location: Trieste, Italy
Local Motorists: Bat-shit Loco

November 8

Getting out of town is a simple affair, and I arrive at the train station well in time to grab my scheduled transport. However, I am pleasantly surprised to find that I can get a seat on a train that I had no realized existed, mainly because the internet denied all knowledge of this heavenly coach. This new train is simple, requiring me to change trains only once and with plenty of time to spare, whereas the train advertised online that I was going to take required two train changes, taking a taxi across the Slovenia-Italy border, fighting the vicious hydra, and answering three surprisingly difficult questions before crossing the Bridge of Death. The fact that this new train leaves two hours later than I had planned for means relatively little, especially since my actual travel time is cut by an hour. I attempt to use the time on the internet blogging and cruising for, I don't know, Slovenian slave-brides, but of course the local internet cafe was inexplicably closed. Oh, well... Sherlock Holmes entertains me, and I'm soon on my way.

I sadly have no company for this leg of the journey, but I do manage to catnap and watch the blackened scenery go by.

Upon arriving in Trieste, I have no problem locating my destination despite the lack of maps in the train station, mainly due to two things. First, the tiny distance away that I am going. Two, my halting command of Italian.

See, over the past weeks, I have uttered the phrase, "I'm sorry, I don't speak [French/Swedish/Finnish/Polish/German/Czech/Slovak/Magyar/Slovenian]," so much that it has almost become my default answer to any question, even if uttered in English or telepathically queried straight into my monolingual cerebral cortex. Even as necessary and sensible a thing as it is to say, it gets quite embarrassing when one is surrounded by so many people who speak three or four languages, and up to this point I had begun to feel a bit like a Down's Syndrome sufferer strung out on retard-laced heroin. However, now that I am in Italy, the three semesters of Italian instruction I received from our much-vaunted American university system are struggling to the forefront, eking out inch-by-blood-soaked-inch a position in my frontal lobe aside boobs and fine hops. As such, I took great pleasure in being able to ask for and receive directions for a clerk in the station using only the local tongue. Head merrily full of verb conjugations, I head out.

Last week a girl in my hostel in Bratislava introduced me to the finest invention since fire, or perhaps the iron maiden: Couchsurfing. Based via a website of the same name, couchsurfing is the operation of a network of people all dedicated to the sharing of cultures and all that jazz, who have opened their homes for world travelers to crash on their couches. Finding a place to stay anywhere in the world is simply a matter of running a search on the myspace-like website and emailing people who have signed up where you want to go. It is with two of these people - a married couple, in fact - whom I am to stay with tonight.

I arrive at their appartment just in time for dinner. Having never met Orsola and Paolo (as the mortals call them) before, I am surprised and delighted at the open arms and warm smiles with which they welcome me. They are just finishing dinner, so they encourage me to shower off the train funk, which I do with great relish, and I emerge to discover a scrumptious 4-course Italian dinner in the kitchen. We sit down and dig into breads and cheeses and roast pork and essence of puppy dog tails while talking and laughing for the better part of two hours. Their command of English is impeccable, and I do what I can to pry some greater knowledge of Italian out of the situation without seeming like a dumbass, which suprising success. All in all, it's a brilliant time. Now this is what international traveling is all about. After dinner Paolo and I take a walk to see the town at night, which is quite beautiful. Both being writers (Paolo is an associate professor at the local university by day, but also has a published novel to his credit), we have lots to talk about, and by the time we get back and I settle onto the couch for sleepy time, I'm sad to see the day end.

November 9

When I wake up this morning Orsola and Paolo have gone off to work, but I help myself to some breakfast as they commanded the night before and set off into the city.

Trieste is really quite small (small enough that my handy-dandy Lonely Planet guide doesn't even offer it a footnote), located on the Adriatic Sea a stone's throw from the Slovenian border. My day is spent wandering around with no real aim except to see stuff, as I often do. I head via the main piazza up a very large hill to the castle (by this time I have realized that all towns in Europe have a castle; it's like a law). The castle itself is closed for restoration - of course - but from the outside it's very pretty and is even bordered with some Roman ruins. Hooray!

