Review of Mediterranean Cruise and Tour -- Celebrity Galaxy (July, 2006)

[LrdNorman]

I'm in the process of writing a memoir about my wife's and my adventures in Italy last summer.

 

Our tour included the following:

 

3 nights in Venice

1 night in Santa Margherita (Portofino)

2 nights in Rome

10 night cruise on Celebrity's Galaxy (Capri/Sorrento/Pompeii; Mykonos; Santorini; Sicily; Cannes/Monaco; Florence/Pisa)

2 nights in Venice (Murano)

 

Almost all of the information about our travels were compiled by all of the wonderful people on this board. Everyone's wonderful things to do and to avoid made our trip one of the best trips we ever had.

 

The purpose of this review is to give back to this board everything I stole, uh, learned from everyone.

 

Just a little background information: We are both in our mid-30's, love history, enjoy learning new things, and being (somewhat) adventurous.

 

If anyone wants any more information about our travels, please feel free to ask. My wife loves to scrapbook and so we kept just about every scrap of paper we encountered on our trip.

 

Please feel free to let me know how it is going. Both positive and constructive criticism is always appreciated (but positive is always better!) :D However, if you feel that this is boring or non-informative, I'd like to know that, too.

 

Thank you again to everyone who contributed to this story! Enjoy!

 

Kevin

 

 

As I sit here, staring at the blank, white, glowing screen on this computer, I feel nervous. I have to admit something to you all that has created a demon inside of myself. I need to get it off my chest like a bad decision at the Mexican restaurant. It’s an addiction that I didn’t realize about myself until this cruise. Fortunately, I also have discovered that I’m not alone. There are hundreds, if not thousands, of others out there, on the internet, that are just like me.

 

Too late to turn back now, so here goes….I, Kevin, have an addiction to research. I have to ask a zillion questions, interview countless, faceless people in cyberspace, read and copy mounds of books from 1938 – present and view 2,168,498 web pages before I feel comfortable even BEGINNING to plan for a trip. My wife says that I’m demented; I think that I’m just thorough.

 

I think it all started when I was a baby. My parents always told me that I hated to sleep because I was afraid I would miss something. So, I have overturned a myriad of information (anyone interested in knowing what two countries are contained within Italy’s borders? The answer will appear later on. This is to keep you reading.)

 

The following story is all true. Unlike other writers, everything you read will be factual and not fabricated to get Oprah’s attention or rile Matt Lauer or Anne Coultier. My wife, Ashley (which you will hear PLENTY about; don’t worry, honey, I will paint you in a very favorable light!) and I decided to travel to Italy and this is the account of our experiences associated with this trip of a lifetime.

 

 

P.S. My wife’s name is Ashley and she approves this message…

 

 

Chapter One

 

 

Ever since we returned from our trip to Las Vegas in the summer of 2005, I had been checking several fares daily from Orlando to see where we would like to go for the following summer. Since I am a teacher, the only chance I get to travel is in the summer (which, evidently to South Florida parents, is not a real summer. God forbid they actually think about their child’s education. Can you tell it’s a hot button for me?)

 

In early January, early in the a.m., I checked a travel website (which I often check 2-4 times a day) to see if any “mistake” fares have appeared. Much to my surprise, an airfare for a flight from New York to London costs $400 for a roundtrip ticket for the summer months, which normally costs around $1,400. I yell upstairs at my wife about the airfare and that this mistake will probably be pulled in a few hours, so we need to book it fast if we really want to go to Europe. Ashley, who likes to contact several people before she makes a decision on something large, said, “Let’s wait. I’ve got to think about that.”

 

Since I am very irrational at times and willing to pull the trigger oftentimes too quickly without thinking, I almost book the flight anyway because I know that this deal will not come around again. But, the need to not sleep on the couch and hear a lecture on how we haven’t even discussed where or if we are going stopped me from clicking on “Buy Now.”

 

So, we don’t purchase the flight and, sure enough, the fare is gone by 9 a.m. However, after further research (I told you I had a problem), I found a pretty good fare from Orlando to Venice, Italy on Condor Airlines.

 

I had never heard of Condor Airlines either.

 

We are traveling along the Beachline toward the Orlando International Airport and it starts to rain. I can see my already nervous wife grip harder on the passenger seat. My normally flippant self tries not to make any small talk because I don’t want to make her any more nervous than she already is.

 

We go through the tolls and then circle back around on a side street and pull into our favorite 24-hour parking lot. The company charges $6.00 / day (far less than the airport charges) and we feel safe leaving our car there.

 

I walk up to the counter (Ashley is still glued to the front seat) and I am met at the very dirty drive-up window by the most upbeat woman; she’s singing and dancing in her seat (good thing that it swivels or she would throw her hip out). The fact that I am even mentioning someone even remotely upbeat at this place is remarkable. Every time Ashley and I park there (which is once a year), everyone looks so gloomy. I think that it is really a front for a funeral parlor. I half expect the grim reaper to drive us from the lot to the airport. Either way, if they offer any punch, I’m not drinking it.

 

I check our car in and Ashley finally gets out of the car, ready for action. We begin loading our luggage into the hearse van with the help of Guadalupe. I don’t know what his real name is, but I think that he came over in the NAFTA treaty. He was a very nice man – at least he looked like a nice man. He only grunted the words “airline” and “que.” Later on, he grunted “Condor” and I only know that because Ashley said, “I think he either said ‘Condor’ or ‘out the door.’”

 

He didn’t waste time getting our bags out of the van, either. Before we could even decipher his grunts (I wish I knew Morse code or Caveman), he had our stuff on the curb and ready to go, like a garage sale. If we didn’t get out of the van that second, our stuff would have been sold and sent halfway to Central America.

 

One thing I did forget to mention, however, was the station that Guadalupe was playing on his radio. I was expecting the Rhumba station or the Telemundo station, but instead we heard “Badonkadonk” from the country band Big and Rich. He was not just listening to it but grunting to it as well. “Unh unh unh uhhhhhh, Badonkadonk.” Very interesting.

 

After we got through all of the security checkpoints (I had to run to the bathroom to get my passport and driver’s license out because Ashley had me so paranoid about pickpockets that I put on my money pouch hidden underneath my clothes BEFORE I left for the airport!), Ashley took her perch at the gate and began watching and scrutinizing people. She does this very well. It’s kind of fun to watch her analyze others because I can almost see her brain working. Since a man doesn’t often understand what goes on inside a woman’s brain, being able to see it at work is very interesting.

 

While she begins to categorize people, I figured that I would join her in her character study of all of the people that will be on our flight. I’m not sure if Ashley is analyzing people out of self-defense or pure entertainment, but if you’ve ever studied people at an airport, you’d save a lot of money on cable.

 

You’ve got kids running back and forth down the aisles with their parents chasing after them like a big game of Tag. I knew that game would come in handy. They should play Tag during parenting class, or better yet, Whack-a-Mole. That would be more fun with all of those ankle-biters running and screaming. Even better, play Whack-a-Mole with the parents for giving birth to the Spawns of the Devil.

 

Then, I observe about half of the passengers on a cell phone. I begin to wonder a) who are they talking to?, and b) why are they talking to them? All of the “conversations” just seem to be noise. I can understand if the “conversations” have sentences such as, “Please check to see if the iron is still on,” “Make sure Scruffy has enough food before you go to work,” or “The doctor’s office called and congratulations! Tell your brother he isn’t the father,” but instead, I hear Blondie behind me exclaim loudly into her cell phone, “You’ll never guess what just happened to me. They made me pay an extra $20 because my luggage was too heavy with all of my clothes!” as if she wanted everyone to be proud of her. If she had brought anti-theft devices, I would have understood her pain.

 

Hold on a second. Ashley must want to tell me something as she is yanking my headphones off. “The kid across from me is sick. Do you think that I should move?” Not understanding her thought process going on (I can only see her brain working, not understand it, remember?), I muster up a useless, “Why? Should we?” to which she shoots me a “Hey, stupid! Why can’t you understand me?” kind of look. To all of you single guys out there, they teach you this look before you get married.

 

Evidently, that answer was not what Ashley was looking for because she let the headphone go and it snapped back into place, firmly planted on my left ear. So, I go back to listening to Britney Spears.

 

Amazingly, besides the hellions running around like chickens with their heads cut off and tall, blonde chickens clucking on their cell phones behind me, are the groups of people running because they are late for their plane. Not just one or two people, but herds of these people. I wouldn’t be surprised to see bulls running after them, like in Pamplona, Spain. Not to get too far off topic, but I always thought those people who ran with the bulls in Spain were not exactly wrapped too tight. As my mom would say, Those people aren’t too bright. The mall’s open but nobody’s shopping, if you know what I mean.”

 

What makes these people think this would be fun? I have bungee-jumped from 175 feet and I have sky-dived, but I would never purposefully get chased by a bull.

 

Actually, correct that. I have been purposefully chased, not by a bull, but by a very ticked off momma cow. Ashley’s mother’s husband, Lee, is very at home on the farm. He needed to separate the momma cow from her baby for some reason (I have no idea why – what do I know? I’m from the city.). Since he just had surgery on his knees he asked if I could distract the momma cow and draw her away from her calf.

 

I asked him how I would even do this, to which he replied, with a straight-face mind you, “Go up to her and smack her on the butt, lightly though.” This might be okay to do in the country, but people would get arrested for the same act where I come from. Besides, I wouldn’t even dream of smacking a cow hard, much less at all.

 

“Are you serious?” I looked over at the cow and she must have known something was up because she began to glare at me, and I could have sworn I saw smoke come out of her nose just like those Bugs Bunny cartoons.

 

“Yeah, I’m serious. You’re young. You can outrun Daisy. Just distract her for me.” At that point, I thought about other things I could do to distract her besides sexually harassing her. At the top of that list was standing fifty yards away yelling insults at her. Cows are pretty smart, aren’t they? Surely, “Daisy” would know that I am insulting her and come after me from over here.

 

It always seems that when something dangerous or nerve-wracking needs to be done, the sentiment that pervades everyone’s mind in my family is, “Kevin will do it.” Whether it’s knocking on a stranger’s door or jumping into a pit of snakes to get the last Twinkie, “Kevin will do it.” And dumb Kevin does.

 

“Okay, Lee, but if that cow kills me, please have Ashley put a very nice picture of me in the paper and don’t let the headline read that I was run over by a cow named ‘Daisy.’”

 

“Oh, Kevin, she’s not going to catch you. She just had the calf so she cain’t run too fast.” I trusted Lee. After all, he knows more about cows than me. Besides, her name’s Daisy. How ferocious can someone named Daisy be?

 

I climbed the barbed wire fence about 20 yards behind Daisy. She immediately snorted and the calf mooed. I knew I was in for it and this was one of the stupidest things I have ever done. If Daisy, the “docile” cow, came after me now with my legs straddling the barbed wire fence, our church would have a new soprano in the choir.

 

I managed to get my other legs over and, as my feet hit the ground, Daisy didn’t even give me a chance to spank her. She took off after me, snorting and kicking up dirt, ready to crush me like French grapes in a winery.

 

I don’t remember much after that. When I looked back, I saw part of my pants still hanging on the top wire, the cow was now at least 100 yards away, and Lee was laughing, giving Daisy’s calf a shot. I wasn’t winded and I had all the same body parts attached.

 

But I digress. Back to people running frantically through the airport. I don’t understand how people can be late for a flight, except in an emergency. And if there was an emergency, I would not be worried about my flight. I’d be worried about the emergency.

 

I can certainly understand maybe one or maybe a small family running to the gate, but 10-20 people? How can they be late? I have never heard of plane leaving early; plus, they tell you when you book the flight what time and day it leaves. The pilots and flight attendants don’t just call each other and say, “When do you want to leave for Chicago?” and then the other person says, “Let’s make it in an hour – wait, I need to wash my hair. Better make that two hours.”

 

Anyway, we fly to Frankfurt (our first stop) and everything went smoothly. Ashley didn’t sleep at all (she probably was giving the pilots flying advice through mental telepathy – either that or she was praying the Xanax would kick in soon) and I got a little sleep.

 

One thing I did notice about myself was that I succumb to a disease that many other Americans suffer from and never even try to cure – egocentrism. The flight was on Condor Airlines, a German airline which is part of Lufthansa, yet I fully expected everything to be as American as Delta or United. Looking back, I’m not sure why I noticed this in myself, but I knew when. Earlier, Ashley and I joked about the movies being in German, and then I was shocked to hear the pilots and flight attendants communicate in German, the magazines they provided were in German, and the meal was German (chicken, spaetzle and apple strudel for dessert).

 

Actually, I felt ashamed. Ashamed that I would expect everything catered to my language when I was traveling on a foreign airline to a foreign country. I try to be as cognizant and understanding to other cultures as I can—mainly so that I can learn something new. And here I was contradicting that belief.

 

The only other interesting thing about the flight was that I noticed in the Frankfurt airport, there are foosball tables everywhere. They were in every gate, in the restaurants and I expected to see them in the bathroom. Even more interesting is the fact that we saw every one of them filled by people of all ages. On one, we saw a pilot and flight attendant playing two other people (probably for beer money). I kept hoping that the pilot and flight attendant were flying our plane, and if they were, I was hoping that they won so that they would be in a good mood.

 

After changing gates three times (and a two-hour delayed flight), we arrived in Venice. I love seeing Ashley’s expression when we finally arrive to our destination. She gets so happy that she literally glows. I know that she is really celebrating the fact that we arrived safely, but knowing that she is really ready to relax and enjoy herself is enough satisfaction and joy for me.

 

We hop on the alilaguna and arrive at the Palazzo Guardi at around 10:30 p.m., which is beautiful. After ringing the doorbell, a buzzer sounds and the door pops open. It creaked eerily as we pushed it open. A heavy-set but cherub faced man came bounding down the three flights of stairs, very cheerful to see us. I practiced my Italian by introducing myself and he understood (at least he smiled when I introduced myself). We must have been the last ones to arrive because he already had our key and was ready to show us to our room. We exited at the creaky door, down a narrow alley, went to a canal, and down another alley. I should have looked up directions on Mapquest to find our room, but I don’t think any of those alleys and canals had names.

 

When we finally arrived at the room and lugged our now two tons of luggage because we were so tired up the flights of stairs, we were in heaven. I cannot say enough great things about this place. The room is decorated as if we were king and queen, complete with a rich green and gold motif (which are the same colors of our alma mater, the University of South Florida), two tables and chairs, a couch and, too Ashley’s pure delight, a deep tub and double sinks. It also has a bidet, which Ashley suggested that I use it (she called it a urinal – I’ve seen urinals, I’ve used urinals, but this, ma’am, is no urinal). It had a faucet on it and no flush lever, so I didn’t want to pee in something that someone may use be using as a third sink. However, it was the perfect height for a dog to drink out of. Just a thought.

 

After figuring out how to turn on the lights (you put the room key into the wall as the whole place is energy efficient) and how to call home (which we had to do directly and without a calling card which probably cost the same amount as a small villa in Tuscany), we had our business meeting to make sure that we were still on budget and went to sleep.

 

My wife, who is very good with money management, likes to have business meetings…a lot. However, I have learned that these meetings are a necessary evil, like going to the dentist or voting for President. She likes to make sure that were are “on task,” however, the meeting always ends up with an interrogation and someone attempting to resign or face a grand jury hearing for impeachment (“I did not have financial relations with that electronics store, Circuit City.”)

 

Here comes another rugrat. Hold on a minute – let me casually stretch my legs out…

[travelingmcmahans]

Loving it! I'm a compulsive researcher too. Why aren't you blogging????:)

 

Hope you get to lots of details about the Galaxy and your travels soon -- I'm embarking on the Galaxy Mediterranean in 82 days and counting ...

[ama22]

Great start to a story about your trip. Do you teach Creative Writing? Hurry with the next installments.

 

Mary Lou

[palmettogirl]

You big teaser.......what's your book going to be called?!? Do I have to wait til bedtime for the next chapter?

[LrdNorman]

Comments are always accepted!

 

Chapter Two

 

The next morning, we awoke refreshed and ready to tackle Venice, wanting to get lost in its’ charming qualities and everything it had to offer. We had a filling breakfast that Palazzo Guardi provided, complete with yogurt, fresh croissants (molto bene!), fruit cup (no doubt made from Del Monte) and different cereals – corn flakes, rice krispies and granola. I loved the granola. Not sure if it was homemade or not, but it was outstanding. I wish the milk was, though.

 

One thing about Italians – they are not that big into refrigeration, except the wine (more on that later). The milk was warm, which was weird for me. Americans like most of their beverages cold. I could not even fathom drinking milk, soda or orange juice that wasn’t kept by a polar bear. However, Italians seem to thoroughly enjoy their drinks warm (and often with no ice). You would think that asking for an iced cappuccino would be the equivalent of asking where the nearest Scientology church was.

 

As a matter of fact, the only air conditioning we saw in the whole city of Venice was in the tourist section which is probably why they make so much money off pf tourists. (C’mon, Frank! Let’s look at more of these ceramic masks!” “But you already bought $200 worth of those things this morning, Nancy.” “It’s got air conditioning…” she mews.” “Well I guess it doesn’t hurt to look…” he says with no hesitation.

 

So, after downing both Ashley’s and my share of breakfast (I mean it would be rude not to try EVERYTHING, right?), we headed out to find the Doge’s Palace and thwart the pickpockets.

 

San Marcos Piazza is famous for its’ pickpockets, so before we left the US, we took as many precautions as we could to prevent anyone from stealing our stuff. We had meeting after meeting about what not to do: 1) Don’t talk to strange kids; 2) Hang onto everything with both hands; 3) Don’t look like a tourist. We interviewed everyone we knew that had gone to Italy (only a fellow teacher and her uncle from Georgia) and even people who had never been to Italy (her mom and dad). All of these people confirmed to us that San Marcos Piazza is definitely a haven for pickpocketing pirates. So in our many meetings we hatched a plan of action: buy a money belt to fit under the pants, get locks for my backpack and sew pockets inside Ashley’s underwear. That’s right. Pockets inside the underwear. My wife, who is very cautious (I would say paranoid) put pockets in her underwear to prevent any pickpockets from getting her passport, traveler’s checks and money. In all fairness, her paranoia stems from her job. She is an attorney and works with a lot of criminal cases, so, sadly, she has been brainwashed into seeing the worst in people. However, that “cautiousness” has been converted to paranoia to me.

