The Great Gigolo Hunt of 2007, Part 3B

Day Three (Afternoon/Night Three, actually)—October 2, 2007

Venice is actually made up of several small islands huddled closely together. The Venetian Lagoon receives some of its water from the Adriatic Sea, but it also receives a lot of other things, since basically its an open sewer, and has been for hundreds and hundreds of years. Evidently there have been recent efforts to clean up the lagoon, since it really didn’t smell as bad as I thought it would. It’s probably no dirtier than any other recreational lake in these here United States, but it certainly has a more exotic pedigree, what with being associated with Venice and all.

It was mid to late afternoon by the time we got to the docks for our Authentic Venetian Gondola Ride. But not just an Authentic Venetian Gondola Ride, a Serenaded Authentic Venetian Gondola Ride.

Yes, “Volare” was played again.

Now, a part of my past that I’m not too proud of includes working for a number of years at Disneyland, and it has changed me in…certain ways. Some scars just don’t heal, after all, and the more touristy something is the more it tends to make my soul twitch.

So, we are talking about not only a touristy gondola ride, but a super-touristy serenaded gondola ride.

My Mom was tickled pink by the whole idea.

Each gondola could hold 6 passengers, plus the gondolier, and we ended up in the first gondola. The singing gondolier and accordion player ended up in either the second or third gondola. The gondolas were spaced apart far enough that we couldn’t hear the music all the time, but those snippets of “Volare” came through loud and clear.

Before climbing into the gondola, cameras were passed around because, you know, gondolas! This was a pure tourist moment, so a picture naturally must be taken. My idea was to take a picture of the woman taking the picture of me and my Mom as she was taking our picture, but everybody was aghast at the very thought. I thought it would have made for an interesting picture, but since I don’t have Mr. Fantastic’s rubber arms I couldn’t take the kind of picture I wanted myself…pah.

Now, as mentioned above, I have a bit of a Disneyland past, and that’s kind of what the gondola ride reminded me of; kind of a bit like the Pirates of the Caribbean, except, you know, without the pirates and stuff. What I mean is the vibe I got was of the kind of craftsmanship Disneyland would have put into a gondola ride if they had a gondola ride. The ride did bring back a bit of that old sense of wonder I had before Disneyland tore it out of me, but at the back of my mind I couldn’t help myself and it was all I could do to keep from saying something about how you couldn’t even feel the underwater track the gondola was riding along.

While riding along, you could see how the Venetians who actually live in Venice pretty much have to move around (personal little power boats). As it was late afternoon, Venetians were probably going home for the night, so this was probably the equivalent of rush hour. So, gondolas aren’t the only watercraft in Venice’s smaller canals, and we learned firsthand just how tricky it could be to squeeze past some of these other boats in the smaller canals. At one point there was a boat tied off, blocking more than half of the canal we were in. Words were passed between our gondolier and some of the guys on that boat, but they couldn’t move it and we couldn't back up. So, our gondolier had no choice but to slooooooowly squeeeeeeeeeze past the boat…he did an admirable job of it, too. Once we made it past this bottleneck, we were pretty much on our way into the Grand Canal. This portion of the Grand Canal looked about as wide as the portion of the Ohio River I can see from outside my office.

We ended our gondola ride at a small pier, and the look of glowing happiness on my Mom’s face as she finally got her gondola ride…man, I should’ve taken a picture. And the fact that we didn’t fall into the Venetian Lagoon…well, that brought a look of glowing happiness to my face.

Now, I have short little arms to compliment my short little legs, and some of the alleyways we walked down on our way to St. Mark’s Square were really no wider than my arm span. I know spaces seem a lot smaller in the Old Country...no, scratch that. Spaces are a lot smaller there, since a lot more has to be fit in.

During our mini-walking tour to St. Mark’s Square, we got a chance to see the outside of La Fenice opera house as well as one of Venice’s four or so leaning towers (they don’t lean as badly as Pisa’s…I think Pisa’s leans over about 5 meters whereas Venice’s lean over 2 to 3 meters). While we didn’t get a chance to go inside La Fenice, you could hear a soprano and tenor practicing…quite nice.

But, finally, we ended up in the deep black tourist heart of Venice known as St. Mark’s Square.

One word: Pigeons.

Another word: Whoa.

St. Mark’s Square was fairly empty when we saw it (it was late afternoon/early evening by this time…not far off from twilight), but you could still see the sun shining on St. Mark’s Basilica, the Byzantine behemoth of Venice. As I didn’t have my handy dandy compass with me, I can only say that St. Mark’s Basilica was directly in front of me; the Campanile was just to the left and in front of St. Mark’s Basilica; and the Doge’s Palace was just to the left of St. Mark’s Basilica, with the Venetian Lagoon off to the far right of everything. (Yes, I know that doesn’t paint a very clear geographic picture, but I was still twitterpated from jetlag and a touch of a hangover.)