One notable feature of the town is the cats. There are feral cats everywhere. You can spot them all the time if you just look around, doing everything from prowling to sleeping to snuggling together in little kitty swingers' clubs. I though cats were solitary... apparently I thought wrong. I later find that they live primarily on the castoffs of the numerous local fishermen, which explains their numbers, extraordinary good health (although I did see more than one with one milky-white blind eye; friggin' creepy), and relative lack of fear around humans. I am even able to sit down and pet one or two of them.

A couple hours more wandering around and soaking up the town, then I take a seat on a bench by the harbor to lunch on apples, bananas, and a jar of peanut butter I ganked from the hostel kitchen in Ljubljana.

I believe that Italy represents in part the darkest vision of Earth's future, in which humans are kept as mere slaves and the planet is ruled by damn, dirty mopeds.

I manage, after some difficulty, to local the ruins of an old Roman theatre, smack-dab in the middle of the city. For preservation reasons, the ruins are off-limits, but they're quite pretty from outside the barred area, and I admire them for quite some time.

Always on the lookout for new ways in which to explore cities, I come upon the idea of hunting cats. One of the enormous colony residing in the theatre slithers out under the fence, and I busy myself in stalking it. Have you ever tried to catch a cat with nothing but your wits and bare hands? Like catching greased lightning. During the process of my gentle, patient stalking, my black quarry leads me around alleys and plazas and stairways that I would never otherwise have gone. After about half an hour he realizes that I am about to pounce on him and disappears into a small fenced glade where I cannot follow. Crafty bugger. Ah, well... he served his purpose.

It's getting late now, so I pop on down to the only international call center in the entire freakin' city (oh, and by the way, there are no internet cafes... WTF?) to call Jenny and wish her a happy 13 months, then make my way back to the apartment for dinner. Tonight it's spaghetti, but the irrepressibly happy mood is the same as the night before, and I end the meal a very happy man. After dinner we head to Paolo's office for internet time (since it's the closest place where access can actually be achieved), where I email people and book hostels for a few minutes. Then it's bedtime for bonzos, although I manage to crank out a two and half mile run before I hit the sack.

Tomorrow: To Venice!

Progress Thus Far:
Countries Visited: 9
Stupid Tourist Moments: 47
Monuments Flipped Off: 38
Free Booze Ganked: 10
Free Food Ganked: 27

people, living just to find emotion.
-Journey

Saturday, November 11, 2006

Carve the Roast Beast

Location: Ljubljana, Slovenia
Tourist Population: 2

I know what you're saying: "Slovenia is a country? And how the hell do you pronounce that city?" The answers to both of those questions are unknown, presumably lost inside the hot belly of a platinum dragon, or similar frightening entity.

Slovenia is, supposedly, a country, in the same sense that smokers know that smoking is bad for you: it may be true, but it doesn't seem to matter, really. The place is tiny, not much larger than Belgium, and sandwiched in between Italy and Croatia such that it is lost in an ever-growing struggle for yet better beach-front property. For all that, the country is really quite pretty, quaint in a way that the Netherlands might have achieved in some hitherto-forgotten era.

November 6

My train ride from Budapest to Ljubljana (LOOB-ee-YAHN-uh) takes most of the day, about eight and a half hours, all told. I leave at just before noon, and it is worth note that the Hungarian desk clerk at the railway station exhibited the same no-nonsense, pleasant efficiency seen demonstrated in the etymology of "Budapest." Rock and roll.

The train is one of the deadest I have ever been on, averaging about 5% capacity the entire way and with conductors that might have been apparitions from Sleepy Hollow for the frequency with which the appeared. I have the pleasure of sharing my compartment with a jovial Australian man named Bruce (eat your heart out, Monty Python). We spend the entire time talking of life, love, and traveling, and he truly was a pleasant companion (as was my newly-obtained copy of "The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes," when conversation died down). Nothing really of note in the journey itself, except for the observation that a few cheap floodlights can make even the homeliest structure seem a top-notch tourist attraction by night, as we often observed.

Upon reaching Ljubljana, Bruce and I hit a kebab shop (sadly there was no dining car on the train) and part ways to go to our respective hostels. I get only slightly lost, making it to my hostel in about 20 minutes and settling in for the night. The hostel, dubbed Vila Veselova, is spacious and impeccably clean, and this late in the season holds only two travelers (myself and a Canadian chap named Kyle), so each of us get an enormous 8-bed room to ourselves. Sweet. I dream sweet dreamy dreams in comfort.