 

We entered San Marcos Piazza, armed with my money belt under my pants, locks on my backpack and a can of mace and taser gun. I’m just kidding about the mace and taser, however, I purposefully did not wear deodorant so that I could ward off any would-be thieves. Sadly, many Italians don’t wear deodorant, either. But at least I won’t smell like a tourist!

 

So now, with my Spidey senses set on high and thinking that everyone is out to get me (including those peddlers hawking shirts, glassware from Murano and Italian flags), we headed over to the Doge’s Palace. However, we had to get through the Italian army of pigeons first.

 

Upon encountering these warriors, I was very intimidated. Thinking I was lucky to be too young to be traumatically affected by Hitchcock’s movie, The Birds, my goal was to not get bombed by their, uh, ammunition. Ashley originally wanted me to get some bird food and stand there with seed in my hand, but all I could think of was that these birds would mis-interpret this kind gesture with violent attacks with their finely-chiseled beaks, razor-sharp claws and, of course, their ultimate biological weapon – poop. Many other tourists were much more brave than I was, true warriors that were not afraid to attack these subversive, sneaky little bastards head on. Many of the tourists sent their children in first, no doubt because the kids were more scary to these pigeons then anything else. Armed with a strong sense of annoyance, these little monsters ran through a group of pigeons who were, no doubt, scheming some devious plot to sneak attack me and send in kamikaze dive bombers to swoop in and crash into my unprotected head – the only part of me that I don’t think was insured before we left. The children would manage to sneak up on the pigeons and then yell at them with a shrill, “Ahhhhhhh” and send pigeons scattering for cover, oftentimes toward me, thus sending me for cover. I wanted to rent a kid, and it would probably be for very cheap considering the frantic state their parents appeared in.

 

“Kevin, stand right there,” Ashley bellowed.

“Where? Right here?” I counter knowing full well it won’t be.

“No. Move to the right.” I move to the right.

She looks through her eyepiece on her camera. “Now, move to the left.”

“I was just there!”

“Be quiet!” she snaps. “Now smile!”

 

My wife is thoroughly into photography. Fortunately, it’s not just the “snap-and-shoot” style that I see many people doing to the Basilica. She actually has an artist’s eye for photography.

 

You see, she does scrapbooks and enjoys it. Ashley is very meticulous with those scrapbooks, documenting every trip with receipts, pictures, business cards, menus, and every other piece of memorabilia. She even goes to scrapbook parties that last an entire weekend, complete with sleepovers, prizes and all the diet coke you can drink. When I was a kid, I would probably try and sneak into the place filled with women; now I stay as far away as possible.

 

Ashley is very good at scrapbooking – creative use of color, style and shapes. I should know – I get pop quizzes on them every so often.

 

“Honey? Do you remember the restaurant we ate at in Boston?”

“What restaurant?”

“Don’t you remember? You had the thing with the avocado and tomatoes?” I give her a blank look. “I can’t believe you don’t remember. I tasted yours and you wouldn’t trade with me. Just bring the New England scrapbook over here and let’s take a look at it.” I go over to the library of scrapbooks which is an imposing wall and get the New England tome. “No. Not that one. The one next to it. 2001, I think.”

 

I find it and bring it over to her and she immediately turns to the page that not only has the menu, but a picture of the entrée that I ordered, the business card of the restaurant, pictures of the restaurant and subsequent views and all of the waiter’s particulars (this one enjoyed long walks on the beach and candlelit dinners).

 

Actually, I’m glad that she does the scrapbooks. If it were up to me, I’d take a few boring pictures, throw them into a box that would get dusty in the attic. But she is able to bring them out and show friends and family things that they should see when they travel. You actually get to see the highlights of the vacation and a sense of the area. It is a wonderful travelogue for those who would like to go to that area for vacation.

 

“I’m going to film this over here,” I tell her, armed with my video camera.

 

“Okay, just…” she starts to whisper, “…just make sure you don’t set anything down, always look around you and don’t be distracted by any sudden movements. Do you have your money belt on? You don’t have anything valuable in your backpack do you? Because it will probably be stolen. I know how you are. You will leave it somewhere. I’d feel better if I kept all of the money in my underwear.”

 

I’ve already tuned her out and began walking away. “Just remember to be by the door to the Doge’s Palace by 9:30,” I call after her. She shoots me a look that says, “Don’t-you-remember-rule-number-one? Don’t-look-like-a-tourist!”

 

I’m very excited about the Secret Itineraries Tour at the Doge’s Palace (Palazzo Ducale). It was one of the few things that I really wanted to do on this trip. I’m not sure what the real attraction was to it. I know that they did backstage stuff that is not on the regular tour; they show you all of the behind the scenes stuff, like where the Council of Ten met, the secret rooms and passages of all of the legislators, city councilmen and, especially, the torture chamber and the jail cells of a certain notorious man by the name of Casanova. Yes, ladies, you know the man and, if you’re married, you are probably not married to Mr. Casanova. You are probably married to Mr. Snores-a-lot.

 

I begin taking video of everything – statues of lions, the pigeons raiding people’s personals – trying not to look like a tourist. Because I hate being late to anything (one of the virtues my mother taught me), I wanted to film near the Doge’s Palace entrance.

 

Our tour voucher said to report no later than 9:55 (the tour started at 10), so at about 9:30, I headed over to find Ashley.

 

I found her standing on a bridge, raising her camera to her eye, then putting it to her side, then raising it again to her eye for about ten seconds, then dropping her arm down again, with an obvious frustrated body posture. There are throngs of people around her.

 

“Are you almost ready?” I ask her.

 

“I just wish these darn tour groups would go away. I was standing getting ready to take a picture when all of a sudden these tour groups came out of nowhere. I mean, thousands of them!”

 

She was right. While I was still talking to her, a very large group of Asian tourists were still parading by, some stopping to take pictures of video. But, standing on top of the bridge, I could see quite a distance and there didn’t seem to be any end in sight. It was as if they were marching in to attack.

 

They were walking past the Doge’s Palace in typical tour group style, like a pack of wolves, each with earphones in their ears and a camera and receiver hanging down from their neck. At first sight, it looks as if they are taking secret orders through their earplugs.

 

But, Ashley was right. As we walked around, out of nowhere would come these huge groups of people, all speaking their own language and wearing those headsets. Not just Asians, however. Germans, Americans, English, Italians, Abominable Snowmen – they seemed to everywhere. We felt quite out of place NOT being in a tour.

 

What they did have in common were those headsets. Having experienced those headsets later at the Vatican (more on that in the Rome chapter), these are a fantastic idea. They allow the leader to speak to the group without interference from outside tours or other noise. You are able to hear exactly what your own tour guide was saying.

 

Here’s how it works – the leader has an omni-directional microphone around his/her neck and speaks into it (hopefully not too loudly or else it could blow an eardrum). Everyone on the tour has a receiver hanging around their necks, picking up the frequency that is set before the tour begins – much like a radio. Then, the headphones are plugged into the receiver and, voila! You have four-speak.

 

What is rather fun, though, is watching these tours walk around. The tour leader usually walks very fast, with two or three followers right behind him or her, probably scared to death that they will be left behind in a foreign country with no one to speak to them via microphone.

 

Then, you’ve got a blob of people, stopping to take pictures – of everything. They are taking pictures of the sites the leader just told them about five minutes ago, because they were too far behind taking pictures of the other buildings that the tour leader told them about 10 minutes ago.

 

They also take pictures of the sky, each other, people they don’t know who are standing in line, gum on the ground, aliens spaceships – I mean everything. If CNN were smart, they would get all of their big event footage from tour groups. Especially Asians.

 

Asians are the best at documenting every second of their vacation with footage. It seems as if their digital and video cameras have unlimited hard drive space because they never run out of film, much like a gun slinger or a shootout in the movies never runs out of bullets. They cannot possibly watch the movies or look at their photos when they get back because that would take years.

 

And they are as happy as they can be. They line up their family (and your family if you’re not careful) and bark out orders, each person scrambling to get into their perfect place. Then, when the moment is right, they all smile at the same time, even the 6 month old. She, like grandpa, has no teeth. They hold that smile until the one with the camera says in English, “Cheese!” Then they all repeat “Cheese!” in English and, as soon as the picture is taken, they all scatter – some to find the tour leader that is probably in another country by now, some to see what the picture looks like on the camera’s screen, some to organize another group photo, but this time with an unsuspecting German family…

 

Americans take a different approach. They don’t ever stop walking to the picture. They walk around aimlessly raising up their arms and snapping photos. It’s almost as if they have a muscle spasm with their arms or maybe its just a compulsion. They could be just sitting at a café, having a cappuccino and talking to someone when all of a sudden their arm rockets up and “flash!” their camera goes off, and then lowered again without missing a beat of their conversation. It is really quite remarkable to see.

 

I can’t image what the pictures look like:

“What the heck is this? I don’t remember taking this picture.”

“It’s my eyeball. Remember when you were talking to Martha?”

 

Anyway, back to the Secret Itineraries Tour of the Palazza Ducale (Doge’s Palace). It was actually quite fascinating. Actually, the most fascinating part (and the part that everyone had wanted to see), was Casanova’s jail cells. But before they get to that, they tell you about a bunch of people that you’ve never heard of.

 

Now to the part that everyone was looking forward too… (drum roll) Casanova’s stint in the pokey (slang for jail).

 

Giacoma Casanova evidently was a very charming man. In a city where you could be executed for polluting the waterways, or swearing in church, Casanova decided to take it one step further and sleep with nuns and married women (they called it immoral). He only got jail time – I guess he was secretly applauded by all the others doing the same thing (we call it daytime soap opera.)

 

The government followed his activities for over eight months. After they finally caught him, he was taken to jail, tried immediately (you could only be under arrest for up to three days) and convicted.

 

We were taken up to his jail cell, which is about 10’ by 10’ and only six feet high. Casanova was around 6’3”, so he was definitely cramped. The doors to the cells were wooden and about 3 ½ feet tall. The tour guide said that this was so that the prisoners would be forced to bow down to authority.

 

Very quickly after being detained, he befriended his jailer. Amazing what money can buy. The jailer soon allowed Casanova to have a longer mattress (the others were too short) and a chair from his house: for a fee, of course.

 

While he was allowed to stretch his legs in the attic (because the ceiling was much higher), Casanova found a piece of metal and some flint, and since he was very clever, he began burning a hole in the floor of his cell in order to drop through and make a getaway.

 

When the jailer discovered what he was doing, since he was on Casanova’s payroll, he moved him to another cell with a guard watching him around the clock.

 

Casanova soon discovered that a priest, Father Barbari, was in a cell across from him. They began exchanging books of theology and literature (with the guard passing the books back and forth since they were not allowed out of the cell)

 

Inside the books, Casanova and the father communicated by writing messages back and forth, and eventually planned their escape together. Casanova had a tool that bore holes in the wood (the tour guide probably explained this in Italian because I have no idea how he got the tool). So after planning their escape in the books, they decided to make a break for it in the thick of the night.

 

Casanova ordered an extra plate of food, and when it arrived, he placed the tool on top of a very large Bible and the plate of food on top of that. He told the guard to deliver the extra plate of food and the Bible to Father Barbari flat, like a tray.

 

The guard did, Father Barbari made a hole in the ceiling of his cell, crawled to Casanova’s cell, and the two escaped through a crawl space, and down some stairs, only to find themselves locked in.

 

Knowing they would be caught, and now being very tired, they slept at the entrance of the palace. When the guards opened the palace gates in the morning, Father Barbari and Casanova ran out, went out across the piazza (seen by several guards and noblemen but never ordered to stop), got into the first gondola and escaped out of Venice.

 

Interestingly enough, the jailer who didn’t watch them close enough, got ten years in jail and Casanova didn’t come back to Venice for eighteen years. When he did come back, he was pardoned by the Doge, made a spy for the Venetian army and, of course, became a movie star of countless non-factual movies made about his life.

 

Whew! I know all of this because I took notes. I figured that if I spent the money to do the tour, I’d like to remember something from it. Plus, like I said earlier, it was something I really wanted to do.

 

Overall, I highly recommend doing the Secret Itineraries Tour at the Doge’s Palace. As a matter of fact, I don’t think that you would get as much from many of the historical sights I will mention throughout the book without a tour, as long as you don’t mind the people taking the tour with you.

 

Whenever you take a tour, whether on a ship, at an historical sight/place or across several countries, you always encounter people who are “different,” meaning, different than yourself. To me, it is always just as much as fun to watch the people you tour with as it is actually touring the area.

 

On this particular tour, we had Ma and Pa Kettle, Mr. and Mrs. Wonder and Ms. Pop Quiz Teacher. Ma and Pa Kettle stepped right off of the painting with the two farmers who look like they just ate some bad cheese and he’s holding a pitchfork. You would think that I would know the name of the painting because I researched so many paintings in preparation for the art museums (I told you I had a problem). They were both about 82 years old and I don’t think that they have left Iowa since the war – the Civil War. Don’t get me wrong; I think that it is wonderful that they have saved up their money to go on a big trip. So many people in the US stay at home and do not venture very far outside of the city that they live in. But Ma and Pa Kettle have. They decided to come to Venice, Italy on the same day that Ashley and I have and provided us with entertainment.

 

Pa Kettle, sadly, was a little hard of hearing and was having a difficult time understanding the tour. After the tour guide with the thick Italian accent would slur something about the paintings, the cramped quarters or Casanova, Pa would turn to Ma and say, “Whadshe say?” to which Ma would give him a coordinated hand signal wave and a “Shhh….”

 

Mr. and Mrs. Wonder, on the other hand heard everything that the tour guide said and then responded to the information with a “Wow!” I could tell that they were having just as good a time as I was and they studied each painting, secret passage and piece of 11th century lint on the floor with amazement. Mr. and Mrs. Wonder hung on every word that the tour guide uttered and inspected every centimeter of fading wallpaper that there was to inspect. Sherlock Holmes would be very proud.

 

Ms. Pop Quiz Teacher made sure that her two young daughters were getting all of the information. The fourteen-year-old wasn’t that thrilled (probably because Orlando Bloom wasn’t the tour guide), but the eight-year-old was obviously Pop Quiz’s favorite because she answered every question that Mom threw at her.

Ms. Pop Quiz: “Now, did you hear that, honey? What is this a map of?”

Eight-year-old: “Um, Italy before 1200?”

Ms. Pop Quiz: “That’s right! Excellent job!”

Fourteen-year-old: “Looks like a Dolce & Gabbana boot getting ready to step in a pile of dog…”

Ms. Pop Quiz: “Ugh! Knock it off! Where did you learn to act like that?”

Without missing a beat, the eight-year-old answers the question, “Dad.”

 

One thing that did impress me, more than Casanova’s cell was the torture area, probably because I am a middle school teacher. Mr. and Mrs. Wonder were very impressed as well. Behind the court where the Council of Ten sat and heard cases was the torture room, conveniently situated right next to the jail. Everyone in the jails can hear the person being tortured. In the torture chamber, a priest (in case last rites were needed), the torturer, the accuser making the accusation and a stenographer (useful for Ms. Pop Quiz Teacher) were always present.

 

During the lecture, Mr. Wonder inspected the rope, Ms. Pop Quiz took notes, the eight-year-old wandered off into the other room, and Mrs. Wonder started looking for the secret passage of the Council of Ten while running her fingers over the walls. To me, this was just like being in a kindergarten class as one of the students. Now I know how the quiet kid in the corner eating glue feels like. That’s probably why he eats the glue. Before the tour guide can even get into the story of the torture chamber, the fourteen-year-old’s hand shoots up.

 

“I think I’d like to escape like this Casernover guy. How did he get out of here?”

Just then, the bells in the piazza went off and rang loudly. The tour guide, who must have a Master’s Degree in Ignoring People, continued on with her prepared speech, undaunted by the many distractions.

“Honey!” Mrs. Wonder yelled over the tour guide. “Come look out this window opening!” Mr. Wonder ran over to the window with his camera ready like a gunslinger ready to shoot.

As we climbed the stairs to the jail cells, Pa Kettle turned to Ma and said, “Whadshe say?” Ma ignored him to which Pa said to her, “I can’t hear a word she said from those bells. Did you catch that from all of those ding-dongs?”

 

That must be why they called it a torture chamber. We didn’t stay there very long, thankfully. After the tour, we wandered downstairs into the gift shop and bought a €3.00 bottle of water. I was stunned! €3.00 is equivalent to $4.00 for a 16-ounce bottle of water. I felt like was at a sporting event. Unfortunately, the temperature was around 95 degrees and water was necessary. So we took our liquid gold and walked around Venice, but more for the shade.

 

We meandered throughout the many back roads, getting lost in Venice, making each moment count. However, the moment I really wanted to experience, more than the canals, gondolas, and the pigeons in the plaza, was the World Cup. Overrated, I’m not exactly a soccer fan and only know that the game is relatively boring until someone actually scores, and a fight breaks out in the crowed or a streakier runs across the field with “kiss my grass” phrase painted on his butt that has never seen the sun (or a tanning bed).

 

But this is Italy where soccer, er, futbol, is king. In every piazza, there is a number of kids kicking a soccer ball on there heads, feet, butt, and everywhere else. The goal is between a statue of some naval general and a garbage can. For these kids, it’s not about winning or losing – it’s about passion. When soccer is on, the country’s infrastructure shuts down. Banks close early and every mom and pop store has a little thirteen inch TV with rabbit ears tuned into the game. Flags fly proudly in the wind from open apartment windows. Every game is the Super Bowl. Each city in Italy has their own professional team and they hate each other, including the Vatican. It’s one of the few times that comes that you can hit the Catholics in Italy and get a pardon from the Pope. Sadly, every single one of them could beat us easily. These players run up and down the field without even breaking a sweat. They glide, cut and kick with such grace that their skills are effortlessly perfect. These soccer players are treated like rock stars. (explain)

 

So here Ashley and I were, in the middle of a country that lives and dies by its team (literally lives and dies), on the biggest night in the past twelve years, I was depressed. I had visions before the trip that Ashley and I would be in a bar full with Grappa-crazed Italians, who were all screaming words that were not on the tape we had listened to for three months, cheering our team on to victory, because, for one night at least, I wanted to be Italian. I wanted to be passionate about a game I know nothing about, but, more importantly, I wanted to be caught up in “the fever.” Instead, I was looking at street vendors hawking jerseys from every team in the world cup EXCEPT the US, while the real merchants of Venice peddled their fake Gucci and Versace purses to tourists that wanted an over-priced souvenir that would fall apart in 24 hours anyway.

