Traveling To Europe: A Personal Guide

Chaos, panic, disorder; that is what I had fallen into as I pulled from the grips of sleep at eight in the morning on the day that I was set to depart for Europe. In retrospect, it wasn't that bad, but for just waking up; things were abnormally hectic. In my typical laid back manner, I went through the pre-travel routine: checking my bags thoroughly in order to prevent forgetting any necessity, assuring my parents I would be on my best behavior and would avoid European jail time-a daunting task. This was in addition to trying to eat a solid breakfast while my mind raced with thoughts and expectations. In months prior to the trip my life had become a broken record, a record that wasn't too entertaining to begin with. The trip was the break that I desperately needed to clear my head and experience something new for the first time in awhile. After loading my luggage into the back of my car I grabbed a CD for the ride up to SCCC (Sussex County Community College). I thought it would be nice to show my pops a shortcut up to school; however, it turned out to be a pretty bad idea.

As we were turning onto what I called, "The Bumpy Road" I heard a shriek come from his general direction. That shriek was followed up by a barrage of misguided lecturing, which explained why I am no longer allowed to drive the crater-ridden road anymore. "It's destroying the suspension, Joe...Are you crazy? What goes through your mind sometimes? Do you know how much it is to replace the suspension? Jesus, Joe," and like that it continued on.
His line of questioning caught me off guard, and all I could reply with was, "I maneuver around the potholes-very slowly-like 5 miles per hour," but it did not calm his storm one bit and the vibe had become awkward as the music played on.

My first trip outside of the US, and I had spent the morning as it were any other day, arguing with my parents over trivial nonsense. This seemed to be a common trend among people my age. Once you get old enough where dumb decisions can land you in jail, you don't give your parents any good reason to bitch and moan; so they find any reason, any reason at all. Wait. This is a story about a trip to Europe, right? Okay. My mistake. Anyway upon arriving at the determined meeting spot-inside the cafeteria at SCCC-I sat and waited. Now I got there entirely too early so I sat, and I waited for quite sometime until more luggage clad travelers appeared. One by one they arrived until the trip organizer, my former sociology professor, Chris, made his appearance. At the time of his arrival half the group had assembled, and I was beginning to get this odd feeling.

Being that the entire group had not shown up yet, I dismissed the feeling as pre-trip jitters, and handed Chris the required paperwork (copy of passport and so on). After some small talk we made our way outside to the van that would bring us to the airport. Son of bitch-that is what suddenly came to mind-as I realized the odd feeling I had prior to exiting the café was not a feeling, but a reality-I was the only guy on the trip besides Chris. The breakdown was 9 gals to 2 guys; the odds were not in our favor. Now the initial thing one would think when he is presented with a guy to girl ratio like that is, "Hot Damn! This is going to be fun," but that thought is soon superseded by the fact that women; at times, can be pretty catty towards each other. The chance of this happening greatly increases when they are forced to be in close proximity with each other for a week's worth of time. Being that the situation was concrete, I figured it would be in my best interest to put my cynical thoughts away for now, and make the best of the situation. Hell, even if they were at each other's throats for most of the trip it would be a pretty entertaining mess of events-now wouldn't it?

We packed into the van like soldiers being shipped off to a far off land; however, we were not going off to war. Then again that depended on the nature of the females on board. For all I know I could have be sitting in a mine field where the slightest drop of a pebble could set it off like a 4th of July fireworks finale. It is silly to think such a thing anyway; I mean each girl had brought a close friend. Any kind of skirmish would have ended twice as fast and would've been twice as entertaining. All right, enough of that; they might be reading this damned thing, and the last thing I want to do is piss off nine women all in one shot. Before we shuffled into our pearl white van of luxury, I got acquainted with everyone on a first name basis-last names are a big commitment, you know? It happened to be by chance that two girls I had attended high school with were also embarking on the journey.

Kelly and Janine were their names (remember last names are a big commitment-royalties, lawsuits and other deplorable things). Kelly was way too energetic; it was almost like she had just rocked an 8 ball of white, and had washed it down with a stiff drink. I had always known Janine as a shy girl, and she wasn't making much noise. Again this is in comparison to Rip Taylor who was standing beside her. It appears that I have painted an ugly picture of Kelly, but I was tired, and my eyes were still adjusting to the light so you can imagine that my painting abilities might have been a tad substandard. The other girls were, for the most part, from the County College of Morris, which means I did not know them. Hell, even the few who had attended SCCC were not familiar to me. With the exception of Chris, Kelly and Janine it was all new faces to accompany me on this new experience.

During the two-hour ride to JFK international I was stuck trying to figure out who exactly was the mystery lady; sitting on the tire hub, two people to my right. I originally assumed she was just one of the older students or maybe another teacher. She had that young teacher/old student look going for her. After conversation was off and rolling I had learned that she was Chris' wife, Laura. We were closing in on our target, JFK international. As we pulled up, and the van came to a controlled stop, the girls with nicotine cravings were out faster than Bugs Bunny after pulling some kind of homoerotic stunt on poor, old Elmer Fudd. This was good for me because I was wedged against the window way in the back, and really had to relieve myself of some bodily fluid.

After unloading the van the crew of eleven assembled in the entrance of JFK, which was surprisingly empty. Thanks to Hollywood I was under the impression that airports were out of control at all times of the day. This was only my second time flying on a plane, and the first time that I would actually remember the experience. We shuffled our luggage into the line, which was a maze made up of what looked like seat belts strung from one black pole to another. After getting a feel for the flow of the line, which was relatively slow, I asked one of the girls to guard my bags as I removed myself from the line in order to visit the bathroom. Luckily for me it was conveniently located about thirty feet away. In a moderately paced walk I made my way to the entrance, where I came into an unexpected confrontation between a cleaning cart and myself. After the short hold up, I found myself standing in what appeared like a house of mirrors, but it was a bathroom. Urinating in a urinal, I was able to check out each side of my person. Ah, that explains it. This is just an assumption, but it makes senses so just take it as fact for now. The reason for the abundance of mirrors is for your own personal protection from the likes of pick pockets and sick fucks who get their jollies from pissing on people who are oblivious to their sick, demented games; don't think for a minute these people aren't out there, they are, be aware.

Soon after exiting that weird, mirror infested place I made my way back over to the group who had advanced my luggage further up the line procuring me a much better vantage point. This was important especially if I had any plans of boarding that plane. Finally I had reached the front of the line, and a small Hindu man waved me over to one of the counters. I was soon standing in front of the first class counter. He must have made a mistake, but I'm not one for arguing so I accepted the fact that I would just have to deal with it...shucks. After giving the lady my information I had learned that he made no mistake, and that I would not be in first class, but economy. Before leaving the counter she told me that I would have a window seat, which is always good news. Sadly, this was after she had crushed my hopes and dreams of being that one lucky bastard who somehow ended up with first class seats when he was originally intended for first class luggage storage (also known as economy).

Everyone had now checked their baggage, and we were off to wait patiently in the gate from which our plane would be departing. The airport really is a different world, its' own little country. It is almost like a shopping mall, but there is something about it that causes a sense of detachment from the outside world. I was no longer in New York, USA, but JFK International; land of the free (duty free), drunk and delusional...and what a place it was. Actually it wasn't much more than an airport, but as you probably have already learned; I tend to embellish. We had time to kill and I was feeling froggy. I wandered off in search of an ATM to obtain some cash for a delicious sandwich or maybe a brew from the Brooklyn Beer Garden. In my quest I covered the gate end to end only to discover that the ATMs were outside the boundaries of said gate. Oh well, how bad could airplane food possibly be?

Finally the plane was boarding, and we eagerly presented the ticket checker with both our boarding passes and passports. She smiled and waved us through as if we had just been accepted into the hottest club in town. Unfortunately that was far from the reality we were facing. Finding my seat next to the window like the lady had assured me of; I met the person who would be my tag-team partner for the flight. He was a college graduate now turned New Yorker in order to pursue the career path he had chosen. Apparently it was taking him to Germany for some business related venture, but I did not have enough time to find out. Come to think of it I never even got his name before the flight attendant had notified me that I was in the wrong seat-damn lying tramp at the first class counter. It was not long after I had moved before I was again notified of my mistake. I felt like a fool-I couldn't even find my seat-maybe I was meant for first class. Too bad that was only another hope that got crushed faster than it took for it to manifest. Sitting down in my seat after unloading my carry-on in the compartment above, I put on my headphones and opened the book I brought for the flight. Skip ahead; skip ahead-All right.