Battling our way through the pigeon horde, we ended up at an open air café facing the Doge’s Palace. (I do believe an instrumental version of “Volare” was playing.) This is where we would be having an apéritif of either a pinot bianco or merlot (both Venetian regional wines) or any soft drink of your choice…as I was still slightly hungover I opted for a Coke Lite. I kind of wish I’d tried one of the wines, though, since practically everybody who tried them said they were absolutely delicious.

We had a brief rest stop at this café before we were scheduled for our water taxi ride on the Grand Canal, so we had just a little time to take a quick look around St. Mark’s Square. While sitting at the café, the Doge’s Palace was directly in front of us, St. Mark’s Basilica was to our left, the Campanile was to our left and across from St. Mark’s Basilica, and the Grand Canal was directly to our right. Also directly to our right were two tall columns. One is St. Mark’s Tower, and the other is St. Theodore’s Tower. St. Mark’s Tower is topped by a winged lion; St. Mark is Venice’s patron saint, and the lion is associated with him, so several building façades in Venice feature winged lions. St. Theodore’s Tower features St. Theodore standing on top of a crocodile (man, there has to be an easier way to get alligator-skin boots). I don’t think we were told St. Theodore’s story, but, man, he was crushing a big ol’ croc under his feet, so I thought his tower was a lot more impressive than St. Mark’s (and, no, size doesn’t matter).

As it was getting dark, it was time for our water taxi ride along the Grand Canal (which would take us back to our bus). It was an open air water taxi, but it was already a little too dark by the time we reached (and passed under) the Rialto Bridge. I didn’t get a decent picture of the Rialto Bridge, and our tour schedule didn’t leave time for a trip to it.

We ended the night with another pasta dinner at the hotel, and another night of solid sleep was in store for me, with only the occasional feeling of being tossed about by waves (I’ve never been good at getting my sea legs).

Venice photos, baby; dig ‘em.

The Great Gigolo Hunt of 2007, Part 3A

Day Three—October 2, 2007

…I think I woke up with a slight hangover. Just a slight one. Since, you know, I don’t drink, and so the Hangover is a concept that is alien to me.

Sure I’m supposed to feel headachy and pukey and all, right? I mean, Rome did have vomitoria back in the day, right? Even though no actual vomiting took place there…go fig…

And to top things off we had to wake up on the early side yet again in order to hit the humongous breakfast buffet before starting our 7 hour drive up to Venice. Because there wouldn’t be many opportunities for noshing on the road, because food was verboten on the bus (although there were some naughty folk who did eat…and even leave their trash behind…I tell you, today’s seniors just are so irresponsible).

Now, normally I don’t have any problem with motion sickness, but I tell you I really wasn’t feeling too spiffy by the time we hit our first rest stop. Oh, my poor aching head. And apparently plain old aspirin can’t be sold over the counter (or at least I couldn’t find any at the place we stopped…but my Mom, ever prepared, had some stuck in one of her overstuffed bags). About all I could do was grab a few jugs of Gatorade and try to sleep it off.

I did doze a bit on the ride. Nevertheless, I did wake up every so often to get a look at the Italian highway system and snippets of the countryside that could be seen from the highway. But…I’ve seen a lot of countryside during countless trips along I-5 between San Francisco and Los Angeles, so I know what agriculture looks like. At any rate, by the time we reached our next rest stop for lunch (at a kind of combination self-service food bar/fast food/souvenir stand/gas station) my head no longer felt like a smooshed spicy meatball. It wasn’t a long stopover, maybe about 50 minutes or so, and since this stop would also have to include a trip to visit the line in the ladies room we just grabbed a pizza and fries and a “Coke Lite” (well, the fries came with the pizza combo). I also managed to slip in a quick call to my Bitter Half to see how the fort was holding up, and of course my Mom had to let him know I was a drunken lout the night before…thanks, Mom. I denied this, even though I did refer to the section of highway known as the “loop of Bologna” (which we had just passed before making our rest stop) as the “ring of Baloney.” Guess my brain still wasn’t quite up to speed (then again, those who know me say this kind of thinking is normal for me).

Well, back on the bus.

Since the entire bus ride would take roughly 7 hours, at some point Antonella our tour guide brought out the spiel about what optional tour excursions would be available (as well as the prices). As this vacation was basically for my Mom’s 55^th birthday (still about a month away at that point, but probably a lot closer than she’d care to think about), we decided to do the whole shebang. Otherwise, we’d probably be wandering around not knowing where to look next. Besides, this arrangement would also take our dinner plans into account, and rather than fuss with the local McDonald’s we figured this would be a much better way to go. So, if you’re going on a guided tour to begin with, you might as well go all the way.

