SB09 Italy Part IV: Roma

Rome was just fun. It's really that simple. Milan was disjointed, Venice was a dream, Florence was a tactile fantasy, and Rome was just a really, really good time. Brandon and I arrived in the afternoon and checked into our uber trendy youth hostel, The Yellow, and napped. The hostel was geared toward young globe trotters like the two of us and was adorned with ultra Generation Y decor like stencils of Chuck Norris and Planet of the Apes, digital numbers outside the doors, tinted lights, etc. Our roommates were a down on his luck Englishman, a quiet Swede, a stunning Australian, and a very sleepy Israeli. It could have just been the pricing and location, or maybe the attached bar, or the young and fun staff or the combination of all of those but The Yellow was a hip place that clearly had a license to print money.
We left our hostel and took the street, tourist map in hand, on the prowl for monuments. We came to learn that Rome, by comparison to Madrid especially, is tiny. Our first, no more than 10 minutes from the hostel, was the Spanish Steps. Brandon bought a hat, I snapped a few pictures and we decided that since finding the Steps was so easy, we might as well carry on the Trevi Fountains, which, while crowded, were absolutely gorgeous on the clear, warm night. The ease of navigating the city and the gorgeous payoff of each monument inspired us to find the Pantheon. We stopped for a coffee and wound our way through the city. Ultimately we missed in our search for the Pantheon but ended up finding the National Monument of Victor Emmanuel II, which was absolutely stunning and probably my favorite building in Rome. While walking I essentially tripped over ancient Roman Ruins that gleamed in the moonlight. We had been walking for about an hour and I already had to pick my jaw up on several occasions, it was a gorgeous night and Rome sparkled under the moon.
It was about this time that we realized that we were walking directly towards the Colosseum. It's hard to believe a building that big and that famous can sneak up on you, but that is exactly what happened. There was a small hill across the street from the Colosseum and I walked up it to try to get above the street lights for a few photos. It was here that the strangest, most wonderfully bizarre event of my trip took place. We had made it to the top and I was grimacing over how poorly my photos were turning out when an Indian man approached us speaking Italian. We told him that we don't speak Italian and he asked if we spoke English. After running through the where are you from, what's your name conversation and he got down to business. "Do you know yoga?" Yes. "Ah good. I need to open my Chakra. To open my Chakra I need to be very tired. So I walk up and down this hill." OK. "I need to be very tired. Would you like to go for a ride on my shoulders?" I wish there was a picture of what our faces looked like. This squat little Indian-Italian man named Sandro just asked us if we wanted to ride on his shoulders while he walked up and down a hill. With smiles on our faces Brandon shrugged his shoulders, why not?
The pictures I took didn't turn out very well, as I had a hard time holding the camera steady because I was too busy laughing watching my 6'4" roommate take a seat on top of Sandro's shoulders and be carried down the hill and then back up towards me. Sandro returned, with cargo intact and dropped Brandon off. They shook hands. There were smiles all around and I thought the exchange was over. Sandro, sweat beading on his brow looked to me and asked, "would you like to go for a ride?" How could I say no? I gave Brandon my bag and the camera and positioned myself on Sandro's shoulders. He straightened up, centered himself and started walking down the hill.

For those of you who haven't been on another person's shoulders since you were a kid let me tell you something, it is a hell of a lot harder to balance when you're not 5 years old. The trip was uneven and wobbly but I never fell. He could feel me rocking back and forth on his shoulders and asked me, "are you in comfort?" Was I in comfort? Not really. It had been a long time since riding on my father's shoulders, but the "little donkey ride" was going OK and I told him through a smile that I was doing fine. I didn't know what the protocol was as far as communicating with the guy who is bearing all of your weight around his neck, is it rude to make him talk to you? Is small talk acceptable? Would the silence be more uncomfortable? I erred on the side of small talk and admitted to him that I like Italy quite a bit and asked him what he thought of the city. When he said that he liked it much more than his home in India, I asked him what he did for a living. He told me that he was a masseur, specializing in feet. Cool, I said. By now he had made the turn and I had run out of material. We came back up the hill in silence. When he let me down I shook his hand and thanked him for the ride. He thanked us for helping him with his yoga, the sweat running down his face now. Then, the man who was just a human mule for two complete strangers dropped a bomb on us: "would you like a foot massage?"

