Day 16 -- Lucerne to Rome

Well, I'm a bit heated up right now, so it's going to be difficult to type now without spitting a bit of fire. So bear with me – don't worry, Chad…this one is completely justified. I'm a little pissed off at a couple of Italian jackassess…so I feel I must vent a bit.

Started off a bit wrongly this morning – I'd had in my mind since yesterday that we were supposed to leave the Lucerne station at 8:34 AM. So we packed early, skipped the free breakfast, and hurried over to the station to get there around 8:15 AM or so.

Except, nowhere did the itinerary say "8:34 AM." In fact, that time does not exist at all on our Excel spreadsheet…it was, apparently, the invention of my poor fevered brain.

But it was a good thing our train didn't leave that early, because we ran into our good old friend "compulsory reservations" again. I had to go downstairs at the station to reserve two "first class" tickets to Rome. Our new train left at 9:21 AM. This gave us time for coffee, a hurried breakfast, and the impossible New York Times crossword puzzle.

Eventually our train arrived, and we boarded. It's funny, but the only difference I noticed between "first class" and "second class" was the name. And first class had a little doily on the headrest. But…hell…we were riding in style…high on the hog. So we enjoyed it.

We changed trains at Milan, and found out exactly what a real "first class" ticket was. It was like first class on an airplane – with a motorized, reclining seat, comfortable headrests, and actual, bona-fide free beverages. It was cool.

Except, unbeknownst to us, when we booked the tickets the ticket lady gave us seats that were separated by an aisle (as opposed to "next to each other," or "facing each other"), but since the train was only half-full (or empty), we cheated a bit and sat in the "facing each other" position.

This was working fine, until we got to Bologna. A big crowd of blustering Italians boarded, and started taking their seats. I noticed that a wealthily dressed woman and her vapid teenaged daughter sat down where my actual seat was located – which was fine…so long as the guy holding the ticket for my new seat arrived, and asked me to move.

But he did show up. He was a fashionable, 5 o'clock shadowed, greased hair Italian dude in his mid-20s. He boarded, double-checked his tickets, and gestured toward my seat.

Now at this point I should point out – we've neglected Italy…and, especially, Italian. We know "Thank you," "Welcome," "Good day," and "Good bye." We're pretty much screwed, for any actual conversation that would need to arise.

So, when greasy-hair points to my seat, I point to my actual seat and tell him (in muttered English) that the daughter were sitting in my seat. "No," says the mother, procuring a print-out that shows their seats together…where I'm supposed to be.

I look at my "official looking ticket," then at her "internet print-out." Something stinks. There's a random "two" floating around in the middle of my ticket (I found out later that it was the "section" of the car), and the lady tells me that I'm supposed to be in "Second class." She was wrong – there was a highlighted "1" under class. But I didn't see it until later. The people around her joined in the chorus, telling me that I was in the wrong section (even though they couldn't see our ticket). So…in the ultimate walk of shame, we packed our bags, and left the "richie riches" in first class to go to our slummy second-class seats.

Except, when we stopped in the galley, I saw the truth. "CL: 1" 1^st class. The little bastards were wrong. Dead frigging wrong. Not only had I been pushed out of my seat, but I'd been shamed in front of a full car of foreigners. I was the stupid, mumbling entitled American who didn't understand Italians, or their culture.

It was then that a "ticket counter" happened by the galley. I tried, in as simple an English as I could manage, to explain the situation. We had these tickets, and the people there would not leave. He kept repeating, "Coach 4," which was our coach. I told him that I understood the coach number, and asked him if he could come back to help me find my seat. He said, "Is okay. Is okay." No, "is" wasn't okay…a rich little twit was sitting smugly in my seat. I couldn't speak good enough Italian to tell them that, and no one seemed willing to translate for me (except for one guy who stepped in to help me speak with the ticket counter, but stopped short of helping me get my seat back).

So Erika and I sat in the dining car and stewed. The one guy who could help us could barely speak English, and the jag-off in my seat was unwilling to help or move. I contemplated standing in the dining car for the three hours remaining on the ride. But three hours is a long time to stand still.

Then, our savior. I went back to our seats to see if, maybe, I had been in the wrong car, when I saw the little Italian man who had punched our tickets the first time around. He was wending his way through the first-class coach, checking the tickets of the new arrivals. He was three rows from where I was supposed to be sitting. Perfect.

I hurried back to the dinner car, got our tickets from Erika and hustled up to the man.

"Hello. Can you help? I'm sorry…where are my seats?"

"Coach four."

"Here?" I pointed down.

"Yes."

"Thirty two and thirty four?"

He looked at the tickets again. "Yes." I went to the seats to show him someone was sitting there, but he had already turned his back, and was helping the next passenger.

"Hello. Grazie. Please, these are my seats?" I pointed at the younger twit.

"Yes, thirty two, and thirty four." He approached the women. The mother rolled her eyes with exasperation, and smugly handed him their stupid printout…and they cockily pointed to the "34/35" marked on their ticket.

Except they'd screwed up. They were looking at seats for their connecting train, not the current train. The conductor informed them (in flawless Italian) of their error, and they all shared a laugh.

I hurried back to the dinner car to get Erika, and the rest of our bags. "The bitches were in the wrong place," I said out loud…in the half-empty dining car (ah…pessimism). My forceful language disturbed my wife, but I was mad as all hell at this point…as was she…so she let it slide.

We returned to our seats, and the dumbos were slowly packing up their stupid, expensive bags. We stood in the aisle, waiting for them to pass. I don't know…maybe waiting for an apology?

Of course none was forthcoming. They were the equivalent of "spoiled Beverly Hills Bitches," and we've had plenty of time dealing with their type back in the states. No manners…no intelligence…and an infuriating sense of entitlement. Nothing was ever their fault, and if they're ever proven to be wrong, they blame anything other than their own incompetence. So the two nitwits stood up, speaking in Italian with their fellow passengers and laughing about something. Probably us. Who cares. We had our seats back. They felt our shame now…which was sweetly unsatisfying. We did not move as they approached, and they had to squeeze past us to get down the aisle. Jackasses.

At the next stop (Firenze), many of the passengers exited – including the grease-hair. Seizing my opportunity, I jumped into the seat across from my wife, again.

But like clockwork, a man entered…and he mentioned that he was holding a ticket for my seat. This time my "real" seat was unoccupied. I asked him, in simple English, if he wouldn't mind sitting in my seat, so I could sit across from my wife. He smiled widely.

"Of course, of course! Is no problem."

He looked like the stereotypical Italian businessman – striped grey pants, pointy shoes, shiny forehead nursing receding salt & pepper hair that was slicked back, and a skinny black tie. His kindness was met with a chorus of "grazie's" from me and my wife. And he restored our faith in the good Italian people.

Now, sitting here in the Italian Businessman's seat, the younger one keeps glaring at me from across the coach. Which is making my mind go into overdrive – are they going to call a couple of Guidos to meet us at the Termini when we arrive? Is she going to walk by and spill coffee on my head as she passes? Is she just going to stare daggers at me from across the train until we arrive in Rome in an hour-and-a-half? Is she secretly attracted to me, and just mad that I'm a happily married man? Is she just trying to figure out which team is on my baseball hat?

Don't know…but already Rome has been a sullied. Compare this to the nice man who offered to help us in Lucerne…or the overly-friendly faces we saw every day at Hotel Uhland…and…I dunno'...all the other pleasant folks we've met in our two weeks here.