Mid-flight now, and time was really pulling on my brain. I read enough to make the words too blurry to continue on. Music was barely keeping me sane. Everyone I could talk to was passed out, and my former tag-partner was being verbally drowned by a talkative lady from god knows where. All I could make out in her unrelenting verbal onslaught was that she was a nurse. Probably a nurse at a psych ward where all the patients are so sedated that she could babble on to them for hours; kind of like she was doing to this poor chap. She also had appeared to have banged out a few 8-balls herself because she was full of spunk, and could be heard clear into the cockpit. As the flight attendant walked by I asked him to get me whatever beverage I could have the most of. He suggested beer, and to prevent insulting him, I graciously accepted. WARSFIRNEOER!! I don't know if that is what it was called exactly, but that's close enough; man it was strong. It was good though and I drank on as I nursed the pretzel fishy snacks I was given. Feeling spunky myself I cracked open the book again, and read some more. My arrogance had gotten the best of me, and ten pages in I had to close the book because I could no longer comprehend words or any of their relatives.

Staring despondently at the chair in front of me, I observed the bitter old crank who had forced Bevin, another member of the group, to find different seating. Apparently what had happened was Mrs. Scrooge kept putting her seat back further and further each time Bevin made the mistake of bumping into her seat. I had skipped dinner because it was about as appetizing as nut-sack with a side of even more nut-sack, but during dinner the old lady almost caused Bevin to spill her meal all over her lap as the geriatric went back to such an extent that the tray table was resting at a diagonal. This was the last straw, and Chris (the professor-for you stragglers) made a sarcastic statement, which provoked a chuckle in those who were close enough to hear it. "Hey stop moving around up there, you're really making me uncomfortable."

Now I don't think the lady caught the intention because she seemed to agree, but before she could get too full of herself Bevin slammed her tray table into the seat causing Grandma to let out a high-pitched chirp of surprise. That little conflict felt as if it had happened hours ago, but in actuality it was only about an hour from the next set of events that were about to unravel. I stared blankly at the bitter old crank; motiveless, she turned on me, abruptly breaking my gaze. She muttered some kind of evil senior citizen gibberish. I couldn't understand her, but I just assumed she was complaining about something I had done by accident. So in a stern tone I stuck out my chest and said, "What? I can't hear you". She angrily muttered never mind, and now I was assuming my assumption was correct-ah silly assumptions. Before another enemy could be made she turned back to me and asked, "Are you with a college trip?" Caught off guard by the most unexpected question I responded, "Why yes. Yes I am". Continuing the conversation, which was confusing to say the least, she asked like a caring grandmother would, "So where are you going?" "Italy and France," I replied in what sounded like the voice of a five year old. With no time to fully grasp the situation she said, "Have fun" smiled, and turned back around. So maybe she wasn't a bitter old crank, but man it is fun to say-it really pops-bitter old crank. Go ahead; try it.

The pilot had turned the mood lighting all the way down to setting sensual, and Walk the Line, the Johnny Cash story, played on the small screens located around the plane. Bevin was gone leaving the two girls, Tina and Angeline (who happened to be twins), an extra seat to stretch out on. They were taking advantage of the good luck, and were out cold. The headphones provided by the flight crew didn't work so I tried to read the actor's lips as well as their facial expressions in an attempt to figure out what the plot was. What I got out of doing such a mind-numbing thing was that Johnny Cash liked getting drunk and driving his tractor. During one scene involving a drunken Johnny and his tractor he struggles getting up a hill, and ends up crashing into the river below. Johnny had gone over the edge; at least that is what I got out of it. After obtaining a pair of working headphones I had learned nothing more than what I had previously assumed. I was tired now, the dark lighting was putting me into a pre-sleep state of mind, and I fought off weird delusions for what seemed like a few hours-I was going over the edge.

Rational thought was far from my grasps, but for some reason I believed it was right beside me guiding me towards wise decisions such as the one I made soon after giving up on watching Walk the Line. Staring out the window, which was roughly about six seats away from me, I came across a brilliant idea. Drink booze; kill time-that was the essence of this genius idea. Again I stopped a wandering flight attendant, and I asked for a rum and coke; he soon informed me that they only had whiskey aboard. I decided to man up and accept his offer. Upon his return I was left with a big glass of whiskey that was flavored with only a drop of coke (just to mix things up a bit). Taking my time with the potent concoction I continued to stare out the window, out onto the wing where a red light flashed periodically. Halfway through the powerful drink I gave up on nursing it along and decided to put it out of its misery. I chugged it down and shook it off. It was not long before my time killing idea failed leaving me in the midst of a dark, disturbing place. Everyone around me was sleeping; I was left alone to do as I wished, but the only thing my tired body could manage was sitting and staring-time went much slower now.

There is not much to do at 37,000 feet in the air where the temperature outside the dimly lit cabin is well below zero degrees. So I sat and I stared, feeling my mind start to fade away into the silence of the slumbering cabin. Time crept along at a snails pace, which was too fast for my mind to follow. I was beginning to nod off as a most startling event caused me to snap back to full consciousness. One of the girls, Tina, jumped up as if she had realized she was late for some important happening. Quickly scurrying off to the on board bathroom she had caused her sister, Angeline, to also snap back to full consciousness-well almost full consciousness. It was nice to finally see some open eyes, and we carried on with some conversation that I believe was on how unexciting and unfulfilling life as a vegetable must be. Of course this was metaphorically speaking. What I mean by vegetable is a person who does the same thing everyday for months, years on end, and still finds it worthwhile and entertaining. There was more to the conversation, but that was the gist of it and the gist is all that matters these days.

Power naps helped get me through the remainder of the flight, and as we touched down at Frankfurt airport in Frankfurt, Germany all the weirdo thoughts that had grown in my mind throughout the flight were torn from their roots, and burned to unrecognizable ashes. This was a very good thing because it now allowed room for more weirdo thoughts to develop about the new location that I was now thrown into. As we walked into the waiting area of the airport, I had noticed that the Germans really were efficient buggers. They used bicycles to navigate through the corridors of the massive complex, and I was tempted to snag a bike myself in order to cruise around while we waited to board our next flight. Chris dared me to, and I pussed out; this would be a reoccurring theme of the trip. We had to get to gate A21, but the misinformed German lady at the counter told Chris we were looking for gate A28. Either way we were far off from our desired destination so we began our trek to gate A28. On this bizarre walk I noticed Camel Joe was not dead, but simply laying low in Germany. He had established smoking cubicles throughout the airport, and of course the nicotine fiends had to try them out.

We waited by an elevator as they tapped their veins and filled up. Reciting jokes from the likes of Mitch Hedberg and Dane Cook we passed the time with ease. Everyone was spent from the exhausting flight over, and heads weren't exactly screwed on as tight as they should be. Once the ashes were sucked into the Camel Joe smoke cubicle we reunited, and decided to take the stairs down to the next level. Upon emerging through the sand blasted glass doors I felt that I had stumbled into someone else's acid trip by accident. I say someone else because I was pretty sure I had not consumed the drug prior to landing-unless the flight attendant had slipped me a tab without my knowing. Unfortunately, that was not the case; everyone saw what I was witnessing. A long hallway with conveyor belts and walls made of flashing lights and rapidly changing colors. It is odd that the airport designers thought this would be a good addition to the maze of a building. Jet lag causes enough delusions on its own, and these crazy German bastards are trying to intensify the effects. I wouldn't be surprised if they were pumping nitrous through the ventilation system.

Mesmerized by the long corridor of delusion-intensifying patterns and colors we stood zombified on the conveyor belt. It wasn't until a young man in a hurry broke our fixation before we realized we had a long way to go. We all began to walk towards the end of the seemingly never-ending, mind fuck of a hallway. As we finally stepped off the belt we moved towards a screen in an attempt to figure out what gate was ours-A21 or A28. The screen was useless for it posted no signs of any upcoming departures. Making our way to gate A28 I noticed a bar, which was one of the few kiosks open at this time. I thought to myself, drink booze; kill time, but it was too early in the morning to begin drinking. Not to mention, that plan never made much sense to begin with.

