We found the Villa Borghese and it was closed...

We learned, much to our surprise, that our hotel practically sits in the Vila Borghese (so we, Eric, had an obvious advantage). A quick march up the hill (past Largo Federico Fellini) and down a very long, but beautifully tree lined path, we eventually found the Museum. However, as in Eric's case, it was closed. It was Monday, you know. So we wandered the grounds, found the cafe, had a coffee (Leslie found what he claimed to be the most perfect specimen of the female rear so far on the trip; the owner, our adolescent waitress, did not acknowledge Leslie's existence), and then wandered all the way back through the park, back to the hotel for our fallback plan: the Vatican. That meant long pants (when you arrive at St. Peter's, you are confronted with signs that show human figures in shorts and tank tops, with the word No! underneath; on the side are figures in long sleeves and pants, accompanied by Si!. We had been warned in advance). Our hotel clerk told us exactly how to catch the bus there, but we never found the stop. So we hailed a cranky cab driver, and he dropped us off in magnificent St. Peter's square. We made our way along the very long wall around the Vatican to the museum to find, to our pleasant surprise, that there was no line (apparently the blocks long line forms in the morning, and, we learned, vaporizes by the time the drunks and sodomites show up in the afternoon). We ran through the Vatican Museum, having no choice but to move with the torrential river of tourists or get trampled. It is a pretty incredible place, but it is just too much. As one American tourist said, "It's just a bunch of friggin statues." After an hour, you tend to agree. Ended up in the Sistine Chapel where we were repeatedly shushed and forced to move along.

Professor Leslie noted that the original sin depicted by Michaelangelo in the Garden of Eden was not so much eating the forbidden fruit from the Tree of Knowledge as perhaps sex of the oral persuasion. Check it out: Adam reaches over a sitting Eve to grab fruit from the tree, with his parts placed suggestively in Eve's face. It is not subtle, even for us. And you've got to love tourists: no matter how many signs were posted, audio warnings played over the loudspeaker, or individual warnings issued by guards that pictures were prohibited, people snapped away. Couldn't help themselves. Of course, Aunt Lolly's digital instamatic won't begin to do justice to that magnificent ceiling, but what the hell. That pitiful photo shows Aunt Lolly was there, man!

To St. Peter's, which I won't bother to try to describe, except to say it's big, gaudy, and awesome (not so much in the teenage vernacular way). It, too, is hard to take in on one visit. So you grab what details you can: for me, it was Pope John's body laying in a glass case in front of one altar. Beyond creepy. And for a religion that insists that what matters is not the material world, that in fact the material world is misleading and pointless, the Catholic chuch sure revels in some curious material notions: the bodies of dead popes, the bones of St. Peter (in a box beneath the main altar), relics, and of course the gold, bronze and marble that line the walls of so many of these Roman churches. Oh, well. It can be awfully pretty.

We headed down and around to the underground crypt where the popes are buried. The highpoint, if you can call it that, is the fairly new grave stone of Pope John Paul II, the only one with fresh flowers and candles and other signs of, well, life. As we passed by the crypt holding the bones of St. Peter, a school group of Asian children, led by two nuns, promptly fell to their knees and began to pray. Reminded me of my childhood, so long ago.

We were too cash poor to pay the 7 Euro to ride the elevator to the dome (I was worried about vergito and claustrophobia anyway), so we slipped away to sip expensive beers down the street. Followed that up with a hike to the Trastavere, the cool homey neighborhood across the Tiber river from Rome proper. Found a restaurant recommended by someone, and sat down to a big dinner of fried calamari and, for me, a man size steak; for Leslie, what he thought would be a delicate serving of red sauce and meat, but what turned out to be a family sized platter of Italian chow.

Leslie chatted it up with a table of obvious Americans nearby, who claimed they were from Texas. One of the women, the chatty one, said, "Isn't this wonderful? It reminds us of Texas." Leslie responded, "How? What here could possibly remind you of Texas." Her husband said, "The heat." OK, we'll give him that. But she continued, "Well, you know, San Antonio. We have the river walk." Stunned silence all around. Moments later, she asked the professor, "Is there something called the Parthenon?" Leslie answered, "You're kidding, right?" Apparently, she had heard of the Parthenon (which is in Greece), but kept running across something called the Pantheon in Rome, and didn't know if they were the same thing. (If this exchange makes us come off as snooty, elitist, intellectual snobs...so be it. We are!)