 

Ashley felt my pain and wanted to help, but there was going to be no rest or consoling my pouting unless we fulfilled my vision, and the game started in two hours. There were plenty of advertisements outside of restaurants, but none of these places matched my imagination. I wasn’t exactly sure what my vision was, but I knew that this wasn’t it. So, off we marched up and down canals that were away from the tourists section, looking for my dream. We passed several restaurants that had a Chili’s or Applebee’s feel to it, but I wanted a bar – a place where heated politics were argued, sports was a feature topic, and hell, maybe even a fight would break out over who was hotter – Sophia Loren or Gina Lollabrigida (Sophia, hands down). I wanted a place my mom would have been mortified and ashamed that I went to, dirty and full of testosterone.

 

Instead, these places we were passing were probably advertising Kids Eat Free! in Italian. Plus, they were charging 20 Euros to get in. I didn’t want to pay to get in. It wasn’t until much later that night that I realized that they were advertising what time the game started (20:00 = 8:00 p.m.) and not a cover fee. As you can tell, I was never in the military.

 

It was now getting dark and Ashley’s feet were hurting. I know this because she told me at every turn. And I was in no mood to hear it.

 

“My feet hurt. Can we just pick a place?”

“No. I am looking for some place in particular.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know, but when I see it, I’ll know it.”

“Well, I’m going to sit over here on these steps and rub my sore feet. You can run off and go find it and then come back and get me. How will you find me? If you don’t come get me, I wouldn’t know how to get back to the hotel.”

“Well, I can’t go far. I can’t get out of here without taking a boat. Just sit here under the light and hopefully I’ll find something before dark. I’m going to find a place if it kills one of us. And I think it will be me.”

“Under the light? Where the pickpockets can see me? What if someone approaches me and mugs me? I’ve heard stories where tourists are robbed and beaten in broad daylight and no one stops to help them. You can’t be too careful.”

“Never mind. Maybe I won’t be the one who is killed.”

 

And off I stormed, bound and determined to find the perfect place. I would go down a few alleys, listening for a crowd of people. If I didn’t find anything, I would double back and then go off in a different direction and start the process all over again. I felt like James Bond on a mission. Moving very fast, I stealthily dodged past ambling tourists who were wearing Italian jerseys with players’ names on the back, people walking their dogs slowly – trying to slow my quick pace down (I swear they were French) and hot Italian women carrying several boxes of pizza and beer to apartments with definite male testosterone echoing throughout the alleyway. Damn, these Italian men don’t realize just how good they have it. This scene would never happen in America.

 

Along the way, I came across several flags waving proudly, anti-French sentiment (except, no mention of Freedom Fries), posters that I assume were eschewing the demise of the American occupancy in Iraq and, then, around a promising corner…my dream. I had found it! It was packed with people, beer and wine was flowing freely, a large screen TV with a clear picture and no Bunny Ears coming out of it had the pre-game show on, and most importantly, a bar. With barstools. And a full compliment of alcohol above the hot female bartender’s head. And no seats.

 

No! This must be a cruel joke! I found an oasis and it turned out to be a mirage. That’s not fair! I traveled down several back alleys, I had forgotten my way back and, even if they did have a seat, how was I going to get Ashley? The thought quickly went through my head to leave her sitting there on the steps of an unknown building while I enjoyed the game, but just as quickly, I dismissed it. It was only the second day out of 21 and the game wasn’t worth the fire and brimstone I would get for years. Even the Pope couldn’t save me from that decision.

 

So, I grudgingly, and much more slowly, found my way back to Ashley who was as happy as a clam enjoying the soft, setting sun. I was crushed. It felt worse than when Michelle laughed at me when I gave her chocolates for Valentine’s Day in fifth grade. It was now 50 minutes until the game started.

 

“Did you find anything?” she asked cheerfully.

“No. I’m just going to give up. Let’s just go back to the hotel and forget about it.”

“Don’t give up. We might find something on the way back. I never should have bought these shoes. They are killing my feet.”

“Well, let me sit down for a second. And gather my bearings. Just give me a minute.”

“Okay, honey. While you were gone the most interesting thing happened….”

 

She proceeded to tell me that while she was waiting for me on the church steps, a priest was bringing in “bunny-eared” antennas out of the church in order to get better reception for the game. Evidently, they had brought in a TV and the church was getting together. I only imagined that an altar boy would be sent off into the summer Italian heat with his robes on to flail his arms in contorted positions while screaming into the sanctuary in Latin, “Is this better? Can you see it now?”

 

So, off we trudged in the only direction that I had not traveled. Ashley did her best to try to console me and even suggested that we stop in at this restaurant. We came upon a restaurant across from Teatro Goldoni (a place known for commedia dell’ arte plays) and she suggested that we just get something to eat here.

 

“I don’t know. Let’s just go back to the hotel.”

“Just look at the menu. Maybe they’ll have the game on here.”

 

“The game is no different then anywhere else! Pizza. And there’s no streamers, no drunks with pitchers of beer. There’s not even a band playing! Besides, there’s too much light, and no one would ever get into a fight here.”

 

I realized that I was now raining on two parades with my complaining and so we went inside to order. It was now 30 minutes before game time and there was a sprinkling of people in the place and the news was on the TV. We sat down and ordered a pizza and then noticed a few people come in and immediately head upstairs with beers in their hands. Now, I’ve been to college and I can smell a party a mile away. There must be a World Cup event going on upstairs and I was determined to be a part of it.

 

I told Ashley what I was going to do, and before she could protest, I waved my hand for the waiter. I asked him if we could go upstairs and watch the game. He apologized and said that we couldn’t and immediately walked off. I saw him walk back to the bar and talk to the bartender.

 

Meanwhile, a different waiter came around and was asking every table if it was alright to change the channel to the game (he spoke to us in English. How does everyone know?) I emphatically said yes and saw more people come in and head upstairs. Now, this is more like it! It appeared that the waiter was trying to drum up support because he wanted to watch the game as well.

 

I looked around the room and there were a few more people then before. After taking a poll of everyone, the waiter went back to the bartender and kept reporting his data. Each time he went back there, he seemed to be more excited. With his excitement growing, mine did too.

 

“Honey, aren’t you going to eat?” I didn’t even notice that they delivered the food.

 

“Just a second. I think they are going to turn on the game.” And at that moment, the waiter came bouncing down the aisle to turn on the 20” television set with as much fanfare as if he was running for office and watching the election. I was just as proud as he was.

 

I then began to realize how hungry I was and started to eat the pizza. Now, I love sauce. I think my blood is 50% red blood cells and 50% marinara. Italians evidently don’t believe in sauce. They use more tomato paste than sauce and I think that Italians probably use tomato paste instead of sauce in order to sell more €3.00 water, which they do not refill for free. There are no free refills of anything. Plus it is oftentimes cheaper to have the house wine than water, so that’s what I had. And I ate extra slow so that I could enjoy the hell out of the night.

 

The commentators came on and I was hanging on to every word that I couldn’t understand. They were excited, talking about players I didn’t know and I loved it. It was almost as if I understood what they were saying. More people started filing in and heading upstairs. Others meandered in off the side streets and alleyways, grabbed a pint and sat down.

 

The game was about to start and we had finished our meal. I ordered a Coke and Ashley had another water. I wanted to be able to sit there all night having as much entertainment on as little money as possible. I looked around and it seemed Venetians had the same idea that I had. Nobody was eating – they were only drinking and chatting in Italian, until Richard and Sheila showed up.

 

Richard and Sheila were a Welsh couple that were sitting at a table next to us and looked like they walked right off of the BBC channel. I don’t remember who started the conversation, but I know that it didn’t end until the game was over. Ashley and Sheila talked about everything and anything not having to do with the World Cup since neither of them likes sports. I have not a clue what their conversation was about because I wanted to watch the game. Nor can I remember what Richard was jabbering on about, but that didn’t stop him from trying. Throughout the course of the game, however, I did manage to learn that it was okay in Italy to lounge in a restaurant while eating or drinking nothing and taking up space.

 

In Italian culture, dining out is an event. Food and company are meant to be enjoyed and savored over a long meal. It is not uncommon for dinner to last 3-4 hours over a slice of pizza and a glass of wine. Many rural Italians still close up shop around 1:00 p.m. and don’t open again until 5:00 p.m. to go home for a leisurely lunch and nap (something I’m all for). They do not worry about hustling you out in order to make a profit. There is not anyone hovering over you ready to snatch the fork away as soon as it leaves your mouth and shoving the bill at you while screaming, “You finished? You pay at the counter!”

 

As a matter of fact, waiters and waitress don’t even bother you during your meal. You very rarely see them and oftentimes you have to send out a search party complete with English hunting dogs and a GPS tracking device in order to get a refill on your €3.00 water. I apologize for all of the water references. I just can’t get over charging so much for a resource that surrounds Venice.

 

Anyway, we didn’t feel so bad about sitting there and taking up space and listening to Richard drone on. I almost missed France’s goal because of him.

 

As Richard was discussing the finer differences between Rugby and soccer (they both are just reasons to assault others without getting arrested, in my opinion), one of the Italian players virtually assaulted one of France’s players inside the box in front of Italy’s goalie. Zidane Zinedine, the captain of the France team and evidently one of the most popular soccer players in France, kicked the penalty kick. It was at this time that I noticed a hush going over the room; the same silence one would hear when Richard Simmons entered a bar in Harlem. Fortunately, Richard succumbed to the deafening silence as well.

 

As Zidane lined up to kick the penalty kick in only the 7th minute, all I could think of was the moment in the movie Caddyshack when Danny Noonan lined up to sink the long putt to win the Amateur contest and his opponent whispering loudly, “Noonan! Nnnoooonan! Noonan!” in the desperate attempt to get Noonan to miss the putt. I was now trying to jinx Zidane by whispering, “Noonan!” toward him.

 

“I’m sorry,” Richard said to me. “Did you say something?”

 

“Um, nothing,” I replied not wanting to disturb this moment. “Nothing.” I continued to Noonan Zidane very loudly in my head, though.

 

Zidane ran toward the soccer ball, planted his foot and solidly swung his leg, sending the ball like a cannon hurtling toward the net. Buffon guessed left, the opposite of Zidane, and the ball clanked off of the top crossbar and bounced down just inside the white goal line.

 

With a delayed reaction, the bar was silent and then erupted with shouts and lots of hand gestures. I know that many soccer games often end in 1-0 scores, so, conceivably, this could be the end of the game in only the 7th minute. That would suck. I would hate to search all night for the perfect place, order a few $5.00 waters, and have my vacation ruined by a Frenchman with a lucky kick. Clearly, I would have to do better with my Noonan jinx.

 

Throughout all of the instant replays to see if the ball did, in fact, cross the line (which it clearly did), everyone in the bar was arguing about the call very passionately. The police soon showed up and luckily they were not here to break up the party. They probably came to see what the loud noise was all about and wound up staying for the game. If anyone wanted to commit a crime, tonight was the night because the police force was all in bars watching the game. Actually, the criminals probably were as well. Come to find out, the hospital, fire department and other public commodities shut down for the game as well.

 

The game continued on and was just as exciting as I had hoped. I didn’t realize just how thrilling a low scoring game could be. An Italian player nearly kicked the ball into his own goal, Italy scored by head butting the ball into France’s goal, a few offside penalties and the first half ended in a 1-1 tie.

 

Unlike an American football game, hardly anyone moved during halftime. In America, there is always a mass exodus to head to the bathroom, stretch, taunt the other team’s fans, rob somebody. In Italy, during halftime, the bar is busy. The waiters, who didn’t work at all during the game as no one was interested in eating or drinking, quickly jumped up and started bringing beers and wine and filling drinks, including their own and the police officers’. They were just as much a part of this experience as everyone else. And best of all, they didn’t bother me during the game.

 

The second half started with a flourish, both from the game and Richard. He was still telling me about England’s education system and more rugby strategy (I thought the goal of rugby was to beat the hell out of each other. I never knew that they actually had strategy.) I was hoping that someone would score again so that he would be quiet. Sheila and Ashley already made plans for us to stay in their summer house in Spain and Richard was giving me the history of Spain.

 

In soccer, the clock doesn’t stop and there are no timeouts, making the game shorter than American sports. I like this better, but it shortens the amount of time for me to savor the atmosphere. I was determined to enjoy every moment and, in looking around, the place was packed. Kids had their faces painted, the police were drinking beers with patrons, and nobody was walking in front of the TV, obstructing my view. This was exactly what I was looking for.

 

No one scored by the end of regulation, and the Italian goalie made some great stops. As they were getting ready to go into overtime, Richard made the comment that maybe France’s and Italy’s strategy was to flop down on the ground, trying to draw any advantage for a penalty kick, and I think he was right. As I went over the highlights of the game, I couldn’t help but recall players falling down constantly. If someone wearing the opposite jersey was within five yards of them, they would flop down on the ground as if hit with a Kryptonite force field.

 

In the beginning of the game, the referees would blow their whistles and before the whistle was done ringing, the player lifted himself off of the ground, picked up the ball, put it on the ground and kicked it toward one of their teammates.

 

Having a background in theatre, I’ve seen plenty of bad acting and it was evident that these players were not actors, but thought they were good ones. Oh, they would try and get a penalty by grabbing their ankle, roll around on the ground or whine to the referee, but the referees must have went to the Simon Cowell Judging School because they did not buy it. After the first ten minutes of the game, they pretty much ignored anyone diving headfirst into the ground and flopping around like a fish out of water. Either these players are the wimpiest and clumsiest people in the world or they were auditioning for any National Lampoon movies and failed to get in. I say both.

 

The game went into overtime and both teams almost made a goal. I kept praying that something good would happen for Italy because I was hyper and wanted to celebrate and not be let down by a loss. My prayers were answered in the form of Zidane.

 

Someone from France kicked the ball out of bounds and the camera panned over to Zidane and an Italian player walking away. They were nonchalantly strolling down the field, probably talking about which restaurant to go to after the match when Pow! Zidane headbutted the Italian in the chest knocking the Italian to the ground! At first, I thought the Italian was just flopping to the ground again, trying to get attention.

 

If you think there was anti-French sentiment in the US at the beginning of the Iraq War, that was nothing compared to how the Italians felt about them. People were throwing things at the TV and screaming at each other.

 

The head butt was uncalled for; everyone agrees on that. It was hard to believe someone would do that – even the French. But just as quickly as the Italians were angry, they changed to celebration. Zidane was getting a red card! He was getting kicked out!

 

The bar exploded with cheers. Beer flew into the air, people ran down from the upstairs (I forgot about them!) and things on fire were running by the bar. They were all chanting the Italian soccer fight song and giving everyone hugs and high fives. The noise didn’t die down for quite a while. When I realized what was happening, I even hugged Richard! Our over-exuberant waiter was hugging and jumping up and down on tables and chairs like TomKat. I was hoping that he would be so excited he would hand out free water.

 

At the end of overtime, with the score still tied 1-1, the teams lined up for penalty kicks. Richard explained that Italy has the advantage because their goalie was far better than France’s. He began to explain strategy to me and now Ashley and Sheila started watching the game. The feeling was intense – here I was, surrounded by fervent Italians, all shouting and screaming with grins as wide as the Grand Canal. There was no other place in the world or any amount of money that could draw me away from that moment. And it was about to heat up even more.

 

With each penalty kick, I got knots in my stomach. Before this night, I had no interest in soccer and, outside of being in Italy on this night, I would never have been interested in who would win this game. With each penalty kick, the cheers got louder and the hugs got bigger and more aggressive, which I didn’t mind as long as a female was celebrating with me. I love those Italians!

 

When France missed their second penalty kick, sealing Italy’s win, the place went pandemonium. Parents were lifting theirs and other people’s children in the air, French flags were on fire, people were running up and down the alley, the police were buying people drinks, and in the midst of the chaos of fans running up and down the stairs to the upstairs party, I grabbed my video camera and recorded as much as I could. The entire bar broke into the Italian fight song (I just made up words, much like I’m sure half of the bar did) and I saw Ashley grab her camera and start taking pictures, as she always does, and she looked beautiful beaming from ear to ear. I’m not sure if she was as excited as I was, but she looked like she was having a good time and there was no one else that I would have rather shared that moment with than her.

 

Mr. Waiter bounced down the aisle, jumped up onto a table and danced. Someone started waving an Italian flag and in one swift motion, I snatched the camera away from Ashley and gave it to Sheila so that she could take a picture of us, grabbed a corner of the Italian flag that someone was waving in the air, roped the child who had his face painted, the exuberant waiter and Ashley and we posed for a picture. Everyone cheered us and flashes went off and I felt like the paparazzi were taking pictures for the Enquirer – and I loved every minute of it.

 

Words cannot express that moment. The fact that I was a part of that celebration and, for one moment in time I was a part of a winner, which is something that I will never, ever forget. I doubt I will ever have that particular feeling again. It’s silly that I feel this way about a sporting event that I knew very little about, but I’ve always understood the feeling when a team I supported won a big game, but it was nothing like this.

 

Ashley and I left the bar and headed back to the Palazzo Guardi when a band of young men hooting and hollering ran past us singing the chant song. Not wanting to give up on the feeling or celebrations, we headed down to St. Mark’s Piazza where thousands of people were singing and waving flags and just having a great time. I sat back and soaked it all in from a distance. The party went on all night and as we left around 1 a.m. (the game was over around 9 p.m.) we encountered teenagers and young college age kids jumping off bridges naked (yes, completely naked). Now that’s a way to celebrate! Personally, if any water splashed on me from those bridges I would have to submerse myself in Lysol and bleach, but these people must be immune to the canal water by now.

 

After a long night of partying, we were tired. It was very easy to fall asleep that night and no meeting was necessary. After all, tomorrow would be our last night in Venice for awhile and, unbeknownst to us, we still had to experience our first protest, half-naked women in the Basilica and an ugly German sighting.

[Deloresgardella]

I love your account of your trip. It is great reading. I am anxiously waiting for the next chapter.