After pounding down two Red Bulls and a bag of crispy M&Ms I was roaring to get on that plane. Searching for an ATM to get some Euros I felt something I had never felt before. I noticed stares attaching themselves to me as I searched manically for an ATM, and in that moment I had realized that I was for once, that dumb foreigner. Upon arriving back at A28 I was informed that our gate was indeed A21. No worries though, this was vacation, and we all moved towards A21 which was not very far away. The phone at A28 had a grudge against calling cards, which prevented me from making a call home to squash any speculation that I was floating on a raft somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean. A21 was a fresh sight, and it had allowed for a fresh start. Kelly, who had the calling card, attempted to call home-it worked. I was now up, and again ran into some trouble, but with a little persistence the phone submitted allowing me to make my call. It was early in the morning back in the states so I made my call brief. Not to mention I was on borrowed time and time is expensive these days.

Once we settled in on the Lufthansa flight to Italy I had noticed that the dirty tramp at the first class counter back at JFK was right when she assured me of a window seat-my apologies for the whole dirty tramp thing. This plane ride was not as busy as the transcontinental adventure. The only interesting thing was the view from the plane, which consisted of marshmallow-esque clouds and massive mountain ranges or the Swiss Alps if you want to get technical. I stared at them occasionally snapping a picture here and there as I enjoyed music and brief conversation.
Landing in Italy about two hours later everyone was eager to abandon the plane. After Chris counted nine heads, we were off to the baggage claim. This was definitely the most stressful part of the trip; the baggage claim is Purgatory and your bag is your soul. You stand waiting impatiently for your luggage to come around, and the longer you wait the more impatient you grow. Conversation is the last thing you want since your only goal is getting your bag. People chattered on in my ear, but I politely tuned them out, and stood there with an ulcer building in my stomach as it took forever for my bag to emerge from the rubber flaps. When it made its debut appearance some gray-haired man went to grab it, but I was on top of my game quickly stepping in and securing my luggage. His wife wasn't sure if I was a thieving son of a bitch trying to run off with her husband's luggage so I entertained her by showing her the inside of my bag. There was no reason for me to hold it against her. I knew the feeling, and I had thought the same of her husband only a few seconds prior to her investigation. It is quite a euphoric feeling when your bag rounds that metal bend, but it is most definitely Hell when your bag is lost, nowhere to be found. Fortunately no one was subjected to the Hell of lost luggage, and we were off to find our tour director.

Walking out of the baggage claim area we were now in what looked like a food court, but it was no food court. All the little shops built into the walls were cash exchanges for out-of-towners to turn whatever currency they were using back home into euros. Now I was getting great exchange rates using my debit card so I found a Bancomat (as ATMs are referred to in Europe) and snagged myself around a hundred euro. Making my way back to the group I noticed many had gone to exchange their American dollars, which were inferior compared to the mighty euro. The exchange was something along the lines of a buck nineteen, but by the end of the trip it was around a buck twenty-three. Settling in at group HQ, which happened to be a marble pillar and a safety gate, I whipped out an Oral-B brush up and freshened up my mouth, which had been tainted with foul food, whiskey and beer. To some, that combination is considered a breakfast of champions. It is too bad that such a person who would consider such a thing is usually the type to have relations with their relatives and is missing out on a row of teeth.

Being that I wasn't one to consider that wretched combo a breakfast of champions let alone any kind of breakfast, it was in my best interest to remove the grainy taste from my mouth. After doing so I ventured off towards the bathroom, which was brimming with a poignant scent of urine, but not just any urine. The kind of urine that has been sitting in sweltering conditions for quite sometime allowing it to marinate into a vapor more toxic than mustard gas and tear gas combined. Hell, upon entering the stench I wished for some crazy Italian to jump out of a stall and hit me with a fresh burst of pepper spray. It was too late to hold my breath so I suffered in agony as I only added to the problem. During my emergence from the musky bathroom I had a paranoid feeling that the smell had attached itself to my clothing. Great. I'm the only guy in my group, and I'm the kid who smells like piss-fan fucking tastic.
After a half hour of investigating along with Chris counting nine like some OCD stricken nut we finally ran into our tour director who also appeared to be suffering from some kind of anxiety attack. She led us over to the group of groups, which I was previously unaware of. Apparently the way these educational tours worked was they take a bunch of small groups and then combine them to create one massive, confusing mess of a group. At this assembly of numerous people who I had no desire of meeting we were introduced to the lady who would be guiding us throughout our journey across Europe. That lady being none other then Frida. Why the big setup? In time impatient ones, for now make sure to remember that name and more importantly make sure to create a mental picture of the following description. Frida was about 5'5" and didn't weigh more than one hundred thirty pounds, give or take. She wore a beige overcoat, which accented her vibrant red hair that put Carrot Top's mop to shame and she had to be no younger than fifty and no older than seventy. Being British, she was in possession of the stereotypical set of chompers that were led by a pair of buckteeth.

She assumed control of the group after a head count and a brief conference with the individual group leaders. We were led out into the overwhelmingly bright unloading area of the Italian airport where we had to trek across a few lanes of drivers who seemed unsure of their actions. Our bus was parked along side numerous buses, and our driver Paulo, loaded our luggage into the compartment below the bus.

Walking onto the bus, which apparently was decorated by some 80's pop art obsessed crack head; I finally was able to get my bearings-and boy would I need them. As the bus pulled away from the airport I began to notice that the cars in Italy were quite tiny. Not only that, but everyone seemed to be driving manual transmission cars. What were they thinking? How are you supposed to eat food and drive with a stick shift? Man these Italians sure weren't as civilized as us Americans. Coming from New Jersey where traffic is as common as lawsuits, I was surprised to see the Italians one-upping us. It was bumper-to-bumper traffic for what seemed like miles. Cars in Italy were half the size of American cars so you can imagine the sight of our monstrous bus stranded in the sea of these micro-machines.

Being that we were going nowhere fast, I curled up in the two seats I had managed to obtain with the old "book bag in the seat" trick. It was a simple trick that worked a good percentage of the time. Place your book bag in the seat next to the window and sit in the isle seat. People who are unfamiliar with you or are just shy won't bother climbing over you for a seat. They most definitely will not ask you to move a book bag, which may or may not be yours. I guess I am kind of a monster taking advantage of peoples insecurities like that, but I get bus sick quite easily and it was uncomfortably warm inside that bus. Lying with my head on my book bag I passed out only to awake about twenty minutes later only one hundred feet from where I snoozed off. Looking out the window to verify this short distance I had noticed the Chevrolet dealership that I had seen only a hundred feet back, but from a different angle. They had to be doing terrible business since they were in a country where the American revolution of Goliath sized automobiles was obviously not catching on. That revolution was barely gaining momentum back in the states where foreign cars had taken a big chunk of profits from American car manufacturers. They were cheap, reliable and conserved gas well. American cars were good for running over trees and forest creatures, but the practicality of such a use was...well far from practical.

After spending way too much time on that petty thought I was back to my old ways. My head was on my book bag, my eyes were closed and I am pretty sure drool was dripping from the side of my mouth. It was all-good though; I had a waterproof windbreaker on. The next time I came out of my fetal position I rubbed my eyes clear of whatever dust the sandman had left. We were clear of the traffic and on route to our destination. I noticed gypsy shantytowns along the riverside, and saw other marks of severe poverty that I never had witnessed before. Sure, we have copious amounts of homeless people in the States, but their little villages are located out of sight from the general public. Either way it appeared that whether the impoverished were hiding in exile or in the scopes of the public they still were doomed. Now my memory is quite hazy on the order of the next set of events so bare with me for they may not be as detailed as the rest of this gigantic gathering of words and crackpot ideas.