Brandon hadn't asked him what his job was, and as nice as Sandro seemed, getting a foot massage was a little too sexual deviant-esque for him. I declined as well, not because I really thought that he was a molester, but because I really felt like this man had done enough for us. Anything more would be gluttonous. I'm convinced that Sandro was MLK, Gandhi, and Oprah Winfrey all rolled into one portly package. We had just met a saint and he had taken us on his shoulders and the offered to rub our feet. We shook hands again, and Brandon and I went down the hill under our own power this time while Sandro disappeared into the night. We were so blown away with the events that had just occurred that we had walked the remainder of the way to the Colosseum and circled it without even really taking notice of it. It wasn't until we had passed it that we realized, again, that the Colosseum had sneaked up on us. Sandro, at that point in the night, and maybe still now, was bigger than the Colosseum. We doubled back and took some appreciative time with it.

The night's weirdness had peaked with Sandro, but wasn't over yet. We left the Colosseum, again looking for the Pantheon, and were walking down a side street when we heard a drunken choir of men singing the baseline to the White Stripes' "Seven Nation Army." The commotion was coming from a bar called Shamrock Rugby Temple. I had walked by it without giving much thought but Brandon slowed and then asked me if I had seen the guy in the Bobby hat standing on top of the table. We turned back and poked into the bar. It was full of drunk, elated rugby fans, many of whom were standing and dancing on top of tables and everyone was singing. Some of the men were wearing rugby jerseys, the man wearing the Bobby hat had accessorized with a pink scarf, some were shirtless, and others were wearing lingerie. I'm sure you can figure out what is going on here. Brandon and I stood by the bar for a minute or two, not saying anything, just smiling and taking it all in. Eventually I leaned over to him and got started with stating the obvious, "Do you realize that there are no women in here?" Yeah. "I think this is a gay bar." Yeah. "Do you wanna get a drink?" Yeah, he said with a smile. We tried to get the bartender's attention in a normal fashion, without taking off any clothes or letting any winks fly. We probably should have because the bartender didn't give us a second look, even with a 20 Euro note in my hand I couldn't get his attention. None of the men there thought us worthy of buying a drink, I guess they knew we wouldn't put out and we left the bar, satisfied with the story, if not by any vittles.

We made our way back to the hostel, completely satisfied with the night. Reeling from it all: the monuments, the ruins, the Sandro, the Shamrock Rugby Temple. It was an unbelievable night, I don't know if I've ever smiled that much in one 4 hour span. We dropped by the Yellow bar, ordered a drink and made broken English small talk with a guy from Chile and his friend (who looked a lot like Cheech). We had a few drinks, made a few jokes and then went upstairs.

The next day we went to the Vatican. I saw St. Peter's, which is probably the most impressive single building I've ever been in. It was a bizarre experience being there at the center of Catholicism. There were so many people that were having a serious spiritual experience and I felt like a fraud, as I was just there to take pretty pictures. Michelangelo's Pieta was incredible. We did the Vatican Museum later. Good Will Hunting is one of my favorite movies of all time, and there is a scene where Robin Williams tells Matt Damon that he doesn't know what it smells like in the Sistine Chapel. I went to the Sistine Chapel and you want to know what it smells like? It smells like whatever perfume the woman 2 feet from you smells like. Or, if you're lucky, whatever variation of Old Spice deodorant the man who is taking pictures next to you is wearing. Don't get me wrong it is an absolutely beautiful ceiling, a truly incredible scene, it just wasn't what I expected. To begin with, it was much smaller than I thought it would be. Secondly, as I already mentioned, it was crowded. I had been in Italy for 9 days and had down some super touristy things but the Vatican, and the Sistine Chapel in particular, was crawling with tourists. There was no elbow room. It was beautiful, but not what I had pictured.

The Chapel was at the end of the museum, we had been serious and admiring art for a good 3 hours by the time we got out of the Chapel and when we did we were in serious need of a good giggle. We found our inspiration in one of the last rooms of the museum, it was some Papal relic, but it looked like a jewel encrusted trowel or a cake server. Next to it was a Papal gavel or something like that. We went off. The Papal trowel was evidence of the Pope's secret love of spelunking, which was further evidenced by the Papal rock hammer lying next to it. We would pretend to be the Pope's secretary and say in a strange accent, "Ze Pope ez in ze cave, he cannot be reached." Things grew from there and we got more imaginative with excuses why the Pope couldn't be reached including scuba diving with Robert De Niro and performing a one act play with Robert Downey Jr.