On to take refreshment at the Campi de Fiore, a lovely square not far from the Tiber, the centerpiece of which is a statue of Giordano somebody. It seems he was branded a heretic back in the day and burned to death on this very spot. Not sure why the townsfolk want to memorialize this ugly little incident with a statue, but there it is, glaring down at you while you sip your Italian beer. We chose a cafe with what appeared to be the most comfortable seating, only to find that we were about the only ones to do so, all night. Everyone else chose to sit at other cafes, across the piazza from us. If you were sensitive, as I can be, you might think folks were avoiding us. That can't be, can it?

This morning to the Villa Borghese because our hotel clerk got us reservations! Stunning stuff. Everyone room in this sizable villa covered with incredible paintings and statuary collected by the Borghese family...nothing is left undecorated. It's dizzying, really. Although you do begin to question the propriety of a cardinal of the Catholic church having and using the wealth to buy this great art collection (not to mention hanging pictures of naked ladies over his bed). I don't meant to sound Puritan, but come on.

Off to Naples tomorrow and, I fear, more heat.

Lots of old stuff...

Off to the Coliseum Sunday morning, literally stumbling our way there (you would think that between the Ph.D. and the law degree, and my proclivities towards control freakdom, that our steps would be fairly well charted before departing from the hotel...alas, not. Lots is twisty turns, false starts, and a few dead ends...but it being Rome, incredible discoveries, large and small, around every corner. The orderly street grid of, say, New York, is entirely foreign here. I lead by my gut, and some of you know what that means.) I talked Leslie into taking the Coliseum tour...at first, after speaking with the tour guide, he turned to me with this disgusted look on his face and said, "Freebird, it is an hour long, and they give you a free tour later of the Palatine Hill, but they make you walk around with one of those ear pieces in your ear." Somehow he thought that would make us look stupider than normal. Because being with the tour group enabled you to skip the serpentine ticket line, we opted in. And it was worth it. Leslie even admitted that he learned things he didn't know, if you can imagine. I found this tour shorter and a lot less bloodier than the one I took several years ago...this guy even chose to omit mention of the bloody history of the Christians and the Coliseum. We asked at the end of the tour and he downplayed it, saying, yes, Christians were slaughtered (usually beheaded, not tossed to the lions), but not because of religion but because of politics (i.e., Christians = rebels = problems). So there. (Incidentally, the problematic ear pieces turned out to be cell phones that you could hold up to your ear if you were out of earshot of the guide...not terribly intrusive or embarrassing).

We found a restaurant across the street that offered a table in a dark, cool corner so we leaped. From our air conditioned table, we could see the Coloseum across the street, so it was nice (and cool). We returned, not expecting much, for the free tour of the Palatine hill. A young Australian guide cracked bad jokes, but led us on a spirited tour of the top of the hill where Domitian built his truly gigantic palace (using tens of thousands of Jewish slaves, don't you know, over 5 years). We learned that the Romans were lazy and cheap and invented veneer (using thin slabs of cover marble instead of building their buildings from solid stone), and that the awful modern structure that now sits on top of the hill in the midst of the ruins was built by Mussolini because, as Roman emperor, so to speak, he thought he deserved a place on top of the hill, too. He never occupied it...the people got to him first, as the tour guide explained in graphic detail (the hanging, the removal of his genitalia, the "soccer playing" with his genitalia, and then the humiliating stuffing of his genitalia, as a final grand gesture, in his mouth. Colorful stuff). The guide pointed us to one of the great views of old Rome, after which we traipsed our way out of the ruins and to the nearest bar.

OK. It wasn't a bar, but back to the Piazza Navona where I made Leslie eat a tartuffo (Tre Scalini specialty of chocolate ice cream covered in a thick slab of chocolate and topped with whipped cream), and we slid gradually into drink mode. The drinking got more intense when a young violinist (of maybe 13 years) set up his Peavy amp directly across the street in the piazza from my head, and proceeded to pelt us with lame virtuoso pieces, accompanied by a drum beat track: think Flight of the Bumblebee...that sort of crap). Leslie told the waiter that he would give the kid 5 Euros (and that's something for Leslie) if he would go away. The waiter laughed and walked away. Eventually we got him to turn the amplifier down so our glasses (and teeth) would stop rattling. We had to keep drinking to survive, so we bravely did. Finally, he left, to be replaced by countless young men selling knockoffs of designer purses, sunglasses, and belts. Their eyes roamed the piazza constantly, even while selling, watching for the carbinieri. The first flash of a police car or hat, and those guys were out of there. What a miserable way to make a living (worse than discovery battles).

