To Florence by Bus and Paris by Train

The night that ended with a fair amount of drinking and talking had surprisingly provided me the best night of sleep that I had the entire trip. I say this because the morning was not a battle; in fact, it was quite a calm and pleasant start-even with a bus driver who was MIA and a train waiting in Florence. Granted we had until the night before we had to catch the train, but Florence was a place I had wanted to spend more than a day in, and the longer we waited around Rome, the less time I had to wander around Florence. Bus after bus pulled into the compound of Villa Maria, but they were there for other groups that slid past us as we waited in a patient yet confused formation. A few buses were parked overnight, but none looked familiar to us and like the previous days we assumed our bus was on the way as Paulo did not stay at Villa Maria. Why would he? He was a native of Rome and it is always a great comfort-physical and mental-to sleep in one's own bed.

After about an hour of standing around with my luggage like a jackass I decided it would be best to go wait in the lobby, but like all optimists who wait it out using the "10 more minutes" mentality I found myself dragging my luggage towards a bus driver who was running towards the bus trying to get his coat on without dropping his briefcase. I stopped, following him with my head as he ran past me towards one of the buses parked overnight. Slowly, I turned back towards the building to see Frida waving her umbrella like the leader of a marching band with the group parading behind. I turned to Nacho and Marshall who were waiting with me, "We got some timing don't we?"

Marshall laughed, "Sure do." We turned back and made our way towards the bus that the late driver scurried onto. He tipped his hat to us and turned on his espresso machine that was mounted near the cockpit of the bus. I found two seats that were located near the second exit at the midway point of the bus. This was no coincidence as I was taking all precautions to be near the closest exit in the case that I became stricken with another unfortunate stomach problem. Nevertheless, I wasn't too concerned as I felt refreshed, revitalized, and overflowing with a raw energy that was foreign to me as I was running on alcohol and stimulants for the past few days of the trip. I was pushing my body and managed to lay off right as my body was getting ready to push back.

The timing couldn't have been any better as I was in for many sleepless nights ahead. Come to think of it I don't remember getting much sleep for the remainder of the trip other than brief power naps; so little that I can't even recall how many days were left from that point on, it all ran together and that explains why the last night in Paris played out the way it did. But we haven't even arrived in Florence and I am getting ahead of myself so let's quit with the foreshadowing and move along with the standard progression.

We were making good time on our way to Florence when the bus slowed down and pulled off the Italian freeway. I was resting with my eyes closed against the window when Chris shook me to inform me that this was our only stop on the way to Florence. Standing up from the seat I realized my leg was dead asleep, but that realization was pleasant compared to the one that followed it. It was a tall, red square perched on top of a metal platform that had stairs leading all the way to the ground. The building was intimidating like the Death Star or a maximum security prison. However, it was far worse than both as it was a massive Autogrill establishment. As I noticed this I sat down and Chris understood why. "I'm good," I said.

"Alright, but remember this is the only stop."

"I can make it," I said confidently, "but I refuse to give Autogrill any money. It is a horrid establishment that has forever tainted my innocence." Chris laughed and exited the bus with the rest of the group. I hunched down in my seat and continued to enjoy the sounds dancing from my headphones. As I surveyed the land on which we had landed, I saw many people ascend into the tower of Autogrill and it caused me to have horrible flashbacks, which I desperately fought off. In doing so I noticed another building, much smaller in size and at ground level. It was an On the Run convenience store, which caused me to shoot up as I knew it was a safe zone. It was the closest I would get to an American embassy and remembering that I had my Mobil card, which also was accepted by Esso stations like the one that was home to the On the Run, I suddenly found myself wanting to be inside the bright yellow building.

But the doors were locked and the only way they could be opened was for the bus to be turned on. The driver was in the Autogrill with the rest of the group and I was sure he had the key, but time was running out and I wanted to get a drink so I hurried up to the cockpit of the bus to look for a key or an alternate exit. I tried shoving the door open, but I had no luck. Looking through the compartments I found a key and put it in the ignition, turning it just enough to engage the electrical components of the bus. This was no ordinary bus as there were hundreds of buttons, all with symbols and numbers that made no sense to anyone but those who were trained to know what they meant.