The bus drove into the center of Rome or as I now refer to it, the depths of Hell. Stopping along side a massive building with a statue of the number sixty on the side, we, the group of forty, emerged from the bus. Clueless to the place we had stepped into we gathered for a Fridan head count. After she babbled off the numbers we followed the bright red beacon perched upon her scalp to a street that was home to a bank and a few cafes. Deciding it would be a good idea to cash a traveler's check or two I followed Laura into the bank. It was not long before I realized banks in Europe were a pain in the fucking ass. Now you may be reading this and thinking to yourself that I use swear words quite often, but they are merely words. Words that carry strong emotion, and writing is in essence, the expression of emotions and ideas. So if it bothers you than emotion must also make you uncomfortable...you fucking coward.
Emotions were strong when I noticed the only way of entering the bank was through a secure chamber. The secure chamber only held one person, and all bags had to be put into a small cubby that was entirely too small for my book bag. My aspirations and dreams of cashing my first traveler's check were crushed in a moment of no more than five seconds. Some of the group had ventured off to the café Frida had pointed out, while the rest of us waited outside the bank for Laura and the other few that had made it through the grueling security chamber. I was never one to wait patiently so I made my way back towards a street vendor that I had seen on the walk over to the bank. Ordering up a slice of pizza and a Gatorade with the exotic flavor "limone," I was in business. Unfortunately I was a terrible businessman for I had allowed the street-smart street vendor to take advantage of me as he charged me seven euros and fifty cents, which is much more than the pygmy sized meal was worth. The realization that I had been dooped did not come until I was already too far away to care, and too busy avoiding a begging gypsy lady who I had almost stepped on, as she had done a good job of blending into the surrounding architecture.

I returned to the group who was still waiting for the unlucky few who were taken hostage by the bank. At this point I wouldn't be surprised if they were receiving body cavity searches. I have heard great tales of heists that have taken place in Europe, but apparently banks were cracking down in a vigilante type manner. No more games were to be played; this was serious business-as was all business relating to money. Eating my overpriced slice of pizza I immediately noticed stares attaching to me. This time it was not because I was a dumb foreigner-even though I am sure some stares were for just that reason-the stares that I speak of were coming from members in my group. I felt like a caged animal being observed during feeding time. However the difference between my situation and the situation of a caged animal is that the animal won't be guilted into sharing its food. It was inevitable, and eventually I handed out a few bites to those brave enough to ask. At the moment my expensive Italian meal was finished the hostages were released.

We were on our way to the café where the rest of the group and Frida were hanging out. Crossing the road was a fun task; as many cars gave the impression that they were going to bull over any pedestrian dumb enough to attempt the crossing. Luckily we had command as all cars came to stop only inches away from our knees. The closest I came to getting struck by a vehicle was by a cop car that came within centimeters of my lower extremities. When the group made it to the other side of the road, Chris began his now infamous count of nine, which turned up three short. The three missing travelers consisted of Bevin, Tina and Angeline. Fifth-teen minutes in Rome, and we already had managed to lose people. Fortunately for Chris, it was only a small scare as they turned up right at the moment Frida was pulling the group towards Trevi Fountain. Walking towards Trevi Fountain I noticed two sub-machine gun clad police officers right after my mention of wanting to steal a scooter. Being accustomed to police who would harass you for talk such as that, I stiffened up and prevented the making of any eye contact. In hindsight they probably just thought I was constipated rather than a real threat to some unknowing Italian's scooter.
The walk to Trevi Fountain provided me with some nice pictures.

The initial impression of Trevi Fountain and the cobblestone streets, which were covered with shops and cafes, was one of sheer satisfaction. We finally had made it, and now it was time to do as the locals-apparently that was not being anywhere near Trevi Fountain. It was not long before I realized we were immersed in a pungi pit of tourists, pick pockets and humdrum street performers who did nothing, but stand still or act drunk. Even the shops along the uneven streets lacked variety as they became so banal that I felt like I was trapped in an episode of the Twilight zone. Maybe I was or maybe my expectations were simply set too high. I had envisioned Rome as a majestic place that exuded excellence; then again they did fall to the Barbarians, who I imagine would mess up the place a bit.
I did my best keep close to the group in order to get out of the tourist infested square as soon as free time was up, but in typical dunderhead fashion I managed to lose the group as I went to purchase earrings for my mother. Forced to fend for myself with no concept of time I wandered the streets aimlessly until I ran into Kelly and Janine. They also had separated from the group, and were patrolling the streets checking in on each shop. As we made our way back to the meeting point an Italian man made a pass on Kelly. His approach was quite smooth, which is what one would expect from an Italian. The words he uttered, which oozed with passion were, "Hey look at that ass...mmm, mmm...like a fresh meatball". Now that is what I call a pick up line. Chris and the remainder of the group showed up soon after the Italian man's attempts on Kelly had failed. They apparently went to a swanky café that I would have liked to have gone to for the main reason that the meals I would have from that point on were lousy to say the least. After nine heads were counted we made our way back towards the drop off point.

Now I may have fallen into the tourist category, but at heart I was no damned tourist. A tourist, to me, is a person who gets some kind of great fulfillment or satisfaction out of doing touristy things, and that was certainly not the case for me. Not to mention all tourist traps cater to tourists with mediocre attempts at emulating whatever culture they are coming from. Italy did a piss poor job at catering to American culture, and I am glad because I was not on a trip to Europe to experience American culture. I wanted to run among the locals, I wanted adventure; I wanted a damn change from the daily grind of things. That change came in small doses while in Rome, especially when a group of little kids walked by, as I happened to notice a chubby boy with a fantastic rat's tail. I haven't seen a rat's tail since my youth and it was a nice memory refresher.

Loading onto the bus where Paulo had been waiting patiently, I sat down in the two seats, which would remain mine throughout the remainder of the trip. We were now off to our hotel, which was located in the vineyard region just outside of Rome. The scenery was beautiful, but Frida kept rambling on the microphone as if she had way too many drinks before boarding the bus. In her trademark British accent she talked about sheep herding and other nonsense that I heard between songs on my CD player. She was nice so it was hard to hate her, but man was she wacky.
The bus pulled into Villa Maria around five o'clock. Now I had mentioned earlier that I had no way of knowing what time it was so any time I give is probably not too accurate. We rolled our bags through the sliding glass doors, and settled down in the lobby as Frida and the group leaders figured out the room assignments. I was really hoping I would be alone considering I was the only guy in my group, but hoping is nothing more than wishing, and we all know how wishing works out. Something I had eaten earlier in the day was getting jumpy in my stomach so I quickly found a bathroom, which was located down the hall from the lobby. One thing I had noticed about bathrooms in Europe was that they were co-ed. Walking into the sink room-as I referred to it-I was given the choice of two doors. One door had the female figure in sign form on it and the other was emblazoned with the male figure. Being that my groin was convex I chose the door with the mighty two-dimensional male figure.

Unaware of the seat covers directly above the toilet seat I had wrapped the seat quite thoroughly to prevent any unwanted things from attaching themselves to my genitalia. Sitting down, I was presented with a quite unfortunate welcoming. The seat slid off the toilet causing me to maneuver in such a way that I looked like an Olympic weight lifter struggling to squat a gold medal lift. After an interesting bathroom experience I washed my hands and returned to the lobby where Chris was handing out room numbers and keys. Of course I did not get my own room, but it wasn't too big of a deal. I then was introduced to my roommates who were from the other EF groups. One was a heavyset fellow from Mississippi who went by the name Marshall. He was full of southern hospitality, which was comforting. The other roommate was Ignacio, which I am positive I spelt entirely wrong. He understood the difficulty of his name, and told us to call him by Nacho. Now this is somewhat humorous, but when I entered the word Ignacio, spell check claimed it was spelt wrong (which it probably was) and one of the suggestions turned out to be nacho. Whether that is how he got the nickname, I will never know.