At one point in the drive, we crossed the Po River, the longest river in Italy despite its itty bitty name (and, yes, there is a lame Teletubbies joke in there, somewhere behind the hangover haze).

But, soon enough, we neared Venice. Venezia, the city made up of several small islands bunched up together and bobbing on the Venetian Lagoon. Venice is really the reason my Mom wanted to visit Italy to begin with, but I had no heart to tell her just what the Venetian Lagoon is. Our hotel was on the mainland (most Venetians live on the mainland rather than the canal-riddled sections), and we had just enough time to stretch out briefly before heading down for the Dreaded Authentic Venetian Gondola Ride…

Only two photos this time, so grab ‘em while they’re hot.

The Great Gigolo Hunt of 2007, Part 2D

Day Two (…la notte…)—October 1, 2007

I can’t remember exactly how long of a break we had back at the hotel, but it wasn’t nearly long enough for the likes of me. I was exhausted from pumping out so much raw tourist juice, and I really could have used some time to recharge my batteries, as it were. There was time for a quick shower (no time to indulge in a Roman bath, ha ha…ha), change my shoes for some sandals that were a helluva lot more comfortable than the sneakers I’d been wearing all day, and to grab my spare memory card for my camera (I thought I’d taken it with me when I left that morning, and as it was I had only about 5 pictures left after leaving the Piazza Navona)…after all, I just can’t satisfy my need to take craplousy pictures.

So, feeling slightly rested, it was time to go out for the last part of our Roman squaliday. We were going out for dinner at a little place that was reportedly a favorite of Fellini. But first, a little trip to another famous part of Rome: the Spanish Steps.

So, why would something in Rome be called the Spanish Steps? Just because it’s close to the Spanish Embassy (which, oddly enough, is near the Piazza di Spagna).

Our bus dropped us off God knows where and, after a short walk, we reached the Piazza Trinità dei Monti just as the sun started to set. The Piazza Trinità dei Monti is pretty much at the top of the Spanish Steps. The piazza had the usual souvenir stands as well as artists’ booths and, as it was sunset, there was a pretty spiffy view of a view of the city. There was a church in the background (I know, I know, a church in Rome?), but I could never figure out what the name of it was (curse you, Internet, for failing me in my quest to identify every single Roman church).

But the Piazza Trinità dei Monti has a fairly famous church just at the top of the Spanish Steps known as the Santissima Trinità al Monte Pincio. Yep, quite a mouthful.

If my math and memory are right, there are basically three tiers in the Spanish Steps. The first tier (if you’re walking from the top to the bottom) leads you to small landing (where you could probably rest and catch your breath if you were hoofing it up the Spanish Steps rather than walking down them). The second tier leads to another small landing where, if you look behind you, gives you a pretty good view of the Santissima Trinità al Monte Pincio and, if you look down, gives you a pretty clear look at the Piazza di Spagna. If you push pass the crush of bodies sitting and/or loitering on the bottommost tier of steps you make it to the actual Piazza di Spagna. There is a pretty nice fountain there (the Fontana della Barcaccia, or the Fisherman’s Fountain), which depicted some kind of watery hellbeast but I couldn’t get too close to it because of all the bodies sitting around it. The Piazza di Spagna also has yet another obelisk at one end (where I didn’t go, as it was getting dark and spooky by this time). After gawking at the Piazza di Spagna for a while (and failing to notice that all the pictures I’d taken since arriving at the Piazza Trinità dei Monti were…well, there’s no other way to say it, pretty damn lousy…I forgot to remember that it’s never a good idea to move while the flash hasn’t finished flashing its magic flash powers, so all my photos are basically blurs), we went in search of FOOD.

I can’t remember the name of the restaurant we went; all I remember is our tour guide repeatedly told us it was a place that Fellini dug. At any rate, the restaurant’s foyer had many stills from his films, so I could see they took a little pride in the association. I was hoping for at least a leering dwarf or two, and on that level I was disappointed, but the food was tasty as can be. Believe it or not, we had pasta that night.

Now, since Italy kind of has a reputation for pasta, each region tries to make its local pasta specialties, well, special. Whether it’s the shape of the noodle or the sauce that accompanies it, no two pasta dishes really taste the same. I believe the pasta we had that night was something that translates literally into “strangled priest” pasta (basically, two short tubes twisted together with a light tomato-based sauce).

I don’t really remember if this was the night I had the strangled priest pasta, or if it was on another night, and the reason I really can’t remember is…well, I think I got a wee bit tipsy, and I’m not a drinker (teetotaler, that’s me). But there was a full bottle of white wine and a full bottle of red wine and, well, that red wasn’t long for this world when the lounge singer started up and I realized, much to my horror, that I’d be listening to way too many versions of “Volare” over the next few days.