I'd been secretly dreading this part of the trip for a while now…and we've already decided to break convention (we're not going to walk to our hotel from the train station!?!?! We're taking a cab!?!?!). Now that we've gotten a little slice of the old "Italian Hospitality," my dread-o-meter is just starting to climb…and climb…

(later that night)

Of course, nothing happened when we got off the train. There were approximately a million billion people crowding the platform, and even if there had been an elite Italian hit squad sent to break our kneecaps, they would never have seen two ordinary white folk pulling oversized bags in that gigantic train station.

Our first order of business on getting off the train – find an ATM (our primary source of income, as Europe seems to be resisting the "credit card for any purchase" movement that's sweeping the US). Second order of business: find a cab. Final order of business: get into our hotel room.

The first order went pretty well. In that big, terrifying station, as night was falling, I found an ATM machine and withdrew some cash. No biggie there.

The second order was a little more sketchy. We walked to the line-up of cabs in front of the building, but on our way a random person stopped us.

Man: You need cab?

Me: Huh? (looking out at the line of cabs) Yes, yes we do.

Man: Where are you going?

Erika: The Piazza Mattei?

Man: Okay. I take you for 20 euro.

Me (pointing to the line of parked cabs): Is that your car over there?

Man: Okay, 25 euro.

Me (not understanding who this man is, or exactly why his price went up): Um…I'm sorry, but are you parked over here? (I point to the parked cabs)

The man does not respond, and kinda' wanders away from the conversation…muttering to himself. If I'm not mistaken, he probably was one of those fraudulent "freelance cab drivers" who take you to your location, then demand outrageous sums of money. Or something like that – either way, dude was not to be trusted.

But the other cab drivers were…and we made our way over to a group of them (who were holding court outside the nearest cab). A tall guy with a long, braided ponytail asked us where we were headed. We told him, he spoke briefly to his other cabbie buddies, and he loaded us into his cab…parked in the front row of the four-wide and twenty-deep line of cabs.

I must say – if you're ever in Rome, I highly suggest you take a cab at some point in your trip – preferably at the beginning. It's a great introduction, because you get to see first-hand what it's like to be a driver (and, more importantly, a pedestrian) in that crazy city.

The ride started out a little freaky – our driver was approached by a man who didn't have the "burden" of a home (that's me coming up with a cumbersome, politically correct way of saying "homeless"). He was waving two packs of Kleenex (one in each hand) and speaking excitedly in Italian. Mr. Braided Ponytail responded laconically in Italian, and handed the man a couple of coins (coins which range, interestingly enough, from 1 cent to two euro…much like our dear neighbors to the north). The man gushed some grazies, and our light turned green.

Stuff started going wrong right at that first intersection. Rome does not seem to be interested in "lanes," so we swerved across the road with impunity. Our good chauffeur, at one point, made a plea to the driver next to him, asking him (I believe – my Italian is infantile) if he could cut in front of him and take his cab screaming down a narrow alley. The neighboring driver shrugged in approval, and Braid (a better name, methinks) did as I hoped he would – he shot in front of a line of cars and went screaming down a narrow alleyway, nearly clipping several pedestrians with his side-view mirrors.

Note to those walking in Rome – you're not safe in an alley. If it's possible, you're in much more danger than you would be on a main street. Especially from cab drivers. I mean, they're probably not going to hit you, but they'll get as close as possible, given the chance. And I noticed several suspicious dents on cabs that I saw in the city.

Anyhow, twenty minutes later, we arrived at the Pizza Mattei. "I never heard of a hotel here," our driver cautions us.

"Very small," I say, affecting an Italian accent, though speaking English. Erika makes fun of me for it, but I figure, they'd think that's how all people speak English…and it's (therefore) easier for them to understand. Erika thinks I'm just making fun of them. Maybe she's right…but they're too STUPID TO KNOW BETTER!!! HA HA HAA!!!!

Kidding. Partially. Where was I? Ah…so Braid drops us off, and we wait. We're supposed to meet our hosts outside of the front door at 8:00 PM. It's a Bed & Breakfast, and there's no front desk…meaning there is no "on-site assistance." This arrangement is fine, so long as we're able to get all the amenities that we'd normally receive at a hotel (clean towels, clean sheets, and a fully-made bed every day). I checked my phone and noticed that it's 7:45 PM local time. We were right on time.

8:00 rolls around…and there's still no sign of our hosts. We double-check our print-out, and look around anxiously. 8:10. Still nothing. I need to use the bathroom, and Erika needs food and coffee. 8:15. Time to call the number on our print-out. After fudging around with the "international" calling rules, we get through. We speak to "Allesandra," who informs us that her husband is upstairs, waiting for us...and that we just need to take the elevator upstairs to meet him. We tell her that the door to the building is locked, and we can't get inside…so she says that her husband will be "right down." 8:20 rolls around, still no sign of husband or wife. We look at the phone (which is dying quickly; down to one bar), and wait. 8:25. Still no husband. Must be a lot of steps. 8:30, there's a call from a number in Italy. It's Allesandra. Apparently her husband is at the wrong B&B (duh), and he'll be there as soon as he can.

Finally, at 8:50, a guy shows up to let us inside.

This hotel is…well…it's more of what I imagined a European hotel room would be – cramped, dirty, and completely jury-rigged at every turn. It doesn't bother me too much – I'm kinda' happy that there's food out anytime we need it…including milk, juice, croissants, bread, cereal…

Erika is…well…is there a single word for "incredibly annoyed?" Not exactly "apoplectic," because that is more active…but…let's just say the "frustrated-sigh-o-meter" was off the charts. In the red.

I'll try to give just due to my wife's point of view here…because, while I don't share it, I understand it. The ceiling was barely over six feet. Maybe six foot one. The little bathroom was fairly dirty, and two beams on the ceiling required even little Erika to crouch down to enter (I had to practically squat to use the mirror). The floor had obviously not been vacuumed before arrival…which boded ill for the sheets. The decorations were "cluttered." Any floor space was taken up by the low double-bed…which was topped by a mattress that was quite stiff. Did I get it all, Erika? Don't worry…I'll get into it more later in the week. The hotel room will get what's coming to it.

Regardless of the status of our room, after dusting ourselves off, we bounced downstairs to one of the Piazza Mattei eateries, where we were seated by a young, overly-friendly young Italian man. We ate some overly-friendly Italian food, drank some overly-friendly Italian wine, and paid an overly-friendlily (wow…what an adverb) small amount for the meal (compared to the blasting our pocketbook had received in Lucerne).

We decided to scout around the perimeter of our hotel, and we discovered (to our surprise) that there were some 2000 year old ruins one block north of our room. These were the Largo Argentina Ruins, and they contain (most famously) the exact spot where Julius Caesar was murdered in the first century, on the steps of the Theatre of Pompey.

There is no foot access to the ruins (which sit about 20 feet down from the street level), but they are definitely occupied...by hundreds of modern residents. As it turns out, the ruins had been reserved for use as the biggest Kitty Jungle Gym in the world – we could see dozens of cats strewn about the ruins…sleeping, cleaning themselves, stalking about, and generally acting kitty-like in the ruins of four giant, ruined temples.

This was a cool little slice of Rome. It's a bustling, modern city…curved around a pit containing ancient ruins…that covered in kitties. This was a mystery to be fully explored later…for sure…

But we'd done enough exploring for our first night. Bellies full of fine Italian food and drink; we returned to our still-crappy room and settled into an exhausted sleep.

Day 17 -- Rome

Sigh.

I stir. Am I still dreaming?

"Dammit."

Nope. Not dreaming. The shower is running. Without my glasses, I can see the fuzzy outline of Erika, crouched in our tiny dirty bathroom.

Sigh.