Stumbled into a church on the piazza (St. Agnes of the Agony...which could not figure out which agony), into an Irish pub (where, just like McElroy's, the Irish found ways to abuse us), and to a restaurant over by the Coliseum (the only one opened on the street our guide told us was full of great restaurants). It was good, not transcendent (carbonara with smoke salmon!). Walking back to the hotel was great because night had descended, it was cooler, and the ruins were lit beautifully. Back in the hotel, we had a blackout, so I had to finish shaving in the dark (with my little LED torch). And I am sorry to say, R2D4 did little better Sunday night...and I think it was our air conditioner (or Leslie's curling iron) that caused another blackout this morning. The third world experience!

No Vatican today because Leslie woke up too late. Maybe the Villa Borghese, if we can find it. And at some point we have to decide how to get to Naples. Onward.

We're here and we're sweating...

Arrived yesterday, Saturday, in Roma around 11 a.m., after a long, pleasantly boring plane ride. I scored a center section of seats to myself so I wallowed horizontally throughout the flight, to the barely hidden disgust of my fellow, upright passengers. I have said it before and I will say it again: melatonin is my new best friend. Pop a 1 mg pill after the first plane meal, and you slowly slide into a mellow sleep for the length of the flight (it is not sleeping pill sleep, but that is ok with me). I waited in the hotel for an hour for Leslie...as he was late, gave up on him and headed out and down the nearby Spanish Steps, where I suddenly stumbled on a sweating, heaving Leslie hauling his bags up the numerous Spanish Steps. I was bleary eyed, but we pushed onward to stumble around the neighborhood, and onto the Pantheon (probably my favorite old building...the one with the hole in the roof), and onward to drinks at the Piazza Navona (where it was so hot, the people watching was a little off...the masses were huddled whereever a puddle of shade could be found...so the Piazza, cooking under the sun, mostly was bare). We wandered up to the Piazza di Populo for more drinks before I commanded that we had to eat and we did, at a perfectly mediocre restaurant near the hotel (my pasta fagiola (sp?) was executed brilliantly however, with a slight vinegary taste). I finally had to call it quits because my eyes kept involuntarily shutting, and I still had the hill home to climb. Which I did, barely. I left Leslie to pay the bill, and as I feared, he got lost on the way home (even though I made him stick the hotel card with its address and a little map on the back in his pocket before we left for this very reason). He eventually showed up. And I soon collapsed. Slept through the night to awake only occasionally to wonder why our little air conditioner (R2D4) was not able to keep my back dry. The Europeans, I find, settle for a lot less in the way of physical comforts than Americans do. Onward to some old stuff this morning, rested and well fed (corn flakes and Nutella for breakfast).

On the way out of the country...

A quick "happy birthday" to Malu (Hawaiian poet/warrior) and Chen (recent Master of Accounting graduate and KPMG hire). And a "good luck" to my niece Keli and my spiritual compadre Arkady on their encounters with their respective state bars this weekend (Texas for the former, California the latter). I'll toast you all as soon as I uncork that bottle on the Piazza Navonna...

The dollar's drowning and the heat wave is on...

Overjoyed to hear that "the battered dollar," as the financial pages call it, hit a record low against the Euro this week (incidentally, it also hit a 30-year low against the Canadian dollar--called the loonie!--this week, dragged down, the pundits say, by continued worries over interest rates and potential fallout from subprime mortgage loans (and possibly the Idiot's polyps). Sure am glad my tight self held on to all those Euro travelers checks I failed to use last time I was in Europe (with Licky Philpots). I feel vaguely rich.

Not so happy to see that it's still hot in southern Europe...Leslie has departed France for Germany. Don't know that I will hear from him again until we meet up, supposedly, in Rome on Saturday...one more half day of deposition and I can quietly slide into vacation mode...

How do you say "talcum" in Italian?