I needed something to dull the pain and horror, and that’s the story I’m sticking with.

One other cool thing I noticed about the restaurant (and, no, it wasn’t just because I may or may not have been well into my cups by this point) is the ceiling rolled back, giving a kind of open air feel to the place. As it was a pretty mild night this was quite a treat.

There was another tour group there, and they were full of raving drunks (at least the matron who flashed her bra at us seemed to be a little sloshed).

At some point the wait staff politely saw us out the door (it must have been around 10), and as we staggered through a moonlit plaza toward the bus, our tour guide, Antonella, presented the ladies of the group with a rose from a local vendor. I got a pretty pink one, and I think my Mom’s was also pink. (We ended up leaving them in the hotel room, because we had no way of keeping them in water.)

On the bus back to the hotel, it dawned on me that, after 14 years, I finally made it to Rome. I had originally intended to spend about 4 or 5 days back during my 1993 trip. This time around, only 1 day was available to see what I could, and while I knew it was impossible to see it all (or even to see what I did see as long as I would have liked to), I think we did a pretty good job of seeing a lot in a short time.

I passed out cold that night, only knowing I’d be regretting the next morning’s possible (possible, mind you) hangover during the 7 hour bus ride to our next destination: Venice.

Blurry pictures can be found here.

The Great Gigolo Hunt of 2007, Part 2C

Day Two (…it was a long day…)—October 1, 2007

So.

Back on the bus for a quick ride to another part of town.

Well, at least as far as it could take us down small itty bitty Roman streets. But there’s really no way to drive up to where we were headed to next, so we had to hoof it as best we could through the small streets lined with souvenir shoppes/gelato stores/food joints/who knows what else (it was a brisk walk, so I couldn’t really get a good look) to the Trevi Fountain.

Trevi Fountain. Which finally was outfitted with a circulating water pump in the late 1990s. No wonder the water looked so sparkling fresh.

Trevi Fountain lies at the intersection of three roads and was the location at the end of one of the main aqueducts in ancient Rome.

I do know there was a wide crush of humanity at the fountain when we made our way there. Our guide told us of the “traditional” three-coins-in-the-fountain routine. (I don’t know how traditional it is, but the tourists seem to like it.) The key to the coin-tossing lies not only in how you toss the coin(s), but in the number of coins you choose to toss. You stand with your back to the fountain, and you toss the coin(s) with your right hand over your left shoulder. (If you’re a lefty, just pray you don’t put out the eye of the person next to you.) If you toss one coin, you’ll one day come back to Rome. If you toss two coins, you’ll soon be married. If you toss three coins, you’ll soon be divorced.

Ah, love, Italian-style.

The coins are collected nightly and given to a local charity. Word has it it’s quite a haul.

While waiting to push our way close enough to the fountain to toss our coins, my Mom and I struck up a conversation with an Australian gentlemen who was trying to do the same. (Actually, it was my Mom who did the talking, as she’s the gabby one.) He told us he’d just come back to Rome after a trip down to Sicily “because, well, you can only see so much marble at once.” True, true, very true.

At any rate, we eventually made our way down to the edge of the fountain. I tossed my coin in the appropriate fashion, and legend has it my Mom has photographic proof of same.

Then it was her turn.

I took her picture. A couple of seconds later, somebody’s coin whacked my Mom on her shoulder. (Apparently somebody in the crowd couldn’t be bothered trying to get closer to the fountain.) So, as near as I can tell my Mom managed to dash the wishes of somebody at Trevi Fountain that day.

That’s my Mom. :)

We then pushed our way back up, and decided to indulge in a couple of gelati that melted before we could eat even half of them. (And having to pay for it before telling the guy scooping the gelato what flavors we wanted…how bizarre, how bizarre.) But it was a chance for a brief break before trotting on to our next tourist spot.

Passing by Trajan’s Tower (where a nekkid Trajan flapping in the breeze at the top of the tower was eventually replaced by a statue of St. Peter) and an actual protest in front of a governmental building, we found ourselves in front of the Pantheon.

The Pantheon. One-time temple to the seven primary Roman gods and goddesses built by Agrippa. Now a converted Catholic church.

And, oddly enough, the only church I visited in Rome that had holy water near the front door.

In terms of Catholic churches, it’s really stripped down…little ornamentation or anything of that nature. Coincidentally, as part of the stripping down process the huge bronze ceiling over the entrance was melted down…most of it purportedly went into the construction of the Papal Altar in St. Peter’s Basilica. Others say the bronze went into the construction of cannons at Castel Sant’Angelo. Either way, pretty much all that remains in the Pantheon’s portico are bare columns (Doric, Ionic, Corinthian, take your pick).