"Everything all right, babe?" I say, groggily. It probably sounded more like: "Mmbmer ar arrrramm barar?" but Erika's got that same uncanny ability to understand my "sleep-speak" that dentists have to understand "mouth-full-of-dental-equipment-speak."

"Well, we don't have any hot water. But at least I could run the cold water long enough to wash the sugar ants down the drain."

Well…not even my relaxed attitude toward uncleanliness could put up with "no hot water." The sugar ants were annoying, but I'm more tolerant of critters than my wife is. But hot water? Not cool. Tyler is a one-to-two-shower-a-day dude.

Turns out that, sure, the hotel was in a great location…and the price was right…but this room was almost not worth the effort. If these things couldn't be fixed…we'd have to find new accommodations…and that prospect was…irritating, to say the least…not to mention "potentially costly."

So, after a crappy breakfast of cereal, bread, and juice, Erika called Allesandra…who assured us that the hot water would get fixed when the maid arrived at noon. The ants were a "building problem," but the maid would spray when she got there. The floor was supposed to be vacuumed every day, and she'd make sure that the maid vacuumed. It sounded like things were being getting taken care of…but it was irritating that those things weren't in place when we arrived.

We decided the motto of this phase of the trip would be "Rome, not Room." I guess the silver lining of a crappy hotel room was the fact that it was going to keep us from loafing, and holing up in our room. Now it was time to leave the room behind us, get out, and experience us some Rome.

First stop, a further examination of the Kitty Playground. In the daylight we could read the little placards, and we discovered that the ruins were unearthed at the behest of Mussolini in the 1920s, and at the expense of a couple of "developers" who were "fortunate" enough to purchase land directly above some historic ruins. I'm sure they were ecstatic that their investment was seized by the government for archeological recovery. And if they weren't ecstatic, they could take their complaints to the gentlemen wearing the brown shirts.

But their loss was the kitties' gain…and we got to see just how many of them were out there. Dozens. Hundreds. Apparently it was a Cat Sanctuary, run out of a room under the sidewalk. But I'll get to that later.

Because now we had sights to see. Second stop: The Piazza Venezia. It was…as expected…frigging huge…which would be a common theme for the sights of Rome.

It was then that it kinda' struck me – I bet that a large percentage of Rome's GDP is spent maintaining the various monuments around town. In fact, there was some form of scaffolding or crane-ery at nearly every site we visited. Keeping these monuments intact must cost a fortune…and I can imagine that Rome's modern infrastructure suffers for it.

Either way, we climbed the steps to this structure…which was massive…and got a good look around. Piazza Venezia was a tall, tall building (comparatively), and we had a pretty good view from the top…with sweeping views of the city. We could see the coliseum, the forum, and dozens of really pretty cathedrals scattered throughout the city…which (from all appearances) is frigging huge.

There was a museum there, but we decided early-on that we weren't going to be hitting up that many museums in Rome…partly because we were afraid of Italian-only signage…but also because we really considered the entire city to be a bit of a museum. There wasn't much point in paying extra to have it broken down and explained to us. Just looking at the massive (free) statues lining the palace we were standing on was enough of an experience. Besides, we only had three full days in the city (as opposed to every other city…where we had four), and we wanted to make the most of our time without spending an inordinate amount of time poking around in one particular site.

We could see our next destination – the Roman Forum. Now…I'd never really understood exactly what the "Roman Forum" was. I'd always thought that it was a big, crumbling old building. But turns out it's actually about three dozen crumbling old buildings. All chock full of some Tyler-approved "Hisssssssstory!"

But there we encountered one of the "annoyances" during our time Rome – tour groups. More so than any other city, Rome teemed with large groups of tourists. You could see them coming, because they were large groups of tourists…all clustered around some person holding a "hankie on a stick" (or flag on a stick…or inflatable doughnut on a stick…or stick on a stick). Sometimes you'd see the leader whispering into a transmitter, and you'd look and see each member of the tour group (sporting matching lanyards) rocking an earbud…which was spitting out the leader's whispered "guiding."

These groups get preferential treatment at all of the monuments…and since they move in packs, if you want to go to any of the prime "viewing points" at a given site, you've got to hope that it's not being occupied by one of the (sometimes 50-strong) tour groups. Because you'll never be able to fight through them to see the hisssssssstory.

The Forum was filled to the brim with these groups. Dozens of them roamed about the scattered ruins…following a magic hanky. Luckily, Erika and I had our own little tour guide…and he fit into my back pocket.

That's right…we were being led about by Mr. Rick Steeves. Inventor of the "Back Door," or something. Steeves told us that all we needed to know about these Forum ruins (having come to my ear via my lovely wife's lyrical soprano tones).

Again I got to do the goofy "I'm touching history" bit…and I traced my fingers along things carved out of rock eons ago. And…holy crap…the enormity of these things just blew me away – especially considering that these people were all quite comparatively miniature (see my earlier blog about the "shiny metallic jockeys"), and they had no power tools, cranes, trucks…et cetera.

I got to see the pile of dirt that used to be Julius Caesar. The wall that the great Roman orators would stand on to address the plebes. The avenue where victorious Roman armies would march their spoils of war. The throne room that served as the nerve center of the entire empire. The toilet that Nero pooped in. I saw it all…and I got to (occasionally) slap my hand against all (Even the toilet. I just pretended I was spanking Naughty Nero for burning his city all up).

But if you're going to go to the forum, do yourself a favor – bring a printout (or book, or pamphlet, or audiotape, or terrified historian hostage) explaining everything you're looking at, because the signage is sparse. If you've got nothing to guide you, it may look (suspiciously) like a bunch of crumbling, old buildings. There were things in the forum, like the emperor's throne room, that we only knew about because Steeves pointed it out (the site itself was deserted, too…and Erika got a chance to proclaim to her heart's content without being gawked at by passersby).

After all that walking…and looking…and walking, we realized that we were very, very hungry. Having ingested all of the history we could stomach, we needed to refuel (yes…I mix metaphors with the best of them). So we headed to a crappy little pizza cart in the shadow of the Coliseum, and split a crappy little pizza (more of a "calzone"…really…if a "pizza crust folded in half around a super-thin layer of tomato sauce and a couple of pieces of prescuito" could be called a "calzone"). Of course, we were both so starving that the quality of the "pizza" didn't really matter much…and we were far too focused on "Rome not Room" to care much.

So, when one thinks of "Rome," one usually thinks of "The Coliseum." And by "One" I mean "Me." Following that logic, that last sentence should read, "So, when me thinks of 'Rome,' me usually thinks of 'The Coliseum.'" Yes? Good.

Now I was going to see that iconic structure…up close and personable (LOL TYPO!). Thanks to our good friend Steeves' advice, we'd already purchased our Coliseum tickets at the Forum (a good move, owing to much shorter ticket lines at the Forum), so we were able to shoot to "already purchased tickets" line, and head right in the door.

And boy, the Coliseum was big.

After we'd finished at the Coliseum we went to the final stop on our tour of Ancient Rome: The Pantheon. It was…

Wait, what? More about the Coliseum? Sigh. Okay, fine…twist my arm.

Sorry…here again I run into a problem. I'll explain. When we were in Lucerne, we were chasing an old dude named "Mark Twain," who (apparently) wrote an entire book about a trip he took to Europe (or somesuch). Now, he said some really beautiful things…all quotable, and all "putting you right there," as it were. In fact, now that I have the power of Wikipedia at my disposal, here's what he wrote about the Lion Monument in Lucerne:

"The place is a sheltered, reposeful woodland nook, remote from noise and stir and confusion — and all this is fitting, for lions do die in such places, and not on granite pedestals in public squares fenced with fancy iron railings. The Lion of Lucerne would be impressive anywhere, but nowhere so impressive as where he is."