If you review the news links on the lower righthand side of this page, you'll likely see references to the killer heatwave blistering its way through Italy and Greece, with my people dropping like baked flies. It's so hot, in fact, that the Telegraph reports: "With temperatures soaring, and air conditioners running at full blast, Italians have been ordered by the government to shed their ties in order to cool down. Livia Turco, the health minister, has sent a memo to "all government employees and private Italians" which states that the "small gesture" can lead to "an immediate fall in body temperature of between two and three degrees." Of course this doesn't sit well with everyone: Some Italians, the newspaper reports, consider it a "sartorial disgrace." Alain Elkann, a writer and the husband of Margherita Agnelli, the Fiat heiress, said it was impolite. "I have never failed to wear a tie in public in 40 years," he told the Corriere della Sera newspaper. At most, he would remove his jacket.

Since I was not planning on packing a tie, and Leslie doesn't own one, and, instead he'll be sporting his revealing linen shorts and me my wide-legged culottes, we, too, will be disgraceful in our own fashion, but cool (in every sense).

That damn Leslie...

has texted that he is drinking at my favorite zinc bar/philosophy bookstore in the Marais in Paris, La Belle Hortense. It is a gem, only to be outdone in adoreableness by the little bar/cafe across the street with the horseshoe bar (where Ricky W. made me drink too much Belgian ale on an empty stomach with two Swedish girls, resulting in some impromptu showtunes (yes, some Sondheim) and an unfortunate tummy situation back at the dismal hotel much later). Oh, the memories.

That marvelous internet...

Despite what Pete R. says, the internet is good. And especially when it comes to travel. My new favorite sites (although this will be the first time I'll get an extensive, real-world chance to test both) are tripadvisor.com and viamichelin.com. The former permits you to search for hotels using ratings (and lots of commentary and photos) by real people who have actually stayed in the hotel. As with all things internet, take everything with a grain of salt...but you get lots of useful, and often colorful, information (e.g., "Don't stay in Room 332. It smells bad."). The Michelin site gives you detailed (and I mean detailed) driving directions throughout the world. In addition to mileage and driving time, they give you the toll amounts to expect and nanny you with such comments as, "You've been driving for 2 hours. Take a break." (Yes, Renee, I'll give you credit for finding this site.) And it's all free! Got it, Pete?

Another London update...

Leslie texts (I didn't know he had any idea how to text...I think it was Leslie) from abroad: "London almost magical...all buildings have mythological creatures...animals or naked women on top." Not sure I recall those particular details...anyway, Leslie remember to Mind the Gap or else!

From the land of "toad in the hole" and "bangers and mash," Leslie writes, "London is a fairy-tale land. I should have been born here." I envy him, dammit (not so much his hair).

The Schedule

FYI: I don't leave until July 27. Leslie leaves this weekend (he's got a course to teach). We'll meet up in Rome on July 28. We're there until something like August 16. So there.

Why Sicily...

you may ask, of all places to visit? Because, in addition to its amazing topography--the largest island in the Med., covered in mountains and topped off with volcanic Mount Etna--parts or all of Sicily were captured and, thus influenced, by Greece, Carthage, Rome, the Vandals (featuring Theodoric!), the Byzantine Empire, and even the Normans! And I'm told, although I haven't confirmed, that there are more Greek ruins today in Sicily than there are in Greece...that's a bit too much to swallow.

Anyway, in doing a little research, I came across this timely quote from the Christian scholar Jerome (347-420 A.D.) regarding the Visigoth's sacking of Rome in 410 A.D.: "IF ROME CAN PERISH, WHAT CAN BE SAFE." See...everybody thinks their civilization is invincible and everybody's a fool.

Some pre-travel reflections

Must say I'm a little surprised about how expensive European travel is this year. I think I'm paying more for my flight than I ever have. And the quaint hotels in Sicily that I was sure would be cheap are not (and we're not staying in anything fancy). The Euro is still beating the Dollar, but not oppressively so (it was worse when I was there a couple of years ago)...so I'm not sure why the cost spike. But it ain't stopping me. (Nor are the unfortunate and sudden cancellations of something like half of Leslie's students.) Life's too short, or in the Roman vernacular, Tempus Fugit and Carpe Diem and all that stuff.

Since I'm giving you a head start--nearly a month before my trip begins--feel free to offer your travel recommendations (especially if anyone knows anyone who knows any must-eat Italo or Greco restaurant, do share).