Delores

[Coolcruise02]

WOW................. keep going! :)

[Roxanna]

You are a great writer. What's the link to your blog; you gotta have one. It's always been my opinion that teachers are incredibly intelligent and don't get enough credit. Not only do they have to be "book smart" but they must be a diplomat, psychologist, arbitrator, and that list could go on and on....

 

This is great! I wish my husband was more interested in travel, prices and the like.

Midge

[Monterey Girl]

I look forward to the next installment !! Please don't keep us waiting long.

BTW, we were once stuck on a crappy old, HOT bus riding in the jungles of Costa Maya for SEVERAL hours with the "Idiot Family". We were on the verge of drawing straws to gag "idiot mother" when we finally , THANK GOD, blessedly returned to the ship . The woman NEVER shut up for like 8 hours. I'm not kidding!! She constantly harrangued her husband and three kids. Besides the nonstop pop quizzes, they also had to write in their journals. Of course after that it seemed like we were continually running into them for the rest of the cruise. Or I should say, we HEARD them.

Gives me the shivers just thinking about the Idiot Family and the day from HELL !! :eek: :eek: MG

[LrdNorman]

I don't have a blog (I'm sure all of my students do, though...).

 

I appreciate all of your kind words. This is my creative outlet -- a way to sit in peace.

 

All of my chapters have titles -- quotes that someone said along the way.

 

The last chapter was "Did you catch that from all those ding dongs?"

 

This chapter is "Thank you God for this church." The titles are all in the chapter, but they are actual quotes.

 

I will send chapter three later tonight (our last day in Venice).

 

Chapter Six has the section about boarding the ship. Each chapter is a new day.

 

Thank you again!

 

Kevin

[LrdNorman]

I can only assume that you are from Monterey, California? That is beautiful there. My wife and I went there the year before Italy -- drove the coastline, did the Redwood Forest, I saw Hollywood (which my wife wanted to take bleach to the entire city and clean it up.) She even had trouble getting out of the car!

 

I've got stories about California as well...

 

Yep, Ms. Pop Quiz and her over-achieving daughter were more fun to watch than some of the tour. Although, I must admit, Ma and Pa Kettle were just as intriguing. They looked very adorable in love, and he would have been lost without her, but I'm glad we only had a certain amount of time together.

 

I thought I was quirky!

[krennen]

You are not alone--I love planning and researching. But you are the king when it comes to telling a story! Reading your posts has been most entertaining. I ,like everyone else ,can't wait for the next chapter. Do keep them coming!

[penorment]

Please Please keep this up, we are going with my family this summer and you are leting me know how not to behave!!! This is the most entertaining trip report I have ever read and since I am also a compulsive, perhaps obsessive trip planner too, I have read lots and lots of reports. I am going to reread and ask you questions. I would love to know why you chose the places you visited and how you researched them..

[LrdNorman]

Penormant, I'm glad to help. I learned so much on these boards (we are currently planning a trip to Alaska right now and I'm a sponge on that board as well).

 

Chapter Three

We decided to sleep off the celebrations from the night before and awoke much later than usual (8 a.m. is late for us). We now were able to maneuver around our room with ease (I still didn’t use the bidet – tempted, but scared to use it.) After our big discussion over breakfast of whether we should do the gondola ride during the day or at night, we set off to tackle St. Mark’s Basilica.

On the way, Ashley asked every person with a camera if she could take their picture, and when they reluctantly said, “Sure,” she then countered with a “Would-you-mind-taking-ours?” If she asked me if I would like her to take my picture, I would have said no, thinking she would run off with my camera and pawned it off, funding Al Qaeda somewhere. That’s how paranoid I was that someone was going to rob me. I probably would have stuck the camera down my pants.

Knowing Ashley, I knew what she was doing; she was maneuvering to get some photos for her scrapbook. It was like watching a prizefighter manipulate the poor, under matched soul into the corner with short jabs and then sending a wicked right hook, making them submit to taking the picture.

Allow me to set up the scene:

Young newlywed couple taking quick snapshots of a gondola.

Ashley sneaks up on them like Dick Cheney hunting quail.

“Excuse me,” Ashley coos, startling the young couple, “Would you like me to take a picture of you two?” Her hand automatically extends to grab their camera.

The man quickly cuts a glance at me, no doubt to size me up, judging if he could take me in a fight in case we try to steal his camera (which he could beat me up). He then sees Ashley and before he can say, “I don’t know, honey. The man with the backpack and wiping his sweat on his pants looks a little shady but I think I can beat him down if he tries to jack our $50 camera,” his wife says sure and Ashley has already arranged for a Christmas card photo, complete with perfect lighting, a beautiful backdrop, little blue birds floating and singing around their heads, and whitened their perfectly shaped teeth that sparkles in the sunlight.

She will then rush over to them and ask them, “Is this okay?” in the hopes that they will take just as great of care with our photo, but they never do.

They smile out of reaction when she raises the camera, and before they even know what happened, she lays them out with the sweetest and most charming Southern accent while flashing her baby brown eyes at them. The hint is emblazoned with a neon sign above our heads screaming, “Take a picture of us!”

Meanwhile, I am already slinking over to take my place as the photography guinea pig.

The unsuspecting couple suggests taking a picture of us after Ashley’s Glamour Shots photo session to which Ashley responds innocently, “Oh! Would you mind?”

I’m not sure if they agree to take our picture out of pity or fear, but they take our picture only after Ashley sets up the shot with angles and a large scroll with more directions than Meg Ryan ordering dinner in Sleepless in Seattle.

Here’s a partial list (and make sure that you say them fast – Ashley would):

1) “Stand here and try to get the bell tower in the background.”

2) “If you can get us from the waist up, that would be great.”

3) “Count to three to warn us because the sun is in our eyes, but take the picture on four, not on three – otherwise we will be blinking.”

4) “If you need to make the lens wider or narrower, you can push the button here. However, you won’t need to do that as I already have set up the camera.”

5) “Oh, and did I say to get the bell tower in the background? Just checking.”

Meanwhile, I have already assumed the position and waited for the obligatory

directions of where to stand so that Steven Spielberg, Jr. can set up the Christmas card photo.

“Also, this may be for our Christmas card, so just push the button and there you go!”

I give the guy an “I’m sorry to put you through this” look, but he’s too busy scanning for an emergency exit.

Inevitably, every experience we’ve had with completely random strangers has always ended up the same way – as soon as the flash goes off, Ashley makes a beeline for the camera, quickly checks the picture, says, “That’s great! Thank you very much!”, and then storms off away mumbling, “They don’t know what they are doing! This picture is horrible! I guess I have to take the picture myself” and proceeds to either take a picture of me or find another poor couple to assault. This scenario happens at least fifteen times a day.

We got to St. Mark’s Basilica early so that we could avoid a long line to get in and to avoid the pigeons who were tipped off that we were coming by a stool pigeon (Get it? Stool pigeon? Never mind.)

Already there was a 45 minute wait to get in. We got through the line to the front only to be told that I was not allowed to bring my backpack inside. The nice security guard pointed me to where I could drop off my backpack and get back into the line, so I slinked off to drop it off. Upon entering the checkpoint, I was startled by the amount of red, glowing candles flickering in the background and Lurch from the Addams Family standing behind the counter with the same deadpan look as his character on TV. I’m not sure why all of the candles were lit up, but I didn’t want to ask. The man grunted my ticket to me and I left in a hurry.

We got back into line and, while we were waiting, we noticed that many women had garbage bags draped around their shoulders. Since I did my research, I knew that many churches in Italy forbid anyone to enter their building with bare shoulders or shorts / skirts shorter than the knee. Also, the basilica charges €2.00 to rent a garbage bag and you have to turn it in when you are done.

I purposefully wore long pants (even though it was blazing hot outside) with a pair of shorts tucked into my backpack so that there would not be any problem getting into the basilica. Many others did not do the same research and they had to wear double-ply Hefty bags as a shawl. What made it even more entertaining were the women who wore shorts and had to wrap the garbage bags around their legs like a long skirt. They looked like low-fat spinach wraps walking around the basilica. It reminded me that it was close to lunchtime.

The reason why the Italians want the tourists to cover up is because they believe too much skin is disrespectful to the church. I tend to agree with them. Many of these tourists were very upset that they had to cover up, but you should have seen what they were wearing. Women were the worst, wearing tube tops and even bathing suits. They thought that they could just enter any church wearing whatever they wanted like in America. At least the old men weren’t allowed to wear their golf pants, either.

Toward the end of the self-guided tour, I asked Ashley if we could enter a special part of the basilica that cost extra because it was not a part of the tour, and she responded with a curt, “Not in the budget.” Guess we didn’t need to see the upstairs bell tower that bad.

The basilica was beautifully decorated with mosaics of many different scenes in the church’s history and the history of Christianity. It had beautiful marble floors and was very large. We took our time going through the basilica, soaking up the wonderful mosaics with complicated designs featuring many different colors. The artists broke up tiles and then put the pieces back together in different designs that depicted various stories and pictures. I was amazed by the amount of time it must have taken to make those pictures.

After visiting the gift shop (even Catholic churches find a way to get some extra money), we headed off to soak up our last day in Venice since we were headed to Portofino in the morning.

After going back to pick up my backpack, we found ourselves wandering around the Grand Canal by the Rialto Bridge and in the middle of a protest. While dodging the aggressive salesmen peddling their fake Gucci purses (they were the REAL Merchants of Venice), we were intrigued by all of the yelling going on in the middle of the bridge.

Ahead of us, a group of men were sitting down in the middle of the bridge and the cops were yelling at them in Italian. I can only imagine what they were saying, but the police officers were grabbing at the men and trying to remove them. A huge crowd had gathered around the scene, but everyone was tourists. I know that they were tourists because they were taking pictures and filming the scene while holding their faux Gucci purses. The people walking past the scene without even batting an eye must have been Venetians. They were probably used to it. This wasn’t the only protest we saw while in Italy. Rome’s was worse – much worse.

During the day, we decided to ride the gondola at night where we thought it would be more romantic. We went back to the B&B to see if we could pay for the room with traveler’s checks. Interestingly enough, no one would take traveler’s checks, only cash. Plus, the banks closed at odd hours and it was difficult finding a bank that was open, especially in the middle of the day. There appeared to be no set times where all of the banks would be open at the same time – they all had different hours. Yet another thing that we had to chalk up to innocence.

On the way back to the room, the sun was getting hotter and we had to rest more and more. Unwilling to spend what little cash we had on high-priced water, we took several rests throughout the canals. While Venice is small, it is very easy to get lost. The more we thought we were headed in the right direction, the more hot we got and the more Ashley was getting frustrated. Her feet were swelling up, her face was beet-red and we stopped to rest several times but Venice has no shade anywhere. She looked like her body wanted to sweat, but no sweat was coming out. Those brand new shoes were blistering her feet and there was no end in sight. Nothing was looking even vaguely familiar to us and our rests were beginning to get longer and more frequent.

However, after the third day, we had seen every square inch of Venice, but on the last day, we found a much unexpected oasis – the best gelato in the world. Literally. Gelato is the Italians version of ice cream and it is far superior to anything you have ever tasted. The consistency is much denser than ice cream, making the flavor pop out and your taste buds sing. It is that good. Something better than that – it only cost €1.00 for a large scoop and €1.50 for a large double scoop. The place is called La Boutique del Gelato and you can find it in one of the back streets of Venice because Heaven shines its golden beam of light around the place – it is that good. I’m getting giddy just thinking about it.

We got some gelato to help Ashley forget about her throbbing feet and headed out to find our room.

We finally walked through a small piazza that had a statue Ashley had remembered we had taken forty pictures of (not sure why she took that many pictures of it) and I saw a small church up ahead where people were meandering in and out of and others were sitting on the front steps. I turned and Ashley was way behind me, sitting on a park bench rubbing her pulsating feet and cursing the saleslady who sold her the shoes back home. Ashley appeared to be talking to herself and people rushed past her probably thinking that she was a mental patient. I walked just a little bit further and poked my head into the church as I didn’t want to pay an entrance fee (Ashley would vetoed the entrance as it was “Not in the budget.”)

It was a beautiful church (aren’t they all?) complete with piano music playing and several people walking around looking at the statues and pictures / shrines or sitting in pews, either praying or passing out from the heat. I couldn’t tell which was which.

The young lady at the entrance continued reading her book and when the piano music stopped, she put in another CD and then flipped the page. She paid no attention to me and no one else was paying an entrance fee.

I rushed back to Ashley to let her know that there was a church up ahead.

“But Ashley, you’ve got to see this church it’s very beautiful and the music is very majestic.”

“So what? My feet are KILLING me, which is the same thing I will do to the idiot who sold me these damn shoes…”

“C’mon,” I begged. “You’ve got to see the inside of this place.”

“I am not moving another inch from this place. That’s okay. You’ll have to end up scraping me off the bench from this heat anyway. I should have sprayed this stupid bench with cooking spray before I sat down…”

“It’s got air conditioning…”

Pause. “Give me a second,” she says and pries her feet back into the now two-sizes-too-small shoes and hobbles over to the church.

She looks inside and sees people sitting down. “What does it cost to go in?” she asks.

“Nothing,” I respond cheerily.

As Ashley walks through the propped open door and feels the cold breeze coming from inside, she says, “Thank you, God, for this church.”

I look up at the stunning chandeliers illuminating the various pictures and into the beautiful sanctuary. Yes, thank you, God, for your church.

After resting for about a half-hour (I sat in a different pew to do my own praying and communication with God), Ashley came over to me and asked if I was ready to go. We were headed back to the B&B to take an afternoon nap before heading over to the restaurant we had made reservations for which overlooked over a canal.

While Ashley slept off the heat, I went back out to try and find a newspaper depicting the Italian victory in the World Cup for her scrapbook. Plus, I wanted to find an Italian World Cup jersey as a souvenir and I needed to cash my traveler’s checks in order to pay for our room since they wanted cash. I struck out everyplace that I went to. Banks were closed for the day (are they open from 1:00 – 1:05 in the afternoon?), no one had any more newspapers (I think that they were just squirreling them away for themselves), and the street vendors hawking jerseys made from cheap materials were charging outrageous prices for them.

I walked into the convenience store right around the corner from our room, poked my head in to see the newspaper rack and braced myself for the next rejection. Much to my surprise, I saw a newspaper with the headline of the World Cup! I couldn’t believe it. In my broken Italian, I tried to communicate how much the newspaper was. I was ready to pay any amount of money and even take a loan out to get that newspaper for Ashley’s scrapbook. However, that was unnecessary.

“Non” was all the nice lady said and waved her hand at me without even batting an eye. She turned the page of her newspaper. I asked her again, not believing my ears.

“Cuanto costo?” She lowered her newspaper and then began rattling off in Italian while smiling at me. I guess she thought I was Italian (she was the only one in the entire country who didn’t recognize right away that I was nowhere NEAR Italian). Italians are some of the nicest people in the world.

“Gracias!” I yelled out as I left the store before she could change her mind.

I then bounded upstairs to the main desk to beg him to accept our traveler’s checks. Fortunately, the owner of the Palazzo Guardi took our traveler’s checks (otherwise, we would have been stuck) which left us with some cash for incidentals. We ended up having to charge more on the credit card than we wanted to.

After Ashley’s 2 ½ hour nap, we were ready to go to dinner. The sun was just starting to set and we decided to head over to where most of the gondolas launch the tourists on their $100 memory / souvenir. It seemed the safest place and offered the most opportunities for pictures.

We walked up to the restaurant which overlooked a canal where our gondola would be traveling. The maitre’d was able to find us a table next to the water and the view was spectacular. Happy tourists were floating by and some of the gondolas had drivers that sang as they steered the gondola around the tight turns. It was as if we were watching every movie ever filmed in Italy. Mandolins and accordions were singing along with the Pavarotti wannabes and the romantic couple snuggling in the corner. What was also entertaining was watching the gondolas go by with the Clampetts clapping and having the time of their lives, complete with the younguns braying off-key and pointing at anything and everything that attracted their attention. Many of the tourists would wave over to us while singing “Ave Maria.”

I soaked up every minute of it.

And then the ugly German reared his ugly head.

While Ashley went off to use the restroom, the waiter and sub-waiter brought food to the German foursome seated next to us. I knew that they were German because 1) of the accent, and 2) he whipped out his **** armband and smacked the waiter across the face with it. I’m just kidding about the armband, but he did do everything short of wishing the Patriot Act on the poor man.

Anyway, during the verbal melee, the ugly German saw the plate set down before him and told the waiter that he specifically said, “No octopus.” The waiter, who had the patience of Job, kindly informed the beast that it was not octopus, but fish, just like the man had ordered. The German uttered some German vocabulary that I’m sure the Pope would not approve of.

Then, Satan told the man – in a much slower and more direct tone, as if it would help the situation – that he didn’t want any octopus. The waiter apologized and informed Satan that he would go back to the chef and confirm if it was fish. Satan rudely waved his hand at the waiter as if he was a servant and the waiter slinked off.

I sat floored that someone would treat another person that poorly. Obviously, it has been a while since I have been at the post office.

While the waiter was gone, the other three were comforting Satan, telling him that it’s okay, don’t cause a scene, relax or he will burst the gigantic vein on his head, etc. He ignored them and continued slurping his €4.00 Coke.

The waiter came back rather quickly and informed Satan that his plate did, in fact, have fish instead of octopus and would be more than happy to retrieve the chef. The other three at the table told the waiter that it was not necessary and the sub-waiter even put a fresh plate in front of Satan. Satan then did something that only beasts would do – he snorted at the waiter! With a hand wave dismissal again, he snorted like a bull getting ready to charge the matador.

The waiter then politely left and as I sat there dumbfounded, I watched Satan push the entire alleged octopus off to the side onto the actual linen tablecloth (not even on the side of the plate) and sulked throughout the rest of the meal. His other companions tried to console Satan, but he ignored them and continued pushing his food around the plate.

Ashley came back and we decided to skip dessert so that we wouldn’t miss the one thing that Ashley wanted to do – ride in a gondola. It’s hard to skip dessert in Italy, but it’s even harder to go to Venice and not ride in a gondola.

Gondolas have been used to get around Venice for centuries. Originally, the gondolas used to be elaborate – each family and driver wanted to show more wealth and made their gondolas more and more elaborate (a.k.a, gaudy). Eventually, the Council of Ten got fed up with everyone trying to outdo each other and so decreed that all gondolas must be painted black, a law that still exists today.