Here's what I wrote:

"What's this got to do with a dying lion? Well…it's what we in the business call a 'metaphor.' I think. Or maybe it's a palindrome."

Which is my way of saying, I'm not as good at writing as Mark Twain. I'm not. Hell, I'm probably the least-talented writer in my family, to put it frankly. I just happen to be a tiny bit more prolific (as far as actual publishing for public perusal – even if it is "self-publishing for my dumb ol' MySpace blog"…which is a damn shame, because if you could just read some of the stuff my father and older brother have written you'd call for my hack-y head), at this point. So when I demure when attempting to describe something that millions of people have described before me…it's not just modesty…it's because…dammit…I'm not good enough to do it justice. Not that something like the Coliseum leaves you stunned into a wordless silence…but…I mean…for practically every impressive site I've seen in Europe I just want to write something to the effect of, "Yeah, it was totally awesome! But, you've got to see it in person to really appreciate it." Which is part of the reason that I was so excited to go to Europe – I didn't have to be on the receiving end of the "you've got to see it in person" discussion any more. I could be the guy saying it…while sipping a "Fair Trade Coffee"…wearing a turtleneck…and slacks…with an earmarked copy of "On The Road" sitting next to me…

Okay, snap back to reality. I'll do what I have to do – personalize it. Sometimes I get so caught up in trying to sound "worldly," I forget that the things I have been most intrigued by on this trip are the personal things. Marie Antoinette's bed and toilet. Picasso's painting a happy little portrait of his daughter playing with a toy boat. The little yellow bird on the steps of a Paris cathedral. The row of bunks in the Dachau dormitory. A farmer chasing an escaped maverick calf across a Lucerne highway. These are the things that interest me – sprawling monuments like Neuschwanstein, the Notre Dame, or the Coliseum certainly impress me…but it's the little personal stories that will stick with me when I'm home…flipping through our hundreds of digital photos.

So. Coliseum. I have a hard time really picturing these monuments…how they'd look during their original construction. Part of that is my fault – there are plenty of books, pictures, illustrations, etc., that I could find to fill in the gaps. But, I think part of the problem is the sites themselves. I mean...during news reports, you'll often see "Artists Renderings" of distant galaxies, extinct animals, wanted suspects., etc. (yes…I know that's the second time I've used "et cetera" in this paragraph…and I apologize). Why not artists renderings on the actual sites? I know what they look like now…and descriptions are all well and good…but how about a rendering of the "canvas topped" Coliseum? Or the rows of seats? Or the frigging Coliseum floor? Are they afraid of compromising the integrity of the ruin itself? Heck…I know what the ruin looks like – I usually have no idea what the original building looked like. And my imagination isn't that good…because I didn't study ancient Roman architecture.

Having said all that…I enjoyed the Coliseum (don't you hate it when people complain about something for an entire paragraph, then cop out in the next paragraph with the "But it was pretty cool"?). I tried get into the head of the ancient Roman citizen who was fortunate enough to witness these games live – there's the mythical imagination, then there's the reality. I don't really care much for "myth," (a topic for another blog post, some day in the future) which is why the stories of "Romulus and Remus suckling on a wolf teat before founding Rome" don't really interest me a great deal. I want to picture the ordinary Roman citizen…watching two prize fighters from way high up. Maybe sitting in the same building as the Emperor? I mean…I can count the number of US Presidents I've seen on zero hands. How about that – an ordinary Roman citizen, chilling out, eating popcorn, watching gladiators, all in the same building as the most powerful man in the world. Unimaginable.

Okay…I got sidetracked justifying my lackadaisical descriptions. Very sidetracked. Moving on. Leaving the Coliseum behind, we motored over to the Pantheon – our last stop on the "really old places in Rome" tour. Like many of the pagan monuments in Rome, this place had been "Christ-o-fied" once Constantine decided that Christianity was the coolest religion in town. Consequently, it is the most well-maintained ancient structure in Rome.

It's also one of the busiest. In addition to the standard mob of tour groups, there were a couple of dudes standing around in Roman soldier attire…asking those around them if they would "Like picture" with them. Of course, we watched several rubes take them up on the offer, only to be badgered into giving up hard-earned Euro for the honor of a snap with a couple of shabbily-dressed wannabe gladiators.

Along with those guys were about a dozen swarthy-looking guys carrying big plastic bags filled with crap – toys, noisemakers, what you will. They stroll about the plaza, in and among the pasty tourists, plying their wares. Now…as I mentioned before…their mere presence doesn't annoy me too much – because people peddling cheap crap to large groups of people is an institution that has existed as long as civilization has been around to purchase cheap crap in bulk – all the same…it'd be nice to look at a monument like the Pantheon without hearing the constant buzzing of those stupid metallic rocks being thrown in the air every five seconds. Of course, the ancients probably complained about something very similar when they were bumbling around in the courtyard of the newly-constructed Pantheon (something like: "I wish these peasants would stop yelling 'Mutton for sale!!!' while I gaze upon the majesty of the statues of those awesome Gods that we stole from the Greeks").

Having taken all of the ancient, majestic splendor we could handle, we skipped ahead to the renaissance…at the Piazza Navona. Unfortunately, the gigantic fountain in the Piazza was closed down, so instead we got to delight in the two smaller fountains…and the hordes of painters scattered through the square.

We cruised around the Piazza for a while…looking at art…stuff like that. They were setting up (or taking down) a concert stage at one end of the square…and by that temporary stage was a little church (whose name escapes me at the moment).

Inside we got to see another example of ancient Christians' favorite pastime – martyrdom. This time is was an unfortunate woman being set alight for some crime against humanity. Unfortunate…but as I didn't have my "Saint Decoder Ring," I wasn't sure who exactly she was. Agnes, maybe? I don't know…but I do know the statue was pretty cool. As was the dome…which probably would have looked cooler closer up, but I lost my ability to levitate during the war.

Having had our fill of ancient glory, pageantry, piety, and majesty…we decided to head back to "Room not Rome" (stopping briefly to fill up our cute-ometers at the "Kitty Ruins"). After watching those lil' guys for a while, we wanted to satisfy our curiosity, and find out "what was the deal with the cats?" So we entered the headquarters of the "Cat Sanctuary."

It just so happened that we entered just in time to join up with the "free daily tour" of the ruins…led by an American-born volunteer for the cat sanctuary, who was one of those kinda' awkward intellectual types with a denim shirt and a grey goatee that just loves cats. Back home he'd either be a professor, or an activist. In Rome he was a cat sanctuary worker and a tour guide.

Now…unfortunately, the tour did not include a "ruin-side" jaunt…as the organization is only allowed in the ruins once-a-day to feed the kitties. But our guide did lead us around the site, explaining the significance of the area, as well as some of the little tid-bits that you wouldn't get from the official placard (like how a trough running down one side of the ruin was a "bathhouse toilet," and you didn't want to be the guy washing his rear in the downhill end while someone was making use of the uphill end).

But the ultimate pay-off came at the end, when he led us to the "Kitty Chamber." It was basically a little glass-enclosed room, lined with kitty cages, where kitten addicts could "recharge their batteries" if they were away from their own kitties for too long. The room was littered with toy mice, feathers, string, bowls of food and water, and (most importantly) attention-starved kitties. It was delightful…and we lingered in that room as long as our exhausted feet would allow…before begrudgingly retiring to "Room not Rome."

After popping in briefly to shower (with our now-hot water) and refresh, we headed back out…led by our faithful guide Ricky Steeves.