The doors are made of bronze, but they could be pushed open with one of my weak little woman’s fingers.

But the Pantheon doesn’t really need a lot of ornamentation to make it impressive. And much of this can be attributed to its dome and oculus.

Unlike most domed churches, the oculus of the Pantheon is never covered. So when the weather is inclement outside, it ends up on the floor inside. (Drains are embedded in the floor here and there to keep the flooding to a minimum.) The Oculus (and the doors when they’re open) are the only sources of outside light in the Pantheon. I thought it looked pretty impressive during daylight hours, but given my natural inclinations it probably would’ve looked totally boss on a night with a full moon.

Just to the left of the main altar at the back of the Pantheon is a small alcove. A statue of St. Anne holding the infant Virgin Mary is in that alcove. And right underneath?

That’s where you’ll find the grave of Raphael, who died on his 37^th birthday.

Raphael purportedly spent many hours inside the Pantheon, waiting for the inspiration bug to bite. When he fell ill before his death, it was his wish to be buried in the Pantheon.

After leaving the Pantheon, we were again herded on (passing the old Senate Building where Julius Caesar got what for…actually, this was a rebuilt Senate Building, but it’s at the same location as the old one) until we found ourselves at the Piazza Navona.

One section of the Piazza Navona is taken up with the Agonalis Obelisk and the Church of Sant’Agnese in Agone. The Piazza Navona wasn’t always called the Piazza Navona…at the time St. Agnes was martyred in this location, it was known as the piazza in agone, a stadium of sorts where footraces were held. So, even though St. Agnes’s martyrdom did involve a fair amount of agony, it has nothing to do with the name of the church that bears her name.

Another section of the Piazza Navona has a large fountain…called, wait for it…Neptune’s Fountain. (There are two other fountains in the Piazza Navona, but I must have blinked because I didn’t see them.) There was also another refreshing drinking fountain there (much like the one near the Arc of Titus)…nectar, I tell you, nectar.

I may not have seen any other fountains but my weary eyes were happy to see the tour bus, which would take us back to the hotel for a brief layover before venturing out for a bit of Roman nightlife…

Pictures, pictures, get your pictures here.

The Great Gigolo Hunt of 2007, Part 2B

Day Two (still)—October 1, 2007

After crossing the border back into Italy from the Vatican City (we didn’t even have to outrun the border patrol or anything), it was time to leave the more religious parts of Rome and get down and dirty with its pagan past.

And speaking of dirty…I’ve seen a few European rivers in my time. The Thames didn’t smell as bad as I thought it would, I was mooned by drunken sailors on the Seine, and the Danube was nowhere near blue in color. But the Tiber? This was the mighty river that spawned the Roman Empire? After all, without the Tiber, no readily available water source, no aqueducts, and you know ultimately modern plumbing has to be tied to this somehow. (That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.) The Tiber just didn’t look all that impressive to me. It didn’t really look necessarily dirty or anything (particularly for a river in the middle of a major metropolitan city), but, I don’t know, I guess I expected something with a little more oomph.

At any rate, our route passed along the side of the Tiber, and soon enough our bus approached the Circus Maximus. (As luck would have it my Mom and I chose the right side of the bus to get a fairly good view of the Circus Maximus, as we didn’t get a chance to stop there and see it up close.) Even if you’ve never seen the 1959 movie version of Ben-Hur, you’re probably aware of the Epic Chariot Race between Ben-Hur and his erstwhile best buddy Messala. I’ve never actually seen Ben-Hur in its entirety…but I did manage to catch the chariot scene one time when Turner Classic Movies was showing it.

It kind of reminded me a bit of the drag race in Grease, because of the sneaky use of modified wheels. Then again, that’s just me.

So, the Circus Maximus. The premier ancient arena for chariot races, and the crowds just loved it. I shudder to think of it as a kind of Roman NASCAR, but…ah, I better not go there, for that way lies madness.

The Circus Maximus isn’t very far from another little place you might have heard of, namely the Colosseum. You pass by a little fancy thing called the Arch of Constantine (which is near the foot of the Palatine Hill, which in turn overlooks the Forum). It’s not everyday that you find yourself in modern city traffic looking up to see a piece of one of the world’s most recognizable architectural wonders sitting right smack dab in the middle of everything. (Well, unless of course you’re a Roman.)

Our walking tour started up again at the Colosseum (and, yes, you could have your picture taken with a gladiator for under 5 Euros if you were so inclined). Because of time restraints (oh those cursed time restraints) we didn’t get a chance to go into the Colosseum itself (where, apparently, several of Rome’s many feral cats live). If you’ve ever been to a modern sports stadium, you’ve probably seen numbers over the doorways designating which section is which. Guess where they got the idea for that? If you guessed the Colosseum, treat yourself to a delicious biscotti.