Ashley and I arrived at the gondola station just before they closed. We had the whole place to ourselves.

Venice by night is much more magical than by day. Seeing the lights glimmer off of the cascading waters, the sounds of families settling down for dinner in apartments far above us, and the stillness and peaceful waters lapping below our gondola. There is no hustle and rush while you are floating past centuries old architecture.

When you hire a gondola, you can get someone who sings and an accordion player for an extra fee (much larger fee, actually). We opted to save our money and go without music.

Our gondolier was very nice. He told us about how he became a gondolier, why the water is so filthy (they give you anti-bacterial wipes when you leave) and why the city was sinking. He even shouted at other gondoliers (in Italian). He must have been a comedian because everyone laughed when he said something.

He was very fascinating and when we got back (the trip was an hour), he took a few pictures of us (all very blurry – Ashley didn’t have time to set up the shot). There were no protests or naked people jumping off bridges tonight.

We casually strolled along Venice’s hidden alleys getting ready for tomorrow’s big trip to the Italian Riviera and (GASP!) the loss of Ashley’s camera.

[travelingmcmahans]

I'm really enjoying the perspective of a first time trip to Europe. Keep it coming! :)

[krennen]

Please give us another chapter!!!! We want to continue reading.

[calberry]

...fruit cup (no doubt made from Del Monte)

 

Thanks for the plug...I work for Del Monte, started in 1973. Currently I do production planning (from our Corporate offices in San Francisco) that includes Fruit Cups, and years ago I was a Shift Supervisor at the cannery that makes the cups.

 

I am hanging on your every word...GREAT stuff. Being a big Cal fan (season tickets for football and basketball) I really felt empathy for you and your soccer experience. WOW! is all I can really say. And what a match that was! Zidane was the talk at work all week.

 

And, being somewhat of a wannabe 'photographer' myself I can also relate to Ashley...but my problem is that my wife does not take pictures, so I am stuck with both the video and still camera. Typically in the evening (after a day of travel or touring) when I am downloading pictures from the video card to the computer I will think, "I know I took pictures of that 'whatever', where are they?" Then I remember that I was using the video camera at the time and forgot to use the still camera as well. Oh well.

 

OK, now back to your next 'chapter'...you are costing Del Monte money today as my productivity is, well, being 'interrupted'.

 

Thanks for sharing,

 

Steve

[BRUCENLYNN]

Kevin -- you are very entertaining!

 

Since you mentioned traveling to Orlando via the Beachline - we know it is really the Beeline ;) - you must live near me. I live in Viera, how about you?

 

We have a cruise planned in May -- 16 day European Capitals -- and I am counting the days! Alaska is in the plans "someday" but I'll be interested to hear what you have to say about it!

 

~Lynn

[LrdNorman]

Cal -- No problem for the plug. Anytime I can get corporate sponsorship (hint, hint), I'm more than willing to sell out. As an artist, it's in my nature.

 

I don't mind taking pictures, but with Ashley, it's a lot of work. Oftentimes, she doesn't even develop the picture. The maddest I've ever seen her was when the pictures for the gondola ride were blurry. She cursed out the driver's "helper" (behind his back) and I didn't hear the end of it until Rome.

 

The World Cup was one of the single most wonderful experiences I have ever had. It was almost surreal. I got to be Italian that night (and I extended it to the rest of the trip) and to be a part of that experience is something I will never forget.

 

Bruce -- I live in Rockledge, neighbor! We like to call it the Beachline because Beeline makes no sense. Everyone does take it to the Beach -- maybe the 417 could be called the Disneyline (they own everything else).

 

We want to go to the Baltic Capitals one day. It is only recently that we started cruising. I'm enjoying it -- Ashley doesn't like the "tour" feel with the excursions. She would rather experience the culture; I do too, but pampering never hurt anyone!

[LrdNorman]

Thank you all for the kind words. I'm trying to finish the book before our Alaska cruise and you all are making me keep a deadline (which I need). It's a work in progress, so pardon any grammatical, spelling and blank lines. I'll fill them in later.

 

Enjoy Chapter 4!

 

Chapter Four

We checked out of Palazzo Guardi, excited to see what was ahead of us that day. Little did we know that Palazzo was the best place we would stay in the entire trip (except for the cruise cabin in chapter _________). We purposefully did not buy any souvenirs as we knew that we would be back to tour Murano and could pick up some souvenirs at the end of the trip. That way, we wouldn’t have to lug them around Italy. The only thing that I did buy, however, was an Italian jersey and I proudly wore it on travel days. I thought that maybe I would get a little extra service if people knew that I supported Italy. Probably not, but worth a try.

We packed up our suitcases and headed off to the train station. I had forgotten how wonderful it was to not drag luggage up and down stairs and to different hotels. Ashley’s luggage weighed 44 pounds and mine weighed 38. Together they weighed a ton. We had so much luggage it looked like we were running away from home.

I was in charge of carrying Ashley’s luggage, my duffel bag and my backpack down the stairs and in and out of any transportation. She was in charge of her camera, her makeup bag and my video camera. We bought luggage for her that had wheels on it to make it easier for her to drag her own luggage. On this trip, it was imperative that she be able to do that as I needed an extra can of mace for any suspicious events. Today, on day four, I was ready to throw her luggage into the canal.

By now Ashley and the Pack Mule had figured our way around Venice using the public transportation. We got on the waterbus (vaporetti) and headed toward Murano, since our waterbus did not make a direct route to the station. I didn’t have any spare money, so I did something I never told Ashley about – I didn’t buy a ticket. It’s a €23 fine on top of having to pay for the actual ticket (€5). I didn’t have the cash to pay for the ticket, much less the fine. And the ticket taker always demands that you pay the fine and ticket fare in cash on the spot. But, I decided to be adventurous and take the chance.

Ashley perched herself on the waterbus and began snapping pictures. I hauled the luggage onto the waterbus and tried to look as inconspicuous as possible so as to not catch the eye of the driver or the ticket checker. They were very nice and kept looking over at me as if to say, “Why are you doing this to me? Do you want to take away the food from our children?” They are probably really saying, “Why the hell are you staring at me? Creepy little tourist…”

During the ride over to the station, an agitated looking man kept inching toward my wife (who was near the exit) and then casting glances my way, as if he was enjoying the sights. Upon leaving the waterbus, the ticket checker looked over at me, and then walked toward the exit to let passengers off of the boat. Slipping in behind him was Agitated Man and he was headed for the exit moving at a snail’s pace. I needed to get all three tons of our luggage off of the boat before the man closed the gate. Those people work on a schedule and they make up their own schedule minute by minute. However, Ashley got off the boat easily and I was swallowed in by the mob of people using the waterbus. Grumpy wasn’t trying to get off of the boat but instead started to block the exit. I struggled to pick up our luggage and had for the exit, but by now, there weren’t any passengers getting off and many people were getting on. I said “Scusi” to Grumpy in my best Italian accent, but he didn’t even budge. So I said it even louder.

“Scusi!” I said and others around me turned to look at me. At this point, I didn’t care if the ticket checker or driver looked at me. Maybe they could help me either move Grumpy or lift my luggage. Getting no help whatsoever and seeing the ticket checker start to close the gate, I lunged my luggage toward the exit and hit Grumpy in the back of the leg, causing him to bend backwards to his left. Swiftly, I dodged to the right and virtually threw everything off the boat onto the cement. All I could picture was luggage being thrown from the boat as we are driving off to some other tourist-packed station.

Grumpy started to get off the boat with us after regaining his balance, but the gate was closed and the boat began to pull out.

“Kevin, are you okay?” Ashley asked as I stood panting and wiping the sweat off of my forehead.

“Yeah. Let’s see if we can get those tickets. You wait over here with the luggage and I’ll get the tickets inside.”

Upon getting our tickets, I wanted to make sure that we got our tickets stamped. On Rick Steves’ website and in his books (which are wonderful resources), he said that if you do not get your ticket punched at the train station, there is a fine. Not wanting to get a fine (I’m not THAT adventurous), I set off to find a punching machine.

Throughout all of the research I did, I found out that First Class tickets, although slightly higher, are worth the extra money. There is more leg room and space to stretch out. So, armed with my First Class tickets fully protected, I gathered up Ashley and the luggage. Our train left in about twenty minutes, so Ashley set off to use the restroom with the usual set of instructions for me. I stood with all of our entire luggage and watched all of the train schedules above the tracks.

If you have never been to a train station in a major city, it is a sight to behold. Ahead of you are trains lined up on tracks across the station. In the center above everyone is a huge board with all of the schedules for the trains with schedules for each of the trains leaving on one of the 16 tracks provided. They whirl and change, much like the board for Family Feud.

As I’m standing enthralled and my mouth agape at the numbers and cities whirling and changing above me, Ashley walks up and backhands me on the arm.

“I’m talking to you. Are you listening?”

My head snapped over to her. “What? Did you go to the bathroom already?”

“You know, you need to pay more attention. Someone could have stolen our stuff. You see that lady over there? With the baby? She’s probably one of them gypsies. I heard about them. Everyone I talked to that has been to Italy has been robbed.”

“You’ve only talked to three people that have been to Italy. Besides, our train is here. Get your luggage and let’s go.”

I’m not ready. Do you have any money? The stupid restrooms take money and I really have to go.”

As a way to prevent homeless people from loitering, many of the Italian restrooms have pay toilets. It is €.70 and they take exact change. At the entrance of the bathroom, there is a turnstile with a slot to put your money in. Some restrooms take exact change, some let you put in €1.00, but will not give back change, and some have a person standing there to take the money. I’m not sure if they are supposed to, but I would rather jump into the Venetian canals than argue with the attendants.

“Here you go. Now hurry up because I don’t want to miss this train. There isn’t another one for hours.”

“I will now hold me purse. I don’t trust any of these people.” And off she marched with her Purell hand sanitizer and a determination to watch everything that entered an 100’ foot circumference around her.

Ashley got back and we dragged our luggage to the train. It was due to leave right then and I wasn’t about to be left behind.

“Is this the right train?” Ashley asked.

“I think so – the sign said that this is the right track. But you’d better check.”

Ashley approached an older gentleman who was also hurrying for the train but only had a newspaper.

“Scusi,” Ashley yelled out. “Dove che el traino Santa Margherita?”

“Si,” the man barked and he entered the train immediately. I saw the doors close at the front of the train and progressively shut toward our car.

“We better hurry up. Just get on the train.”

“Is this the right car?” Ashley asked.

“I don’t know. Just get on the damn train. We’ll figure it out later.”

I threw the luggage onto the train and we made it on shortly before the doors closed.

As I gathered my breath, the train began to pull out of the station. The goal now was to find our seat. I was now frustrated and disoriented. I didn’t know any Italian, no one was around to help, and we had a long trip ahead of us.

And Ashley kept asking questions.

“Where do we sit?”

My frustration came out and I snapped at her. I shouldn’t have, but sometimes you just can’t help it when you are trying to figure things out. “How the hell do I know? You already asked me that stupid question.”

“Lower your voice. Just calm down. Why don’t we just sit here?”

“Because this is second class and I didn’t pay all that money to sit in second class.” So I grabbed my three tons of luggage and set off down the aisle to find our seat.

We had entered the train in the last car and now had to walk the length of the train to get to first class. The strangest thing we had to do was to go through the dining car with luggage. I’m sure Italians have seen that many times before.

The train was pretty busy and I constantly had to say “Scusi” for the twenty cars we had to travel through to get our seats. When we found them, there was no one seated in the seats next to us and so I put our luggage there.

Rick Steves was right – first class is the way to go. Granted, both first and second class get you to your destination at the same time, but in first class, the seats are not torn up, the seats are wider and spaced further apart, and best of all, there aren’t people wandering and loitering in the aisles like second class. I should know. I knocked enough of them out of the way going through.

Now, after being paranoid about being fined for the boat, knocking Grumpy out of the way at the station, figuring out how to get our train ticket punched, guarding our valuables from gypsy mothers, almost missing our train and bowling over people in second class, I was ready for a drink. And the cart lady peddling food and drinks was headed our way.

We realized that we were famished and thirsty and decided to order something from her. Before she could say anything to us, Ashley asked how much the drinks were.

“Cuanto costo?”

The lady responded in English, “You are in first class. You don’t pay for your first drink.” We ordered the water (hey, if it’s free, water is like gold) and as she left, Ashley asked, “Why does everyone automatically respond to me in English?”

We traveled through the heart of Italy on the way to Santa Margherita. The countryside of Italy is absolutely gorgeous. Lush, rolling fields of farmland rushed past us as we sped past small villages and towns that dotted the landscape. Every so often, a small home with a Spanish barrel-tiled roof would appear amongst the different hues of green fields. I was glad to see that not all of Italy was taken over by the early Romans. After the crowded space of Venice, it was wonderful to just sit back and watch the countryside whip past us as we lounged in first class. Surprisingly, the heart of Italy looks just like the heart of America. Actually, I’ve never been to the heart of America, but I’ve seen pictures of it during the news when tornadoes destroy entire sections of farmland while wheat continues to sway in the breeze, but I can picture America being like this.

Anyway, after making a stop in Milan to change trains, we were back in first class and enjoying life. Before the trip, I had bought a Personal Media Player (like an iPod, only with video) and I was listening to my tunes and writing in my journal. Ashley made a motion for me to be quiet and when I took off my headphones, she said I was too loud and everyone could hear me. I found this strange as I didn’t realize I had been even singing (evidently, I have a very loud whisper) and I looked over to my right to discover a housewife staring at me and then quickly turning away. I didn’t know if she was a housewife, but she had housewife features. I really don’t know what that means, but it makes sense in my head. Throughout the trip to Santa Margherita, she kept watching over in my direction. My ego thought it was because she was jealous; Ashley said it was because I was off-key.

Along the way, another lady sat down next to us and Ashley struck up a conversation with her. I was too busy journaling to hear them, but I do know that at one time, I overheard her say that she was just having her lunch break and headed home for lunch. Evidently, Italians think nothing of taking a four-hour lunch break and heading 75 miles home for lunch. Maybe that’s why most of the smaller cities shut down for several hours in the middle of the day – just so that the workers can have some lunch. It would be easier just to build a McDonald’s in the train station.

Santa Margherita was approaching and so I gathered our stuff, put my PMP and journal away and prepared to toss our luggage off the train so that we don’t get stuck on it and head off to somewhere else. Actually, the train does allow enough time for people to board and exit without getting hurt, but since this was our first train ride and I was traumatized from Venice, I wanted to be ready. Ashley and the nice lady said their goodbyes and I got our luggage off safely. As I handed off Ashley’s rolling luggage and makeup bag so we could head for a taxi, instant panic struck across her face.

“Kevin, where’s the camera?!!!” I had no idea since I got all of the heavy stuff and I had been more concerned about getting to where we needed to go.

“I have no idea. I thought you had it.” The train whistle blew and started to head off.

“OH MY GOSH! I DON’T HAVE THE CAMERA!! IT’S STILL ON THE TRAIN!!!” As the train pulled out, two things crossed my mind: 1) Oh well; it’s gone now, and 2) I feel sorry for Ashley as that is now the end of the trip. My heart stopped (literally) as the vacation ceased right then and there. Ashley and I have often talked about what we would save if our house would catch on fire. We decided long ago that she would grab the box with the insurance policy and important papers from the closet and I would grab as many scrapbooks as was humanly possible. There has never been any mention of grabbing clothes, photos from the wall, medicines, or the cat. Only scrapbooks and insurance. And now, this vacation would be ruined.

I have never seen Ashley run as fast as she did that moment. “STOP THE TRAIN! STOP THE TRAAAAIIINNNN!” she yelled as she flailed her arms wildly like they were on fire. The lady she had been talking to on the train must have saw us as she went to the window, looked out at us and waved goodbye sadly. She must have thought that we were very friendly and started missing her company already.

“Well,” I said, not knowing what to do, “looks like the camera is gone.”

“NO!” Ashley screamed at me, “we have to stop that train!”

“How are we going to do that?! The train is gone….”

“We have to go to the next station! Wait a minute…” and with that she flung her hand and felt the camera bag hanging off of her shoulder as her friend was still waving and yelling “Goodbye!” through the window as if she was never going to see us again. Ashley’s face went from bright white to crimson red as she realized that she had the camera the whole time.

It was only then that we grasped the stark realization that we had the camera (both hers and mine) and we started laughing. We laughed for a good ten minutes about the scene. Ashley then made a decree that she would always be in charge of the two cameras and her makeup bag (the light stuff) and I would be taking everything else.

“Why do you get to handle the cameras?” I asked to which she replied, in a very sobering tone, “Because my camera is more important than my luggage.” I was going to inquire where my ranking would be on the list, but I think that I knew the answer already.

The train station to Santa Margherita sits on a steep hill overlooking the Mediterranean. Absolutely stunning view! There were large sailboats sitting in the vibrantly blue water that had hues of aquamarines and sapphires and I just wanted to dive right in. It was truly majestic and absolutely stunning. We got an aerial view of the multi-colored pastel homes with each building a different color. This looked just like pictures out of travel magazines. So this was the Italian Riviera! Ashley and I wanted to bask in all of its splendor.

Not knowing where to go, nor wanting to carry the luggage further than we wanted to, we hired a taxi and he took us off to the hottest place on the planet Earth, Hotel Fasce. It wasn’t hot, like Jennifer Lopez hot, but hot as in Hell.

In many of the reviews that we read, Hotel Fasce is run by a woman who is very particular. They were dead on. Hotel Fasce is run by Jane Fasce, a woman who is no nonsense, has very specific rules and protocol and is probably a descendant of John Wayne. There are specific times and seats for breakfast, a specific way to check-in (no chit-chat – just business), and keeps a tight ship. When we arrived, Jane was very pleasant and asked us how we enjoyed our train ride. That was all of the conversation we would have until check-out.

That being said, we knew about Jane’s idiosyncrasies from all of the reviews. Jane is a very pleasant woman, very professional and enjoys what she does, even when dealing with first time travelers to her place. Hotel Fasce provides everyone a very warm feeling, especially with its’ rooms.