Rick recommended a little "family owned" restaurant, just north of the Piazza Navona. That sounded good to us…so we went there to get some delicious, home-style Italian eats.

But the funny thing about following a guidebook when you're walking around a city is that you start to see couples all over following the same guidebook. So, as we meandered up to the "out-of-the-way family eatery," we saw the tell-tale dark blue Rick Steeves guidebook sitting on pretty much every table – meaning that every person at that restaurant was there at the behest of Mr. Steeves.

And the waiter must have been aware of the fact too…because we were also using Rick Steeves' "Italian Phrasebook." He waited patiently as we clumsily asked for a "table for two," then "the house wine," and he asked all follow-up questions in very competent English.

So the wine came…and it was an entire liter. 1000 mL. Now, a regular bottle of wine is 750 mL, so this meant that we had to (somehow) kill a full bottle and a quarter before our meal was finished (because if we were paying for it, then dall-garn it we were going to drink it).

This meant that, by the time Erika asked for the check (she's been the official "check asker" for pretty much every city thus far), we were both fairly blasted. The check arrived, I fished out the appropriate Euro to pay the man…and, soon enough, a man who was not our waiter came over and picked up our check (and the attached Euro).

Alarms ran through my clouded brain – we'd already had to shoo several street salesmen away from our table, and Rome seemed to be rife with folks trying to make an easy buck. So, when I saw some strange dude reaching for our payment I grabbed at it.

"No, no. This is for the waiter." I slurred.

He and Erika both looked at me with a bewildered expression. He released his hold on the bill, but explained, "Don't worry. I'm the boss-man."

I looked at Erika. "It's fine, Tyler."

I looked at our waiter, who at a nearby table, looking at me and laughing. "Don't trust him…I never seen him before…" I looked back at the man…who was wearing a sweatshirt, jeans, and a baseball hat. In my drunken haze, I'd missed the manager, who'd been circulating the tables for the last couple of minutes.

"Oh…geez. I'm sorry. You're the boss…sorry." I handed him the money, apologized again (forgetting, in my drunken state, how to say "I'm sorry" in Italian), and sat down. Totally embarrassed.

I left a bigger-than-usual tip, and we stumbled out of there. It was time for another walking tour – this time it was the "night walk," recommended by our good buddy Mr. Steeves.

The first stop was the Piazza Bruno. It was busy as heck…but we were far too inebriated to take everything in. Apparently it's the only Piazza in Rome that features a confirmed heretic, excommunicated and burned at the stake by the Catholic Church for daring to espouse a belief in "science." Poor schmuck.

Our next stop was the Piazza Navona. But since we'd already been here we hurried through to the next site.

The next stop, was the Trevi Fountain. This place was also jammed full of people. The fountain was gorgeous…and it was one of those sites that was even prettier at night. Apparently there's a legend that if you throw a coin over your shoulder you'll return to Rome some day. Erika did it…I didn't. Well…lucky her – I guess she'll be back some day. But, for me, I was just glad that I was now "One Euro Richer than Her." She could bemoan that fate while she watched me scarf down a delicious one-Euro gelato later on.

Final stop, the Spanish Steps. The steps were littered with both litter and drunken Romans. It was…pretty scary, really. I mean…I don't think we were in any real danger at any point…but the folks sitting on the steps, in groups ranging from 2 to 20, looked imposing. There was a fountain at the foot of the steps, and some historical buildings around that Steeves said were pretty cool…but it was altogether a little too skeezy of us at that time of night.

So we left. The comfortable "wine buzz" was starting to wear off at that point, and it was being replaced with a not-as-comfortable "wine headache." Then, as if that wasn't bad enough, I got us lost on the way back…adding a good half hour to our walk home.

Needless to say, when we rolled back into our crappy hotel room…heads throbbing…feet protesting…joints aching…we were not in the "best of moods." But…at least we were back…hopefully just staying in the room long enough to sleep, eat, and leave. "Rome not Room."

Day 18 -- Rome, Italy

Time to get our religious on. Vatican City. Home of the pope, a bunch of art, the smallest little country in the world, and the bones of St. Peter.

This morning started much better than the previous morning. The water was hot. The floor was clean. The breakfast was…well, it was still crappy…but at least it was free.

We got out as quickly as we could. We cruised by the kitty ruins and saw a group of kittens gathered in one of the ruined temple's courtyards, and imagined that the kitties had called a "State of the Ruins" meeting…which (given a population of 250) was very poorly attended (and those in attendance were either sleeping or cleaning themselves…except for the one who called the meeting…who seemed very agitated…).

The images of frolicking kitties quickly replaced the nastiness of our room, recharging us, and propelling us to our next destination…across the nasty, polluted Tiber, and on to St. Peter's Square.

Nearing the square, we saw multitudes. Thousands of people were gathered in the square. Apparently there was a "mass" going on – and it looked more like a sporting event than a church service. There were people holding banners, waving flags, sporting matching t-shirts…all facing the steps of St. Peter's Basilica, where a single unoccupied chair was sitting under a pavilion.

So we puttered around a bit. I took some pictures of the Swiss Guardsmen (our roommate Chad played one in an upcoming movie, so I wanted some snaps of the real thing for him to compare). I was photographing one of the fountains when God's chosen one appeared.

That's right. Mr. Pope Himself. Benedict the…fifteenth? Sixteenth? I don't know…he's got a bunch of Roman numerals. Anyway, one of the giant projection screens showed a live feed of His Holiness…meeting with some cardinals, and some dudes in suits somewhere on the premises (I'm assuming). Then he climbed up into a car.

But not just any car. It was the world-famous Popemobile. The video showed the Popemobile cruising off…and then, I saw it. The Popemobile. Tearing through a gate on the left-hand side of the basilica. The crowd went nuts, and his Popelinness started doing doughnuts, tearing through the crowd at a ripping 5 miles per hour, blessing everything in sight. I couldn't believe our good fortune – the most sacred man in all of Catholicdom…driving the coolest car in all of Catholicdom…blessing thousands of Catholicdomites. It was awesome.

After his slow-mo show-off, he returned to the pavilion…climbed the steps to his "big white chair," and started reciting some churchy-call-and-response stuff in Italian. Well…we didn't know the calls or the proper responses, so we lingered a little bit…still amazed that we got to see Benedict himself – the only man who would get a phone call from God if he was "one of us" – then made our way around the Vatican wall to the museum, which had an entrance around the corner.

We'd heard that the line to the museum was atrocious. And…had the pope himself not been holding mass in St. Peter's Square the moment we left for the museum…it probably would have been atrocious. Luckily, we'd avoided the rush, and the wait was no more than 5 minutes. Tops.

So, with Rick Steeves waiting and ready to explain all the crap we were looking at, we entered the museum.

First up were the paintings. There were a lot of them. They were arranged chronologically, starting with the 12^th century or so. Erika and I decided to play a little game: "Spot the Open Mouth."

It took us several centuries, but eventually Erika found some dude playing a guitar and singing. Maybe people in the dark ages didn't need to open their mouths? Maybe artists were afraid that it looked like either "yawning" or "yelling." Who knows. But there was a fear (at least, in the artists that we saw) of showing a gaping maw.

But we made our way through the painting rooms relatively unscathed. There was a lot of neat, famous art there, but, as I've said before, I'm no good at describing art, so I'll leave that to the experts.

However, I was always happy when I could recognize one of the more "obscure" Saints out there. Saint Sebastian seemed to be a popular subject for a painting…probably because artists liked painting a dude who'd been shot full of arrows.