It was our last night in Italy and we went on a pub crawl put together by the hostel. Everything that we had learned, all the culture and art that we had taken in over the last 9 days we completely blew out in a night of heavy drinking and even heavier debauchery. There were so many students from so many different places. Leaving the 2nd bar there were people staggering, by the time we left the 3rd bar it was a full blown shit show. I left earlier than most, getting lucky on taking a bus. I can't speak to the rest of my compatriots, some of them probably ended up in the cave with the Pope. The next day we got to the airport and came back to Madrid. We were both worn out and it was good to be back, even if it meant dealing with Cristina's senile act again.

SB09 Italy Part III: Florence

Venice has its charms and they did quite a number on me. But for all the tangible romance and allure of the canals and bridges I actually enjoyed Florence more. Venice, despite being more accessible than Milan, seemed almost too serene to be real. This otherworldly quality that Venice has makes it an easy city to fall in love with, but it is too fragile live in. You find yourself walking around a dream, not a city. Florence has its own magic too, but it is magic that is grounded. Venice is a liquid dream flowing from the Grand Canal to the back of your mind, Florence has roots that run deep, and take hold with more permanence. They did with me.

Tuscany is gorgeous. The Arno is green and alive. The Ponte Veccio is as romantic as any gondola. The city is easy to learn. Brandon had skipped Venice and forged ahead and when I met up with him in Florence he had made himself quite cozy at a humble hostel. We arranged my move in and established a home base. The days were easy and filled with sun, small restaurants with cheap sandwiches and attempts to soak in the Florentine art. The thing about Florence is yes, there is the Uffizi with incredible Renaissance works (including my personal favorite, Titian's "Venus of Urbino" which I had trouble pulling myself away from) and the Academia with the David (which I actually didn't get to see) and monuments and statues around seemingly every corner, but the real gem is the city itself. It's not one piece, or one work, or one building, it's the composition of the city. Even the clouds in Florence have a kind of grandeur and presence that impress.

It is important that I come back to the Uffizi though, it really is a remarkable museum. I love Renaissance art. I love the perfection of it, the beauty of the human form. Yet the depictions of men and women and their impossible beauty has dual effect. In their nudity you can find yourself and relate to the anatomy and to the emotion, but in their perfection you feel as if they are as strange as they are familiar. No real man has looked like Michelangelo's David and no real woman has looked like Titian's Venus. I mused over humanity's glory while standing in front of the beautiful bodies portrayed on the canvasses I thought that humanity was indeed wonderful...until I had to fight my way through the hoards of flesh into the next room. The museum was packed, mostly with Asians, which was convenient for me since I could see over the top of all them.

My love affair with Florence came to head on my last day there. I thought that getting some pictures from the top Brunelleschi's dome at sunset would be a worthwhile endeavor. I had no idea what I was getting myself into. I can't be sure how many steps I had to climb up and I haven't been that claustrophobic since I was a kid (15th century Italians, apparently, were much smaller than 21st century Americans) but when I emerged onto the roof I was breathless from neither stair nor tight space. The sun was setting over Tuscany, storm clouds were churning over the mountains, and the city shimmered under the sun, first yellow, then gold, then red.

It took me awhile to find my feet; once I did I took my photos in vain. I knew there was no way to capture what I was seeing and what I was feeling. That sun, that city, those clouds, the whole scene was unlike anything I had every seen. I lived in the shadows of the Rocky Mountains for more than a decade, I've been to Big Sur and driven some of Highway 1 along California's West coast, I've felt the end of the world effect at the Cliffs of Moher in Ireland, and then I saw the sun set over Florence. I never got tired of looking at the city and stayed until the sun had bled out. It was a remarkable view and there was a bit of comic relief as everyone who emerged from the staircase, be they English, Australian, French, American, Chinese or otherwise had the universal response when they saw the scene in front of them, "wow."

That night Brandon and I had a bottle of wine and bought one for the road. We stopped on the Ponte Veccio and talked about the locks. It is a tradition that when you love someone you take a lock and attach it somewhere on the Ponte Veccio and throw the key into the Arno. There are actually fewer locks there than one might think, but enough for you to feel the significance of the gesture. I didn't add to the collection.

We crossed the bridge and walked up a bit of a hill. The wine was doing its job and to disguise that we were American tourists we spoke in Spanish (and Brandon in French from time to time) as we crossed paths with others. We were drunk and loud and the conversation hinged on how old we thought our host mother back in Madrid was. We made it to the top of the hill and admired Florence from the other side of the Arno. There were some other people there, Spaniards too if I recall correctly, and we chatted with them for a while, mostly about the gorgeous city winking back at us. The next day we left for Rome.