We entered the room and immediately stepped back because of the heat. I thought the building was on fire! We booked this room without air conditioning to save money. Big mistake. Make sure that you have accommodations with air conditioning in the summer. It is absolutely a necessity.

We ditched the luggage and headed downtown to catch a boat headed for Portofino. Hotel Fasce was within walking distance of the main section of Santa Margherita Ligure, so we walked the mile and were immediately met with a magnificent beach. What it lacked in size it made up for in beauty. The alleys leading up to the downtown are flanked with bakeries, quaint shops and delis, complete with cheeses, a butcher, and all the marzipan you could ever want. These marzipan candies were in every conceivable shape and decoration; bunches of carrots, fruit baskets, and Lamborghinis were made out of this stuff. And every single one of them was an exact replica of what they were made to look like. We had to ask several times if the object was real or made out of marzipan. Incredible.

Not wanting to waste time (as the real jewel was Portofino), we headed over to the boat launch where boats took tourists over to Portofino hourly. We got the last boat over to Portofino and when the boat came, we perched ourselves on the top level of the boat in order to get the best position for Ashley’s pictures.

Portofino was by far the smallest place we visited (besides our room at Hotel Fasce, but not by much). The port is shielded by large cliffs from outsiders and was only recently discovered by savvy upscale tourists. Because the area is still new to travelers, it maintains a breathtaking charm and spectacular views of the Mediterranean. Our boat sailed into Portofino’s tiny harbor and we were told that we would only have an hour or two before we needed to board again to head back to Santa Margherita Ligura. This shouldn’t be a problem as the harbor (really the only place to tour) was maybe a 1/3 mile long and wide. Ten minutes should about do it.

We took a zillion pictures of the small boats in the harbor and then headed for a café to enjoy an ice cold water and an ice cream. In Italy, there are two types of water: natural and sparkling (fizzante). I am not a fan of club soda, so I try to get natural water as much as possible. I walked into one of the gift shops and bought a water, some postcards and some stamps. I took a swig of my water and nearly gagged. It was like trying to drink salt water! However, the water was only €1.00 and so I wasn’t going to complain as this was probably the cheapest water anywhere in Italy. Ashley, in the meantime, enjoyed a lovely, and rather large, glass of ice cream with fruit toppings.

After about 20 minutes of just sitting there and watching other people eat large glasses of ice cream, I was ready to go. My ADD started kicking in and I was looking for something to do. After browsing the various (actually, both) souvenir shops and find the postcards of images that Ashley has just taken pictures of, I wandered back down fifty feet to the harbor. Don’t get me wrong; Portofino is lovely, but it only takes about fifteen minutes to tour. It was in the book 1,000 Places to See Before You Die, so we had to check it off our list.

After what seemed an eternity, our boat came back into harbor. One of the interesting things that we did learn, however, is that Portofino was enjoyed by many of the wealthy and Hollywood. One of the Hollywood starlets (Greta Garbo, I think) used to swim naked in the harbor because she thought that no one would be able to see her as the area was deserted. Ah, if only YouTube were in existence back then…

After arriving back in Santa Margherita Ligura, we decided to get something to eat and head back to the room as we had been traveling all day and were tired. The downtown of Santa Margherita Ligura is a roundabout, encircled by small bars and delis, and raced around by maniacal tourists on rented Vespa scooters. After dodging racing mopeds like a game of Frogger, we ended up at American Bar (ironically right next door to the outdoor bar called Miami). All of the establishments surrounding the roundabout only served drinks – none of them were set up for actual food. This was definitely the Italian Riviera. A place to see and be seen. There were no inside tables, only outside ones. I couldn’t imagine what would happen if it rained. Although, this place was so beautiful, it could never rain here.

After drinks and munchies of black and green olives, carrots and celery and Fritos with an oil-based salsa (how Mediterranean!), we headed back up to the hotel and wanted to get something more substantial to eat. I wanted a “real” Italian meal and we stumbled upon a dive located somewhere off the beaten path. There was absolutely no English spoken in the entire restaurant, except for the TV show of Friends playing in the 13” TV set in the corner. We had to order in Italian (which Ashley did exceptionally well) and everything we ate was outstanding! Finally! Real Italian food cooked by real Italian people. Interestingly enough, the lady sitting next to me saw my tourist Italian shirt and asked if I saw the World Cup game last night. At least, I think that she asked me that; it took me a few translations to follow along. Fortunately, I could read hand gesture and not usually the hand gestures that I get from people in traffic.

We headed back to Hotel Hell, er, Fasce and went upstairs to our sauna. With the window wide open all night, we managed to sleep off and on. Without a doubt, we stayed as far away from each other that night as any more heat and we would have spontaneously combusted.

[krennen]

Please LrdNorman, do not leave us high and dry--we need another chapter. Besides some of the ports you stopped at I will visit this summer and I would love to hear about your adventures on them!!

Boy can I relate about the cameras too. One of our carry-ons will be devoted to my husband's camera, lenses, laptop (for downloading) and video. I think he would leave anything but his cameras-- including me!!:D

[Monterey Girl]

Yes, I'm here in Monterey, CA. We lived in FL the first year we were married. Beautiful beaches but I have NEVER seen bugs that big before or since in my life !!

We went to the Rose Parade for the first time ever this past Jan first. Talk about photo ops ! Ashley would love it. Attending that parade should be on the 1000 things to do before you die list !! Anyway, I mention it because before we drove home we stopped in Hollywood. Just for that little 3 day trip I spent hours at the computer researching everything I could get my hands on !! Turns out Hollywood was not far out of our way and I had never been before so I convinced my husband "we ought to go as long as we were already almost there ." My experience lasted maybe 30 minutes and that included finding a parking spot near Grauman's Chinese Theater. Lots of people were dressed like movie characters and would pose for pictures with you for a couple bucks. I was too busy comparing my hands and feet prints to the Stars'. A great trip and just tons O'fun.

I absolutely loved sharing your days in Venice. That will be the last port of our cruise so we will spend an extra two days there. Looking back, are you just as glad you sort of just wandered around or do you wish you had taken a walking tour ? I am on the horns of that decision. I'm kinda afraid we will miss something great just because we didn't know about it. BUT, everyone says that to experience Venice you must just wander and even get lost. I've got to see it all in two days !

I've sort of got my own list of a MILLION places to see and things to do before I die so I'm not sure I will get a chance to come back to Venice. I REALLY want to see Cairo and the Pyramids. Ride a Felucca down the Nile. Maybe go for a camel ride.Maybe a side trip to Petra.Then there's the Amazon. And Tahiti. Russia and St. Petersburg. Holland at tulip time. Yellowstone N.P., Quebec City.Mt. Rushmore, etc, etc, etc.....You get the idea.

Meanwhile I am waiting for the next chapter!!!

MG

[LrdNorman]

I was helping my mom. She's been sick and so I wanted to help her out with errands, Social Security (she's 61) and such.

 

I'm back now and looking forward to "getting away" by writing. It's such a stress reliever...

 

Krennen -- Just be thankful that yourhusband carries what he brings. Ashley brings the camera stuff and I'm the pack mule that carries it! I guess my days of caddying golfers came in handy...

 

Monterey -- The Rose Parade is on our list of things to do. Ashley has always wanted to volunteer to help decorate the floats! One day, we will figure out how to do that. She religiously watches the Rose Parade and always yells at the TV to get more close ups on the flowers....

 

As far as Venice, no need to do a walking tour, unless you want some background history on architecture. Personally, save the money and just get lost in the romance of Venice's canals, restaurants out of the way of tourists, small cafes, gelatos, and seeing how the locals live. I would definitely do the Secret Itineraries Tour, tour St. Mark's Basilica and do a gondola ride. Other than that. Enjoy what Venice has to offer -- peacefulness, leisure and beauty. I would put it in my top 10 cities in the world.

 

As far as Hollywood, I had my picture taken with Marilyn Monroe. It was a great picture...until she smiled. I always thought Marilyn had all of her teeth in the movies, but she was before my time! I must be mistaken...

[LrdNorman]

"If They Want My Luggage That Bad, They Can Have It" -- Kevin

 

Chapter Five

After five or six hours of tossing and turning, I couldn’t sleep at all and around 4 a.m., I was going to walk down to Mediterranean and dip my feet in the water to cool off. Ashley, who wasn’t sleeping either, got dressed and walked down with me. I looked out the window while Ashley was getting dressed and saw why the Mediterranean has the reputation of being one of the most beautiful places in the world. The sun’s backlighting began silhouetting the skyline of charming villas, and the scenery was enhanced with birds waking up and chirping “Good Morning!” to us while the aroma of bakeries filled the air with cinnamon and freshly-rising pastries. I thought I was dreaming (after all, our room was so hot that the bakeries could have used our room for their oven). The only thing better would be if we could dip our feet in the Mediterranean Sea and cool off.

We headed down toward the beach armed with the camera (Ashley had it under lock and key) and walked past the bakeries with their doors wide open promoting their freshly baked pastries and roasting coffee. We like to start our touring early before breakfast because there are fewer people out on the streets which provide us with better photo opportunities. This morning was no different.

Santa Margherita Ligura was all to ourselves. There was not a soul around, not even homeless people (although I’m not sure there are homeless people in the Italian Riviera). Even the garbage and delivery trucks were respectfully quiet so as to not disturb our morning and heavenly serenity.

We stopped into a bakery, but the pastries weren’t ready yet, which was fine as we thoroughly enjoyed the smells.

When we arrived at the edge of the Mediterranean Sea, I dipped my toes into the water, and I found Heaven. On any normal day the water would have been the same temperature as the Arctic Sea, but this morning my toes danced to a happy tune. The water was cold, don’t get me wrong. However, the refreshing cold temperature made the entire night of Dante’s Inferno worth every moment. We languished on the shore for quite a while, soaking in the early morning dawn and the sounds and smells of the awakening city.

After a good hour or so of just enjoying the moment, we headed back up to Hotel Fasce and packed our stuff for the first train out of there. Jane told us we could sit wherever we liked, took our order, and then brought us our breakfast. You can definitely tell that she is English as the meal consisted of a strip of bacon, an egg, and not much else.

Leaving hungry, tired and extremely hot, we had Jane call for a taxi and headed off to the station to catch a train bound for Rome. The man behind the desk either hated his job or he was going for the Least Congeniality Award for July. He grunted at me and blithely tossed the tickets toward my direction, clearly unconcerned if they reached me or not. I was going to say something to him, but I thought the reason why he was very unhappy that morning was that he might have also stayed at Hotel Fasce, so I gave him a dirty look instead.

In order to save money, we bought second class tickets, and upon entering the train, we regretted it. In second class, there is MUCH less leg room, luggage is shoved into any crevice you can find, people roam the aisles like bear coming out of hibernation, and the man peddling food on the cart has very minimal (and non-tasty) snacks. Personally, I was going to suggest that he should have the ice cream truck music playing while he was pushing his wares on us plebeians. He probably would have sold more.

We had to make a layover in another city (are there any trains that go directly to where we want to go?) and Murphy’s Law struck me like a ton of bricks. The metal pull handle on Ashley’s luggage broke. Not the lightest one – oh, no. It was the largest and heaviest bag that we had. So, I did the only thing that I knew to do. I cursed out the luggage. I didn’t care that others were staring at me like I was just released from the psycho ward. I didn’t care that cursing at an inanimate object was not going to help; it would make me feel better. So, I let loose with a tirade that I knew I would have to answer for on Sunday at church. And it felt good.

Now, with both the luggage and I feeling bad about the situation, I set my mind to solve the problem. I took the belt off of my pants (I was in no mood to go to the bathroom at the moment) and tied it like a pull-string around the handle (the leather handle was still attached). We walked to other side of the tracks through an underground passageway, luggage in tow like kids who had been misbehaving.

When the train arrived, I threw Ashley’s luggage (I was still mad at it) onto the train, kicked it into a compartment and sat down in second-class again. Another man came down the aisle selling the trains snacks and warm drinks, but I was in no mood to talk to anybody.

After two hours, we finally arrived at the train terminal in Rome. In Rome, there are about six or seven stops before the main train station. Not knowing which one to get off on, Ashley kept asking me, “Is this the one?” to which I kept saying “I don’t know.” Finally, she asked the man next to her in Italian and he again answered in English.

We got off the train and I got the luggage off. As I arranged the best way to carry the heavy luggage, it became increasingly apparent that Ashley’s big suitcase was going to be the death of me. As I dragged it around, it kept banging into the back of my leg. This is no lie; by the end of the trip, the back of my shin had absolutely no hair on it from the bag scraping against my leg. I kept thinking that I should do it to both legs so that I wouldn’t be off-balance.

“Hey,” Ashley loudly whispered to me as we headed for the terminal entrance, “Be careful. There are pickpockets through here.”

“Well, if they want my luggage that bad, they can have it,” I retorted.

We exited the terminal and were immediately met with rows and rows of taxi cabs. Since we didn’t know where we were going, we knew taxis would be expensive and so, arming Ashley with the luggage, I set off to find a bus that would be more inexpensive.

Upon finding none, I came back and Ashley said that four or five taxi drivers approached her about taking us to where we wanted to go. I approached one of them and asked how much it was to take us to our accommodation. He told me €40 and I thought that was way too much. I reported it to Ashley and we both agreed it was exorbitant and so off I went again to find a bus. I couldn’t find any, and I became increasingly frustrated by my lack of progress.

I got back to where Ashley was and she was already waiting for me with luggage in hand. “The taxi driver said he could take us for €25.” Not wanting to carry the luggage any further than I had to, we loaded up into the taxi and he took us to our accommodation. Later, I asked her how she got him down to €25 and she said that she just asked him in Italian. Those Italian lessons were paying off. And they would pay off again at our accommodation.

Ashley and I always love an experience. That’s why we go on vacation – to experience other cultures. One of the little tidbits I found in my research was that an economical way to stay in Rome was in a convent. That’s right – nuns, Gregorian chanting, metal cots, no hanky-panky – the works. To us, this was an unusual way to spend the night, but it would be an experience and definitely a conversation starter.

So when I approached Ashley about staying in a convent in Rome, she balked at it at first, but then when I told her it was one of the least expensive ways to stay in Rome, she quickly acquiesced and agreed. You see, Ashley enjoys comfort above everything else in life, except one thing: money. When we can save a little bit, she will sacrifice comfort. Rome would test that theory for her.

So, our taxi barreled down main streets and small alleyways, having no regard for lines in the road, turning lanes, traffic lights or pedestrians. It was like Disney World, and we were on Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride with Mr. Toad at the wheel. No attempt at conversation (couldn’t have one if we tried anyway) and I loved the thrill ride – Ashley didn’t. In looking out the window, it appeared that every taxi in Rome drives the same way. It’s as if they aren’t allowed to get their licenses unless they drive recklessly. However, as fast as our man was going, he was very adept at turning the corners, wedging the taxi into tight places, and blocking out other drivers from coming into his lane or making an important turn. He was reckless, but adept at being reckless, if that makes any sense.

We abruptly stopped (skidded more like it) in front of the Il Rosario Convent, he threw out our luggage, and then peeled off in a cloud of dust off to rip off his next sucker, er, customer.

Il Rosario Convent has two very large wooden oak doors in the entrance which seem very ominous for some reason. Interestingly enough, if you were looking at the building from the road, it seems to match everything else facing you – there are no signs advertising it, or any other indication that it is a convent at all, which is, I guess, how the Sisters wanted it. It is situated along a narrow alleyway that contains plenty of sub-compact cars and hidden entrances to, I assume, upstairs apartments.

We buzzed the front doorbell, heard a lock unlatch, and we walked in. The nuns look exactly as they do in the movies. There was a very old Sister standing behind the counter (she was so small that she could have fit on top of a trophy) and she was wearing her nun outfit. Not sure if it can be considered an “outfit”, but it was nun-ish anyway.

“Bon giorno!” Ashley said to the nice nun.

“Bon giorno,” the Sister responded back.

Ashley then was able to string together plenty of her fifty Italian words to get us checked in, get our room key, that we had to give up our passports (“They are nuns, Ashley; I don’t think they are going to steal our passports”) where and when breakfast was going to be and directions to the room upstairs. I must say that I was very impressed by Ashley’s vocabulary. I probably would have said something accidentally and gotten us thrown into Hell.

Il Rosario is a definitely an experience. During my research, I found out that there are some convents where only women are allowed to stay, but this one is co-ed. However, I’m sure there isn’t much “co-habitation” going on and the convent’s rooms don’t advocate the possibility either. Our room had three metal cots, hard, plain floors, a very small shower and a simple cross on one wall. Otherwise, it was bare. The dominating color was white – sterile white. Hospital white. I wasn’t expecting the Grand Empress or anything, but I was still taken aback by the simplicity of it all. Ashley and I have stayed in everything from a roach infested room above a bar in England to the Fairmont Grand Empress in Victoria, British Columbia, but this was by far the most unique sleeping arrangements I had ever encountered. And it was exactly what I paid for.

One of the caveats of staying in a convent is that the Sisters had a curfew. Our curfew was 11 p.m. I had later curfews in high school, which is probably why I got into trouble. If you missed your curfew, the Sisters would lock you out and you would have to find somewhere else to stay for the night. We didn’t want to take that chance. We carefully tried to schedule our time so that we had plenty of opportunity to get back to the convent before 11 p.m.

We had reservations to see the Borghese Gallery and so we wanted to head out as soon as possible so we could make our reservations. We were able to figure out how to use the bus from the Sister and headed off to find the bus stop. I was armed with my trusty bus map and we found a corner store that sold bus tickets. Amazingly, no sooner did we buy the ticket, a very short / half-pint bus pulled up to the stop outside the door.

“Hey, Kevin! We get to ride the short bus!” The bus was, indeed, short. It was about 1/3 of the size of a normal bus and quite cozy, if you were a sardine. Inside, I got to know more about the passengers than I wanted to. In America, I would have been arrested – in Rome, I was invited over for dinner. Not really. I just made that up.

We got off the bus, checked what time it would pick us up again (very important bit of knowledge) and toured the Gallery. It was very nice – they had an exhibit of Raphael’s works there. Titian, Bernini and Canova also had pieces prominently displayed inside the gallery. The villa was designed by Cardinal Scipione Borghese, who was given a cardinalship by his uncle, Pope Paul V. He became the Pope’s secretary, which held power and prestige. Through the papal fees and taxes, he amassed enormous wealth and began buying land and artwork – much of it was from unknown artists at the time. His home was dedicated to all of the artwork he collected and there is so much artwork, including sculptures and paintings, that he had several buildings built to house them all.