Next stop: lunch. We had pizza in a non-descript cafeteria inside the museum. It was not good pizza, but we were so hungry at that point that we convinced ourselves it was the greatest food that mortal man had ever tasted.

Once lunch was finished we headed over to the "statues." Now…I got to hand it to the Romans – they have some pretty freaking cool statues. The Louvre has nothing on the Vatican Museum where statues are concerned. Even the little busted-up statues were fascinating – the Romans did a hell of a job capturing the human form, and actual human emotions (something sorely lacking in many of the earlier paintings we saw, with a few notable exceptions).

We cruised through the ancient Egypt section, then and gazed in awe at some of Raphael's wall murals, and headed for the ultimate in artistic-ness: The Sistine Chapel.

I'm afraid that my memory of the Sistine Chapel will always be painted by the attendants there…who seemed to say "No Pictures" every 15 seconds or so. But in spite of their valiant efforts, it seemed like every person there was sneaking a picture of the chapel, blithely ignoring the earlier warning signs that featured a camera with a line through it.

But the chapel itself…was…as advertised…gorgeous. Unreal. A pain in the neck (if I were in charge of the viewing area, I'd put in some nice, reclining chairs – maybe ones that vibrated when you sat in them…). Once again, words fail me…but, admittedly, it wasn't exactly a "religious" experience. There were about 300 people crammed into smallish (comparatively) chapel…all talking loudly and sneaking shots of the ceiling (two things expressly forbidden by signs at the entrance). It was hard to be awed at something (even as wondrous as the chapel murals) when you're surrounded by a bunch of noisy, jostling tourists. Maybe if people were just silently gazing at the ceiling it could have been something magical…but…as it was crowded and noisy…it didn't have the effect that I envisioned when Robin William's character described it in Good Will Hunting. Maybe we arrange a private viewing next time we're in Rome?

Leaving the chapel, we entered St. Peter's Basilica. And it was…enormous. I'm talking…all of the monuments and cathedrals we'd seen up to this point (the Eiffel Tower, Notre Dame, Marienplatz, the Frauenkirche, the Coliseum) could fit neatly inside St. Peter's Basilica with room to spare. Okay, that may be a bit of an exaggeration…but…just standing inside, I believed it.

I mean, it's no wonder Martin Luther got so pissed off at the Catholic Church – the thing must have cost a fortune. You wonder how many roads, schools, aqueducts, farms, or (even) small churches they could have built just to have that one massive cathedral. I don't know…call me a socialist…but as impressive as these structures are, I always tend to think about the things that weren't built in their place.

But "built" it was, and it was our duty (as obedient tourists) to be totally awed by it. And awed we were. We decided to cruise up to the top of the massive dome for that famous "panoramic view of Rome."

And climb we did…ahead of some fairly obnoxious German teenaged girls, who yukked it up in German the entire way up. When we got to the top it was super-crowded. Like…"shove your way through the crowd" crowded. Don't get me wrong, the view was fantastic…and we got some great snaps of the city…but there was someone covering pretty much every open spot on the circumference of the dome – so bad that you had to wait for someone to leave before you could grab a slice of rail for yourself.

Overwhelmed by the crowd, and seeing what we'd needed to see, we descended...all the way down to the crypts. We couldn't see all of the folks buried there…but we got to see the first level. Now, for a crypt, it was impeccably clean and tidy. It was more like a "nice basement apartment" than a "tomb." I was hoping to get a whiff of some decomposing popes and noblemen, but all I got was the pleasant aroma of scented candles and flowers.

We made our way past the final resting place of…maybe…a dozen popes (including the late great John Paul II), and headed back out into St. Peter's Square to plan our next move.

We were finished with the Vatican. Reading this again, I realize it comes off a bit petulant – the art was all boring and closed-mouthed, the Sistine Chapel was crowded and noisy, St. Peter's Basilica was garish, St. Peter's dome was crowded, the crypts were clean…et cetera. One could extrapolate, from reading this, that I hated the Vatican. Well, one would be right. I did.

Kidding. I liked the Vatican. I'm not going to write about the hours I spent working my way through the sculpture garden, or the paintings…examining each work with a curious eye. Because it'd sound something like this:

- The first painting was from the 12^th century, and it was a woman with a halo over her head. It was dark, but the woman looked nice.

- The next painting was of Jesus. It was strange, but medieval artists can't seem to decide whether Jesus' feet were nailed together to the cross, hanging loose, or standing on a small ledge near the base of the cross.

- The next painting was of a bunch of saints. I don't know who they were, but they looked cool.

- The next painting was of a creepy baby (who was probably Jesus) giving a Boy Scout Salute to the faithful. I don't think Medieval people knew what babies looked like, and they all have a creepy grown-up look on a naked baby body.

- The next painting was Raphael's something-or-other that's pretty famous. It's got a crazy boy with googly-eyes, and Jesus is standing on a precipice, doing something heroic. The colors are really vivid.

- The next painting was another one of Jesus. This time his feet were nailed to the cross. If you're scoring at home, that's "Ledge: 1, Nailed: 1, Free-hanging: 0"

- The next painting…

And so on. Okay…actually, that was pretty cool. Maybe I should have done that instead of the complain-o-fest that I've got now. The only thing is this entry alone would be about 200 pages long, and it'd start to look like this after a while:

- The next sculpture was an Egyptian god. He had a wolf for a head.

- The next sculpture was another Egyptian god. She had a sword.

- The next sculpture was another Egyptian god. He looked normal.

- The next sculpture was another Egyptian god. He looked pretty normal too, except he had a staff.

- The next room had a mummy in it. It looked dead.

Yeah…once again, looking back, that would be kind of cool too. God, I need to write an art appreciation book sometime.

But the Vatican was finished (that was another Jesus reference, for the faithful). Our next move was another "Steeves Recommended Walk." This time it was through the "crusty" part of Rome…just south of our hotel…on the leeward side of the Tiber (what direction is leeward? Left? Right? Up?). We got to the starting point and…yes…as advertised…it was pretty dang crusty. Not "dangerous" crusty (there were telltale signs of "prosperity" all over the dang place…shining through the thick crust), but it was definitely not as polished as the other touristy spots we'd visited. Once again we found ourselves chasing a few other couples who were reading from the same Steeves guidebook that we were using. Oh, Steeves.

For dinner, we chose a "crusty" restaurant near the "crusty" Piazza, and had some "crusty" bread and "not-crusty" pasta. Then we retired to our "crusty" room, and fell asleep quickly, and crustily.

Tomorrow is the "bonus day." We'd gotten most of the popular sites done in our first two days, so day three was reserved for the "less popular sites" in the area, including an honest-to-God catacomb, a pagan-bathhouse-turned-cathedral, and a tomb decorated with human bones. Should be macabre. Until then…

Day 19 -- Rome, Italy

We got ready quickly and left just as quickly today – satisfying "Rome not Room." It was our bonus day – something that'd worked pretty well for us in the previous cities. There was no real "set" list of sites to see, just a general course, and some "Steeves Recommended" sites.

Our first stop, oddly enough, was McDonalds. We'd avoided all "American Culture" like the plague in our time in Europe…but the promise of good old fashioned American Coffee was just too tempting to pass up. I tried (and failed) to convince Erika that a Quarter-Pounder would also do us good. Erika shot that down, dawgonnit. I mean, sure, we were off the "healthy eating plan" for our trip to Europe…but…there were limits…

Directly across from the McDonalds was another in a long line of the Catholic Church's civic improvements – they'd changed yet another pagan building into a church. This one was a bathhouse until Michelangelo got his green nunchuck'd hands on it (that was a Teenaged Mutant Ninja Turtles joke for all y'all under 30 to enjoy), and turned it into an awesome church to God…but specifically Saint Maria. It also functions as a sundial…so it's got that going for it too. It was big and old…just how I like my Roman buildings.