Across from the Colosseum is what’s left of the Temple of Venus and Rome, reputed to be the largest temple in ancient Rome. I can’t remember if these are Doric, Ionic, or Corinthian columns. All I know is it would’ve looked cool to see them pushed apart in a sword-and-sandal movie.

If you’re feeling particularly naughty, you can see what the back side of the Arch of Constantine looks like from the Colosseum-side.

To the left of the Temple of Venus and Rome, you can trudge up a hill to the Arch of Titus, which overlooks the Forum.

Lots of olive trees in the Forum. Lots.

There was also a strange public fountain next to the Arch of Titus. As it was a bit of warm day, I cast my caution to the wind and drank from it. It was actually pretty sweet tasting water…not in the sense of sugary syrupy or anything like that, but, you know, clean, refreshing. Good. And very very cold. I was sorely tempted to stick my huge bulging head under the fountain, but I didn’t for two reasons. First, I wasn’t sure my head would fit under there. Second, I didn’t want to accidentally ruin my little tourist audio device (there was a 50 Euro fee if any harm came to my little piece of machinery).

Thus refreshed, we made our way back toward the Colosseum and, after my Mom went a little wild at one of the ubiquitous (and practically identical) souvenir stands, we limped back to the tour bus.

Next stop, a little place to toss some filthy lucre...

BEHOLD! THE PHOTOS!

The Great Gigolo Hunt of 2007, Part 2A

Day Two—October 1, 2007

I’ve heard from a couple of different sources that, for every hour difference between your normal time zone and the time zone you’ve traveled to, you need one full day to get over the ill effects of jet lag.

Italy’s time zone is 7 hours ahead of me and 9 hours ahead of my Mom. So, it’d take me about a week to get to feeling somewhat normal again and my Mom a little more than a week.

Tough titty; we weren’t going to have that kind of luxury, as the vacation would be over within a week and we’d just have to suck up the side effects and strive ever onward and stuff.

The point here was to see as much of Rome as we possibly could in a day, and the tour company had a very full schedule planned for us. Our first stop would be the Vatican City, the Biggest Little City in the World and the personal pleasure playground of the Pope. It’s Catholic Candyland, baby.

Now, Roman traffic laws don’t really exist, from what I could see (when you can get up to four cars trying to maneuver side by side at the same time in the same direction, you have to kind of marvel at the lack of road rage and the amount of general civility Roman drivers have). However, there is apparently pretty strict parking/driving enforcement outside the walls of the Vatican City, so our tour bus driver got us as close as he could to where the line into the Vatican City (or, rather, the Vatican Museum) starts. Which meant, much like zombies, we had to slowly shamble our way up some stairs as we stumbled toward where we needed to line up rather than just being pushed out of the bus in front of the entrance. We started lining up around 7:30 or so, and the funfair gates don’t actually open until about 8, but you wouldn’t believe how quickly that line lengthened. It would have made any 2 hour Disneyland line feel inadequate. (And when I mentioned earlier about the enforcement of parking regulations outside the Vatican City, I wasn’t kidding. Another tour group’s bus driver had parked where he shouldn’t have in order to get his tour group in line without their having to walk up the stairs we hauled ass up. The fuzz showed up, made him call his group back onto the bus, and made them drive over to drop them off where we had originally been dropped off, meaning they lost their place in line to a couple hundred people before they were able to get back in line.)

It was during the wait that we were issued what would automatically stamp us as Tourists (notwithstanding our constantly clicking cameras). A little audio device on a bright red lanyard that was to hang around our necks and be our constant companion for the next few days (At least we got a decent-looking ear piece with it...other tour groups I saw had what looked like a bright blue plastic tube running from their audio devices to their ears. Thank God for small mercies.)

Eventually the Cattle Prodding began and we slowly made our way to the entrance. There’s a fancy shmancy MVSEI VATICANI entrance which is there for show (it may have actually have been an entrance to the Vatican Museum at one point, but those days are probably long gone.) Two of Rome’s favorite Renaissance sons, Michelangelo and Raphael, are perched like carrion birds of prey on it. Now, at first it may seem unfair that Michelangelo is shown as a knobby kneed old man and Raphael is shown as a youth with flowing rock hair, but then again Michelangelo lived into his 90s (or very close to them) whereas Raphael didn’t even crack 2 score years.

At some point our tickets were checked, then checked a few more times. After passing through a metal detector (thankfully there was no body cavity search) we entered the Vatican Museum proper.

One word description: HUGE.

I’m not sure how it measures up in terms of actual floor space or whatnot in comparison to other heavyweights of world museums, but when you consider it houses the personal art collections of Popes from across the centuries, why, it’s very much like a packrat’s dream in terms of the amount of items to be viewed.