SB09 Italy Part II: Train from Venice to Florence

Similar to my post about the train from Milan to Venice, this is me trying (and failing) to capture just how wonderful it is to watch Italy roll by through a train window. I wrote, I listened to music, I looked out the window and Italy became more entrenched in my heart. Another video and a few stills.

SB09 Italy Part II: Venice

When you walk out of the train station in Venice you are dumped right next to the Grand Canal and it hits you immediately: you are some place completely different than anywhere you've ever been. The nine of us poured out of the train station and immediately took off our top layer as the sun in Venice was warm and generous. I say the nine of us because Brandon didn’t make it Venice. He had a rough one the night before and when we left the hostel at o’dark hundred that morning he woke up long enough to say, “I’ll meet you in Florence,” and rolled back over, again submitting to the will of the Universe.

We took a water taxi from the train station to our hostel area. The trip there was absolutely incredible, the bright sun, the shimmering green water and the pale paint of buildings with wet front porches crept along with us as we stole pictures of the beauty. 5 minutes and probably 15 pictures into of the taxi ride I confessed to my friend Steve, who was also taking picture after, "this whole city is a photo." It really is, it's hard to take bad photos in this city. Does it smell? a little in some spots. Is it efficient? not even a little bit. Is it simply a drop dread gorgeous city? Without question.

Venice was really quite lovely and as much as I enjoy my good friend Brandon Curry, having him not make the trip let me get out on my own without the group and explore at my own pace. I wandered over canals and through the tight, winding streets, stopping to take pictures and duck into art galleries. Including this one tobiarava.com. I bought a poster of a blue wood comprised of numbers. In my wanderings I also found a museum that brought the sketches of Leonardo Da Vinci to life with interactive models aka a nerd's paradise. I also dropped into a bookstore with English books and bought called Venitian Stories by Jane Turner Rylands, a fun little book which is even more fun when you're actually in Venice. The opening story was set on the same street as our hostel, molta bella.

All in all Venice was just remarkably pleasant. It is a small city with a laid back attitude and while Milan had unapproachable high fashion, the artsy scene in Venice was considerably more pedestrian and accommodating. I saw St. Mark's and was blown away by the gold mosaics, I was stunned grandeur and enormity of the Doge's Palace, I shopped on the Rialto, and but mostly I watched languidly as gondoliers slid noiselessly through the maze of the canals. Images of a much older, much wealthier me living in Venice crossed my mind over and over again. It is a true testament to how much I enjoyed Venice to have a fantasy of buying a house in a city that is yielding to the ocean everyday. I've lived in growing cities, dying cities, and cities on life support, but none of them are anything like the city that is sinking.

SB09 Italy Part I: Train from Milano to Venice

Most of the caravan used the early train to Venice as a chance to sleep, and while that had been my original intention the northern Italian landscape was too beautiful to take my eyes from. My love affair with the Italian countryside deepened as the hills and mountains past from left to right and I was reminded of Colorado. I wrote a little bit in a notebook I bought in Milan about an Italian fantasy. Merely idle dreams, but perhaps something more one day.

I tried to capture just how pretty the trip was by taking snaps out the window with mixed results. Then I got smart and took a video. That’s right dear reader, you weren’t far from my mind over spring break! Well, sorta. Anyway, here’s the video and a few stills of the trip.

SB09 Italy Part I: Milano, Duomo, Gelato

OK the long awaited Spring Break 2009 Tour de Italia blog entries! I will preface my posts with a few things: first off, sorry this took so long to put up, I’ve been back in Madrid for a week now and just getting to it. Thank you for bearing with me and continuing to check back in. Secondly, the structure of my trip was fabulous, flying into Milan then taking trains to Venice, Florence, and Rome and then flying out of Rome. I enjoyed each city more than the one before and it kept the trip exciting and fun. Lastly, a disclaimer for people who want to go to Italy: if you have even a moderately significant other (or in my case a formerly significant other) and you go to Italy without them you are going to see and experience things that will make you hurt to some degree. It’s just the nature of the beast. It’s a splendid country and wonderful place to be, but a tough place to be alone. This will be the only reference to the sad moments of my trip; in truth there were only a few and a fun story is more enjoyable for me to write about and certainly more enjoyable for you to read. So here we go.