The next spot on our itinerary was "St. Theresa in Ecstasy" at the "Santa Maria Della Vittoria." But when we arrived, a guy was locking the front door. Unfortunately many of the cathedrals in Rome are closed from 1:00 PM to 2:30 PM (because God has to eat lunch – it's union rules). So we delayed that visit and headed up north to the Villa Borghese (which is Rome's version of Central Park) to have a picnic lunch.

Now…Villa Borghese is no Englisher Garden…but it was all right. It was very "Roman" in its appeal – dirty, very few benches, no trashcans, no bathrooms, and a fine layer of dust covering everything…

But it had that crusty appeal that we were getting used to. Eventually we found a bench, and we were immediately set upon by a lone pigeon. Pigeons in mass are irritating, but single pigeons make for a delightful little "sharing" experience. I named him "Dodo," because that's what he told me his name was. Romans seem to love bread crusts, and they try to make it as dry and inedible as possible – so we threw a chunk of our crusty sandwich bread to Dodo, and he spent the rest of our lunch trying to break it apart. After failing miserably, he got frustrated, and waddled away indignantly. Or maybe he was just a pigeon, and he decided to leave.

Our final destination was up north. Way the hell north. Like…two miles north of our hotel, through the "populated" areas of Rome, where the "people who live in Rome" live.

Here we hit our second big ol' Roman park – the Villa Something-or-other. This was where the fabled "Catacombe di Priscilla" was located. See, after being somewhat disappointed by the cleanliness of the Vatican Crypts, we wanted an authentic, dirty, stinky, decomposing catacomb deep under the earth to wrap our heads around…and the Catacombs of Priscilla were it.

However, we couldn't find the damn place. Our map said that the entrance was at the northern tip, inside the Villa Something-or-other," but we traversed the entire park, and the northern tip held, not a catacomb, but some kind of military base. After wandering for a good 30 minutes, we found the entrance…outside the park…in a non-descript stucco building with a graffiti-pocked wall and barred windows.

We entered, and found out that that it was another "guided tour" – apparently you could get lost forever in the miles of catacombs if you were to "go it alone," so they made you follow a guide. Our arrival just happened to coincide with the arrival of one of those "tour groups" that we'd come to loath, and it was comprised (mostly) of Germans…with a few Italians and Brits thrown in for good measure. All-in-all, our group numbered about 30 people.

Which was a pretty big number to stuff in those narrow catacomb corridors. Now, I feel like I've been crapping all over some of the monuments in Rome (St. Peter's Basilica was a crowded cathedral to excess, the forum was a bunch of decaying ancient Roman buildings, Villa Borghese was a dump, the Tiber was boring and polluted), so, keeping in that spirit, I'm now going to crap on the Catacombs a little bit.

Not really. Actually, they were fairly cool…literally and figuratively. It was a kick to be cruising around, about 30 feet underground, looking at tombs that dated back to the early days of Christendom.

Except the problem is, the graves didn't have any bodies in them (they'd all been exhumed in the "martyr craze" of the early 19^th century by amateur Christian archeologists looking for relics). Add that to the too-large crowd huddled around our "heavily Italian accented" guide, and the catacombs underwhelmed. I suppose with a smaller group, and a more lively tour guide they could have been much cooler…but…as it was, they were just "a'ight."

So we walked the two miles back into town…and caught the "Theresa in Ecstasy" sculpture that we'd missed earlier. I can see why Dan Brown featured that sculpture in his book Angels and Demons – it was one of the coolest statues I'd seen on the trip. And, if you've got a dirty mind, you can see how it could be interpreted as a bit "ribald."

Our last stop before dinner was the Capuchin Crypts – the drink "Cappuccino" was named after the color of the Capuchin Monks' dark brown robes. Their other claim to fame is the fact that the Order decorated their crypt with the bones of 3,000 deceased monks (and a few laypersons thrown in for good measure). The latter was what brought us to the crypt – it was time to get macabre.

And, I must say, the crypt was maybe the coolest thing I saw in all of Rome. There were only 6 little rooms, but each one was lined with rib bones, pelvises, thoraxes, vertebrae…you name a bone, and it was dangling from the wall somewhere. They seemed to love that little bone, with the holes in it, that attaches to the back of the pelvis. It looks like a flower…or a crazy bug of some kind.

But I really liked the plaque at the end: "What you are, we once were. What we are now, you will be." I wish we could have stayed longer, but they were closing down...and we were getting pretty hungry…

We decided that we wanted pizza (well…Erika decided, and I shrugged in meek compliance). Good old fashioned Italian pizza, in a Piazza. We chose the Piazza Navona…because we'd seen several good candidates in our multiple treks through the square…

Out in front of practically every restaurant in Rome is a display of the restaurant's "menu." We were minding our business…looking at a couple of different menus…when, as we were perusing a menu out front of a restaurant, we were set upon by the restaurant's "host," who gave us a sales pitch.

"You are looking for a dinner tonight, yes?"

"Yep."

"Well, you must look no further. We have homemade pasta here. The best in Rome."

"You have pizza?"

"Yes, we have pizza, wine, cheese. Whatever you like. We get you a seat right on the Piazza – look how busy we are. Everyone want to eat here, because we are the best."

We looked around – they did seem to be the busiest restaurant in the square.

"You must eat here. Here, I give you a glass of champagne, gratis." He retreated to his "champagne table" and poured us two glasses.

Well…we'd been hooked. We couldn't turn down the generous offer of free champagne, and no one else seemed so intent on attracting our business…so we took a seat…right next to the Piazza.

We split a pizza, a plate of ravioli, and a half-bottle of wine (no more wine headaches for us). Finishing up, we indulged in our nightly desert in Rome – gelato on a cone – then headed back to our room to work on our crossword puzzle and (eventually) sleep. In fact, one sure-fire way to get Erika to sleep is to put a pen in one hand, and a crossword puzzle in the other. Don't believe me? Here's a video that I thought you might enjoy…

Erika's Sleepy

Ironically, the book she fell asleep reading was the "Sleepy Sunday" New York Times Crossword Puzzle Book...hee hee...

So…that happened. And, like a dutiful husband, I videotaped it for your enjoyment. After that awesome bit of humiliation, I took off her glasses, tucked her into our "musty" bed, and snuggled up next to her for a good night of sleep. We leave tomorrow…with mixed emotions. We're both longing to get home, but (save for one night in a sleeper car), this is our last night in Europe. We're both a little homesick…and exhausted…but it's been a hell of a trip. Great food…amazing, historic sights…and some exquisite company – my wife been the perfect traveling companion…and I couldn't imagine not sharing this experience with her.

Anyhow, our final traveling day is a two-fer – one night on a train, followed by a race across Paris to catch our flight, ending with a 14 hour plane ride home. Let's hope everything works as planned – I'm worried that there's too much stuff that could go wrong. But…what's a trip to Europe without some kind of traveling snafu, right? Until then…

Day 20 -- Rome to Paris

In Switzerland I'd had a brainstorm. See, originally, we'd booked a flight from Rome to Paris aboard a "budget airline." This was done months in advance. Now, these budget airlines are all over Europe…they're basically a bare-bones plane ride that'll cost (typically) under $100 a flight. They're a great way to get across the continent quickly (we could either take a 2 hour plane ride, or a 14 hour train ride).