With each passing second I knew that it would only become increasingly difficult to achieve my goal as I would have to sprint across a one-hundred yard stretch across pavement from the bus to the On the Run and then get back before any group member or the bus driver returned. So I began hitting buttons. The first one opened the emergency exits on the roof and I quickly hit it again to close them. The second button turned on the interior lights. The third button adjusted the driver seat and with panic beginning to set in I hit one more button and the sound of air driven actuators were heard coming from the midpoint of the bus.

The sound scared me because at first I thought I had released the contents of the on board bathroom, but as I walked cautiously towards the middle of the bus I began to hear outside noise and I knew I had succeeded. Quickly, I jumped from the bus and began my mad dash towards On the Run. I entered the bright building, heading straight for the beverages. I grabbed a coke and paid for it using my gas card, smiled and took off, running towards the bus like a wounded thief determined not to be caught. The door that was open was facing away from the Autogrill allowing me to slip in unnoticed. Dropping the coke onto my seat I ran to the front of the bus hitting the lucky fourth button that closed the door followed by returning the key to its compartment. At that point the group was at the bottom of the giant metal staircase, goods in hand and moving towards the bus.

Catching my breath, I sat back in my chair and closed my eyes. The group began to gather at the entrances of the bus, but like the morning, the driver was nowhere to be found. Marshall remembered that I had stayed on the bus, which led to me being startled by the smack of his hand against my window. I jumped up and looked down the stairs, through the window on the door, at the group who stared at me as if I was their only hope for ever getting on the bus. Figuring that they wouldn't be able to hear me I made strange hand signals, partnered with even stranger facial expressions that attempted to explain that in order for the doors to be opened the bus must be on. However, it looked like I was having a seizure. People simply stared at me with a confused gaze that I'm sure was accompanied by the thought that I had truly lost my mind.

As I finished my hand dance the doors swung open, which caught me severely off guard. Marshall was the first on the bus and as he walked past he jokingly said, "It looks like your little dance worked." I stood in front of my seat as the group members walked by, wondering if I had somehow acquired mystic powers, but as I turned my head I noticed the bus driver scurrying over from the Autogrill tower. His tie was loosened and it appeared as if he had just finished an epic stint of relinquishing a foul illness from his body. In his hand was a small black remote that he used to open the doors. When he made it onto the bus he avoided eye contact and quickly sat down, firing up the bus. I watched closely to see if he noticed the new position his seat was in, but he was focused on returning to the road.

It was late in the afternoon when we rolled into Florence. After getting off the bus, we took a quick stretch along with some photos down by the sun bathers who were lying next to the Arno River. They gave the impression that it was a hot summer day, but in actuality it was as windy March afternoon. The sun was still out, causing the temperature to be bearable while the wind pounded the streets of Florence.

"Everyone," bantered Frida in a chipper British accent, "gather round for a group photo." Pictured out, I shuffled to the group keeping true to my normal photogenic ways, putting on a goofy face as the camera clicked. "Alright group, we have some time until our preplanned meal at five o'clock so you can walk around the city, but make sure to get back to this spot in order to reassemble."

As Frida finished her announcement Chris had already begun moving our nine person group towards the Ponte Vecchio, an ancient built bridge that was the only one in the city to survive the fighting and bombing of World War II. The walk to the Ponte Vecchio was remarkable as it was lined with various shops and streets that served as a pleasant welcome to the city. Side stepping a pile of dog shit, I found myself standing on the Ponte Vecchio, which lived up to the hype that Chris had created during our five minute walk towards it. It had shops built right into it, which were supported by wooden stilts that mimicked the original design. Of course these could not have been the original stilts used, as ancient wood would have surely rotted out, causing all the old shops to plummet into the Arno.