November 7

Today is my only real day in Ljubljana, so I've got to make it count. Fortunately, Slovenia's largest city is small enough - roughly the size of a backyard kiddie pool - that it isn't hard to see everything in a day.

I set out late and my first goal is lunch, as much befits my self-evident portly stature. I hit up a local restaurant the hostel guy recommends to me called Sokol, famed for it's atmosphere and traditional Slovenian food. The food and decor are top-notch, though the prices are a tad steep and the waiter is an absolute dick (thanks for making it an easy decision not to tip, asshole). I fill up on game ghoulash (mmmm... wild boar...) and bread dumpling, then move on.

As I wander around town, I can't help but start to sing the opening song from "Beauty & The Beast," (you know, the one about the sleepy little provincial town) such is the simple charm of even this main Slovenian city. Why, I bet they don't even lock their doors at night. I must rob them blind.

Next stop is Ljubljana Castle, an imposing feature topping steep climb at the center of the town. The walk is brisk and refreshing and the castle quite pretty, but as castles go it doesn't hold attention for very long. The main tower is under construction and thus unavailable, and the tours are purely useless. There is one neat, albeit random art gallery depicting scenes from one particular region of China, the name of which escapes me. Slovenia and China make odd bedfellows in my head, indeed forming the kind of hypothetical sovereign pornography that I generally try to avoid. I use the view from the battlements to give Ljubljana the finger, then move on.

I stumble upon the ruins of an ancient Roman wall that use to circle the area, which is cooler in thought than in sight. It's a bit odd because one of Slovenia's most celebrated architects (now there's a superlative worth a suicide or two) decided to build a strange pyramid-shaped gate in the middle of the wall. Apparently Mr. Slovene McWanks-a-lot knows Roman architecture better than the friggin' Romans. I give his pointy monument the finger for messing with ancient Rome, and move on.

A bit more wandering and I find myself back at the hostel in time to prepare for the evening. Kyle the Canadian invites me out with he and his friends, and I gratefully accept. After a late start, we head to a local bar, owned by the same guy who owns the hostel, for a bite to eat and some beers. The sandwiches are good but I need two of them to fill up, and the beer is excellent, if not as strong as I've gotten used to in Eastern Europe. We absorb the atmosphere, then decide to take a walk, motivated mainly by Kyle's need to obtain more tools for his cancerous addictions. He is able to secure cigarettes but no lighter, so I declare the whole endeavour a victory for sensible folk everywhere.

Of note: there is a sign on one of the main boulevards of Ljubljana pointing to the World Trade Center. It gives neither distance nor address, just an arrow pointing vaguely that way. I can't help but think it is odd that they would have a sign pointing to something from 9,000 miles and 6 years ago. Ouch.

Heading back to the bar, we discover that the majority of the fun people decided not to show up tonight. Undaunted, Kyle and the one guy he can track down decide to blaze up a joint behind the bar. In no mood to smoke with uneducated people I don't know in a strange country known for it's harsh drug use penalties, I politely bow out and head home, content with my obtained beer, food, and laughs.

Progress Thus Far:
Countries Visited: 8
Stupid Tourist Moments: 47
Monuments Flipped Off: 38
Free Booze Ganked: 10
Free Food Ganked: 24

it's time to take some action, boys
it's time to follow me!
-from "Beauty and the Beast"

Tuesday, November 07, 2006

Famished, In Fact

Location: Budapest, Hungary
Local Feathers: Borne Aloft


November 2

Not a whole lot to do this morning except wait for my train to come. So that is what I do with notable sloth, of the Biblical nature. Fortunately, it is quite relaxing.

Trekking to the train station is proven problematic since actual street signs seem to be an endangered species, most likely due to grizzled aluminum poachers plying their dirty trade. I actually end up wandering around the back of what appears to be a museum for automobiles from the 1940's before discovering that the actual road to the train station was the one on the right. Silly of me; how did my clarivoyance miss that one? Fortunately all goes well and I manage to get onto a train heading to Budapest in relatively good order. I share my compartment with a talkative Hungarian man in an oversized top hat festooned with shamrocks. As it turns out, he is returning from some months spent in Ireland, and has a hearty supply of traveler's tales to swap.