Overall, it was well worth the time. Many scholars say it is the most beautiful museum in Italy and I can see why. The self-guiding tour leads you out the back door. They provide a listening device which tells you about each piece, but it comes at a price.

Upon leaving the gallery, we entered a beautiful gardens area in which many people were setting up white-linen tables, nice chairs and a catering station. It looked like a very upscale party. Ashley walked up to a lady with an earpiece in her ear and a walkie-talkie on her hip and asked her if they were setting up for a wedding reception. The lady and the man next to her laughed hard. No, the lady said after regaining her composure, it was only a government meeting. I guess it’s good to be in government in Italy. I wonder if they were going to serve boiled chicken like they do at every meeting here in the States?

We found the bus stop and the short bus came soon after that. We tried to figure out how to get to the Pantheon and the man said we’d have to switch buses. Little did we know that that would mean in a few seconds.

With a bus full of people, we got out of the gates of the Borghese Gallery, turned right and then parked. The driver said that we would be leaving shortly. He then got out of the bus, walked over to another man standing on the sidewalk, lit a cigarette and started talking to him. Everyone on the bus didn’t notice at first, but after about twenty minutes, we all started watching him and wondering if he was getting back on this bus. Another bus pulled up and parked behind our bus.

After plenty of confusion in both Italian and English, some people got off the bus and headed for the other one. We followed suit.

After several mistakes of bus stops and plenty of confusion, we finally made it to the Pantheon. It was closed. And then, we had our first major breakdown of the trip.

Actually, Ashley had her first breakdown. Mine was back at the train station with the luggage. She really wanted to see the Pantheon, she was tired, she was hungry, she was nervous about making curfew and I was pushing her too hard. At least, that’s what I thought she said through the tears and crying. Here it was around 8 p.m. and we hadn’t eaten since this morning, plus we were pushing ourselves to see everything we could in a tight schedule. She finally broke.

I checked our guide map and discovered that there was a cappuccino café right around the corner and we could get something to eat, find the bus to the convent and get some sleep in preparation for the Vatican tomorrow. She agreed and asked if I knew where this cappuccino place was. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I didn’t have a clue.

We headed out in the direction of the cappuccino café and luckily we found it within a short amount of time. We sat down and ordered a cappuccino and across the street was a pizza place that sold slices for very cheap. We headed over and got a couple of slices of pizza.

It was now around 9:15 p.m. and we needed to start heading back to the convent. The problem was, we had no idea where the bus stop would be to take us where we needed to go. Looking at the map didn’t help much either and Ashley was in no mood to wander around aimlessly. We headed back to the Pantheon and then over to Via Della Rotunda where there were plenty of buses waiting. It was approaching 9:45 and now I was starting to get worried as well. The problem was, I couldn’t let Ashley see me panic because it would cause her to erupt even more.

At the bus stop, no one seemed to be able to help us find our correct bus (if it was even there). The bus stop was in a median in the middle of a major street. I told Ashley to wait there and ask a bus driver which way to the convent. Meanwhile, I headed off to find a bus station that could help us. There was one around the corner and so I set off to find help.

Since my Italian was not as good, I didn’t have much success. I saw a group of men standing together in what appeared to be uniforms. I checked my watch and since it was now after 10:00 p.m., I needed to get over my fear and approach them. I was either going to get help or be a statistic in the morning’s paper.

I started off in Italian and asked them if they spoke English. One of them said he did and in the process of telling him about our plight, he said that it wasn’t on his route, but he would drop us off near the Il Rosario convent. I emphatically thanked him and violently shook his hand in gratitude. I told him that I needed to tell my wife the plan and he said that he would wait for me.

I ran back to the bus stop (narrowly getting hit by racing taxis in the process) and told Ashley what the nice bus driver had said. She noticed that there were taxis across the street and told me that we should just bite the bullet and hail a taxi, no matter what the cost. I felt bad and was disappointed because I succeeded in securing us a cheap way to get home and I felt the bus driver was really going out of his way to help us. I didn’t want to go back on my word with a man who was gracious to us. Ashley insisted we hail the taxi and while I ran back to the station to let the man know that we were going to hail a taxi instead, she was going to go ask the taxi driver how much it would be to go to the convent.

The bus driver was very polite and I thanked him again and he said that he was glad to help. Italians are some of the nicest people on Earth. People make such a bug deal about Southern hospitality, as they should, but Italian hospitality should rank right up there as well. So many times throughout the trip we found Italians willing to go out of their way to make our vacation a wonderful experience.

I got back to where Ashley was and looked at my watch – it was 10:25. We got into the taxi that Ashley had secured for us (for €10) and zoomed off to the convent. We arrived around 10:50 and I practically threw money at the taxi driver (I only had €10 so there would be no tip) and we quickly bounded into the convent where a different nun was behind the counter. Another couple came in right behind us and we smiled at each other knowing that, at least for tonight, we would be safe.

Going up the stairs, I was never more excited to see our metal cots. It was a little warm in the room (they provided us with a large oscillating fan), but that was okay by me. We were so tired that even if it wasn’t a convent, there would be no hanky-panky tonight anyway.

Which is okay because tomorrow, we would need all of our energy to tackle another breakdown and the biggest authority figure in the world, the Vatican.

[LrdNorman]

Chapter Six

Mental Breakdown II: the Sequel all started with a blowdryer. In Europe, the electrical outlets have 220 amps and in America our electrical outlets have 110-120 amps. I have no idea what that means. All I know is that it does mean we need a converter because all electrical devices do not work over there. We borrowed a converter from someone Ashley works with in order to be able to use, in order: charge up our re-chargeable batteries for the camera, Ashley’s hairdryer, Ashley’s iron, anything else Ashley brought, Kevin’s Cowon Personal Media Player, and anything else Kevin brought.

Ashley showered first and then sat down to blowdry her hair. We discussed the last time we used a converter in Europe how the hairdryer burst into flames like a blow torch fusing together steel beams for the Empire State Building. While a very cool look, it frightened Ashley to death. Fortunately, she didn’t re-enact Michael Jackson during a Pepsi commercial. I’m truly showing my age with that joke.

After a long debate over whether or not the hairdryer would work (I assured her it would), she plugged in the converter and sparks flew everywhere. It looked like the Fourth of July. First, the feeling of “Hey, that’s pretty damn cool! Let’s do it again!” was quickly overtaken by the “Uh, oh. Now what are we going to do?” And then the tears flowed – not my tears, but Ashley’s.

She had a good breakdown of 30 minutes where we discussed what we were going to do (there was nothing we could do) to how much this was going to cost us to replace it (“$20 at the most, Ashley.” “What do you know? You said the dryer would work, idiot.”) and every conceivable fear, paranoia and neurosis in between. Eventually, we got over it and headed down to breakfast, wet hair and all. Fortunately, it was about 2,000,000 degrees that summer in Rome, so her hair would dry instantly if it didn’t catch on fire first.

We arrived at breakfast to the tune of Gregorian chants in the background. They were having church behind one of the closed doors and it was a Thursday. I didn’t know church was even open on Thursdays. When we came downstairs where the front desk was, a different Sister than one we had met before came out of a back room where the chanting was coming from. She spoke better English than the nun last night (or maybe my “Bon Giorno” was getting worse) and told us that breakfast was ready in the room, which was also very sterile and clean.

During our breakfast, one of the couples nearby told us about the City Tekker Roma bus tour which takes you to all the major sights of Rome. The bus allows you to get on and off whenever you would like. We usually ride around the city without getting off in order to understand our way around. Since today we were headed to the Vatican, and the bus rode by the Vatican, we decided to take the tour.

In every major city, we try to take some sort of tour by bus as an overview of history and culture and to get our bearings as to where everything is. The commentaries are usually entertaining (unlike the one we took) and we get some nice photos while I actually get to sightsee as well. Since I am usually driving, I like the tours because I can sit back and relax and not get yelled at to slow down or back up to take thirty pictures of a building we will not remember back home.

The meeting area for bus tour was at Santa Maria Maggiore Basilica, a magnificent church complete with large stained glass windows, guards at the front, homeless people panhandling for money, nuns and priests walking in and out, and confessionals in seven or eight different languages. The basilica held a special calling for me, but more on that after the Vatican.

The cathedral was undergoing renovations outside and Ashley and I weren’t sure which side the bus tour would start on. After sitting on the steps for about a half hour (and not wanting to miss the tour), Ashley decided to walk around to the other side of the church in order to ask someone about the tour.

“Here, watch this bag for me while I look to see where the tour bus picks us up,” she said handing me her camera bag. “I don’t know if I could ever forgive you if my camera got stolen or broken. Well, I guess I’d have to because you are my husband, but it would be hard.” She had a very earnest look on her face and I knew she was serious, especially after the incident in Portofino.

“Ashley, you can trust me with your camera.” She paused for a second. “Maybe I should take it with me.” And off she went with the camera bag wrapped tightly around her arm.

Eventually, she bounded back with the news that the tour would began on the other side of the cathedral and she was also very excited about the fact that the bus was a double-decker. We have always liked the double-decker buses since we went to England. We enjoy sitting on top and looking out at the sights below us like birds. Plus our pictures are better since we don’t have random people popping up in our pictures with a surprised look. “Oh, I’m sorry. I’m an idiot for not looking where I was going and ruining a perfect moment with my big fat head in the way” or something like that. The double-decker arrived, we bought our ticket and proceeded to go up to the top deck.

We rode past all of the major sights, including the ruins where Julius Caesar was killed, where Mussolini gave his speech to rise up support for joining Germany in World War II, and the Jewish neighborhood. We snapped a trillion pictures, but could probably only use less than ten because Ashley’s digital camera is not very good with moving scenes.

After going around the city once, we got off at the Vatican the second time around. Immediately, we were bombarded with more souvenirs than Disney. There were dish towels, flags, postcards, snow globes, jewelry and everything else that you could put the Pope’s face on for sale. People were buying rosaries blessed by the Pope, T-shirts with the Pope’s face on it, and Pope bobbleheads. Interestingly enough, there is plenty of graffiti, crime and vandalism all over Rome, but in the Vatican, there is none.

When Ashley and I stood before Vatican City, it was like we had arrived at Oz. There was a glow surrounding the city and not a scrap of litter anywhere within the Vatican City’s 120 acres. It was like Disney World, complete with the same souvenirs and $4.00 drinks. Truly incredible and breathtaking, and I must admit, a little creepy.

Before we left, we tried to finagle the schedule so that we could see the Pope preach on Wednesday morning, just like he does every week, but it didn’t quite fit into our schedule. We did see St. Peter’s Square where the Rolling Stones, U2 and other major rock and roll bands played. It was hard to believe that hundreds of thousands of people could fit into such a small space. We saw monks, nuns and many other religious pilgrims making their way to St. Peter’s Basilica to be a part of the Catholic church. I pictured Dan Brown’s Angels and Demons coming to life.

We migrated our way toward the basilica looking forward to our meeting with Angel Tours. Angel Tours Rome is a company made up of upper level college students who are majoring in history in Ireland. They provide tours of the Vatican, Colosseum and Roman Forum, the heart of Rome and free tours of the Pantheon every Wednesday afternoon. Compared to other tour groups, they are by far the most economical and, in my opinion, the most professional and entertaining. I cannot rave enough about them. We hired Angel Tours for both the Vatican and Colosseum / Roman Forum and we were not disappointed at all. A trip to Italy would not be anywhere near as informative without them.

Through the corresponding e-mails, Angel Tours told me that there were other tour companies and we could recognize Angel Tours because of their signature calling card – an umbrella with angels on it. We stood by the obelisk at noon as instructed and saw two umbrellas in the air with the aforementioned angels on it. The tour had 40 some-odd people on it, and so we were broken up into two groups. Either way, I was bound and determined to be up front.

I’m always the annoying one who tries to be in the front of the group because I want to be able to hear everything the tour guide says. However, I wouldn’t need to do that today. Just like at St. Mark’s Basilica, all tours have those headphones where you can only hear your tour guide. I like that. Technology is a wonderful thing.

Another thing Angel Tours warned us about was that other tour companies would try to steer us away from their tour. I thought that was a little paranoid. Why would another tour company try to get us to join their tour when we were already on one? That doesn’t make sense. Sure enough, I was solicited by no fewer than four other companies while I was standing right next to our tour guide. Bolder yet, they tried to tell us that Angel Tours was no good! Now that takes balls, especially when our tour guide had an umbrella and wasn’t afraid to use it.

While we were in the security line, a young man with preppy clothes, dark, short, metrosexual hair and a fist full of business cards that were thrown at me approached. “Hey,” the man with the fancy pants yelled at me. “Would you like a tour of the Vatican? We will take you through the basilica and the Sistine Chapel without any wait.”

I looked at him with the are-you-talking-to-me look. “I’m sorry, but I am already on a tour.”

“So what. They aren’t as good as ours. Does yours promise to show you all of the sights and get you through without waiting?”

“How much does yours cost?” I asked him.

“Just €75 and we can have you out and on your way in two hours.”

“So what,” I said back to him. “This tour cost just €25 and we get to wear those cool headphones.”

The man stopped approaching me and turned on a dime back toward the obelisk. “Hey,” he yelled out to the man he was pointing at. “Would you like a tour of the Vatican?”

Marian, our tour guide, was very good. She was studying history from a college in Ireland (I loved her accent) and was extremely knowledgeable. Plus, she was easy to understand. The tour was scheduled for four hours and was supposed to cover the Sistine Chapel, Vatican Museums, Giovanni Bernini’s famous piazza (where the tour began) and St. Peter’s Basilica. Along with Marian was her trusty aide, Henry. Henry was a tour guide in training and immediately took a shine to Ashley. He looked like Sideshow Bob from the Simpsons and Jack Black mixed together. His hair was wild and untamed – clearly, he was trying to bring the afro to Italy but no one was buying into it. While the rest of us in the tour moved along at a rapid pace, Ashley always languished behind and Henry was glad to walk with her.

Marian started the tour in the piazza with a few facts:

The top of the obelisk was made from part of the original cross that Christ was crucified on

The dome was designed by Michelangelo, the outside by Bernini and the portico’s façade by Maderno

The columns under the colonnades (the parentheses surrounding the piazza) were made from the marble seats of the Colosseum

On top of the colonnades are figures of John the Baptist and eleven of the apostles (I’ll let you figure out which one is not shown; Judas, by the way)

There are ninety-six statues of saints sitting on top of the colonnades; it takes 200 years to become a saint and, no, St. Valentine and St. Patrick is not up there. We all decided Mother Teresa will be up there one day.

On our way to the security line, a man who came straight from the cruise ship had to go change because he had shorts on. His wife brought a shawl to cover her shoulders and before we even moved fifty feet, he was back with pants on. Either he was a very quick changer, or he let God and everyone see him get out of his shorts.

A word about security: they are strict. You go through a metal detector (or a few – they are probably hidden), there are security cameras everywhere, and the Swiss Guard are everywhere, checking your bags and backpacks and to see if your shorts ride up too high. The Swiss Guard is fun to watch. They still wear the same outfits that Michelangelo designed for them back in the 1500’s. The tops are blue and gold with matching MC Hammer pants. In order to be in the Swiss Guard, men (no women allowed) must be between the ages of 19-25, live like a priest (no girlfriends, wives or concubines), can be from any European country and, evidently, must be very good-looking. Not many men applied from Switzerland, so the Swiss government opened up the applications from any European country. They make 1,000 Euros a month. The guards must stay in the Guard until they are thirty-five. With those criteria, I couldn’t be in the Swiss Guard; I enjoyed college too much.

“Let’s go, Henry. I would like some more water. I’m a bit thirsty,” Marian barked at Henry. Henry hurried up from the rear of the tour and dug into his backpack to get her water. He then went back and continued his conversation with Ashley.

Marian decided that the basilica was too busy, so she decided to go through the Vatican’s museums first, followed by the Sistine Chapel and then into the basilica. While we went through Vatican City, Marian pointed out various sites that Dan Brown’s book Angels and Demons mentions. I read the book before we left for Italy in order to get a better understanding of the Vatican. Since in the book, a new Pope is named the head of the Catholic Church (much like my generation went through with Pope John Paul II and Pope Benedict XVI), I was fascinated to see that these places like where the media could see that a new Pope was elected and various other places mentioned in the book. I was fascinated; Ashley was too busy talking to Henry to notice. Besides, she didn’t read the book.

Outside of the Vatican museum’s entrance, Marian asked if any of us had any questions. Me being the curious type, I asked if there were any crimes committed recently within Vatican City. She said that drinking alcohol was not permitted (I wondered if wine was considered alcohol since in Italy it was a crime NOT to drink wine), Pope John Paul II was shot by a Turkish man in St. Peter’s Square in 1982 and a mad Hungarian tried to chop off the head of one of Michelangelo’s most famous statues, La Pieta. In one of the corners of St. Peter’s Square, there is a red brick in the ground that marks the place where Pope John Paul II was shot.

Personally, if one of your lifelong dreams is to see what Satan looks like, commit a crime in Vatican City. I don’t think you are going to get any reprieve from anyone, especially the Man Upstairs. Which also begs the question, are there any lawyers in Vatican City?

We got through security (why can’t we employ these people in our airports?) by the Swiss Guard and into the ticket area. Ashley had to go to the restroom, so we told the rest of the group that we would meet up with them inside. Other ladies had to go as well (as there aren’t any other bathrooms inside) and, after what seemed an eternity, Ashley came bounding back.

“What were you doing in there?” I asked.

“I had a hard time getting the money out of my underwear. That’s the last time I put coins in my pants.”

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake. Don’t be so paranoid here in the Vatican. Nobody’s going to rob us here. I’m sure that God’s protecting us from pickpockets and thieves.”

“Don’t be so sure. ___________________________________________________.

We went upstairs to purchase our tickets and met the rest of the group on the other side of the ticket booths. We were able to find our group because, 1) Marian had the Angel umbrella in the air, making it easier to spot her, and 2) Henry searched out Ashley and they struck up their conversation again. Normally, I’d be protective of Ashley, but I spent too much money on this tour to worry about Afroman.