Clay red and eggnog tan were the main colors used in most of the buildings décor while the roads were weathered cobblestone paths making it an ideal walking city. As the nicotine freaks stopped for a smoke, I found myself standing next to a worn copper sign that warned all vandals that the penalty was 10 years in prison or a fine of 1,000,000 Euro for marking up the old bridge. It was an admirable attempt to keep the Ponte Vecchio clean, but as I finished reading I couldn't help but notice the mass amounts of signatures and crude drawings that surrounded the warning. There was no camera watching the area, which made the sign a fine waste of copper a vain attempt to stop something that they knew was unstoppable.

In fact, the sign probably encouraged the vandals since graffiti is widely accepted in Europe. Why tag this aging bridge when you had an entire city to cover? Well, we all know how it is when we are told not to do something. The irony of having your tag found near a sign that promised a lengthy prison sentence or a steep fine for exactly that action was too tempting to walk away from. Hell, I even contemplated tagging the bridge myself, but the fear of bad luck and a roaming cop kept the marker in my pocket.

After a quick stop at a cash exchange booth we made our way back towards the meeting point located along the Arno. There was a crisp smell of waffles floating through the air and I couldn't help but voice my desire for one.

"You smell that? Damn, that smells so good."

Everyone agreed, but simply nodded and kept moving towards the gathering point. We were the first ones to arrive on the corner of a square that was home to a statue of a gun toting man holding the body of his dead comrade. A pigeon was resting peacefully on the barrel of the copper-plated gun as if it were a part of the statue. The group arrived piece by piece, but stood scattered on the corner. Most stood shuffling their feet, having conversations that consisted of simple verbal exchanges.

"What'd you do?"

"Not much."

"Yea me either."

"What's for dinner?"

"Beats me."

"Probably something foul."

"Yea."

Frida arrived energetic and swinging her umbrella, "Alright, gather round," she said as she began another routine head count. "Follow me," and with a wave of the umbrella in a north easterly direction we headed down the streets of Florence to our next prepaid meal. After Autogrill I lost faith in anything EF had prearranged so I kept my expectations real low and reminded myself that I was hungry and food is food.

"Remember all the starving people who would love to eat crappy food," I thought trying to guilt myself into possibly enjoying whatever food was thrown my way.

The meal ended up being better than my expectations, however, a fried rat would've beaten my expectations. Soon after, we were whisked off to a long-standing leather shop; the smell was pleasant and we were even shown how they made wallets and small leather collectables. It was interesting grinding my feet along the shops wooden floors, trying to figure out how many cows were hanging on the walls. Then I remembered the old Native American principle: if you kill something you better be able to use every part including the genitals.

It was at that moment that I ran into Chris who was rocking a pair of oil black leather pants, weighing the decision of whether or not to purchase them. "You look sharp," I said jokingly to Chris.

"I happen to like leather pants, however, these are too damn expensive," replied Chris as he snapped the floor-to-ceiling curtain around his body. He emerged shortly after with his original pair of broken-in blue jeans back on his legs, and the cow skin slacks drooped over his forearm. We wandered around the leather shop in a lethargic daze until we decided there was no further reason to hang around. After Rome we were getting wise to EF and were slowly becoming more rebellious towards the preplanned, prearranged junket; and rightfully so, it was our money, our time, and our trip. If anyone was going to write the outcome it would be us and coincidentally, I'm sitting here writing the story of how we grabbed the bull by the horns and made a wallet out of its balls.

"How about one of those delicious smelling waffles?" was the first phrase uttered from my mouth upon exiting the dude ranch odored leather shop. Chris and Laura agreed as the pleasant smell teased their taste buds as it flooded the bitterly chilly, wind gripped air of Florence. The wind was strong as we moved through the Piazza della Signoria, which was the original location of Michelangelo's David. With only 2 hours remaining before we had to regroup in order to catch a train for Paris, we acquired one of those sweet smelling waffles as well as authentic slice of brick oven pizza, which I was also fiending for.