Then I'm extorted for money. Yeah, that one's a first. I am told that Hungarian train conductors can, on occasion, be corrupt, much as if they bore the twisted taint of the Shadowlands. The first conductor to come by, a rather homely woman, was fine, but the next was not. This particular conductor spoke no English, just as I speak no Hungarian, but with my cabin-mate acting as translator, I discover that the man who until seconds before was innocently stamping my ticket is now demanding an extra 450 Slovak Crowns, or I will be thrown off the train at the next stop. Bear in mind that this sum is greater than the original price of the ticket. Needless to say, I am baffled. Do I look like I have a lot of money? What gave you that idea, Mr. Shitstain: my torn pants, my faded jacket, my paint-speckled shoes, or the fact that I'm riding second-class on the cheapest possible ticket? This is not a larcenous adventure upon which Robin Hood, Prince of Thieves would smile.

Fortunately, my friend is at least able to talk the bastard down to 250 Crowns, which I reluctantly hand over after remembering that there will not be another train to Budapest until tomorrow, leaving me stranded in a small town with nowhere to go if I do not aquiesce. The conductor is lucky, however, that it was not a lonely night train, for even as lanky as I am I would have had neither physical trouble nor moral qualm about breaking my 1st World foot off inside his Eastern Bloc ass, were there fewer witnesses.

Eventually I reach Budapest and hike the kilometer or so to the hostel with no hitches. The hostel is small and quite packed with largely interesting, talkative people, and since daylight is too far gone to do any sightseeing tonight, I settle in with a frozen pizza and "The Incredibles" to bond with my new bunkmates. And so it goes.

November 3

Up and at 'em for prime sightseeing time. I devour some granola and yogurt for breakfast and chat with a lovely American girl named Regina, shower, and I'm off. There is another American woman staying there (perhaps 40 years old, very gregarious, and stationed with the Peace Corps in Romania) by the name of Kylie, and we join forces for the day. No sooner have we gone down the street than we spot Regina and her friend Dana in a cafe. Kylie is hungry so we dart in for a croissant and a bit of gossip. Kylie, as it turns out, has gobbled up Romanian history like Mike n' Ikes, and breakfast conversation revolves around the ill-fated reign of Nicolae Ceausescu.

Next stops are the Dohány Synagogue and St. Steven's Basilica. The Synagogue is massive, one of the largest in the world (I'm led to believe the 2nd largest), with an amount of golden gilding that is rather uncharacteristic of such establishments. You may now make up your own joke about Jewish penny-pinching; it's a little too easy in this instance. I am favored to be given a yamukah to cover my head while inside, which I find amusing to no end. We get quite a few giggles out of removing it conspiratorially while the rabbi's back is turned, turning me into a bareheaded Egyptian-lover, or some similar Hebrew-spoken epithet. At the synagogue is The Tree of Life, a metal tree whose leaves are inscribed with the names of Hungarian Jews killed in the Holocaust. All respect for the dead and stuff, but something named The Tree of Life was just begging for the finger. There is also a museum there filled with all manner of things kosher, including a photographic Holocaust exhibit, which really is a very well-researched tribute to mankind's greatest tragedy, but it only holds one's good-spirited interest for so long.

St. Steven's Basilica makes the nearby synagogue look like a friggin' sandbox. It's enormous, up there with the biggest churches I have yet to see. I am starting to believe that 'catholic' is Latin for 'big and shiny.' I was able to conclude two things about St. Steven by wandering around there. First, he loved gold. Second, he was a claustrophobe. And, if the painting of God on the top of the dome is any indication, he was a great fan of the artwork in Gary Larson's "The Far Side." Oh, and his hand is there. St. Steven's hand. That's not a metaphor. The good people of christendom were kind enough to cut of St. Steven's right hand upon his death and preserve it in a glass case for us all to see. Damn, man.... wow. It is quite a gruesome sight, as one might expect. I used my right hand to obscenely gesture at his right hand (despite the presence of a guard, I might add), then we're out.

We wander around to Parliament, disappointed to see that the rioters and protestors from the past days have disappeared. Still, the Hungarian Parliament building is quite big and pointy, so the viewing does not disappoint. At this point I am starting to notice the tendency of the Budapest police to stand around in groups of four chatting with each other, looking eerily similar to the cast of "King of the Hill," sans brewskies. I still don't know why.

