My Blood Runs Cold

OK, I need a break from the whole "Look what I did in Italy" bit. It's all starting to come out in a monotone in my head. Bueller? Bueller? And I have a little traumatizing story to tell before it takes over my brain and I die of an aneurysm in the shower. Nobody wants that. I'll finish the Tale of Italian Cities later, I promise.

You know that 80's song Centerfold by J. Geils Band? Yeah, well, I always liked that song. Until yesterday.

When I was young, I had a friend that was a year younger than me who we shall call Deadpan Barbie. Her parents ran the local locker plant (where they kill the cattle for your hamburgers) where my brother worked. She had the coolest playhouse above the plant that had previously been an apartment. I always tried to be really well-behaved when I went to their house. I had once heard the grown-ups discussing how her mom had been an LSD freak in her teens, fried most of her brain cells, and now she was teetering on the brink of ending up rocking back & forth in a corner, sucking her thumb. I was bound and determined not to be the reason she ended up in the booby hatch.

Deadpan Barbie's older sister was a red-headed, freckle-faced Lolita - always jumping on the back of one of the male employees, giggling like Fran Drescher on crack, and begging for attention from anyone who didn't look away fast enough. In high school, she started sleeping with a gross, pervy married guy, and ended up pregnant at the same time as his wife. While pregnant, she would strip on the tables at the local bar. I never could understand how the guys would look at that, cuz she was so ugly she'd make a train take a dirt road. Truly, beauty is in the eye of the beer holder.

DB's older brother was the golden boy of the family, and he could do no wrong in her parent's eyes, even though he was completely lazy and dumber than a box of hair. If he did something wrong, he would give a bug-eyed stare that was supposed to pass for innocence, and DB would get blamed. I swear he could have mowed down a crowd of retarded midgets, and his mother would have said, "Well, they must have done something to provoke him."

Somewhere in the midst of all that crazy, Deadpan Barbie kinda got forgotten about. She was shy and wouldn't speak to anyone unless forced, and since she wasn't a walking flesh mattress, her parents just assumed she'd be fine. Her sister got even crazier, and was stealing from the parent's home every time they were gone. She finally married a guy who turned out to be the local Peeping Tom. The brother fell in with a party crowd in high school, and ended up wrecking a jet ski while drunk at the local reservoir. They didn't find his body for two weeks. The dad had a nervous breakdown, and our families stopped hanging out.

Though we still saw each other in school, DB and I went our separate ways. She ended up joining the military after graduation, which stunned everyone, but a family friend helped her get out a couple months later when she reported being sexually harassed. She came back to live with her parents for awhile, and the last time I saw her, she had white-blonde hair and was Oompa-Loompa orange from constant tanning, flat as a board, and slumped to the point it was painful to see. I asked her how things were going, and she told me she was going to head to art school in the fall. She seemed excited about that, but she was still the same quiet, expressionless, sweet, insecure girl I had always known. I couldn't imagine how she would survive living in a city.

Fast forward about ten years. I heard that DB had come back for her high school reunion in July, but I hadn't gotten to see her. Someone mentioned that she was different now, but they refused to explain further. "Find out for yourself," I was told. So I Googled her name, and a result came up - 28 yo, living in Denver. Surely, it must be her. It gave a link to a website and I clicked on it. And there was a picture.

Huh. This girl is dark-haired. Well, her face doesn't look quite the same, but maybe it's her. Oh, there's a link to more pictures. Let's click there.

HOLY CRAP!

So, yeah. Umm, Deadpan Barbie is now a model. A nude model. As in, full-on, fortheloveofallthatsgoodandholyshe'snaked! model. Every friggin' picture was some freaky-deaky skin shot. For the record, there is not enough mental clorox to burn away what is now seared into my retinas. Great googly moogly.

Her hair is now long and jet black, and she has had augmentation to the tune of at least DD. I'm pretty sure she's also had some plastic surgery on her face, because there is an oddly frozen quality to her deer-in-the-headlights look. She looks like a premenopausal Elvira. And someone injected her with a serious dose of confidence. Or meth. Either way, I suspect Ron Jeremy.

From what I understand, she works in a bar in Denver and she does the nude modeling on the side. According to a mutual friend, she is pretty proud of it, but I'm fairly certain there is no way she's told her parents about the fact that her naughty bits are posted all over Al Gore's internet. Unless they have both had lobotomies in the last few years, I'm guessing they would be livid. The girl I knew would have been mortified if someone saw her in a swimsuit, so I just can't wrap my fragile little mind around this. All I know is, every time I see her mom in the post office, the same thing runs through my brain:

I hope that when this issue's gone
I'll see you when your clothes are on...

You're Not Really Holding Up That Tower

So, who's tired of hearing about my trip yet? Yeah, me too.

This was the day we traveled to Pisa. We were up at the buttcrack of dawn and I gotta say, there were way too many morning people on our bus. What is it about laughter and singing at 6:30 a.m. that makes me want to drive a stake through another person's heart? Though I must say, had it not been for the old guy's incessant chatter about boiling deer carcasses for their marrow keeping me awake and slightly nauseous, I never would have had the opportunity to see a scruffy, Lurch look-alike stopped along the road taking a leak in full view of God and country. Outstanding.

Our tour guide Lucca explained more about the Tuscan region and the architecture of Pisa as he loaded us on our transportation to the main city square. I felt like I was headed into the Magic Kingdom.


Our baby train dropped us off at the Palazzo dell' Arcivescovado, where I immediately began taking pictures of every nun I saw coming out of the Bishop's crib. What can I say - not everyone can rock the flowing white ensemble, so give credit where it's due. For the record, I did not ring the bell and run, just to get a photo.



Judging by the crowd, Pisa is the it place to visit. Our white-pants-wearing guide, Giovanni, led us past the massive swells of tourists and gave us a private tour of the baptistery, ginormous church, hospital, and cemetery for the bishops. They were arranged in a sort of square formation, so they were commonly referred to as Hatch, Match, Patch, and Dispatch.




But then we came upon the real reason we were all there - to see the leaning tower of Pisa. It leans due to crappy workmanship on soggy ground that started to settle afterward. If they hadn't stopped building on it during the times they were busy killing people from other towns, it would have toppled. It had actually moved much farther than it was supposed to in the nineties also, so they had to attach counterweights to bring it back. It now sits about twelve feet off center. Our guide says nobody knows for sure who built it, because seriously, who's gonna take credit for that kind of craftsmanship? (If you click on the pic, you can see where they are doing restoration on the third floor. Too much erosion from wind, rain, and bird crap.)



While we were wandering through the throngs of people, we saw a Japanese couple getting married. And since we all know there's nothing I like more than taking pictures of complete strangers without their consent, here's a photo of the happy couple.



When we finally got our fill of buying random Pinocchio souvenirs for the children of friends, it was back on the bus to Lucca. Our guide turned us loose with strict instructions as to when we were to be back at the stop, and we were on our own to roam. There aren't any famous sights in Lucca, but it had once been a castle, so there is a large moat around the town. Ok, sure, without the water and alligators it's just a lawn. Why do you have to be such killjoys? Geez.



My friends and I took off wandering around, with no particular destination in mind. While great for taking pictures of random things you wouldn't ordinarily see, it does lead to a bit of directional confusion. We weren't lost, mind you, we were just uncertain as to where we were and how we would get to where we had been. But how else would we get the opportunity to see the skivvies of strangers? I mean, without resulting in a restraining order?



But the path of misdirection was worth it. We got to see interesting sights all over that we would have missed if we hadn't stumbled into the slightly odoriferous residential section. For instance, check out the lovely sentiment on this wall, which is now my wallpaper. Who says the possibility of herpes simplex can't be romantic?


And then there was the curious street lamps covered in spikes. I finally found out that their purpose is to discourage birdies of all sorts from landing on them, thus leading to the crapping up of the streets. I don't know how the birds feel about it, but I'm fairly confident that getting a metal spike rammed up my keister would rather quickly change my mind about sitting there. Moving on!


I do have one question that perhaps someone out there can answer for me. Occasionally, we would come across a decorative door with a photo above it, followed by a plaque that I assume explains who the person is. Is it a saint? Owner of the home that are just proud of their accomplishments? Lady of the evening selling her wares? My Italian is too sketchy to arrive at an answer. Inquiring minds want to know.


Eventually, this nifty little tunnel led us back into the light, where we suddenly realized that after two hours, we were back where we started. Told ya we weren't lost.

I'm Not As Think As You Drunk I Am

Part I Part II Part III Part IV

After all the hideous walking and such of the morning tour, it was high time to be taking 'er easy. What better way to accomplish that than to head to a winery?

We traveled to the Castello di Verrazzano, a vineyard that has been in the Verrazzano family for generations. It is a beautiful area, and they have groves of olive trees as well as well as the endless fields of grapes.


And to top it off, they also raise wild boars. (Question: if you are raising them domestically, can they really still be considered wild boars? Hmm.) We were directed not to try to get near them, unless we prefer to spend the rest of our lives waving with a stub.

Our guide was named Jillian, and she was a lot of fun. She had this great British accent, made even more entertaining by the fact that she was already half in the bag. She was very patient and good-natured, even when being interrupted by the doucheketeers in the crowd who thought they were comedians. She did, however, threaten to feed any tardy tour members to the wild boars. Perhaps that is why they all looked so excited to see us - feeding time!

Jillian explained to us that because of all the weird bureaucracy in Italy, they are very strict about what grapes can be used for each wine, and no chemical sulfides can be used. In addition, no pesticides or herbicides are allowed. I had been worried about drinking the wine, since it normally makes me really sick within minutes. But this wine didn't bother me at all, so I suspect it has been the sulfides that always leave me praying to the porcelain god.



Nick (?) was our host for the evening meal. It was plain to see we were not his first guests of the day. He was doing good to stay upright as he explained each course to us. He clearly knew his wines quite well, as well as his bawdy toasts to go along with them. But he seemed quite thrilled to be serving us, and for a moment, I thought maybe I would have a new stepdaddy. Alas, it was not to be - he was a slave to the mistress in his arms.

Italian meals are made up of several courses over the span of a couple hours. What would we Americans do with all that extra time after we inhale our food? In fact, I think it was the only time when our tour was forced to stop and take a breath. I can't say I'm a fan of the cured meats. They are all super fatty and have a strong aftertaste. I know, you prosciutto lovers will tell me I'm out of my mind and that it's the way it's supposed to taste. That's fantastic. You can eat it all you want. I'll just be over here gnawing on the tongue of my shoe.

I think we've been spoiled by our Americanized Italian food, though. I had this expectation of wonderful soft garlic bread and rivers of pasta overflowing with toppings. Darn you, Olive Garden! Instead, the bread is rock hard and you are given olive oil to drizzle over it, which doesn't exactly soggy it up any. Fabulous. I guess the bread that breaks off and sticks in my bridge can be saved for later. I could be wrong, but I'm pretty sure our bread had been on the table since the last party. Is that a tooth in the side of that roll?

The pasta, on the other hand, was 100 times better than anything that's ever come out of my kitchen. While they don't drown everything in sauce like we do, it's all fresh and they put a spice mixture on the top that was extraordinary. Joygasm! I finally found a place that sold the spices for an outrageous price and I brought 'em on home with me. The cheeses were strong, but one in particular, when covered in balsamic vinegar, tasted like strawberries. Sure, I'm certain my arteries were hardening as we ate, but what better way to die than with my mouth stuffed with food? If it's good enough for Mama Cass, who am I to complain?

And then, they brought out the wild boar. Just for the record, they were adorable creatures when we saw them earlier in the tour. But they looked even better on a plate drizzled with gravy. That'll teach ya to squeal at me, piggie. I hadn't eaten boar before, but it really was outstanding. And who knew there was a wine to go with wild boar? For the record, I'm pretty sure ours wasn't this aged.


At the end of the meal, they brought out almond biscotti that we were to soak in a dessert wine and eat. The combo seemed a little odd, but I gave it a try and it was wonderful. I don't generally mix my booze and cookies, but after this experience it's amazing to me that we didn't all come home 300 lb. alcoholics. Maybe it works with other combinations? Pass the Oreos and Crown.

Paralegal Barbie and I were seated at a table with the travel agents who had arranged everything. They had actually planned the tours for something like fifteen countries, so they got to go everywhere and check out the sites and features they might want to include. How do I get that job? The agent's wife was asked if she wanted to hold a baby panda when they were in China. Thinking it would be like a small teddy bear, she agreed wholeheartedly. But when she sat down, they brought out a 180 lb. "baby" and plopped him in her lap. I imagine there's nothing like being eye-to-eye with a panda that's bigger than you. Very cool.

Her husband looked like a mildly retarded Boss Hogg, and pretty much the last person I would have expected to have any desire to travel the world in his multi-colored suspenders and high-water pants. But that whole cover-not-representative-of-the-book thing certainly applied here. He was hilarious, and it turned out he and his brother had lived in Peru while single 40 years ago, and their stories kept us entertained all night.

I'd have to say that this night was probably my favorite of the entire trip. It was our first chance to get out of the hustle and bustle of the city, and actually see Italy the way we envisioned. And while you regulars know I'm not exactly the type to get giddy over the sunset, drinking wine on a balcony overlooking a vineyard in Italy as the sun goes down is not a bad way to spend an evening. Being surrounded by slightly tipsy, equally enthralled friends? That was just a bonus.

Where, Oh Where, Was Daniel Craig?

Wow! It looks like this place was quite the beehive of activity while I was gone. Who knew that you could become a blog of note after practically abandoning all effort to post? Ahh, the irony.

If you haven't gotten caught up on the previous days of this little trip, go read them first here, here, and here. Pace yourself.

The day's tour started off with a trip to Siena. The first thing you learn when on a tour where the majority of your tripmates are women is this: #1 sight you will see is bathrooms. We weren't twenty minutes into the morning tour when a particularly hefty woman got a pained expression. She started goosestepping like she either had a shingle nail through her foot or she was desperately trying to keep some terrible entity from escaping out the ole poop chute. She flagged down our guide and asked where the nearest bathroom was. Our guide led us down a narrow alleyway, pointed to a dilapidated building covered in graffiti, and informed us we would have to pay to use the facilities. Judging by the smell of the alley, most people don't have .60 Euro.


A little Asian lady took our money, smiled and jabbered something that sounded like Ewok, and handed us a ticket. We headed inside and our ticket was taken by a large tattoed Asian man with no sense of humor, and I wondered if perhaps choosing the wrong door would lead to sex slavery in Cambodia. The tanks were attached about 5 ft up the wall, and you had to push a button on the tank to get it to fill with water. Oh, did I mention the glaring lack of toilet seats? Welcome to Italy - enjoy the splash. And to wash our hands we had to use the foot pedal to run the water. For those of us with chewing gum/walking down the street issues, not a highlight.

Our lovely tour guide regaled us with stories of the rivalry between Florence and Siena that exists down to this day. I believe she was a Siena native, and her smile didn't really hide the fact that she would gladly tie a honey-covered Florencian to a tree in the woods if given the chance.


It really is a beautiful area, and there is a massive Renaissance wall surrounding the city, so I was starting to get interested. Plus, I saw a balding fat man sunning himself at the top of the wall, so I knew this place would be ripe for pictures.


We went past the Church of San Domenica, but unfortunately, we were not given time to go inside. Word on the street is that it houses the perfectly preserved head of St. Catherine. Now I'm not Catholic and her head holds no special significance for me, but how often am I going to have the chance to check out a detached noggin in a habit? What a letdown.

The streets are all narrow and winding, so here's where I started to actually feel like I was in the Italy imagined in my sandbilly brain. Some of my pictures got a little artsy fartsy, so I'll try not to make you suffer too much. But the architecture is so amazing, and the details are all intricate and whatnot, so even the simple things seem cooler there.



Our guide then took us to the piazza where the annual horse race known as Il Palio is held. It looks boring in the picture, but every August, a crapton of dirt is hauled in, dumped in the square, and ten horses race to victory. The celebrations for the winner often last into October. That's my kind of party. In fact, here's a little bit of trivia for ya: this is where the horse race in Quantum of Solace was filmed. The scene only lasted 8 minutes, cost $1 million to make, and they used 1,850 extras. About 30-60,000 people show up to watch Il Palio, and there's not a lot of room in the center of the "racetrack", so there's a good chance you're going to make it to second base with the sweaty gambler next to you. Oh, and there's no facilities available, so as our guide said, "Several hours jammed in a crowd is a long time. People bring their water bottles. That's all we're going to say about that." Ok then. That rushing water sound isn't coming from the fountain.


It was then back on the bus to San Gimagnano. They turned us loose finally to roam on our own and check out the sites. It was a blast shopping and eating in the little stores and listening to the Italian shopkeepers fight. They were obviously related and the son would shout, wave his hands, and roll his eyes while the father would rattle something off in disgust and hit the credit card machine. The mother would then scurry in and baby the middle-aged son. If they had subtitles, it would have been Everybody Loves Raymond.

In the interest of trying to leave my mother in Italy, I met a very nice man from Dubuque, IA, who happened to know people we know, in a little pizzeria. Knowing that my mother gets all twitterpated over that small world crap, and he was on the same tour as us (different bus), I introduced them. Sure, his pants were hiked a little high and he was wearing a fanny pack, but at this point, that seems unimportant. But to be honest, the statue was better looking than he was.

I finally found something that caught my eye - the Museum of Torture! All methods of pain imaginable in one place. Truly, there is more than one way to skin a cat. And where else am I going to see a werewolf chained in a room walled with skulls? I mean, besides in my creepy neighbor's basement?

Oh, I suppose you want to see actual scenery that makes you want to be in Italy? Alright, fine, here's a pic of the view from the top of a villa. Beats the snow and dead grass in Nebraska, eh?

Did I mention that the Italians have a freaky obsession with Pinocchio? Yeah, yeah, I know Gepetto was Italian or whatever, but seriously! He's everywhere! Puppets, pictures, paintings, jewelry, large soft dolls (I should have sent one to John, but Michele wouldn't get any sleep with all his weeping at night), etc. It was downright disturbing, especially after seeing this.

Parks dedicated to liars should catch on in the states. Every politician will have their very own swing set.

Can you believe that was just the events of half the day? Since I intend to milk this little trip for posts as long as possible, that's it for now. Next up: our trip to the vineyard/winery.

Quest... Part III

Part I
Part II


On our first day in Florence, our travel agents had arranged for a private breakfast. There was food as far as the eye could see. I quickly learned that Italian yogurt all tastes like plain American yogurt, which is the taste equivalent to sucking pus out of an abcess. And what passes for bacon is would actually be quite good, if only they didn't leave it nearly raw. I found a tray in the back of the room where the supposedly overcooked bacon had been hidden - jackpot! Before long, word spread and everyone was headed toward that table. The bright red orange juice is quite excellent, made from Sicilian blood oranges, and the pastries were to die for. Over the next 14 days, I became quite a fan of Nutella, and I swear I had withdrawals once I got back. It won't be long til I'm making back alley deals to get the good stuff.

Our first stop of the day was at the Piazalle Michelangelo, which is the best place to get great shots of Florence. The guide, Matteo, was extremely perturbed that some took too long getting back on the bus. He started waving his arms frantically and shouting about "poonctuality", telling us how disrespectful it was to make others wait. Yet, when the next bus was late to get us and we asked why, Matteo shrugged his shoulders and said, "This is Italy." Go figure.

We took a tour of Pierotucci, a leather factory/store where everything is handmade from lambskin and kidskin (apparently of the goat variety, not child). The products were beautiful but extremely pricey. I was admiring one coat and the owner told me I had excellent taste. Just as he told me it was "only 700 euro", it fell off the hanger and landed on the floor. I swear I hadn't touched it, but the man sniffed indignantly, snatched up the jacket, and rushed away stiff-legged like he was suffering alli "treatment effects". Guess I didn't want to buy it after all.

We were then handed off to a tour guide for a half day tour of Florence. She was 30's, pretty, and dressed very stylish. And then she gestured toward a statue. Ho. Lee. Crap. She could have braided the pit hair that was flowing from underneath her arm. It was like the woman on the bicycle in that Boost Mobile commercial. I made sure to stay upwind of her from then on. I hate having hair in my face.

She showed us tons of churches and statues, and I think the R-rated figures may have broadened my mother's horizons more than I'm comfortable with. Her trip pictures look like a slideshow of marble porn.

Of course, each one of the statues had some pretty little story to go along with it, generally involving violence, greed, war, lust, and sodomy. You know, all the ingredients for a children's book. Here we see the Rape of the Sabine Women.


There were street performers everywhere, and while I would normally scoff at their expectation of money for doing very little, it was freakishly hot the entire time we were there. You couldn't pay me enough to paint my body and prance around for strangers in 100 degree weather. Then again, no one would want to see me do that, so it's kind of a moot point.



Once our tour was over, we headed back to the shops we had bypassed during the race of the sights. In one of the piazzas stood a golden boar with lines of people waiting to touch it. Legend has it that if you put a coin in its mouth and rub its nose, it brings you good luck. Swine flu is more likely.


And of course, a trip wouldn't be complete without a picture of a diplomat who had just left our U.S. embassy, also known as McDonalds. Can you find her in the picture?

Speaking of food, the restaurants in the piazzas have a host/greeter trying to draw people in. They will stand outside the restaurant and shout at passersby. Normally, I was very good at not making eye contact. But the man outside one spoke to me, and I made the mistake of looking his way.

"Buon giorno! Que bella! You hungry? You look for good meal?"

I smile and shake my head. We keep walking.

"How about a nice boy?"

"Husband?!"

Sorry. I just don't want that kind of commitment for a meal.


We ended up eating at a place near our hotel, where no one spoke English. The surly waiter directed us to a back room, which was actually an outside area enclosed by latticework and grape vines. He handed us menus and wandered away, only to return a couple minutes later to take our order. We asked for more time, and apparently that is the equivalent to peeing in someone's soup. He sighed, said something in Italian that I'm pretty sure meant "stupid frickin' Americans", and scurried back to the kitchen, where he shouted and waved his hands like a drunken air traffic controller. But to be fair, that's what I did when I had to deal with idiot customers too. It just doesn't sound as pretty in English.

But the menu decoder in my phrase book was very helpful, the food was plentiful and we had a good time all the same. Once he brought us our food, he disappeared and never returned, so there was no fear of my pidgin Italian causing an international incident. Here is one of the ginormous calzones.


On our way back to our motel, we had to pass an area that was a little dark and seedy looking. I wasn't too concerned until we came around the corner into an area where all the homeless were laying out their blankets for the night. Still wouldn't have been a problem until I saw one man's companion: a huge German Shepherd with a pink collar. I swear that sucker was tall enough to look me in the eye. The man had her tied up next to his "house", and she was eyeballing anyone who walked near it. That's one way to protect your shopping cart. I casually strolled by it, careful not to make eye contact. The last thing I needed was a hobo's girlfriend tearing my throat out on a urine-soaked street.

Part IV might be more interesting. But don't count on it.

Quest for an Italian Stepfather: Part II

If you haven't read the first Italy post, check it out first.

Alrighty then, now where were we? Oh yes, this was the day we flew out. We awoke to pouring rain once again, and so we decided to just stay all day at the airport, instead of going sightseeing after dropping off the luggage. As it turned out, that was a wise decision. The roads to the airport ended up flooded and many people were unable to get in. We would have missed our flight to Milan, and I would have had a royal freakout. Nobody wants that.

Our flight out was supposed to leave at 6:35 p.m. All the flights around our gate were being delayed or cancelled due to the weather, so we were holding our breath. The lightning was unbelievable, and the thunder was rocking that place like a taco fart in church. We were sure that even if they did let us fly, our plane was going to end up in a fireball over the ocean. But they let us board at 5:50 p.m. and then we sat and waited. And waited. And sighed, shifted, cursed the weather, and contemplated how long it would be before the toilets would start to overflow on the tarmac. At 8:50 p.m., they finally let us start an active taxi, at which point we discovered my mother was in the bathroom. I fully expected her to return to her seat, the bottom of her shirt wet and stained blue, but she came back unscathed just as we were taking off.

My seat mate and I watched the airport lackeys hauling loads of luggage to the various planes. Remember, there are sheets of rain coming down. And not one load of luggage is covered. So we were chuckling about how many people were going to be seriously pissed when they picked up soggy suitcases at baggage claim. Yeah, well, when we got to our hotel, I opened my suitcase and discovered that everything around the edges of it was soaked, and the suitcase color had dyed my clothes. That's karma, baby.

It was about an eight hour flight to Milan, so it was 10:00 in the morning when we arrived there. It was then a four hour bus ride to Florence. We had decided we would all stay awake for the day to lessen the jet lag. Guess who was the only one who didn't snooze on the bus?