The pizza was cooked on a flat gray stone inside of a handmade brick oven. Instead of selling predefined slices they simply asked how big you wanted it, cut it, and promptly weighed it on a scale that determined how many Euros it would cost. I, like a crack fiend being given the choice of my very own rock, ended up with a massive slice, which I proudly devoured as we made our way towards the Galleria dell'Accademia. The reason for going was to see the original David, but we decided David wasn't worth the wait-especially after seeing an exact replica in the town's main square. While we stood in line for fifthteen minutes before deciding to split, Chris went off in search of a jacket shop since Bevin was currently in a different part of Florence with his jacket that he politely lent her.

It was definitely a poor choice as the conditions were frigid, mainly due to the bitter wind that slapped unrelentingly at any exposed piece of flesh. But Chris was a nice guy and he was glad to see that we opted out of waiting in the block-and-a-half line outside of the Galleria. We ended up running into the twins who were on their way out of the permanent resting place of David. They were determined to see it, but once they got inside they noticed the line still had strength to it and figured that with time running out in Florence it would be best to take in other sights-ones with no wait.

Those remaining minutes (80 to be exact, or at least close) consisted of wandering the city, admiring the Duomo, which was an awe-inspiring bit of architecture. Florence, in general, is probably one of the most eye-stealing cities a person could possibly visit. Just walking around is an elegant feast for the eyes and the mind; many of the world's greatest thinkers once scuttled through the streets of what was surely a great place to be circa 1400 C.E.-and still is for that matter.

After a good portion of our time spent looking for a jacket shop, we headed back towards the rendezvous point, stopping at a quaint corner café along the way. I was full from my random meals throughout the day so I ordered a hot chocolate. Chris, Laura, and the twins all ordered various pastries and treats, which they happily gobbled down in the comforting warmth of the coffee shop. With our bill paid, we ambled down the copper lit streets toward the spot where the bus was waiting. During our walk I noticed a few pieces of colorful street art that I happily snapped a few photos of.

In less than a day, our time in Florence had come to an end. With the group reunited and back on the bus, we made our way to the train station where we spent an hour that could have been sixty additional minutes in Florence, waiting for the overnight train to Paris. Conversation was bleak during the wait, mainly consisting of complaints about the frosty air. The interior of the station was packed with the high school group who were huddled together like Bosnian refuges. Chris, the twins, and I sat outside on one of the orange metal benches, sitting close to each other as a means to generate body heat.

"It's not that cold, just windy," murmured from my shivering lips.

"Your teeth are chattering."

"I do that when I'm warm." Angeline smiled and began eating the Pringles she bought inside the station. "Where is this damn train?" Suddenly an announcement came over the PA system, which was uttered in Italian, but I understood one word, "Paris". The group lethargically gathered their luggage and lumbered towards the platform. We waited, leaning on our luggage, for another twenty minutes until the silver, conjoined rectangle pulled into the station. Frida addressed the importance of everyone getting on the train when we first arrived at the station, and then reminded us once every five minutes as we stared blankly down the tracks, "Everyone MUST get on the train IMMEDIATELY. I beg of you, please do not miss the train for any reason. Everyone must, must not miss it. If you miss the train, oh dear, I don't even want to think about." She always had a way of calming the group down.

Her speech on why we mustn't miss the train caused the group to erupt in a frenzied dash towards whatever car stopped in front them. Luckily, our group of nine was positioned on the spot that our designated car ended up at. We simply lugged our baggage on and found a cabin that suited our needs, which was any cabin since they were all the same. It wasn't long before we were assigned by gender to our cabins. My cabin consisted of Chris, Marshall, one of the HS kid's dad as well as one member of the high school group.

Once the train got rolling Chris and I relocated to the girls cabin where they were hell bent on swallowing the bottle of rum they had acquired. Chris and Laura shared a bottle of wine while the rest of us drank rum and cokes. The urge to piss arose and I quickly climbed over the luggage that took up most of the cabin floor, falling awkwardly into the narrow hallway. As I was making my way towards the bathroom I walked pass two guys who I took for Europeans, but when they muttered a crisp "hello" as they passed, I realized they were American. In Europe, finding another American is a joyous event, and I stopped to verify that they were, in fact, Americans.