Lunch is at an Irish pub we find nearby. I grab some ghoulash, which in Hungary is the equivilent of beef stew, and also pack away the remainder of Kylie's fries, Dana's French Onion soup, and Regina's honey-glazed chicken when they can't finish their meals themselves. I need the fuel.

We then hop a subway and head to the City Park. The centerpiece of the park is Heroes' Square, a huge plaza adorned with dozens of statues commemorating Hungary's past leaders in manly poses bearing huge swords or spiked maces. These are some of the best statues I have ever seen, in conception if not in skilled scuplting, and my longing for a rousing D&D campaign piques yet again. The whole experience is made somewhat surreal by reggae music being piped in by people setting up for some sort of concert or festival in the square. Neato. I flip off all the heroes as one and we head out.

Further exploring the park we pass a large and quite precious outdoor ice-skating rink on our way to the Museum of Agriculture, which I still think looks suspiciously like a castle. Inside we are struck by just how perfect the place is for a secluded picnic (well, if the temperature wasn't -5 degrees Celsius). There is a quite bitchin' statue of a creepy, eyeless hooded guy marked "Anonymous" that we have a photo-op with, including some finger action, then we're gone.

On our way back home, we try to get to a sushi place that Kylie wants to check out, but the only way to it appears to be blocked by some manner of chain. In true daring commando style we resolve to simply clamber over it and continue towards our raw treats, but as we do we are greated by a very angry policeman shouting at us. We retreat, only to more closely examine the situation and discover that we had inadvertently just tried to sneak into the British Embassy. Whoops.

In Europe, it is quite common practice to simply not pay when riding public transportation, especially among tourists (there are no turnstiles, and the only ticket enforcement comes by way of random and extremely infrequent Control Officers who will hit you with a fine if they catch you on the platform or on a vehicle without a ticket). Thus far I had been fine, but on the way back to the hostel, we are confronted by control officer in the metro station. The younger girls have passes they bought, but Kylie and I are without tickets. As soon as we are approached, I let Regina and Dana form a screen while I hightail it out of there and walk home (it is only a brisk kilometer and a half). I later find that Kylie lacked the wherewithal to powerwalk in time and was hit for 2300 Forint.

Back at the hostel there is some more movie watching and conversation, but I don't have it in me to party after such a long day of walking. Out.

November 4

Up very late today, mostly because I can, wanna fight about it? I am just deciding what to do when I am informed about a neat restaurant in town and invited out with a group. Having no particular plans, I accept. A bus ride (still unpaid for, I'm sticking it to the Man) across town, and we're there.

The name of the place is Mongolian BBQ, which is always a good start. It is very fancy, with an air not entirely unlike my memories of Sunday brunch at the Officer's Club. The great part about this place is that it is all-you-can-eat, all-you-can-drink. Food is in 5 courses, with the 4th being a massive buffet from which you select meats that chefs will grill in front of you. They have beer, wine, and sangria on tap, all of which I try, though I stick mainly with the incredibly good house sangria. Also notable because this is the first time I have ever eaten horse, a rather prominent selection on the menu. Needless to say I am filled with apprehension due to my lady love's second-most fervent passion, but the meat is good so I enjoy it nonetheless. One of the girls there, an Australian named Stacy, is celebrating her 20th birthday, and the mood for celebration couldn't be better. After a beer, a glass of wine, what I believe to be 11 glasses of sangria, 4 plates of meat, a bowl of soup, and a delicious chunk of tiramisu, I am stuffed, happy, and quite sloshed. On the way out I steal 11 eggs (which we surmise are pheasant eggs, though with some doubt) in true Daring Commando style, 2 of which broke in my pocket on the way home. We managed to linger there for four hours, only leaving when forced to, and stumbled home in the rain to curl up in our nice warm hostel.