Milano

Brandon and I arrived at Madrid Barajas International Airport with luggage on our backs, a one way ticket to Milan in our hands, and vague idea of being back in Madrid ten days later. That was it. No return ticket, no hostels booked, no copies of Rick Steves’ Italy, nothing. This was spawned from the fact that Brandon refuses to book things or make plans and that philosophy is growing on me. There is charm in being spontaneous and not knowing where you’re going to sleep that night but it has obvious drawbacks. Part of this school of thought is embracing the notion that the Universe will take care of you, and then having it happen. With this being our mantra we found our gate and waiting for the same flight to Milan as us were 8 SLU students with the same itinerary as us: Milan, Venice, Florence, and Rome. All of them were more than agreeable people and they had booked hostels with two other people that backed out, leaving them to pay for the two extra beds. Universe looking out for us: Check.

The flight was painless, actually Lufthansa is very pleasant little airline, and when we got into Milan and took a bus for 30 minutes from the Malpensa airport into Milan proper. The bus had at least 3 male models or at least want-to-be male models, this is Milan after all. Since it was my first trip to Italy I was wide eyed and hungry to take everything in. Once we got into the city you could feel a different rhythm than in Madrid. The pace was different, the city was dirtier, English more prevalent, but mostly there was a different feel. The distinction is difficult to describe but was absolutely palpable. I was in tune to it and curious to learn more.

And learn I did. I learned that our hostel (yes, I will refer to it as “our” hostel even though I played no role in finding or booking the hostel) had overbooked and moved us to a different hostel. A few buses later we arrived at our hostel and discovered that we were essentially out of the city. Milan’s public transportation, and indeed all public transportation in Italy, is grossly inferior to the metro system in Madrid. I knew that Madrid was efficient by comparison to US cities, I didn’t realize the dominance extended over Europe as well. The metro in Milan, along with other problems, looked (and ran) like it was from the 1940s. It fit in better with an Edward Hopper painting than the sterile, streamlined briskness of 2009 Madrid.

Despite metro deficiencies I was pleasantly surprised to learn that Milan is a really cool city for about 2 square miles, maybe even less than that. The downtown area with the Duomo (the third largest Cathedral in Europe), art museums, and the famous high fashion district is really a lovely spectacle. Outside of that area is very okay. We spent the day walking around downtown, visiting museums (including one with Raphael's sketch of the School of Athens and original pages from Leonardo’s sketch book, both of which were absolutely stunning) and gelato stands along the way. Side Note: I had 3 servings of gelato in Milan and a microscopic portion in Florence.

I think some of my friends got gelato with crack in it the first time because they were making an average of 3-4 gelato stops a day, everyday. Insane. It was good, but not that good. I think my spiked gelato theory has some merit. After the latest gelato binge we had a tremendous dinner and Brandon and I split a fabulous bottle of wine. I had warm feelings towards Milan and Italy by the end of the meal and the magnificence of downtown Milan at night cracked the door of my heart to Italy.

The next day my compatriots went to see Leonardo’s Last Supper, I tagged along to see if they had any walk up tickets. They didn’t, I wasn’t surprised and waited in a small piazza while they went into the church to see the painting. While I was waiting I saw a different sort of art. The scene I’m about to describe has lingered with me and I’m still not really sure how to categorize it or what sense I can actually make of it. My friends had just paid their money to go into this church to see the painting; I was sitting on a bench outside of the church when a hearse backed up to the door of the church. Shortly there after the doors opened and a few people walked out and the casket and its pallbearers followed. The casket was loaded into the back of the hearse leaving a melancholy handful of people standing outside the church. While all of this is happening text message notifications were going off on the cell phones of my fellow piazza dwellers, British tourists were asking for directions, and young Italian boys are playing, running, and throwing dirt at each other. This is the one of the boys playing; in the background is the hearse with the casket and in it.

My mind fizzled watching this. Youth, death, tourism, the Last Supper, and text messages. I still have no explanation for what I saw or what it made me feel. I don’t think it was simple as some sort of Lion King “Circle of Life” BS, or maybe Lion King “Circle of Life” BS has a lot more to it than I originally thought. I don’t know. I just have these pictures.