Marian deftly maneuvered us to one of a few maps outlining the nuances of the Sistine Chapel brightly displayed in the Courtyard of the Pinecones. Not sure why the courtyard outside of the museums is called that, but if you had as much money as the Catholic Church, you could call your courtyard anything you wanted.

There were probably about fifty other tour groups there and only seven maps of the Sistine Chapel. Marian was always being interrupted by another tour guide to see if we were done.

“In a minute,” Marian told the lady. I thought that Marian was going to beat that Asian lady with a cane the third time she came up to us and I was secretly hoping she would, but that would not be nice in the Vatican.

During the speech, Marian told us that we were not allowed to take pictures inside of the Sistine Chapel, and immediately I could tell that Ashley was severely disappointed. I think Henry sensed it too because he immediately moved over to hug her. I didn’t budge because I knew that if Henry got a little too carried away, I could take him. I would just wait until we got outside of the Vatican City boundary so that I would only have to answer to the Italian police and not anyone else on Judgment Day.

I figured we couldn’t take pictures was because the Vatican wanted to make some extra money at the end. All roads of a tour always lead to the gift shop.

Interestingly enough, the reason that pictures are not permitted inside the Vatican was not because of the Catholics, but because of the Japanese. The Nippon Television Network Corporation would help finance part of the $4.2 million renovation of the Sistine Ceiling, helping to remove dirt, smoke and other pollutants that had collected for over four hundred years in return for the photographic and filming rights. Marian said that the Vatican agreed and that many critics cried out that Nippon had ruined the Sistine Chapel by making the colors too bright and vandalizing Michelangelo’s original artistry.

In the middle of the courtyard was a rotating sphere of Earth, meant to represent the damage that pollution has caused our planet. It is the largest of seven in the world and actually pretty fascinating. Interestingly enough, Los Angeles is almost completely gone from the sphere and Florida is non-existent. Damn El Nino.

We went past the Egyptian and Etruscan Museum with plenty of antiquities that were uncovered by Pope Gregory XVI (although I wonder how many were “found” through wars and thefts in the night). Pope Leo XIII (1878-1903) nearly bankrupted the Vatican with all of the antiquities he purchased with the Catholic Church’s money. Knowing that the Catholic Church is loaded with money, this would be a very hard thing to do. Interestingly enough, that is why there is a fee to enter the Vatican Museum. I’m sure they have made up their money by now.

To be bluntly honest, I don’t really remember much of the Vatican Museum. I was too busy trying to write down everything Marian said and it was getting harder and harder to do that because the place was packed.

When I say packed, I don’t mean it was busy. I don’t mean that you could hardly move around. I mean that by moving around, I could easily figure out which women had breast implants and which men were very interested in those women who had the big implants, if you catch my drift. It was as if the entire place was one big amoeba and we were floating around the museum without any control over which direction we went.

Like I said, I don’t remember much until the Sistine Chapel because everything started looking the same after awhile. However, I will tell you the few things that I do remember. There’s a quiz later so pay attention.

We go past tapestries and maps of the world in the 1700’s (very cool) and even more statues. There was a bird bath fountain made of porphyry, a dark, purple-ish red stone that was quarried in Egypt and is extremely rare today. The floors were taken from villas around Europe and various heads of statues prominently displayed around the rooms. We were told that for many antiquities, only the heads remained because robbers would behead the statue as the head was worth the most money and the statue was often too heavy to lift.

One of the more interesting stories was about Pope Pius IX. He was a staunch defender of the Church and considered many of the nude statues in the museum blasphemous, so he had his servants cover up all of the nudes with fig leaves on their private areas. Plus, because Michelangelo’s painting in the Sistine Chapel contained more nudes than a Heidi Fleiss birthday party, Pope Pious IX hired an artist to go around and paint fig leaves on every single nude so that nobody would be offended.

We also saw the Goddess of Fertility statue. Legend has it that if you stare at the statue long enough, you will become more fertile. The Romans had seven more of these statues made so that they could be the biggest Republic and build a bigger army. It sure is cheaper than *****.

“Hey!” Ashley yells out in her thick Southern accent from underneath her headphones. It’s amazing how loud you really are when you can’t hear yourself. “Look at the wall, how it curves like a dome!” Just then, over the headphones, Marian explains how the walls aren’t really curved, but that the art effect is called trompe l’oeil.

“Hey, Kevin! I really like that trump door stuff! Write that down!”

Trompe l’oeil is a very cool effect. They are paintings or murals that trick the eye into thinking that the image is real, but it is just a painting. Here is an example:

The actual image is a painting, but it looks like a real plant in an architectural inset. The effect is very cool. The room looked curved, but really was flat. Now that’s a real talent.

Throughout the tour, Marian kept apologizing for the heat in the museum (remember that Italians are not fond of air conditioning) and she kept reassuring us that we were almost at the end of the tour. Fortunately, I had two water bottles in my backpack, which I probably could have sold for $1,000 if I wanted to, and Ashley and I tried to conserve as much as possible.

One thing about Ashley is that she does not do well with heat or heavy crowds. This museum was her personal Hell. Although we live in Florida – the Sunshine and Hurricane Central state – she cannot take the heat or humidity and wilts like magnolia very quickly. Plus, she is very funky about large crowds and people jostling her. Considering how paranoid she was about people trying to mug her, I thought she was doing quite well.

I wandered back to where Ashley and Henry were looking over some maps. “Excuse me,” I said to Henry. “Do you mind if I cut in?”

“Sure,” he said sheepishly, as if I was taking away his best friend. I saw him meander over toward a corner, probably because he felt like he was being punished.

“How much further?” Ashley asked. “I’m pretty hot and thirsty. Do you have any of that water left?”

“Yes,” I responded. “By the way, why are your hands in your pants?” I asked her when I finally wrestled her away from Henry.

“I’m protecting our money. You can’t be too careful. There are so many people here. Are you having a good time?”

“You bet. I’m really looking forward to the Sistine Chapel. Did you hear Marian over the headphones? She said that we aren’t really allowed to take pictures and that the guards may confiscate your camera. I know how much you love your camera. Are you going to chance it?”

“I don’t know. What do you think?”

“It’s up to you,” I said. “Maybe you should ask Henry. I’m sure that he will knock over any person who tries to take it from you. I think you have a secret admirer.”

“Knock it off,” Ashley snapped. Just then we heard the crackle of Marian’s voice come over the headphones.

“Okay, everyone. They are opening up another entrance. Stay to the right and we will meet on the steps. Remember, pictures are forbidden and I cannot comment on anything that you see in the Sistine Chapel. Take your time as the paintings are beautiful, and once you are done, come to the far back of the chapel and look for the umbrella.”

We went down the steps like a herd of cattle being led to slaughter, except instead of our demise, we were met with the most magnificent and extraordinary beauty I have ever seen. Knowing that Michelangelo worked everyday for four years of his life working on the ceiling, always in isolation, made the frescoes that much more meaningful to me. I stood and stared at the ceiling in awe and recognized many popular images – The Creation of Adam, Zacharias, God Separating Dark and Light, and many other miniature paintings. I cannot even sit still long enough to see a movie much less do the same thing every single day for four years. His accomplishment was unfathomable.

There are still parts of the ceiling that are not renovated on purpose to show what the before and after looks like. Before we entered the room, Marian said to be on the lookout for clues as to when you can tell that Michelangelo was getting bored and tired of doing the Sistine Chapel. It was like a large-scale “Where’s Waldo?” but I could tell which side Michelangelo started on and where he was getting tired.

On one side of the room, the images are very clear – human forms are very distinct and details are spot on. Toward the middle of the room, the images become more approximate and not as much detail. On the other end of the ceiling, it’s almost as if Michelangelo just wanted to be done with images of people being roughly shaped and very little details on their face.

It was amazing to note that Michelangelo did not think he was any good as a painter – he only thought he was a sculptor, chiseling away at pieces of marble until out came something as magnificent as the statue of David. Yet, when Pope Julius II commissioned Michelangelo to paint the ceiling in the early 1500’s, Michelangelo didn’t deem himself worthy enough to do it.

On the far wall, Pope Paul III commissioned Michelangelo to come back and paint “The Last Judgment” in which it took six years (and probably a lot of money) to complete.

I stood fascinated. It was just incredible how this man could paint this masterpiece and I cannot even draw a straight stick figure. When I told my first grade teacher, after painting a picture for her, that I might be an artist, she told me that that’s nice and quickly told me to wash out the brushes and put them away for someone else. Then when others in class got to paint, I helped clean up the room – that should have been my first clue.

“Kevin, take my picture with the flash off,” Ashley said while focusing her camera on the ceiling.

“Are you sure?” I responded while looking around for the guards.

“Just be quick about it,” and just as she began to focus the camera on what she wanted, a hand came out of nowhere and slapped Ashley on the wrist, almost making her drop the camera.

“NO PICTURES!” an aggressive Hispanic woman with a tour uniform on yelled at Ashley and then quickly turned to her own tour group and said, “You see?! That’s the problem in here. No one follows the rules!” while pointing at Ashley and using her as an example. A few people around us turned toward Ashley and immediately lowered their cameras as they did not want to get caught taking pictures as well.

The Gestapo’s tour group moved off and I looked around at the rest of the crowd. Everyone else in the Sistine Chapel was taking pictures, so my fear of getting busted was greatly diminished. People were snapping pictures of anything and everything and I wanted to take a picture of Captain Slappy, but she had already moved on.

Ashley and I took our pictures and soaked in the moment. After we had our fill (there was not an empty pew in sight), we headed over toward the umbrella and Marian filled us in on interesting stories surrounding the Sistine Chapel paintings:

Michelangelo dissected human bodies in order to understand how the human body works in order to sculpt it accurately

In the Drunkenness of Noah scene, there are no animals; Michelangelo was obsessed with the human body

The Agony and the Ecstasy scene was a representation of Michelangelo painting the Sistine Chapel

In protest of doing the Sistine Chapel, he drew a lot of nudes, and got away with it because the Pope was enthralled with Michelangelo’s work as he was already working on the Pope’s tomb in St. Peter’s Basilica

In the bottom right of the Last Judgment, Cardinal Adagio, who kept lecturing Michelangelo to stop him from drawing nudes, is pictured with a serpent attacking his balls

Michelangelo’s last portrait in the Last Judgment painting is of himself being only skin hanging from someone’s hand

Cardinal Carafa (who later became Pope Paul IV) and Michelangelo had a very heavy argument over why he was drawing nudes on the Last Judgment painting. So, when Biagio da Cesena decreed that the Sistine Chapel was no place for bawdy drawings and that Michelangelo’s nudes were better suited for public baths, Michelangelo drew Cesena’s likeness as Minos, Judge of the Underworld. Maybe that Tour Guide who popped Ashley’s hand could have been there as well

When Christ raises His hand to cast judgment so that the Blessed rise and the Cursed fall, Martin Luther is in the bottom half getting sent to Hell.

“Wasn’t Martin Luther black?” asked one of the people on our tour. That’s definitely an American education hard at work. If it sounds like a tourist and thinks like a tourist…. Fortunately, before Marian could politely respond, “You twit. You are depriving a village somewhere of an idiot…,” the lady’s husband came to her rescue and said, “No, honey. Martin Luther wasn’t black. He was Italian.” I swear this exchange took place. I couldn’t make this stuff up.

We left the Sistine Chapel down an alley and headed toward St. Peter’s Basilica, widely considered every Catholic’s church. I’m not Catholic, but many Catholics make a pilgrimage every year to come and see this basilica. Probably to make up for all of the Easter Sundays and Christmas Eves they missed over the years.

The basilica is one of the most majestic churches I have ever seen. It is hard to imagine that people actually attend church here every Sunday given by the Pope himself. The place could be a museum, but it is actually very daunting. Past Popes are all interred here along with 2,000 years of history. Truly impressive.

I made sure that Ashley was still with her trusty sidekick / bodyguard and wedged my way up to the front of the group. Marian enlightened us with stories of wicked Popes, including a Pope who was so hated that underneath his statue is a broom closet; of popular Popes, including Pope John XXIII who, when asked how many people worked in the Vatican, with a twinkle in his eye, said, “About half;” and, my favorite, Michelangelo’s other masterpiece, La Pieta. I must have stared at that sculpture for probably a good fifteen minutes – fully mesmerized and totally moved. Upon first glance, I got Michelangelo’s message. It truly was heart-wrenching to see a mother – in this case, Mary – have to hold her son after he was crucified on the cross. It was a universal feeling. It didn’t matter if you were Catholic, Jewish, Protestant or atheist – everyone could relate to the tragedy of a parent weeping over a child. There has never been a piece of art that has moved me to the extent of tears, and I can’t imagine another one doing that as well. The sculpture was encased behind bullet-proof glass. This was the statue that a man tried to chop off the head of Jesus in the 1970’s. Thank Heavens he was stopped.

I lingered behind and looked around for the umbrella. As I made my way back to Marian, she was describing the long line of people who were rubbing the bronze foot of another Pope. I asked her why they were doing that, and she replied, “It is believed that if you use your right hand and rub his foot, it will take away your sins; conversely, if you use your left hand, you will add to your sins.” From the looks of the long line, there sure was a lot of sinning that was going on. The line stretched around the corner – you would thing they were giving away free water the line was so long.

We ended our tour – you’ll never guess where – at a gift shop and Marian and Henry said goodbye. We gave them a tip (I only tipped Marian – Henry had to find another sucker) and headed off to buy Vatican City stamps and postcards and hopefully get some Vatican City money in the process.

We made our purchases, sent them via the Vatican City post office – it is its own country after all – and headed back to find our double-decker bus to head back to Rome and find the Trevi Fountain.

Upon departing, we again consulted the map and got lost. Maps are hard to navigate in a foreign city, especially when they are bulky, you don’t know where you are going, and you’re wife is yelling at you to put it away because you look like a tourist but she has no problem going up to complete strangers herself and asking in broken Italian for directions. I don’t get it.

On the way to the fountain, we found a cool restaurant where you sat in an alleyway while trying not to get hit by racing scooters and where the water was cold. It was one of the better meals we had in Italy and, after dinner, we found our way to the Trevi Fountain, armed with the smallest denomination of coin we could find. Behind Ashley was a father with his daughter and son, about fifteen and twelve. Both of them had sodas and kept complaining that there was no ice.

It’s got to be hard to travel with kids (especially teenagers) because many of them are only interested in activities that involve danger, shopping or some sort of technology which can give them instant gratification. That’s it. Obviously that’s a stereotype, but as a high school teacher, I can fully attest to their interests and their reports from their own vacations. Throughout the vacation, we met many families with kids and they ran the gamut from kids who spoke only when spoken to all the way to kids who whined every chance they got. Now I can see why some animals eat their young.

After dinner, we saw several people wandering through alleyways. When throngs of people in a major metropolitan city such as Rome wander in a specific direction, chances are that a major attraction is nearby.

In true fashion, Ashley saw the hundreds of people wandering in the same direction and deduced that the Trevi Fountain must be nearby. I told her that it couldn’t be because I consulted the map and discovered that we were near the Pantheon to which she looked at the map, pointed where we were, and marched off toward the Trevi Fountain because she was right. I hate it when she’s right.

The Trevi Fountain was bigger and better than I had ever imagined. The sheer immenseness of it and the fact that it was all one piece of marble at one time was too much to comprehend. Thousands of people surrounded this major attraction – people sitting on the marble railing around the fountain, others leaning on the street above the fountain, cops watching these crazy tourists throw good money into a fountain in the hopes it will bring them back to Rome to throw more money into a fountain. Conversations in every conceivable language were buzzing with excitement over the size of the fountain.

We arrived around dusk and so there were people everywhere using their flashes on their camera to get a picture of the Trevi Fountain to show uncaring people back home that they went to the same place that zillions of other people had gone before them.

Don’t get me wrong – I’m not opposed to people taking pictures with zeal over things they can’t name later on back home. However, I am opposed to people butting into other people’s pictures in order to maneuver a better spot for their own photo. Usually these offenders thrust their unsmiling kids into an awkward position, yelling at them to take the iPod earphone out of their ear and then giving them instructions on how they want them to smile.

Here are actual phrases uttered at the Trevi Fountain on the night of July 13th, 2006 at around 7:00 p.m.:

1) “Will, move more to the right.” “But Mom, if I move to the right, I will end up in the fountain.”

2) “Honey, could you get Stacy? She’s drinking the fountain water and I think I saw pigeons pooping in there.”

3) “Excuse me, officer. Could you tell me where the Trevi Fountain is?” (This is no lie.)

4) “Ooh! Ooh! There’s a spot open on that bench! Damn, that Chinese woman got it. Ooh! Ooh! There’s another one over there!” “What, a Chinese woman?”

5) “Dad, why are we throwing money into the fountain?” “Because the guidebook tells us to.”

6) “Kevin, could you move over to the right? I think those people are getting ready to move and this is a good spot for a picture. Excuse me, would you like me to take a picture of you two?” (One guess who said that one.)

I could have sat at the Trevi Fountain for a while and just watched the people try and get the best photo they could get with 20,000 other people trying to do the same thing. It was like watching an ant farm with each ant trying to get a picture of the Queen with their little ant families bumping into other little ant families trying to do the same thing. Fascinating.

We headed away from the Trevi Fountain and headed for the Spanish Steps because it was in our guidebook and we wanted to see it. Once we navigated our way there and figured out how to use the Bancomat (ATM), we found the Spanish Steps. It was just like the Trevi Fountain, except disappointing. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this. Hordes of people were everywhere, just sitting around, no doubt tired from making the long trek there only to discover others just sitting there as well.

It was getting late and we didn’t want to keep Sister up, so we headed off to find some gelato, a granite` and a taxi, in that order. We found a gelato shop and they had a large assortment of different types of gelatos, including World Cup flavor (red, white and green colors in the shape of a flag, much like Neopolitan ice cream) and *****. Insert your own joke here.

I am not kidding you.

The ***** flavor (if you can call it that) was light blue (the same color as the pill) and there were some young men behind us in line, joking in Italian with each other to try it. I was tempted to try a sample just to see if it had any effect, but I remembered that we would be heading back to the convent and I didn’t want to explain anything to the nuns.

We found our taxi and made it back to the convent in plenty of time, which is good because, unbeknownst to us, the only way that we could get a taxi that wasn’t on strike was be the grace of God…literally.