Nacho was a quiet kid, but Marshall and I were able to hold conversation with him so it was all-good. There was also a Romanian kid named Eddie who was assigned to our room. He seemed a little bit on the odd side, but I would soon learn why he struck me in such a way. We gathered our belongings and made our way to our room, which was quite homy. Finally some time to relax and kick back and put our feet up and chill out and unwind...most importantly, unwind. We all unloaded a change of clothes along with shower gear since we all desperately needed, and wanted a shower. Before any of us could get into the shower a knock came over the door. As I opened it I noticed a chubby blonde woman who caught me off guard. She appeared as if she was room service, but she then called for Eddie in a thick Romanian accent. Shortly after giving him a 7Up she took him out of the room, and we did not see poor Eddie for quite sometime. It was clear that his mother ruled his life with the fist of a tyrant and probably a belt as well. He kind of reminded me of Ricky Smith from the movie Better Off Dead, but Eddie was not quite the momma's boy Ricky was. He was no longer our roommate, but it was a good thing because now I could push two of the tiny beds together forming one normal sized bed for me to stretch out on

Eddie was gone, Nacho was in the shower and Marshall was reading. I made small talk and ventured downstairs for a quick recon mission. As I returned back to the room Nacho was finished with his shower, and it was now my turn to get clean. I gathered all my supplies and took over the bathroom. The shower resembled a vertical coffin, but all I cared about was getting that nice clean feeling. Looking around for a towel I found what appeared to be a bed sheet. It was better than nothing so I hung it in arms reach of the casket of cleanliness. I turned on the water, and with surprising force and temperature I was removed from the shower. Goddamn Nacho. It was much colder in Italy than in Los Angeles, but the quiet bastard was definitely over compensating. My chest among other regions of my body, felt as if I had received third degree burns. Cautiously, I approached the shower for round two. I crept up and quickly turned the nozzle then I pulled my hand out of the showerheads range. Exercising even more caution I tested the water temperature, which had now cooled down to a tolerable degree. Climbing in, still a little shook up; I remembered how great it would be to finally be clean again. After awhile in the shower I noticed the water level starting to rise. These rat bastards! It was a trap. In actuality it was just my own stupidity. Lifting my foot to reveal a drain the water level dropped, and I went about my cleaning business.

After everyone had their shower we went down to the lobby, but before sitting down we had wandered into a prayer session at the Villa Maria church. We were removed in the holiest of ways, as the nun shooed us out. On our return to the lobby I noticed an attractive bar maid. Walking over to the bar I ordered a glass of Jagermeister and struck up some conversation. It seemed to be going to pretty well until I realized she did not speak much English as I did not speak much Italian; we were at a stalemate-at least it's better than a glass Jager in the face. Sitting down in the TV room we relaxed with pleasant and humorous conversation. As Frida made her debut in the lobby I mistakenly called out, "Frido, what time is dinner scheduled for?" She either didn't care or missed my mistake because she replied in a charming manner informing us that dinner was set for six o'clock. We went back up to our room and listened to some music to kill the last twenty minutes before dinner. Before anything could happen, Marshall rolled into his bed, which snapped like a turkey's wishbone. We all had a good laugh and began reading as the laughter died down. The music and our open door had attracted a group of pests. As we were reading our books while enjoying the sounds of At the Drive In, a group of four girls appeared in the doorway.

Now these girls were unfamiliar to me so I entertained them with conversation. After about five minutes of talking it did not take long before I had figured out that they were young high school girls. Apparently one of the groups was made up of high school students, and they followed the music to our room. Now the most common thing a guy would think in this situation would be, "Hot Damn! This is going to be fun." Wrong. Dead wrong. They were much younger than seventeen even though they could have passed for a group of seventeen year olds-growth hormones these days. I did not discover their age by them telling me; I found out by the brainless, imbecilic shit that came out of their mouths. It wasn't long before they started clamoring on about petty teenage gossip, nor was it long before they started dropping momma jokes. My mind was blown and I tried to find the page I was on, but I was now forced to tolerate the mistake I had made by making them aware that I was not mute. Nacho had the right idea, as he spoke not a single word. Marshall was also going back and forth with them up until the same point when I realized the mess that was sitting at the ends of our beds. Thinking fast, I told them we had to get ready for dinner, and to my credit they left.

It was time for dinner so we headed downstairs to the dining room where we ran into the rest of the group. The food wasn't bad, and I remember conversation being full of laughs and other enjoyable things. No real memory of the details of the conversations, but at least I still have the laughs...that's what matters...that's what is important... that's... All right enough of that. After dinner everyone decided to hit the mattress early in order to wake up nice, early and full of energy-fools. It was our first night in Italy, in Europe and no one was going to celebrate? Well neither was I. It is weird when you are the only person engaging in party like activities. I decided to lower myself to the level of fool and attempt to go to sleep. Throwing on my headphones, and opening my book I slowly drained myself of enough energy to attempt nocturnal rest or sleep in less gothic terms. The barbarian inside me decided it would not be in my best interest to get a full night of rest, and shook me from my sleep. Come to think of it the barbarian inside me was still asleep when I reentered consciousness. The barbarian that had woken me in the middle of the night was none other than Marshall with his battle-axe of a snore.

Villa Maria at three thirty in the morning was quite like a ghost town. Only a short gray haired man kept guard while the rest of us damned foreigners slumbered on like the animals we are. But I was an acid freak, and the chemistry in my brain was much different than those who laid in a comatose on their tiny beds, inside the rooms of the quaint Italian villa. Sleep was no longer a necessity of nature for me; it was merely an option. When the Jabberwocky snore of Marshall yanked me from my dream world I had quite a hunger stirring. Wanting breakfast I made my way to the lobby, hoping it was almost six thirty AM-the time breakfast was scheduled for-or was it seven thirty? Damned if I know. I had awhile to go, and figured a cappuccino would be a good way to start the day. It ran me about one euro and fifty cents, which is roughly a dollar eighty American, give or take. The short gray haired man signaled towards my cup as he handed me what looked like a packet of speed. Listening to his hand signaled directions I poured the entire packet in and stirred it up. Sipping my cappuccino on a small bench in the lobby I was finally getting a feel for Italia. It was a peaceful two minutes and shortly after I made the trek back up to the room where Marshall and Nacho continued to slumber on like lazy, stinking animals.

Wired from the speed filled cappuccino, and wanting to experience more of the peacefulness that I had briefly tasted I grabbed my book and CD player, taking my one-man circus back to the lobby. Being the clumsy goof I am, I managed to drop my CD player down the steps. It tumbled in similar fashion to a man who had his fill of whiskey and decided to attempt ascension up Mt. Everest. Such a man would be likely to end up in a cold, bitter crevice where he would freeze to death, and at a later point in time his body would be picked apart by some animal or another. As the CD player came to a stop I picked it up and assessed the situation. My CD player had suffered a similar fate as my iPod did one week prior to my European excursion. That fate being a broken screen, but unlike my iPod I could still enjoy music. Sitting on the small bench listening to The Fall of Troy and reading Songs of the Doomed by Dr. Hunter S. Thompson I was back in that peaceful state of mind. While I was reading the weird, but true wisdom of Hunter Thompson I had remembered an odd dream that I had on the eve of the trip. I do not remember much of the dream, but I do remember two things; the first thing being that it was a fun dream. The second thing happens to be the only actual event from the dream that I can recall.

This event consisted of me sitting in a truck with Hunter, throwing pens at people while Hunter muttered repeatedly the phrase "You gotta live life...live life to the fullest...fuck these people". As I woke from the dream I simply dismissed it as a schizophrenic delusion. In retrospect I now know what the sub-levels of my brain were trying to convey with the crude, pen-chucking message. Experience is the only pure high left in the world. In order to get that fix you need to get off the couch and take a big chunk of flesh out of life. Follow your gut regardless of anyone who thinks your gut is crazy, and never be ashamed of the experiences you choose to engage in. By the time I had finished the thought as well as the book it was five thirty AM, and I was suffering withdrawal from the crank seasoned cappuccino that I had enjoyed earlier that morning. It was about time that I go throw a pen at the small gray haired man and get him to fix me another cup of speed filled experience. I did in fact, have a long day of flesh seizing ahead of me.

People began gathering in the lobby around a quarter to six. As I noticed the group assembling for breakfast I made my way upstairs to freshen up, and to gather whatever supplies I would need for the day's festivities. Breakfast was nothing special-continental breakfasts never are-and like a junkie I filled up on cappuccino and espresso; as a means to prevent withdrawal, but more importantly it was for the caffeine rush that followed shortly after ingestion. The day would be long; we had a guided tour ahead of us, and energy was essential to survival. I came into this trip expecting the guided tours to be the worst part, and they had shattered my previous expectations. Of course it was not in a good way. After breakfast we gathered outside for a Fridan head count, which also consisted of a routine nine count at the hands and eyes of Chris. It wasn't long before everyone had boarded the bus, freshly counted and bubbling with excitement. Frida took control of the mic, and began informing us on the day's upcoming activities. By now I had already figured out a way of tuning her out; it was not a complicated task since it was simply raising the volume of my CD player.