I do not remain curled up for long, as there is a local L5R group that has invited me to play with them. The journey is only about 5 blocks, so I bundle up and head back out. Upon arriving at the proscribed address, I am confronted by a doorman/security guard, whose sole purpose appears to be to keep track of who is in the building when. Of course, he does not speak a word of English, just as I do not speak of word of Hungarian, and he is absolutely adamant about me not getting up to the 4th floor to play cards with these fellows unless he knows exactly where I am going. We stare at each other for about 10 full minutes, trying to figure out how to break the language barrier. Eventually I solve the problem by pantomiming dealing cards, then holding up four fingers. He finally understands what I've come there to do, and escorts me up. The fellas themselves are very friendly and I join them for some games and some witty banter for a couple hours, then say my fairwells. I really have to give them credit, they did everything but hand me the keys to the chocolate factory in an effort to make me feel at home. Well done, gentlemen and ladies.

November 5

For my last day in Budapest, Kylie and I venture across the river to examine the jewel of Buda, as yet uncorrupted by our American pig-dog feet.

Oh, yeah... about the layout of Budapest. This is just a hoot, and rightfully deserves a holler. Budapest is divided in half by the Danube river, mighty artery of feces that it is. The part of the city to the west of the river is called Buda, while the part to the east is called Pest. Put them together and... do you see what I'm getting at here? This speaks a lot to the part of Hungarian culture that I like: simple, earthy, and brooking no nonsense. When coming up with the name for this magnificent city, they did not stoop to naming after some forgotten hero or strange legend. They took the names of the two hamlets that comprised the city and put the names together. Buda and Pest then became "Budapest." If that's not a testament to Magyar civic efficiency, I don't know what is.

So, after a cheap sandwich in a surprisingly fancy restaurant called Cyrano's (lacking poetic swashbuckling adventures, unfortunately) Kylie and I take a bit of a stroll across the bridge and into Buda. Buda is the hillier part of town, so we endeavour upon a rather strenuous hike up the side of a great, bloody cliff to see this famous statue that overlooks Budapest. The statue, named "A Great Monument to Something I Can't Remember or Translate," is basically of a woman holding a giant feather above her head in some sort of triumph. Was a great battle won against the evil Pigeon King? Knowing the history of Hungary, I wouldn't be surprised. Taking advantage of the view, I flip off the Danube and the city in one fell swoop, then we continue.

The statue tops the hill that also boasts the city's Citadel, the last defense in case of an invasion of Samurai Viking Amazons. It's an impressive and very defensible structure, but it costs money to enter, and bump that. Kylie and I wander down the hill in another direction, eventually getting thoroughly lost and wander through a rich neighborhood that appears to have been recently built, or else all the inhabitants are rennovating en masse. The street dead ends and we choose to keep going by a daring off-road adventure down a steep embankment. We reach the bottom injury free, which was very much in doubt for a few minutes, then succeed in finding the path leading back into the city proper.

Our next stop, after jaywalking and hiking under bridges to an extent usually reserved for defunct holligan firms, we find our way to Buda Castle. The castle is quite dark and creepy, just as one would hope, full of tiny alcoves and passageways barred with rusty iron gates that certainly have not been opened since the days of Vlad the Impaler. It also, by a stroke of ironic fate, houses the Hungarian Museum of Art, which thankfully has a large quantity of free exhibits. After muscling our way past some very unhelpful coatcheck personnel, Kylie and I poke around for a bit in the museum, alternating between scholarly murmuring and shameless ridicule of Garibaldi's "Fat Woman on a Sofa Number 384," and similar works.

After buggering out of the museum, we head back to the hostel, for daylight is fading and the day has turned drizzly, a bit of precipitation that the 55 kph wind turns into a weapon of Thunderdome. I am once again hungry, so we stop for a bowl of gholash on the way home.

For dinner we order pizzas from a nearby delivery place and enjoy yet another movie in the hostel. During the evening we are joined by several Yorkshiremen who, in their characteristic manner, begin to ridicule everything around them and smoke heavily. Fortunately for me, their attempts at wit are purely amateur, and I retire to bed happy in the knowledge that their puny minds are rotting in soon-to-be-cancerous bodies.

And who said cultural exchange was hard?

Progress Thus Far:
Countries Visited: 7
Stupid Tourist Moments: 46
Monuments Flipped Off: 36
Free Booze Ganked: 10
Free Food Ganked: 24

"i should be very much obliged if you would slip your revolver into your pocket... that and a toothbrush are, I think, all that we need."
-from The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes