Saucy/Dadley Joint Email Numero Tres
**DISCLAIMER: Some parts of this email could be construed as inappropriate and/or offensive. Such was not the intention of its authors. After all, we’re just recovering Catholics. Please accept our sincere apologies if what we say is blasphemous. Catholicism confused us, because it told us everything was sinful. Now that we’ve rejected that, it’s kind of hard to discern what is or isn’t a sin. It should be noted that enough Catholic guilt remains that we felt compelled to write this disclaimer.
This message brought to you by amore. When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie, that’s amore.
Roughly translated, that means that when our planet’s satellite smashes into your face (just like a pizza-apparently-does on a regular basis), that’s how you know you’re in love.
Why have we never questioned the lyrics to this song?
Questionably symbolic lyrics aside, we went to Italy. Land of amore and silly songs about Napoli. We, unfortunately, did not make it to Napoli. We did, however, have a grand ol’ time in Rome, Florence, and Venice. Hence-you guessed it-another joint email is in order. This one will highlight adventure with any or all of the following:
- Lost baggage
- Arch madness
- Our conclusion that there are only 6000 people in the world
- More Roman sights than you can shake a stick at. Or shake anything at, for that matter.
- Rat soccer
- A line that-quite literally-wrapped around an entire nation
- Cutoff shirts
- The slip ‘n shower
- 10:30 moral obligation
- Ticket fiascos
- Bidon’t
- Papal parties
- CMC reunion, Florence-style
- Heavenly beef
- Gelato snobbery
- The Statue of David
- A lot of Jesus
- The lost hostel
- Mountain Brad
- Hangman tomfoolery
- Cards. More cards. Cards on steps. Cards in trains. Cards in our breakfast nook.
- Our breakfast nook
- Serious lettuce
You may notice from the length of the list that this email threatens to be of inappropriate and life-threatening length and girth. Yes, girth. Thus, let’s jump right into this…
Brad: As you might imagine, “lost baggage” means that they “lost my baggage,” a polite term for what happens when the airline does a disappearing act on half of my wardrobe and-more alarmingly-my very nice corkscrew. We get to Rome, we’re standing at the baggage claim, and something happens that didn’t surprise me at all. Just as when I arrived in Prague, my luggage did not appear. Somehow, I wasn’t that upset. I was mildly confused, because my bag had been in the middle of the luggage for the rest of my group-all of which had arrived-but you know…shit happens. I was, however, upset when I had to wait in a nonexistent “line” for over an hour just to tell someone that my bag didn’t show. Suffice to say, incompetence ruled the day, and I began my Rome vacation without any clothes or toiletries. Huzzah! More on my baggage-physical, emotional, and otherwise-later on.
Patrick: There’s only one highlight from my perspective on this whole debacle. While Brad was in line, I made friends with a huge, gorgeous German Shepherd. I want one. But moving on. We took a 30-minute train from the airport to Roma Termini (train station), which should give you some idea of how massive Rome is. The terminal itself was very nice and the outside was decorated with arches. I accidentally dubbed it “arch madness” at which point Brad threw both of his shoes at me. Our friends Katherine, Alli, and Blair were staying at the Alessandro Palace hostel while we stayed three blocks in the other direction of the station at the Alessandro Downtown. Yes, Evan and Katherine, downtown. Good hostel really, except the shower that had a floor sloping towards the drain in the middle so as to never allow the inhabitant even footing. I remarked after my first adventure that one of us would eat it while attempting to shower. Turns out Brad fell victim to the Slip ‘n Shower on our last day there.
Brad: First day in Rome. We hop on the subway toward the Colosseum, all excited about our day’s forthcoming adventures in ancient Roman sights. But we never expected it to happen like it did. You walk off the metro and fa-BAM! Colosseum. Like, I swear to God, it felt like somebody designed the metro so that you actually break your nose on the damn thing coming out of the metro. But it was one hell of a sight, looming over us the second we hit open air. Pretty incredible. Go see it. Only thing really of note while in all of ancient Rome-aside from the fact that it’s stunning-was the random coincidence. Earlier in the day, our own Saucy Weisman had posited the theory that scientists and pollsters and such were incorrect when saying that the world had six billion people. In reality, there are only six thousand. Some of them occasionally don disguises so as to confuse the others, but really, it’s 6000. Don’t fool yourself into believing anything else. Thus, it wasn’t strange at all when I saw two people from the NYU program. Or later, when we saw the people from Santa Cruz who we'd talked to on the train from the airport to our hostel. 6000 people. Anyone who says otherwise is a dirty liar. Also worth mentioning is the Trevi Fountain. Some people say it’s just a fountain. I say it’s the third coming of Christ (by popular consensus, Patrick is, in fact, the second coming). Pictures do not do justice to the glory of that fountain. When I’m rich, I will have one. I will swim in it. And God said, it will be good.
Patrick: Need further proof of the 6000-person theory? We were at dinner one night and took interest in a table full of Brits next to us. Brad saw a guy of interest, I had my eyes on his amiga. Little did we know that we would run into this group 3 OTHER TIMES while in Rome. Creepy stalkers… Of greater note from that dinner was our walk back to the bus stop. While strolling through the streets of Rome, we encountered a rat. Not a terribly ugly one. I thought it was a mouse until I saw its hideous tail. Before we could really do anything, one of the many street vendors (the ones who sell fake purses and belts) kicked the rat. He just flat out booted the thing. It flew about 5 yards and this was all amusing, but the rat stupidly decided to go back in the direction of the guy who kicked it! So the guy kicked the rat again! Still not giving in (and you have to admire the tenacity even if you question the intelligence) the rat came back a third time. The vendor lined him up, planted his left foot, swung his right and…
GOOOOOOOOOOOLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
The rat was dead. Poor guy, I kinda liked him. Brad and I laughed, the girls nearly cried, and the street vendor notched another win in the famed Italian rodent league. Also, we ran into a guy from our own program at the Vatican. Ahh yes, the Vatican. The holy city. Indeed, an autonomous country. The first thing you notice about the Vatican is that it has two layers of protection. First, a 30’ wall. But around that is a line of all 6,000 people in the world wrapping around it. Blocks upon blocks upon blocks. I never actually walked far enough to see where it ended. We paid 25 euros to join a tour, immediately left the tour because it was lame, and considered the money well spent. Why? Because we skipped the vast majority of said line.
Brad: Inside the Vatican, there is art. Some people would say there is also religion; the home of largest religion in the world, perhaps. But no. There is only art. Lots and lots and lots and LOTS of art. Art everywhere. I felt like I was shitting Rafael-quality painting by the end. But not literally, because that would be disturbing. In any case, it is a long, art-filled, maze-like walk to get to the Sistine Chapel. I enjoyed the Rafael rooms the most, followed closely by an ornate gold-and-blue hallway that I initially thought was the Sistine Chapel. By the time we got there, I was mildly disappointed. Sure, it was cool to see it. But it was really crowded, dimly-lit, and there were angry men shouting at us to be quiet the whole damn time. Shouting. To make us quiet. Don’t get me to started on the inappropriateness of it all. Plus, they weren’t even Swiss guards. At least then we could have a good laugh at their pants. There were, however, Swiss guards blocking the entrance to St. Peter’s Basilica. Why were they blocking the entrance, you ask? (If you didn’t ask this question, disregard that sentence and slap me later for my presumptuous assertions). They were blocking the entrance because-and I quote-“the Pope is having a party inside the Basilica.” Pope. Party. Papal Party in St. Peter’s. Even the Pope likes to get down.
Patrick: The days ticked by. Brad still did not have his luggage. So every day, Brad would buy clothing to wear the next day. Brad attempted to buy socks and wound up with racing stripes. Brad attempted to buy light and dark blue undershirts and wound up with…………….light and dark blue cutoff undershirts. The second he took them out of the wrapper, I lost it. In fact, they still make me laugh out loud. Did I mention that Europeans wear ridiculous clothing? Poor Brad, he deserved better. Our last night there, we met up with Katherine’s friend, enjoyed Italian pasta and table wine and headed out to the most Italian bar we could find… The Drunken Ship. A place so Italian, they have a Beirut table. Now, upon finding such a place, you have two options: a) Stick your nose up at this tourist trap or b) throw back a shot of tequila, buy a Heineken, grab a pitcher of beer and play some ‘ruit. Needless to say, I chose option b. Brad and I fared well at the table but eventually ceded it to our female counterparts because they were enjoying the company of the Wake Forest frat boys much more than ourselves. Our night ended when we took a particularly indulgent friend home. As this was much later than we had been staying out, our normal route back was blocked off and we ended up walking through a sketchy tunnel under Roma Termini. I woke up the next morning feeling like the physical manifestation of a beer.
Brad: Time to leave Rome. We have a ticket. We get seat reservations. We discard original ticket, because now we have seat reservations. Annoying train man says we can’t get on our train without the original ticket, despite clearly having assigned seats. Fiasco ensues, nice train lady informs us our reservation is fine, we get on the train as the doors are closing and its rolling away, and all is good. On to Florence.
First thing of note in Florence: the bidet. If you’re not aware of what a bidet is, let me inform you: you know how Europeans are renowned for smelling like shit? Well, turns out that we can definitively attribute that to the bidet, a device that “cleanses” the buttocks by squirting water up there. Foul. Bidet? Bidon’t. I mention this because we had a bidon’t in our hotel room in Florence. I laughed at it and tried desperately to pretend it was intended for washing feet.
Patrick: After walking all over Rome, it was nice to get to a smaller, less intense city like Florence. It’s just got more charm. Another perk? Elissa lives there! So after a day of exploring the city (including the Florence Cathedral which is remarkable in that it’s ornate on the outside and relatively austere on the inside) we met up with our home girl. We reminisced about Europe and all things CMC. The highlight of the first night was dinner. Being with “locals” has its advantages, and one of these is that they know where to eat. Of course dinner before 8pm is unheard of in Italy. So by this point we had come to the new conclusion that 10:30 dinner is a moral obligation. We arrived at the restaurant, had a table waiting on us, and proceeded to feast. Up until now, we had been eating the American way, with a small appetizer and a main course. But in Italy, you have two courses. The first was a sampler of five different kinds of pasta including one that had a pumpkin sauce. Yummisimo. The second course needs a bit of an intro. You see, thanks to our friends in Argentina, I have been tortured by tales of exotic beef. Beef here; beef there; beef for dinner; beef for breakfast. In Praha, we have only phfatty ham. And then in Florence, there she was: a gorgeous piece of fillet. Cooked medium-rare, elegant in her black balsamic dress. She beckoned and I could not resist. Our affair was brief, yet memorable. I will remember her forever. I don’t even care how much she cost.
Brad: That beef was beautiful. In fact, I’d go so far as to call it the fourth coming. Christ is popping in a lot these days. Which reminds me…Florence has so…much…Jesus. We went to two museums. Each one had the following breakdown: 5% great art, 15% really good art, 80% crappy, gold-inlay, repetitive and boring Jesus. We were so sick of it by the end that it was ironically heaven-sent when we saw him. The most beautiful thing I think I’ve ever seen, and I am absolutely serious in that assertion. The Statue of David in all its glory is a wonder of the world. Huge. Perfect. Awe-inspiring. We stared at it for soooooo long. Then when we were about to leave, we all looked at each other and said, “again?” And we stared at it again. Absolutely stunning. That’s Michelangelo eight billion points, crappy painters of gold Jesus babies zero. But kudos to the guy who painted Jesus as a fat baby. I mean, c’mon, the Son of God is going to eat well. Let’s be realistic.
And thanks to Elissa’s sage guidance, we also ate well. Prior to Florence, we were gelato lovers. After leaving Florence, we were bonafide gelato snobs. Heaps of tasty-looking stracciatella gelato? Fi on you, phony gelato man! We know your tricks. We know you’re trying to lure in unsuspecting tourists who flock to gelato mounds like Ben Fidler flocks to shiny objects. We know you. And we reject you.
Patrick: Mmm, gelato. My personal favorite flavor? Frutti di Bosco, which translates to “Fruits of the Woods.” And as for the fourth coming, I’ve only witnessed such a thing on a few occasions and even then whoops…changing subjects. Off to Venice! The train ride was (thankfully) uneventful and we exited the terminal only to finally understand what people meant by “streets made out of water.” The girls were staying in the San Marco part of the island, furthest away from the station, and although we didn’t have perfect directions to our own hotel, we remembered it being in roughly the same neighborhood. So onto the waterbus (yes, a boat that acts like a tram) we went. Over the bridges, down narrow alleyways, past the Disney Store (yeah, like you can get away from one of those) and to the girls’ hotel we went. And now for finding our hostel. Funny, we can’t find this street name anywhere in the San Marco area. So we go to the tourist info place by the Piazza San Marco (Italian for “place with many pigeons”) where the lady informs us that our address is located…right across from the train station! Back on the waterbus we go. Those lying scums! When we do locate our hole in the wall the lady informs us that we are at the correct check in location and that a lady who speaks no English whatsoever will lead us to our room…near the Piazza San Marco! My backpack (picture Mt. Everest climbing attire) weighs 3 tons but at least we’ll be in a good location when we get there. So back on the waterbus. Again we navigate the bridges and alleyways until we are lead into a sketchy building undergoing remodeling. We go up several flights of stairs sharing thoughts like “will we be sharing our room with 5 rats, or 500?” until finally we are at an amazing room. All is well! We even have a kettle, and our own shower, and a breakfast nook! Woot!
Brad: My enthusiasm for said nook was, at first, muted. Nooks are gaaaaaaaaaay. And I hope all of you know me well enough that I immediately reject gaaaaaaaaay things. Nevertheless, as part of our stay, we were given biscotti and coffee for breakfast. Add to that our seemingly endless card games, and it seemed only appropriate that we take our prissy-eating, game-playing, dorky selves over into our gaaaaaaaaay little breakfast nook. So I’m not proud to say it, but we ate biscotti, sipped coffee, and played cards in a nook. The shame. Luckily, there was one thing that allowed me to retain not dignity, but a shred of masculinity. When my bag was lost (and yes, it’s still gone at this point in the story), I unfortunately lost the razor I had brought along on the trip. In a show of protest against the powers-that-be at Smart Wings, I decided not to shave until I a) got my luggage or b) got back to Prague. “HaHA!” I thought, “I will look gross and unkempt and homeless! That will show them!” Suffice to say, by the time Venice rolled around, I was a prickly-looking mountain man. It was really disgusting.
Patrick: Yup, I was traveling with Mountain Brad. Rugged, in a sort of Nissan X-Terra kind of way. Brad even came with a power moon roof. Though Venice was easily the most beautiful of the three cities, it was also the oldest demographic-wise and had the least for us to do. We did manage to find a cool bar the first night that had Guinn-yes on tap (SOO good), but we had to kill a lot of time. The two games we played most were Gin Rummy and Hangman. Many of us remember hangman as being a fun game we played when we were very young. But Brad and I will be judged severely for our version because the words included: whey; platypus; duodenum; oligarchy; pluralistic majoritarian system; myopic; Italian Neo-realist Cinema; spastic nipple gnomes; outrageous muffin litigation; and lumpy yodel cakes. Enough is enough. I was going with a straightforward word just to throw him off. I chose “toast.” When Brad guessed it he asked me why I chose such a boring word. “Because I want toast!” I replied. So Brad drew up the next word informing me that the category was “things Brad wants right now.” After a few letters it became clear that Brad had chosen “vaginal intercourse.” Not good times. Bad times.
Brad: I totally threw him off. Aside from cards, we wandered the streets of Venice a lot, especially on the last day, when one thing of particular note occurred. Some of you may recall an unwritten list of hilarious overheard snippets of conversation. It included gems such as “he’s a nice guy, he just doesn’t know shit about computers,” and “I eat beans; I eat cheese; I eat brown rice.” Well we’ve got a new one to add. As we were strolling, I heard the following said in a very grave tone: “That was some serious lettuce.” It was a gem.
Our day ended at the train station, where we boarded what we feared would be another horrid night train experience. Alas, we have nothing to report, because it was a delightful trip. Fifteen hours later (most of which time was sleep…on a mattress more comfortable than mine in Prague) we were back at “home.” Our Italy adventure was over. Jolly good.
This message brought to you by amore. When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie, that’s amore.
Roughly translated, that means that when our planet’s satellite smashes into your face (just like a pizza-apparently-does on a regular basis), that’s how you know you’re in love.
Why have we never questioned the lyrics to this song?
Questionably symbolic lyrics aside, we went to Italy. Land of amore and silly songs about Napoli. We, unfortunately, did not make it to Napoli. We did, however, have a grand ol’ time in Rome, Florence, and Venice. Hence-you guessed it-another joint email is in order. This one will highlight adventure with any or all of the following:
- Lost baggage
- Arch madness
- Our conclusion that there are only 6000 people in the world
- More Roman sights than you can shake a stick at. Or shake anything at, for that matter.
- Rat soccer
- A line that-quite literally-wrapped around an entire nation
- Cutoff shirts
- The slip ‘n shower
- 10:30 moral obligation
- Ticket fiascos
- Bidon’t
- Papal parties
- CMC reunion, Florence-style
- Heavenly beef
- Gelato snobbery
- The Statue of David
- A lot of Jesus
- The lost hostel
- Mountain Brad
- Hangman tomfoolery
- Cards. More cards. Cards on steps. Cards in trains. Cards in our breakfast nook.
- Our breakfast nook
- Serious lettuce
You may notice from the length of the list that this email threatens to be of inappropriate and life-threatening length and girth. Yes, girth. Thus, let’s jump right into this…
Brad: As you might imagine, “lost baggage” means that they “lost my baggage,” a polite term for what happens when the airline does a disappearing act on half of my wardrobe and-more alarmingly-my very nice corkscrew. We get to Rome, we’re standing at the baggage claim, and something happens that didn’t surprise me at all. Just as when I arrived in Prague, my luggage did not appear. Somehow, I wasn’t that upset. I was mildly confused, because my bag had been in the middle of the luggage for the rest of my group-all of which had arrived-but you know…shit happens. I was, however, upset when I had to wait in a nonexistent “line” for over an hour just to tell someone that my bag didn’t show. Suffice to say, incompetence ruled the day, and I began my Rome vacation without any clothes or toiletries. Huzzah! More on my baggage-physical, emotional, and otherwise-later on.
Patrick: There’s only one highlight from my perspective on this whole debacle. While Brad was in line, I made friends with a huge, gorgeous German Shepherd. I want one. But moving on. We took a 30-minute train from the airport to Roma Termini (train station), which should give you some idea of how massive Rome is. The terminal itself was very nice and the outside was decorated with arches. I accidentally dubbed it “arch madness” at which point Brad threw both of his shoes at me. Our friends Katherine, Alli, and Blair were staying at the Alessandro Palace hostel while we stayed three blocks in the other direction of the station at the Alessandro Downtown. Yes, Evan and Katherine, downtown. Good hostel really, except the shower that had a floor sloping towards the drain in the middle so as to never allow the inhabitant even footing. I remarked after my first adventure that one of us would eat it while attempting to shower. Turns out Brad fell victim to the Slip ‘n Shower on our last day there.
Brad: First day in Rome. We hop on the subway toward the Colosseum, all excited about our day’s forthcoming adventures in ancient Roman sights. But we never expected it to happen like it did. You walk off the metro and fa-BAM! Colosseum. Like, I swear to God, it felt like somebody designed the metro so that you actually break your nose on the damn thing coming out of the metro. But it was one hell of a sight, looming over us the second we hit open air. Pretty incredible. Go see it. Only thing really of note while in all of ancient Rome-aside from the fact that it’s stunning-was the random coincidence. Earlier in the day, our own Saucy Weisman had posited the theory that scientists and pollsters and such were incorrect when saying that the world had six billion people. In reality, there are only six thousand. Some of them occasionally don disguises so as to confuse the others, but really, it’s 6000. Don’t fool yourself into believing anything else. Thus, it wasn’t strange at all when I saw two people from the NYU program. Or later, when we saw the people from Santa Cruz who we'd talked to on the train from the airport to our hostel. 6000 people. Anyone who says otherwise is a dirty liar. Also worth mentioning is the Trevi Fountain. Some people say it’s just a fountain. I say it’s the third coming of Christ (by popular consensus, Patrick is, in fact, the second coming). Pictures do not do justice to the glory of that fountain. When I’m rich, I will have one. I will swim in it. And God said, it will be good.
Patrick: Need further proof of the 6000-person theory? We were at dinner one night and took interest in a table full of Brits next to us. Brad saw a guy of interest, I had my eyes on his amiga. Little did we know that we would run into this group 3 OTHER TIMES while in Rome. Creepy stalkers… Of greater note from that dinner was our walk back to the bus stop. While strolling through the streets of Rome, we encountered a rat. Not a terribly ugly one. I thought it was a mouse until I saw its hideous tail. Before we could really do anything, one of the many street vendors (the ones who sell fake purses and belts) kicked the rat. He just flat out booted the thing. It flew about 5 yards and this was all amusing, but the rat stupidly decided to go back in the direction of the guy who kicked it! So the guy kicked the rat again! Still not giving in (and you have to admire the tenacity even if you question the intelligence) the rat came back a third time. The vendor lined him up, planted his left foot, swung his right and…
GOOOOOOOOOOOLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
The rat was dead. Poor guy, I kinda liked him. Brad and I laughed, the girls nearly cried, and the street vendor notched another win in the famed Italian rodent league. Also, we ran into a guy from our own program at the Vatican. Ahh yes, the Vatican. The holy city. Indeed, an autonomous country. The first thing you notice about the Vatican is that it has two layers of protection. First, a 30’ wall. But around that is a line of all 6,000 people in the world wrapping around it. Blocks upon blocks upon blocks. I never actually walked far enough to see where it ended. We paid 25 euros to join a tour, immediately left the tour because it was lame, and considered the money well spent. Why? Because we skipped the vast majority of said line.
Brad: Inside the Vatican, there is art. Some people would say there is also religion; the home of largest religion in the world, perhaps. But no. There is only art. Lots and lots and lots and LOTS of art. Art everywhere. I felt like I was shitting Rafael-quality painting by the end. But not literally, because that would be disturbing. In any case, it is a long, art-filled, maze-like walk to get to the Sistine Chapel. I enjoyed the Rafael rooms the most, followed closely by an ornate gold-and-blue hallway that I initially thought was the Sistine Chapel. By the time we got there, I was mildly disappointed. Sure, it was cool to see it. But it was really crowded, dimly-lit, and there were angry men shouting at us to be quiet the whole damn time. Shouting. To make us quiet. Don’t get me to started on the inappropriateness of it all. Plus, they weren’t even Swiss guards. At least then we could have a good laugh at their pants. There were, however, Swiss guards blocking the entrance to St. Peter’s Basilica. Why were they blocking the entrance, you ask? (If you didn’t ask this question, disregard that sentence and slap me later for my presumptuous assertions). They were blocking the entrance because-and I quote-“the Pope is having a party inside the Basilica.” Pope. Party. Papal Party in St. Peter’s. Even the Pope likes to get down.
Patrick: The days ticked by. Brad still did not have his luggage. So every day, Brad would buy clothing to wear the next day. Brad attempted to buy socks and wound up with racing stripes. Brad attempted to buy light and dark blue undershirts and wound up with…………….light and dark blue cutoff undershirts. The second he took them out of the wrapper, I lost it. In fact, they still make me laugh out loud. Did I mention that Europeans wear ridiculous clothing? Poor Brad, he deserved better. Our last night there, we met up with Katherine’s friend, enjoyed Italian pasta and table wine and headed out to the most Italian bar we could find… The Drunken Ship. A place so Italian, they have a Beirut table. Now, upon finding such a place, you have two options: a) Stick your nose up at this tourist trap or b) throw back a shot of tequila, buy a Heineken, grab a pitcher of beer and play some ‘ruit. Needless to say, I chose option b. Brad and I fared well at the table but eventually ceded it to our female counterparts because they were enjoying the company of the Wake Forest frat boys much more than ourselves. Our night ended when we took a particularly indulgent friend home. As this was much later than we had been staying out, our normal route back was blocked off and we ended up walking through a sketchy tunnel under Roma Termini. I woke up the next morning feeling like the physical manifestation of a beer.
Brad: Time to leave Rome. We have a ticket. We get seat reservations. We discard original ticket, because now we have seat reservations. Annoying train man says we can’t get on our train without the original ticket, despite clearly having assigned seats. Fiasco ensues, nice train lady informs us our reservation is fine, we get on the train as the doors are closing and its rolling away, and all is good. On to Florence.
First thing of note in Florence: the bidet. If you’re not aware of what a bidet is, let me inform you: you know how Europeans are renowned for smelling like shit? Well, turns out that we can definitively attribute that to the bidet, a device that “cleanses” the buttocks by squirting water up there. Foul. Bidet? Bidon’t. I mention this because we had a bidon’t in our hotel room in Florence. I laughed at it and tried desperately to pretend it was intended for washing feet.
Patrick: After walking all over Rome, it was nice to get to a smaller, less intense city like Florence. It’s just got more charm. Another perk? Elissa lives there! So after a day of exploring the city (including the Florence Cathedral which is remarkable in that it’s ornate on the outside and relatively austere on the inside) we met up with our home girl. We reminisced about Europe and all things CMC. The highlight of the first night was dinner. Being with “locals” has its advantages, and one of these is that they know where to eat. Of course dinner before 8pm is unheard of in Italy. So by this point we had come to the new conclusion that 10:30 dinner is a moral obligation. We arrived at the restaurant, had a table waiting on us, and proceeded to feast. Up until now, we had been eating the American way, with a small appetizer and a main course. But in Italy, you have two courses. The first was a sampler of five different kinds of pasta including one that had a pumpkin sauce. Yummisimo. The second course needs a bit of an intro. You see, thanks to our friends in Argentina, I have been tortured by tales of exotic beef. Beef here; beef there; beef for dinner; beef for breakfast. In Praha, we have only phfatty ham. And then in Florence, there she was: a gorgeous piece of fillet. Cooked medium-rare, elegant in her black balsamic dress. She beckoned and I could not resist. Our affair was brief, yet memorable. I will remember her forever. I don’t even care how much she cost.
Brad: That beef was beautiful. In fact, I’d go so far as to call it the fourth coming. Christ is popping in a lot these days. Which reminds me…Florence has so…much…Jesus. We went to two museums. Each one had the following breakdown: 5% great art, 15% really good art, 80% crappy, gold-inlay, repetitive and boring Jesus. We were so sick of it by the end that it was ironically heaven-sent when we saw him. The most beautiful thing I think I’ve ever seen, and I am absolutely serious in that assertion. The Statue of David in all its glory is a wonder of the world. Huge. Perfect. Awe-inspiring. We stared at it for soooooo long. Then when we were about to leave, we all looked at each other and said, “again?” And we stared at it again. Absolutely stunning. That’s Michelangelo eight billion points, crappy painters of gold Jesus babies zero. But kudos to the guy who painted Jesus as a fat baby. I mean, c’mon, the Son of God is going to eat well. Let’s be realistic.
And thanks to Elissa’s sage guidance, we also ate well. Prior to Florence, we were gelato lovers. After leaving Florence, we were bonafide gelato snobs. Heaps of tasty-looking stracciatella gelato? Fi on you, phony gelato man! We know your tricks. We know you’re trying to lure in unsuspecting tourists who flock to gelato mounds like Ben Fidler flocks to shiny objects. We know you. And we reject you.
Patrick: Mmm, gelato. My personal favorite flavor? Frutti di Bosco, which translates to “Fruits of the Woods.” And as for the fourth coming, I’ve only witnessed such a thing on a few occasions and even then whoops…changing subjects. Off to Venice! The train ride was (thankfully) uneventful and we exited the terminal only to finally understand what people meant by “streets made out of water.” The girls were staying in the San Marco part of the island, furthest away from the station, and although we didn’t have perfect directions to our own hotel, we remembered it being in roughly the same neighborhood. So onto the waterbus (yes, a boat that acts like a tram) we went. Over the bridges, down narrow alleyways, past the Disney Store (yeah, like you can get away from one of those) and to the girls’ hotel we went. And now for finding our hostel. Funny, we can’t find this street name anywhere in the San Marco area. So we go to the tourist info place by the Piazza San Marco (Italian for “place with many pigeons”) where the lady informs us that our address is located…right across from the train station! Back on the waterbus we go. Those lying scums! When we do locate our hole in the wall the lady informs us that we are at the correct check in location and that a lady who speaks no English whatsoever will lead us to our room…near the Piazza San Marco! My backpack (picture Mt. Everest climbing attire) weighs 3 tons but at least we’ll be in a good location when we get there. So back on the waterbus. Again we navigate the bridges and alleyways until we are lead into a sketchy building undergoing remodeling. We go up several flights of stairs sharing thoughts like “will we be sharing our room with 5 rats, or 500?” until finally we are at an amazing room. All is well! We even have a kettle, and our own shower, and a breakfast nook! Woot!
Brad: My enthusiasm for said nook was, at first, muted. Nooks are gaaaaaaaaaay. And I hope all of you know me well enough that I immediately reject gaaaaaaaaay things. Nevertheless, as part of our stay, we were given biscotti and coffee for breakfast. Add to that our seemingly endless card games, and it seemed only appropriate that we take our prissy-eating, game-playing, dorky selves over into our gaaaaaaaaay little breakfast nook. So I’m not proud to say it, but we ate biscotti, sipped coffee, and played cards in a nook. The shame. Luckily, there was one thing that allowed me to retain not dignity, but a shred of masculinity. When my bag was lost (and yes, it’s still gone at this point in the story), I unfortunately lost the razor I had brought along on the trip. In a show of protest against the powers-that-be at Smart Wings, I decided not to shave until I a) got my luggage or b) got back to Prague. “HaHA!” I thought, “I will look gross and unkempt and homeless! That will show them!” Suffice to say, by the time Venice rolled around, I was a prickly-looking mountain man. It was really disgusting.
Patrick: Yup, I was traveling with Mountain Brad. Rugged, in a sort of Nissan X-Terra kind of way. Brad even came with a power moon roof. Though Venice was easily the most beautiful of the three cities, it was also the oldest demographic-wise and had the least for us to do. We did manage to find a cool bar the first night that had Guinn-yes on tap (SOO good), but we had to kill a lot of time. The two games we played most were Gin Rummy and Hangman. Many of us remember hangman as being a fun game we played when we were very young. But Brad and I will be judged severely for our version because the words included: whey; platypus; duodenum; oligarchy; pluralistic majoritarian system; myopic; Italian Neo-realist Cinema; spastic nipple gnomes; outrageous muffin litigation; and lumpy yodel cakes. Enough is enough. I was going with a straightforward word just to throw him off. I chose “toast.” When Brad guessed it he asked me why I chose such a boring word. “Because I want toast!” I replied. So Brad drew up the next word informing me that the category was “things Brad wants right now.” After a few letters it became clear that Brad had chosen “vaginal intercourse.” Not good times. Bad times.
Brad: I totally threw him off. Aside from cards, we wandered the streets of Venice a lot, especially on the last day, when one thing of particular note occurred. Some of you may recall an unwritten list of hilarious overheard snippets of conversation. It included gems such as “he’s a nice guy, he just doesn’t know shit about computers,” and “I eat beans; I eat cheese; I eat brown rice.” Well we’ve got a new one to add. As we were strolling, I heard the following said in a very grave tone: “That was some serious lettuce.” It was a gem.
Our day ended at the train station, where we boarded what we feared would be another horrid night train experience. Alas, we have nothing to report, because it was a delightful trip. Fifteen hours later (most of which time was sleep…on a mattress more comfortable than mine in Prague) we were back at “home.” Our Italy adventure was over. Jolly good.