I knew we were on our way to the Vatican, but that was all I needed to know. Whatever nonsense Frida threw in off the top of her head would just cause unneeded mental clutter. The bus came to a stop in front of a wall, which read, "Viva Hitler" in poorly executed graffiti. This was amusing to me since we were parked right outside the walls of Vatican City, the holiest city in the world with the exception of Jerusalem. I snapped a picture (as seen below the story) as we were being herded off the bus for yet another Fridan head count. The counting was beginning to get excessive and Frida was becoming neurotic. Assuming it was the result of a restless night, I followed the flock like the damned sheep Frida drunkenly rambled on about during the previous day's bus ride. The Vatican was not a top priority of mine, but I had no choice in the matter. Being a man who believes in a higher power, but despises organized religion for the centuries of corruption and bloodshed; I was put into an uncomfortable situation. But I was also an optimist, and I did my best to find something worthwhile about my hapless predicament.

It was difficult, but I was able to appreciate the workmanship that went into creating the artwork displayed throughout the Vatican. While I was not moved by the style of artwork I was moved by the devotion and time that went into the creation of such detailed works. The architecture was equally impressing for it was built in a time where today's technology of massive machines was non-existent. Both were redeeming qualities, but there were many things factoring into the displeasure and discomfort that I was feeling during my time in Vatican City. As I mentioned earlier I am not fond of tourist traps, and the Vatican was a massive net that caught hundreds of tourists by the hour. We met up with another tour guide who would be given us a detailed tour of the Vatican along with the Colosseum. She handed us what looked like walkie-talkies as well as special ear buds. Placing the ear bud on my ear I soon heard a voice speaking in my head. It was unnerving, but I quickly realized it was the newly found tour guide speaking through a mic clipped to her jacket. It was pretty neat, but the fascination with the device would be short lived.
Shuffling through the overwhelmingly packed halls of the Vatican for what felt like five hours, which it probably was, I was being drained of whatever caffeine produced energy I had left. The tour guide's voice had turned into an incoherent onslaught of sounds that became dizzying. The artwork had become unappreciable as over eager tourists snapped the life out of every statue, tapestry and painting they could get their eyes and camera on. With everything dead I hoped for the tour to come to end, but it would not come for quite sometime. The Sistine Chapel, an embodiment of the dedication and workmanship put into the Vatican, was quite an odd experience. Before entering we were briefed on the ground rules, which consisted of: no talking, no photography, no sitting on the steps and probably a lot of other rules that I had missed. As I walked in I noticed the three guards on duty chatting it up, occasionally taking a break to shush the crowd whose behavior was similar to the likes of a sixth grade lunch room.

Sitting down on a marble step after taking in some of the artwork done by the great Michelangelo, I was immediately informed by one of the chatty guards that my rear was not permitted to use the step as a seat. Moving away from where the guards were stationed I found another step, which was quite comfortable. Taking a load off I sat quietly, as to not disturb the talkative guards who were breaking the same rules they were enforcing. They used a loud "Shh" every time the crowd volume grew to such an extent that it endangered the artwork, which Michelangelo painstakingly created. This is where I drew the comparison to that of a sixth grade lunchroom. In my younger years I remember the sight of the principal entering the lunchroom, ready to restore order after some uncalled for event had taken place; whether that event was a food fight or some crazy kid freaking out, the principal would come. Upon the principal's arrival he or she would demand silence from the giggling bunch of children. Silence would come, but slowly the roar of the group would grow until a shushing or a simple raising of the hand would squash back the crowd noise to utter silence. This was precisely what was happening inside the Sistine Chapel. Honestly, what did they expect? They are allowing a bunch of anxious tourists into a place flooded with rich history, and then they are telling them to contain their excitement through absolute silence. The rationale behind such a concept is mind-boggling.

After we were released from time-out the group made its way over to St. Peters cathedral. Too tired to care anymore I followed the group in similar fashion to a child who was mute, deaf and dumb, staring at the ground and occasionally glancing up with a blank look of desperation painted upon my face. The Vatican was stealing my soul. All I wanted was a bit of food-even if it were a little Jesus wafer-but the tour seemed to be eternal. I had never felt so helpless as I paced around statues, which began to look alike. This was a result of observing hundreds of statues that all possessed similar qualities and style. Being unfamiliar with my location, and oblivious to what was next on the agenda I could not just abandon the group, and go off on my own or I would have. I was quite parched, as my thirst for adventure had not been satisfied. The closer we came to the massive wooden doors that stood between me and the outside world, the more I had the urge to take off. Rational thought kept me in place as I stood listening to the tour guide ramble on through my ear bud; testing the reception of the listening device I made my way towards the door. The range was relatively good, but like a dog fixed with a shock collar, I had gone too far and static shot through my ear stabbing my ear drum with such a force that I jumped, yelped and removed the ear bud from my ear.

Walking back towards the group, disheartened and playing with my wounded ear I had lost all hope of ever escaping. Luckily for me fate intervened, and decided to call off the tour. It was about damn time; I was teetering on the edge, and the Vatican was the last place I would want to lose my cool. We strolled across the stone lined pathways of Vatican City until we came to a stop at the rendezvous point. It was a souvenir shop, which to a tourist is the equivalent of a fresh, hot dung pile to a fly. With spirits and energy low, Chris, Laura and myself along with a few others from our eleven-person crew, found a small café located a block or two away from the dung pile. The place seemed nice, but what may seem to be gold can turn out to be pyrite. Unsure of what to order I stepped back, diligently observing the menu and display case. Nothing appealed to me, but I was hungry so food was food.
While I was lowering my standards I noticed Chris looking at a pictured menu of different types of pasta and sauces. Intrigued I wandered towards Chris, and I was excited to see Penne Bolognese, which is penne pasta in a meat sauce. After the man behind the counter had covered the girls he came over to Chris and I who were eagerly waiting. Chris was looking forward to gnocchi, but it was not available. He then decided to settle for the same meal that I planned on having. The man soon informed him that it also was unavailable. Pointing frantically to whatever picture was most aesthetically pleasing, Chris was denied a few more times before finally picking something that was available. Physically and mentally exhausted from the odyssey-like excursion through the Vatican I simply stated, "I'll have the same". Grabbing a cherry Fanta, I sat down at the small childlike table. The café was cramped, but I didn't care since it had a cozy feel to it. Finally some freshly cooked food to coat our severely depraved stomachs-or so we thought. The short Italian man came over to our table with a cardboard container covered by a sheet of cellophane. Inside was our future-microwave cooked-meal. Rome, Rome, Rome; what am I going to do with you?

It was almost like a sick practical joke was being played. I was expecting a man in a tuxedo to emerge out of nowhere with a camera crew and some bikini clad bimbos holding a check in my name. We finished eating our pasta that had been over seasoned with pepper and packaged in a microwavable box. Upon our departure from the tiny café we grabbed some gelato, and headed back toward the wretched dung pile. On a side note gelato was another redeeming value of Rome, but even delicious gelato could not save Rome. Rome was doomed to begin with.

Our tour guide had informed us that an existing law prohibits buses from parking on the main road for more than five minutes, which basically meant Paulo was circling around Vatican City waiting for us to make an appearance. Now we were far off from where Paulo was supposed to meet us so we had to hurry. Briskly walking across Vatican square, stragglers stopped for a photo shoot. The tour guide called for them, but she wasn't making any progress. Speaking into her breast-where the mic was located-I made an announcement that proved effective. Crossing the busy road I asked the tour guide if cars struck a lot of people in Rome. She was caught off guard by the odd question, and even I managed to catch myself thinking, "What the hell are you talking about?" They do drive like maniacs so my question was valid. Taking her time to answer she went with a simple yes, and we hurried onto the bus, eager to get to the next destination. I was more eager than most to leave Vatican City, but in general there was an anxious vibe in the air. Our bus landed back at the statue of sixty, and I was pleading with God to make the tour go anywhere, but Trevi Fountain. Apparently you can petition the lord with prayer because we took off in the opposite direction of Trevi Fountain. We ended up at a location that was a picture taking paradise.

As I stood in the ruins of ancient Rome I was calmed by the euphoric view. The tour guide's voice was still made up of incoherent sounds that bounced painfully off my injured eardrum, but I tuned her out, snapping as many photos as possible. It was not long before I ran out of room on my memory stick. The process of deleting poor photos had begun. Walking through the ruins I deleted whatever nonsense pictures I had, but I still managed to remain in awe as I absorbed the sights of the beautiful and truly ancient remains of the once great empire. Writing that previous sentence struck a chord in my brain reminding me of a thought I had while I was entranced by the debris of centuries past. Feeling a little experimental, and a tad bit lazy I am going to put a colon at the end of this, and lay down the thought in its pure form:

Man, Julius Caesar must be rolling over in his grave. Rome, a once great empire, has now been reduced to relying on tourism to pay the bills. Man, tourists fucking suck. Look at them. Yea I know I am tourist, but fuck man, I am not that pitiful. Jesus Christ how can someone be so oblivious to life? You come to Europe, and all you do is eat McDonalds, and visit things you would learn more about in a video documentary. I guess I am being kind of ignorant and ethnocentric at the same time. Well they do go hand in hand, dumbass...

Lets stop there since that thought only becomes more off topic, and more of an argument between myself and I. Now that you have some insight into my random, duel personality of a thought process...you can stop reading here. Well not really, unless you want to, but I must warn you the finale of Rome is quite a laugh riot as well as demoralizing for myself. In either case its enjoyable for you, the dedicated reader.

After we left the ruins of ancient Rome we were off to observe more ruins, but the rubble we were off to see is a well-known star of Hollywood. Now the famous Hollywood star that has been reduced to rubble is not Joan Rivers-she doesn't even live in Rome, and I am pretty sure she isn't even Italian. The star that I am speaking about is none other than Gladiator's, Colosseum. This was the only tourist trap that I was looking forward to being caught in. Walking in the Colosseum's direction I was invigorated as I was hit with a fresh wave of energy. Finally something where I can explore a little, but again my expectations got the best of me. We were not allowed to enter as a group since tours of the Colosseum were to be booked through the Colosseum only. As we individually entered the once glorious arena of battle I noticed a lot of areas were fenced off. This hurt the aesthetics, but I still remained hopeful. That was before I had learned that during the fall of Rome to the Barbarians the Colosseum was not in use for entertainment purposes. It was actually being used for spare building parts, which reduced it to well, rubble. The once great site of bloody battles that thousands cheered for was now a bi-level track for fatties to run laps around. Apparently the Romans used it well because I did not see one overweight person during my time there. To add insult to injury the Colosseum had a fresh, hot steaming dung pile located on the second level.

Acquiring the wandering components of our group we made our way outside where we ran into Frida who resumed command. It took her awhile to explain what was going on next not because it was a complicated set of instructions-it was far from that-but Frida had a knack for over-complicating things. All she had to say was, "Meet at this location at five o'clock, it is located down the street from Trevi Fountain." Instead she repeated the same idea over and over, but reworded it each time creating a confused bunch of world travelers. After everyone had given up on trying to understand what she was saying we nodded in agreement, and began following her. Of course what is an encounter with Frida without a Fridan head count? The Fridan head counts were occurring more and more as we stopped every ten feet for Frida to assure herself that no one had disappeared. This OCD like behavior caused what Frida had feared as a bunch of the girls noticed a group of actors dressed in similar fashion to the Roman warriors of day's past.

Again it was time for a photo shoot, but being a cheery Brit, Frida allowed it. As the Romans set up for a picture with Bevin I was contemplating running over to one of the street vendors located conveniently around the Colosseum, but I soon remembered my previous encounter with a street vendor. The thought that followed went something like this, "Fuck those people." Hungry, and watching the girls in the group take photos with the hack Roman soldiers; I forced all previous expectations out of my head since it would only be for the better. The twins were up, and like true soldiers the red and gold clad Romans became quite friendly as they hoisted them up into the air probably in an attempt to cop a quick feel. I began to space out causing me to stare blankly in the direction that I was facing, which happened to be the location of the girls and soldiers. My eyes were covered with a pair of brown tinted aviators that prevented anyone from seeing where exactly my eyes were focused. Showboating for the crowd one of the soldiers-who looked more Polish than Roman-made a comment suggesting that I was staring at his genitalia, but I was not. That son of bitch just happened to be in the vicinity of where my eyes were focused during my spaced out moment. Seriously I wasn't meat gazing...I swear...fuck that guy...not literally, but he can go...I bet I would whoop his ass in battle.

Anyway we began our walk back towards Trevi Fountain (tourist and pick pocket paradise) and during the walk I saw what looked like a Pakistani man with one crutch limping around with his hand out asking for donations. You got to love the ingenuity these little scam artists possess. It seemed to be a common trend among all street performers to do absolutely nothing and expect money. Now that pseudo crippled bastard wasn't a street performer; he was a scam artist. However due to my experience with Roman street performers I couldn't tell the difference. As we approached the area around Trevi Fountain the group went their separate ways. I stuck with Laura and Chris as we looked for a nice place to eat. We ordered some chow after finding a small café located on the corner of a street only a short distance away from where we had to meet Frida at five. This was convenient since we could relax while we enjoyed a solid meal. Chris ordered a cappuccino and some mozzarella rice balls. I ordered up a nice square of lasagna along with the mozzarella rice balls. The rice balls were absolutely amazing, I wish I knew where to acquire some back in New Jersey; sadly I do not. Laura disappeared soon after entering, but she emerged later from a hidden spiral staircase. She ordered up an Irish coffee (I think). What I do remember is it being too sweet, and as she notified the humble waiter he stumbled over the language barrier. He insisted cream would do the trick, but it did not. Laura did not want to hurt the feelings of the waiter who was trying hard to satisfy her so she just sipped it, and eventually handed it over to Chris. With a solid meal under our belts we headed towards the meeting point.

As we arrived we noticed various members of the group scattered about. Frida soon showed up to take us to where our prepaid dinner was scheduled. From my experience with reservations I had assumed we would be going to a semi-decent restaurant, but I was in for the dining experience of a lifetime. Of course this was not a good thing. Walking one block while dodging numerous motorists who were in a hurry to some unknown destination, the group arrived at the terrible, god-forsaken establishment of Autogrill. Earlier in this tale of Rome I mentioned that Italy did a piss poor job of catering to American culture, well Autogrill was the embodiment of such an idea. As we grabbed a tray-yes a tray-and lined up to gather our prepaid meal we were given the choice of pork chops (one of the few things I don't eat) and lasagna. I had just eaten lasagna only about an hour prior to our stop, and was certainly not going to eat it again. As I approached the man giving out the food I managed to talk him into giving me pasta.
I had grown sick of eating pasta by now, but it was the best of the worst so I was left with no other choice. Walking into the dining area I noticed all the seats had been taken so I sat down at an empty table close to the rest of the group. My back was to them so I was pretty much eating alone. Taking two bites of the pasta, which also was over seasoned with pepper I dropped my fork in a fit of anger and disappointment. After boredom set in I picked it up again and began shoving around the pasta in such a manner that it actually caused me to feel slightly depressed.

Noticing the plastic wrapped piece of bread sitting on the corner of my tray, I decided it would be a good dining choice since I occasionally enjoy eating bread. Tearing open the plastic and cracking the bread in half to get to the delicious, doughy center I was shocked by the sight of a hollow middle. What kind of place is this? Terrible food and bread with no delicious, dough filled center. I had enough, and at that very moment my stomach also had enough as it forced me up from my chair. In a rigid speed walk I made my way towards the bathroom, which was a ridiculously long climb up a spiral staircase. Entering the bathroom that had deep puddles all over, I made my way into a stall, covering the seat in half a roll of toilet paper. It may seem a bit excessive, but I was not leaving anything to chance especially in a place like Autogrill.