Unfortunately, the pace of our particular tour (coupled with the crush of humanity surrounding you on all sides) meant I didn’t really get a chance to stop and look at what I wanted for as long as I wanted. The odd nekkid marble butt here, the coyly fig leaf-covered marble johnson there, and so many paintings, frescoes, tapestries…it would’ve taken more than a day to see everything, and our tour didn’t even go through a lot of the rooms. (I believe there’s a section of Egyptian antiquities, but I never saw anything like that.)

But, of course, the main thing the Vatican Museum is known for is the Sistine Chapel.

Guess what? No flash photography is permitted. Delicate frescoes and all.

Which is a shame, because it was truly fantastic. Michelangelo had originally been offered the opportunity to paint the chapel’s ceiling. Michelangelo, being a temperamental artiste, initially refused, since he was a sculptor, not a painter. When the Pope hinted that Raphael would eagerly take on the task, Michelangelo, not to be outdone by the whippersnapper, taught himself how to paint and left us something truly wonderful.

The original plan was for Michelangelo to paint scenes from the lives of the 12 Apostles.

The 12 Apostles are found nowhere within the Sistine Chapel.

In addition to the awesomely bad ass ceiling, there’s a little something known as The Last Judgment, which covers one entire wall of the Chapel. It contains Michelangelo’s only self-portrait (his face is on the flayed skin of St. Bartholomew), and a little joke at the expense of a Cardinal who insisted that all naughty bits be covered in Michelangelo’s works within the Sistine Chapel. (This particular Cardinal’s in Hell, and there’s a serpent biting on his one-eyed snake.)

After finally clawing our way through the huddled masses in the Sistine Chapel, we were free, FREE! Free to mingle with the huddled masses within St. Peter’s Basilica.

One word description: HUGE.

Again, so much to see and not nearly enough time to see it.

As soon as you walk in the front door, if you gaze to your right you’ll see Michelangelo’s Pietà…well, actually, his most famous Pietà, as he sculpted a total of four of them over his lifetime.

It’s kind of an odd feeling to be seeing, actually seeing, things that I’d only seen before in art books and history books.

My photos inside St. Peter’s came out…OK, I guess, if still a bit underlit. But at least I was having better luck with my photo phun than my Mom, who ended up cussing over her camera’s performance.

A good little Catholic girl like my Mom. Cussing. In a Catholic Church. Nay, in what is possibly the most Catholic of Catholic Churches.

We hurried out on the double lest a lightning bolt decided to come down and smite us.

Well, that and the tour group was moving on, with or without us.

We were given a brief break after our tour of St. Peter’s…just enough time to grab a quick panini and some bottled water (lots of bottled water)…but, oddly enough, not enough time for a bathroom break.

Back when I’d last been in Europe, it generally wasn’t too hard to find a public bathroom on the streets. Italy’s evidently a little different. Generally tucked away downstairs from most establishments, and usually for a fee (.50 Euros to 2.00 Euros!) if there was an attendant.

It was with a sigh of almost orgasmic relief that we saw the tour bus come to pick us up to deliver us in air-conditioned comfort to our next stop…

View the pictures here.

The Great Gigolo Hunt of 2007, Part 1

I have my passport to Blogworldland, and by God I'm not afraid to use it. So, allow me to present to you a brief recap of my last big vacation to Bootsy Collins Land...or Italy, as it’s more familiarly known.

Day One—September 30, 2007

No, strike that, let’s go back a bit in time for a little back story here.

In April 1993 I was traveling around Europe for a month during Spring Break. (I was an exchange student in England during my junior year in college, and I figured since I was already in the general area I might as well take a looksee at Europe, since I might never get another chance.) One of the places I planned on visiting was Rome. But, as fate or whatever would have it, my passport and money were stolen soon after I boarded an overnight train from Vienna to Rome. So, without a passport I wouldn’t be able to legally leave Austria nor enter Italy. A train attendant put me on a train returning to Vienna, and the next day I found myself in the American Consulate’s office trying to get my situation straightened out.

As I was traveling solo, this particular experience…was less than fun, shall we say. After finally getting things in order, I opted for spending the remainder of my vacation on the French Riviera rather than trying to shoehorn in a trip to Rome. (My flight back to England was going to be out of Nice anyway, and since a chunk of money had been stolen I couldn’t really afford to go to Rome anymore…besides, lazing about on the beach gave me an excuse to experiment with just how dark a tan I could get…I believe I managed to get darker than Halle Berry.)

So, no Rome for me during my month of wanderlust in 1993.

Jump forward 12-odd years. My Mom decides she’s reached that point in her life where she wants to see a little bit of the world. After months of indecision, she decides she wants to take a two-week trip to Italy.