However, there are all kinds of "hidden costs" to take these airlines. One of the big ones is the "baggage allowance." See…our plane allowed up to 20 kg of weight for checked luggage. Anything over that was assessed a "fee," of up to 75 euro for the excess weight.

Since we were traveling heavy, my great plan had been to either pay the fee (because our bags were well above the threshold), or buy an extra carry-on bag to reduce the weight in our checked bags. But I didn't take into account just how much stuff we were going to buy in Europe. Booze, coffee beans, candy, knick-knacks, et cetera. So…even though we came in heavy, we were adding weight, not losing it.

So I had to come up with another great plan. That plan: a sleeper car. See…trains in Europe weren't so bad, we were finding. And 14 hours on a train really wasn't so bad either…so long as we had that sleeper car. So we went to the train station, to price out the cost of a sleeper car from Rome to Paris.

We were presented with three options: a six-person room, a four-person room, and a two-person room. The two-person cost about 300 euro for both of us; 200 euro for the four-person, and 100 euro for the six-person.

We got the six-person. And I knew it…as soon as I walked out of there…I just knew that we should have just ponied up for the two-person room. We could have afforded it easily. But we were in Lucerne…and money was seeping out of our every orifice in that city. We were terrified that we were going to have to start pinching pennies when we got to Rome…and we didn't want to do that…so I went ahead and got us the six-person car, and we crossed our fingers. Maybe we'd get two friendly, clean, easy-going couples to share our cramped quarters with. Or maybe we'd get two stinky, rude, squabbling couples. It was a crap shoot that I almost immediately regretted…

That regret carried through to Rome…and the morning of our departure, our first order of business was a trip to the train station to see if we could upgrade our ticket…and to store our bags (our train didn't leave until 5:45 PM, and our hotel did not allow us to leave our bags there…since there was no front desk). Unfortunately, the train was sold out…which meant our fate was sealed. We left the station to do some last-minute gift shopping…

And after some not-at-all-interesting-to-talk-about souvenir shopping, we returned to the station…early…to catch our train. We didn't want to tempt fate by missing our connection, so we spent a good three hours sitting around at the Rome Termini. There were other reasons that we didn't see more sites before leaving…but I'll just say that the tensions of the constant travel finally resulted in a bit of a "husband and wife fooferaw." And nothing's worse than being in the midst of a fooferaw whilst sightseeing.

So we waited for a long damn time…and our train was late. About 30 minutes late…which was a little disturbing, because…although we had a good five-hour cushion to get across Paris, we wanted to leave nothing to chance. It a missed connection would be very costly.

As soon as the train arrived we hopped aboard – storage space on these trains is actually at a bit of a premium, so we got to our seats as quickly as we could, tossed our bags into the storage space, and took our seats.

Our first set of roommates arrived…and we were quite relieved to see they were a young, clean British couple. It was a great start – native English speakers, and as they were putting their bags up we could see they were decent, intelligent, considerate folk.

But, as the guy was hoisting his wife's bag into the shrinking storage space, we heard a bit of a commotion coming from outside of our room.

"This is our room!" Came a voice.

"We're in the same room," the English woman replied.

"You're taking our seats!" the shrill voice responded.

"No we're not, they're assigned seats. No one is taking your seat."

That seemed to quiet the voice, temporarily. As the Englishman struggled to get both suitcases stowed away the shrill voice started up again.

"We need to get to our seats!"

The English woman had had enough, so she snapped, "Listen, you'll get to your seat! Settle down. We're putting our bags up, and it's going to take a second."

The voice went silent. Erika and I shared a look. She narrowed her eyes accusingly, and I silently implored her forgiveness. The third and final couple was going to totally ruin this sleeper car experience.

And they did. I believe they were from India (guessing from their accents and their foreign passports) – the man was an aggressive, smelly a-hole, and his wife was a shrill, nagging shrew. The man entered the cabin and lifted his bags up to the storage bin, and I was assailed by the stink of body odor and stale food. They managed to wedge their luggage in place, and they sat down by the door…and quietly went about allowing their smell to permeate throughout the room. After enduring the sullen stinkyness for about fifteen minutes we bolted from the cabin to the dinner car.

In the clean, spacious dinner car, we sat and worked on our crossword puzzle a little more. After an hour or so, a waiter announced that dinner service would be starting, and we were served a pleasant, four-course meal …for a very reasonable price. This ate up a good two-and-a-half hours away from Captain Stinky and The Nag. But, since the dinner car seats didn't recline to beds we had to return to our cabin. Hopefully we could fall right asleep, sleeping straight on through the sights and the smells all the way to Paris.

When we got back, the seats had been flattened, and six bunks had magically appeared from the walls. The lights had been turned off, and (joy of joys) our bunk-lights were not functional. I'd pictured curtains in my head when I booked the tickets (to create a kind of walled off personal enclosure, maybe?), but there were nothing but two straps spanning the gap between the bottom and top bunks…to keep people from rolling off their beds in the middle of the night.

Without any light we couldn't stay up and read, and with sleeping bunkmates, we couldn't talk. All we could do was sit and stare at the bunk directly above ours (Erika and I had been placed in the middle bunks of the cabin).

And we tried to sleep. Desperately. But, for some reason, the harder I try to sleep, the less successful I am. And, to pile on to the misery, the "air" was not working in our room. So…because six people were sitting in there, breathing the same air, the temperature started to rise…until, eventually, I was laying on an uncomfortable vinyl-covered pad…my forehead was sheeted in sweat…which was also pooling in my lower back area. It must have been about 90 degrees in that room.

To top it all off, Captain Stinky (in addition to smelling awful) was a "comically loud" snorer. It was full-on sleep apnea – he'd get a good head of steam, snoring a dozen or so times with no problem. Then…suddenly…he'd choke…and air would bubble through his closed lips. This mouth-breathing cycle would repeat about three times, and eventually he'd wake up, having choked on his own saliva. Then he'd shift positions, and I'd think, "THIS IS IT TYLER! YOU'VE GOT YOUR SILENT WINDOW!!! SLEEP!!!" So I'd try like hell (and fail like hell) to fall asleep for the 30 seconds or so that it took him to recharge his snorer batteries. But, inevitably, the cycle would begin again. This went on for…what must have been about three hours – well into the night. In addition, next door to our room was a group of 30 or so high schoolers…all deciding that "staying up late, laughing loudly, and being obnoxious" was the best way to get from Rome to Paris. I would have gone for my earplugs, but they were in my bag beneath the (occupied) bunk below me…and that would have done nothing to cure the sweltering heat that was chiefly responsible for my discomfort.

So I sat and silently cursed my fate. I figured if I cursed it silently long enough, eventually sleep would force its way through my annoyed grimace. I looked over at Erika, and the woman who could fall asleep in practically any position, anywhere, any time after 10:00 PM was wide-eyed, staring daggers at my poor, cheap self. Once again, I silently apologized…but it did no good. The damage was done…and Captain Stinky was single-handedly ruining not just the sleeper car, but any chance we had at a good night's sleep.

Moments away from expiring due to heat stroke, I decided to open our cabin door to let in some of the "less warm" air from the hallway…as well as a veritable cacophony of noise from the bastard teenagers in the neighboring cabin. Well…noise be damned… I was determined to try to lower the temperature…even if it was by a degree or two.

Eventually…at some point…I must have drifted into an uneasy sleep. While I was sleeping, the temperature in our cabin dropped about 50 degrees. Celsius. But that's a story for next time…because this hell-ride was just the first-half of the trip home. Next up is the final chapter – a freezing morning on a train, then 14 hours of airports and airplanes. Then home. Sweet home.