"Hey, American?"

They stopped in their tracks and turned around with a big smile, backed with a quick reply, "Hell yeah! Where you from?"

"New Jersey. Yourselves?"

"I'm from Colorado and he's from California," said the taller of the two.

"So what brings you to Europe?"

"We backpacked from the Netherlands. Now we are on our way to Paris since we have an apartment there."

"That's awesome. How was the backpacking?"

"Dude, Copenhagen has so many smoking hot chicks."

"An unbelievable amount," added the short, black-haired one.

Realizing my need to piss had intensified, I decided to cut the conversation short, "I got to piss pretty bad, but it was good meeting some fellow Americans. By the way, a few of the girls I'm traveling with are looking for some foreign dick. They are in the bar car, pretend to be French or something."

They both laughed excitedly, "It was nice meeting you man, and thanks for the tip. What's your name?"

"Joe."

"Have a good trip."

"You too."

I quickly made my way to the bathroom, which was a bit nippy, making the evacuation of urine a speedy process. Maintaining aim proved to be difficult as the car rocked back and forth, causing me to try and counter sway, but due to the rum, I sprinkled some droplets on the metal rim. The metal toilet made me realize a small but great benefit of being male: pissing standing up is a fantastic gift to be given as I knew I would not have to sit on the cold, metal bowl-unless number 2 called, but my stomach felt strong and I had confidence that I would avoid the shitty situation while aboard the train.

However, a different and equally shitty situation was taking place in my car while I drank with the group. One of the high school kids who was assigned to sleep in our car decided to have a little party of his own. When I returned for a nice night of sleep, aboard a train to Paris, I noticed my bed was covered in Pringles. I wiped off as many chips as I could, and crawled in, but I found myself pulling crumbs from the bed throughout the night. The cabins slept six, and since I had the bottom bed, which folded out from the seat, it felt as if I was sleeping in a coffin. Marshall's snoring filled the car, but that was the least of our problems. A window at the top of the car broke open and couldn't be closed. For twenty minutes Chris struggled with the stubborn window. He tried to make a new latch for it, but it kept finding a way to stay open. At one point Chris let out a sigh of both anger and disgust, as he gave up and prepared to accept the situation of cold air and a loud whooshing noise. Five minutes later, with sleep far from being an option, Chris sat up, grabbed hold, and slammed the window as hard as he could. Luckily for him-and the rest of us in the car-the window stayed closed.

I got rest, but no sleep, on the train ride to Paris. While this seemed miserable at first, it was worth it when I finally decided to give up altogether. Pulling on my shoes, which had Pringles in them, I stumbled out into the thin corridor that ran along the cabins, where I noticed the sun rising over the Alps. Considering that I hadn't slept much on the trip, being deprived of sleep once again felt normal; I was adapting and like a homeless person gets used to smelling like piss and whiskey, I was getting used to being on the verge of a total mental crash. It was fairly cold in the hallway as I shuddered alongside other travelers who were up to catch the sunrise.

A few short hours later and our train had pulled into the train station in Paris. Everyone bumbled around for the last twenty minutes of the ride, re-packing whatever clothing they removed from their luggage. Thankfully, I had left my bag untouched and wasn't worried about leaving anything behind. We had a bus waiting when we exited the station into the sixty degree, windless weather. After a quick bus tour and a stop at the Eiffel tower-or "awful" tower as the locals say-we found ourselves in a small Parisian café for coffee and croissants. I could tell Paris would be different. We no longer felt obligated to do everything the group did. After my successful resistance to Frida's nerve wrecking ways at the Pantheon, I had seized control of the trip with just enough time to salvage it. Not that there was any need to. Up until Paris the trip was still fun, but there were certain elements that where unnecessary nuisances and I was not going to allow them to bother me in Paris.