However, there’s a fly in her ointment. Namely, me. I can’t take that much time off from work at once (I mean, I theoretically could, but if I don’t spread out my vacation days over the year…take an extended weekend every once in a while…I’d go crazy).

So, after a little more searching, she finds a vacation package offering an 8-day trip covering 3 major Italian cities. That, I could swing.

Over the next year, pennies are pinched and saved, awkward passport photos are taken, and disaster is nearly avoided (family drama which could have put the kibosh on the whole trip…unfortunately, a car chase was not involved). Arrangements were made to get some of that there funny-lookin’ foreign money and, before you know it, it’s vacation time.

My Mom flew from California into Memphis on the 28^th (since Memphis, while not quite the closest international airport to me, does have a commuter flight service that I can use to reach it). We met up the next morning and, since it had been more than a year since we’d last seen each other, it was pretty good all around.

What wasn’t so good was the Airplane Funtime that would take up the rest of the day. About an hour flight from Memphis to Atlanta (my Mom’s first trip in a commuter-sized plane…I don’t think she cottoned much to the experience), and then a couple of hours of layover time in Atlanta before catching a 9-hour flight to Rome. A couple of hours that stretched out a little more, due to a couple of mechanical delays with the plane. But, during that time, I had ample opportunity to notice the...well, there’s really no polite way to refer to the fact that most of the people booked on this flight were elderly. At 35, I was actually one of the youngest passengers on the flight.

At any rate, the flight itself wasn’t too bad (although, if I’d had my druthers, I would not have chosen either the chick flick or the Disney movie as in flight entertainment). Sore butt and a little sleep deprivation, but that’s part of the traveling experience, no?

So, finally, Rome. The Fulmincino International Airport in Rome, also known as the Leonardo Da Vinci Airport. Fourteen years after my initial attempt to make it to the Eternal City, I finally made it.

Now, for a couple of weeks before the trip my Mom had been checking weather predictions for Italy. She was slightly bummed that overcast skies and rain were predicted, but as it turned out there was a bit of an Indian Summer going on, as it was what most people would call lovely weather. (I, having a cold, black heart, prefer cooler weather, like, say, low to mid-70s or so. And if it’s overcast, so much the better. Then again, that’s just me.)

Now, the reason for the diversion to grousing about the weather is that, after finally getting to the baggage claim area (after a surprisingly cursory passport examination), we had to wait about an hour for our luggage to show up. And it was hot and stuffy in there. (We were told in advance that European standards of A/C are not quite what we spoiled Americans are accustomed to.) At any rate, both of our pieces of luggage made it through relatively unscathed.

And customs? Ha, we just walked through.

After finding the designated meeting place for our tour company, we were separated into smaller groups, depending on which package tour we were on.

Next stop, our hotel and our initial meeting with our tour guide, Antonella, who would take care of us over the next week. We checked in, were given a time to meet for a general orientation in one of the hotel's conference rooms (other members of the tour were coming in on different flights so not everybody had arrived yet), and, after making it up to our room, we passed out for a few hours.

Ah, to be caressed in the arms of Morpheus…and be able to stretch out…bliss, sweet bliss.

The last time I was in Europe, many years ago, I stayed exclusively in youth hostels. (Well, apart from the night my money and passport were stolen.) So, to me, the room was very nice, although a bit smaller than you’d find in most American hotels. (And, no, I couldn’t get the A/C to work just right.)

There are some things a child should never have to explain to her mother. The purpose of a bidet (which all the hotels over there had) is one of them.

We were able to pass out for about an hour or so before we’d have to meet for our general orientation and dinner. This particular tour group had roughly 40 people, and there were maybe 4 of us in the entire group who weren’t over 40 years old.

Antonella, our tour guide, told us that even though our tour package was sweetly named the “Italian Holiday” it would be more like an “Italian Nightmare,” because of the fast pace that would be involved. (And, boy, she wasn’t kidding.) Rome was not built in a day, but we’d try to see it in a day. And the same would go for Venice and Florence.

Relaxation vacation? Oh, I think not. Because of itty bitty European streets, most of the tour would be a walking tour.

Since a lot of us were jetlagged, nothing was planned for our first night other than a group dinner. (Pasta, butofcourse. Oddly enough, we didn’t have a single plate of spaghetti the entire time we were there.) On the way back from dinner, we had a brief stop at St. Peter’s Square, which, since this was nighttime, was pretty much deserted. St. Peter’s Basilica and the Vaticano Obelisk were nicely lit, but the pictures I took were truly craptastic. (Guess who forgot to set her camera to the night setting? It may not have mattered anyway, since I ultimately learned that all photos I took at night and/or with a flash were pretty much teh suck.)

Then back to the hotel, for some much needed sleep. Because we’d have to get up really early the next morning for our See-Rome-In-A-Day experiment...