The one nice thing about public restrooms, actually the only nice thing about public restrooms is the reading material you are provided with. However the reading material provided by the patrons of Autogrill was a directory of transgender prostitutes, which not only disturbed me, but also made me glad that I had covered the toilet seat thoroughly. Finishing up I came into quite an unfortunate situation. Stall doors in Europe were not the typical American stall doors. They used solid doors that could not be climbed over. Now I bet you are wondering why you would need to climb over the stall door. As I tried opening the door I realized it was locked and would not open. This was the unfortunate situation that I had come into. I was standing in a puddle of god knows what, facing a directory of transgender prostitutes after nibbling on a terrible meal, all alone in a terrible mock American buffet. As this registered in my brain a sudden gust of fury caused me to use all my might to knock the door open, freeing me from that vile place. It was not yet over as I slipped down a flight of stairs as I started to make my way back down the spiral staircase. Another thought comes to mind as I reflect on my experience with Autogrill, "Fuck that place."

The group gathered by the door of Autogrill, and began obtaining whatever snacks and supplies they would need for the following day's bus rides and day trips. I did not buy anything because I felt it would be detrimental to society to contribute to such a god-awful establishment. Up the Punx! One Fridan head count later, and we were off towards the Pantheon. The walk to the Pantheon was similar to the walk from economy through first class. I never understood why they would make people from economy walk through first class in order to get off a plane, and I sure didn't understand why Frida would take us to Autogrill then show us an area of Rome that was so elegant, so beautiful, so captivating that it almost seemed surreal. Cafes that appeared peaceful and calming lined the streets that were made up of the most perfectly placed cobblestones I had ever seen.

The street performers were not the typical Roman street performers...they actually did something. Most of the performers were musicians, and as I saw a man playing guitar accompanied by his buddy on the violin I felt obligated to give them some money for finally showing me that not all Roman street performers were talent-less hacks. As we came into the square where the Pantheon was located I was frozen in place as I noticed a festival type atmosphere with street musicians, children running about and people enjoying drinks and conversation at the cafes surrounding the square. There was a man resembling the great Jerry Garcia playing the guitar, and it was in that moment that I knew something must be done. It was time to finally take a stand against the hellish tourist lifestyle that I had suffered through all day. Enough was enough; the tyranny of Frida and the EF Regime would no longer keep me a prisoner. It was freedom or death, but I would not settle for yet another tour surrounded by flash bulbs and dunderheaded, brainwashed prisoners. I went to Chris and explained, in secrecy, my plan to escape. He said, "Have fun," and I suddenly realized it was not hard to lose the manacles placed upon me by the Fridan faction. I found a seat at the café closest to the Italian version of Jerry Garcia and ordered a beer-a big beer.

As I waited for my beer I drew in a deep breath, and finally found what I had been looking for. The search for a peaceful, relaxing moment was over and as the euphoric feeling settled into my mind, the beer had arrived. To my surprise the waiter brought me some potato chips, which were covered in olive oil. This was even better because I had been meaning to try the olive oil chips, but did not have the chance to do so.

Sitting there sipping my beer, and listening to the Italian Jerry Garcia play a way on his acoustic guitar, I was overcome with a feeling of relief. It would've been nice to have someone to talk with, but I was glad to be free from the tourist hell. Sitting there for the twenty minutes I had, I did some reflecting on the trip and some reflection in general. For one I realized Rome was not as bad as I had previously assumed, just ninety percent of it. It was more a giant museum of a city than anything, but the square in which the Pantheon was located was absolutely stunning. Maybe if we would've had free time to explore Rome on our own I might have left Rome with a better impression in my head. Instead the tourist aspect of Rome had tainted me in such a terrible way that it could be considered a form of mental rape. I was mentally raped by Rome and tourism.

As the group emerged from the Pantheon I sat trying to finish up my beer, but I was not going to chug it. Frida seemed flustered as she executed yet another Fridan head count, and I had assumed it was because the count was short due to my self-removal. This was dangerous; a panicking Brit was on the loose. Acting quickly I waved my hand, which caught Chris' attention, and he informed Frida of my whereabouts. I also made a suggestion that we should be allowed to have free time, but again Frida made it a complicated task so I decided to stick with the group. We made our way back to Trevi fountain, but thankfully it was nighttime, and most of the tourists were nestled in their hotel bed waiting to contaminate the streets on the following day. Trevi fountain was much nicer at night, which made it more enjoyable. Maybe I was in a good mood because I avoided another tourist excursion or maybe it was the booze. It was probably a combo of both, but whatever it was it did not matter since I was finally enjoying Rome. While this newly uncovered enjoyment set in, one of the members of the big group had gone missing. This had turned Frida's world upside down, and she quickly organized rescue squads to go seek out Phil, the lost member. I stood there cracking jokes and acting like a fool. While I was doing so one of the annoying little scam artists came up to Laura and me trying to sell us one of his crappy, wannabe stretch Armstrong toys.

He handed me it, and I knew he would ask for money as soon as I grabbed it, but feeling refreshed and in the mood to terrorize the little pest I snagged it from him. I then turned around, and went back to joking around and acting foolish. He was persistent in obtaining the two euros I "owed" him, but I kept thanking him for the nice gift. Apparently this tiny Hindu man was an Indian giver, and after a few minutes of being a pest to him I gave him his silly little toy back; it was the last I would see of the rat bastard. We waited fifth-teen minutes before we decided it was time to leave Phil behind. The rescue squad would meet the group back at Vatican City where Paulo would be waiting. Meanwhile Frida led us towards the Spanish steps, which was basically a set of marble stairs. Maybe some terrible tyrant had been beheaded on the steps or something interesting had happened there, but Frida did not explain why we were observing the steps. The beer I had acquired was gone, and I decided to go take a leak at a bar across from the Spanish steps. Walking into the bar I was shocked by how much marble and gold was used in the decoration. Even the toilet was marble, and this dedication to detail prompted me to a buy a beer from them. Grabbing the beer with the highest alcohol content I made my way back towards the group who was being bothered by a line of street merchants selling light up rings.

These street merchants were less persistent than the parasites at Trevi fountain since they would leave after only two times repeating the phrase "No I don't have money. Go away." Coming back to the group with a beer in hand was a weird feeling since I was the only one drinking. I felt like the black sheep, but it was not my fault that people were not thirsty. The metro was located a block away and it was the fastest way of getting to Vatican City. We entered the metro, and found out that the ticket machines were quite a pain in the ass. After about twenty minutes of screwing around with the practical jokers of ticket machines we began waiting for the train to the Vatican. The train had arrived, and we boarded in a hurry in order to keep Frida calm. The train jerked off...wait...the train started off with a jerk causing me to lose my balance, but being quick like a cat I avoided falling down. Chris and Angeline cracked jokes about me being drunk and how I would probably fall down before the train ride was over. They said this while holding on to the poles, which made balancing a much easier task. I chose to live on the edge not using anything, but my stance for balance; using such a technique makes it impossible to avoid the occasional wobble. I was far from plastered, and knew I would not fall down, but they insisted that the more the train stopped and started up again, the more the chances would increase-silly fools. The train reached Vatican station, and I had not fallen down. We all got off, and began our walk towards St. Peter's.

Frida seemed confused on which direction we had to go in, but she did not realize she was standing under a sign that had St. Peter's Cathedral written on it with an arrow pointing towards the location. I notified the people around me of the sign, and began walking in the direction. Frida eventually took notice and followed suit. Stopping at a Bancomat to acquire fifty euros, I lost the lead, but I did not care. We made it to Vatican City where we met back up with the rescue squad, which consisted of Marshall and another guy who I did not know. No sign of Phil, who could have been lying in some alley way incapacitated. He did in fact have a lot of expensive camera equipment on him, and there are a good amount of shady bastards in Rome, but we had no time to worry so we boarded the bus after another goddamn Fridan head count.

Phil greeted us as we returned to Villa Maria in the depths of night. Apparently he had spent one hundred and thirty American dollars on a cab back to the hotel, but I was too tired to chat so I headed up to the room for sleep. That was the last day the group would set foot in the city of Rome and on that note, Nero had the right idea; When in Rome, Burn the place down.