We were all stoked about staying at the Hilton Hotel, since we had checked it out online and it looked relatively awesome. Yeah, well, I'm pretty sure the rooms were actually designed by Paris Hilton. The shower doors were clear glass, the bathroom door was blocks of frosted glass separated by lines of clear glass, and the wall separating the bathroom from the bedroom was also glass. Oh sure, there was a sliding door that would cover it, but really, are there a lot of guests requesting the ability to see their fellow room dweller perched on the throne or scrubbing their bits? Creepy. Oh, and they don't provide washcloths, and they ran out of towels the second day we were there.

In addition, the elevators clearly were not equipped for the number of us who were there. Shortly after arriving, Paralegal Barbie and I were attempting to get on and our bus captain was already in the elevator. We stepped in and the alarm sounded that the elevator was overweight. It was supposed to hold eight people! Now I'll admit I appreciate my fast food as much as the next guy, but it's not like people moo when I lumber past them. And the pavement doesn't crack when PB falls, so clearly there was a maintenance issue. They finally quit working altogether, some with guests stuck inside.

We then spent the next hour searching for the stairs. If you were in the lobby, there were stairs to take you to the first floor. That's where they stopped, unless you took the set on the other side. They returned you to the lobby. It was like being trapped in an MC Escher painting. We finally discovered that the door to the stairwell was behind the bar, but as the burly bellman informed us, they were "for emergencies only." Ignoring his glares, we ripped open the door and headed to the third floor. Just one problem: the doors off the stairwells were locked. After much gesturing and breaking out my mad face, the bellman finally sighed and unlocked them. There was a mad dash of people using the stairs, much to the disgust of the staff, who apparently preferred we spend the evening sprawled in heaps in the lobby. Stupid demanding foreigners.

Of course, once we got to our rooms, there was the little matter of getting the lights to stay on. Now I realize that I'm not the most traveled person in the world, so I fully accept that there are going to be times when my redneck reality rears its ugly head. But come on now, even I understand the basic concept of a light switch. Off. On. Bam! Let there be light! Yeah, well, not so much here, past the first thirty seconds. So we spent the next 10 minutes trying to figure out how to keep the suckers on, short of having one of us open the door every 30 seconds. For those of you better-traveled than I, perhaps you've already figured out that they required the room key being inserted in the sensor in the wall and left there. Pardon me 'most to death, but wouldn't it just be easier to have a switch? Surely the Hilton can handle the occasional light switch being left on when someone leaves their room.

In addition, the TV didn't work right either. The picture kept scrolling while I attempted to watch an episode of Bonanza dubbed in Italian. The windows wouldn't open past a half inch, there were only two outlets in the entire room, both of which were used for lamps, and there was no swimming pool, only a jacuzzi that cost extra to use. Where's my Super 8, dang it?

We decided to hit the town on our own for the night. But after waiting an hour for the hotel shuttle to come back, we gave up and took off walking. We found a strip mall nearby, where they were playing American Christmas music. In July. We wandered around until we found a restaurant, only to discover The Crazy Bull was a sports lounge that serves... American food. I went with the pizza, which is sparse on cheese, sauce and toppings and is always thin crust in Italy. Their pepperoni is very spicy and has a strange aftertaste, but the beer helps you forget that. Plus, you are easily distracted by the sports shows that, between news items, feature random women dressed like they are headed for an S&M party, prancing past the news desk and giggling. Not sure what sport they represented, but I think it involves a whip.

By the time we got back, the hotel was pretty dead and the elevator worked...until the third floor. The rest of our group had to hoof it up the stairs to get to the ninth floor where they were staying. If a fire broke out that night, we'd have just laid in our beds and held out marshmallows on sticks.

Part III coming soon...

Weirdos and Tragedy

Interrupting Italy Replay for Breaking News:

Do you remember my story about a former classmate's crazy dad? Well, early this morning, the cops found him inside his ex-wife's house with a gun. Details are still sketchy as to exactly what happened, but the cops shot and killed him. About a month or so ago, he had gotten in trouble yet again for choking a hired man's girlfriend. He had plead out some of his cases and was out on bond on the original attempted murder charge, but he hadn't been sentenced yet. Supposedly, he was hiding in the closet with two guns.

I had dealt with him in the office recently, and there was just a look in his eye that wasn't right. As much as he repelled me now, I made a point of being nice to him still. He acted like we were best friends, as though he hadn't tried to murder the mother of his children. He was a total creeper.

I feel bad for his family. His kids have been through a lot. But at least his ex-wife no longer has to fear for her life.