Later that afternoon we climbed to the top of the Duomo and had an incredible view of the Alps. Seeing all those mountains made me miss Colorado. It’s strange but after 5 years, Ohio, St. Louis, Ireland, Spain, and now Italy I can say with certainly that Colorado is home. I’m usually flaky when people ask me where I’m from, giving them the rundown from Marin Country to St. Louis U, but I think from this point on I can just say Colorado and be content with that. That night a few of us ate at a local pizzeria, had a few bottles of wine and rubbed elbows with the employees there. Elliot ordered a second pizza, it came back in the shape of heart. All the employees were male. I think this was more Platonic love, or love or the American tourist’s money, or maybe he just thought Elliot was dreamy. At some point when we were in Milan we were on our way back to the main square we crossed paths with a rally, and I think it was pro-communism, I can’t be sure since I don’t speak Italian and I’m too lazy to look up what the signs said online.

The Last Few Weekends and a Goodbye for Spring Break

Greetings virtual friends. It’s been quite a while since my Mallorca trip but in all honesty, I haven’t done a whole lot since then. Midterms have come and gone and I survived. Homesickness has come and gone, though it still lingers and occasionally resurfaces. Exhaustion has come and gone, but a nap would be nice.

Since Mallorca I’ve been in Madrid for two weekends, each of which was exactly what I needed at the time. The first I went to a bar and met some really fun American students that go to SMU (like Melisa and Chelsi), shook hands, took shots and danced as best as well as an lame white kid from Colorado can. No joke, I actually had a girl there tell me that I was really bad at dancing: confidence killer. I went to the bar, got another drink, and tried dancing with someone else. All in all a good night and for the record- I am pretty bad at dancing (shocking, I know). The next night I went a Real Madrid game. Nate, if you have finally got down using the interwebs and computernets and found your way to this page: live soccer is a great thing, it’s not called the beautiful game for nothing, get over it. I would make the same claim on my father but unlike Nate, Pops can pull the plug on this operation at any time so I will bite my tongue. I have been to a major college football game, a big time college basketball game, a professional basketball game, and have been in a stadium immediately following winning the World Series. While the last one was is still far and away my number one, seeing 7 first half goals (6 for Real) at Santiago Bernabeu is nothing to sneeze at. 80,000 loyal Madridenos who break out into spontaneous song, cheer down the opposing team’s fan section, and erupt when a goal is scored is really something else. I forgot my camera (a disturbing trend) so I’m going to have to go back and get some photos, it really is quite a spectacle.

The next week was sprinkled with midterms and sunshine; so much of the latter, as a matter of fact, that I decided to walk home from school. It’s an enjoyable walk and I took my camera with me the next time. The weekend brought more walking. I left my apartment and followed a familiar road to an unfamiliar area. I love Spanish architecture. City buildings in Madrid are fascinating compared to American buildings, plus the Spaniards don’t work off a grid system of streets like they do in the states; curvy roads and odd cross streets allow you to have really interesting buildings. So I walked with my camera and took some snaps of buildings that looked interesting. Eventually I got down to the Plaza de Castilla and discovered a park that will be absolutely gorgeous when Spring springs and had a churro or three. I kept walking and discovered a fascinating stretch of shops that went on for about a mile or two. All in all I probably spent 10 hours of the weekend walking around previously unknown areas of Madrid. Hardly Columbus or Vasco de Gama but a good time nonetheless. I also saw the Pink Panther 2…in Spanish. I’ve told people this and got reactions like, “I think that would be the only way I would go see it.” Fair enough, but I will say that Steve Martin is universally funny and it is a simple enough movie for a Gringo like myself to follow. Plus, I would get really excited and proud when I understood every word in a conversation (this happened twice...OK once). If the speed of the conversations had been turned down half a dozen notches or so I really would have been in business.

That’s really all the news I’ve got from here I think. I’m taking off for Italy tomorrow for spring break. The plan is fly into Milan tomorrow and fly out of Rome 9 days later. In the middle Venice, Florence, and Cinque Terra. I realize this is an ambitious undertaking but I’m an optimist. I will take lots of pictures and have lots of interesting things to write about when I get back. Until then, adios, take care all, happy spring break to my SLU compatriots. Oh, before I go I need to gloat. Mizzou basketball went undefeated at home this year with wins over KU and OU (never mind those unfortunate outings at KU and in StL against Illinois). So go Tigers, go Bills, go Real. Later,

Joel

PS If you go to picasaweb.google.com/jbahr6 you can see my complete photos from this trip. There's more than what I post on facebook and if you don't have facebook (that's you Aunt Rosa) you can see my Spanish pics.