When in Rome: Day 7 (Well...When in Venice actually)

About a month and a half ago, four adventurous friends went off on an journey to Italy, in pursuit of delicious pasta and fine espressos and in pursuit of a break from the humdrum dullness of everyday life in Dakar, Senegal. One of those friends was selected to tell the stories of their adventures, like the bards of old (except, without the rhyming--you really don't want her to rhyme. She's dreadful at the rhyming stuff). And then she got bogged down by the ordinary parts of life when they returned from their Italian adventure, and although she tried very hard to write about Italy in a prompt and timely fashion, everything else pressed in on her attention, until now, when she decided to use it as an excuse to procrastinate from marking the 34 research papers she needs to grade in the next week and half.

This is the continuation of their story.

On the seventh day of their journey the four women went to Venice.

This is the famous clock tower of St. Mark's square, a tiny peek of St. Mark's Basilica, and the Doge's Palace. If she is allowed to boast a little bit, Danielle is quite pleased with this shot, and thinks that perhaps Venice should use it as a postcard, and send the profits to Danielle to help pay off her college loans.


They arose early in the morning to catch their 9:30 train. Danielle got up earlier than the others to shower, and so she was ready to go by 7:30. Everyone else was still getting up slowly—they didn’t have to leave until 8:30 or so, so there really wasn’t a rush—Danielle just wanted a hot shower. At 7:45, the doorbell rang: it was Marcello, the little Italian man who owned the flat, coming to pick up the keys. Kari had been trying and trying to get in touch with Marcello to arrange the key drop off, but to no avail. She’d finally sent him an email telling him we were going to leave the flat at 8:30. So, he arrived at 7:45. The doorbell buzzing was the signal for everyone to wake up. After the doorbell chimed, there was a tremendous scuffle from Alicia and Kari’s bedroom, and a cry of “Shoot!” from Kari as she leaped up, and rushed into the bathroom. Danielle calmly spoke to Marcello on the intercom, and buzzed him up. She wasn’t really sure what to do with him when he came—would he sit in the living room and watch all of them scurry about to pack up the various last minute paraphernalia? Anticipating an awkward moment, Danielle let Marcello in. Marcello looked about in some confusion at the still unpacked apartment.

“When are you leaving?” He asked.

“Um…8:30…”

“Oh. Okay. I will come back.” And he left. And Danielle was relieved that she didn’t have to entertain him politely for forty-five minutes till everyone was ready to go.

At 8:30, they stood waiting for Marcello outside the building. It was raining—the first day of bad weather the whole trip, for which the four were very grateful. It had been beautiful in Rome for six days.

When Marcello walked around the corner, he opened his arms wide and said: “Rome is crying because you are leaving her.”

This man was a charmer in his day.

As they waved goodbye, and walked away from Marcello, Kari mused: “I really feel like he wanted me to give him a hug. But I wasn’t sure what to do.”

Finding the right train was not too difficult, but finding the reserved seats proved a nightmare. Apparently, the four no longer had reserved seats, because the train was a different type from the one originally planned on. It was rather trying to figure out where to sit, and they were juggling hand luggage, suitcases, and the carryout breakfast they’d purchased to eat on the train. People looked askance at them as they wandered in bewilderment up and down the aisle looking for seats 101-105 on a car that only went up to seat number 95.

Eventually, the four found unreserved seats in another car, and settled in for the three hour journey, in which they started taking notes for these very travel logs.

Cori and Alicia on the train to Venice.


Kari and Danielle on the train to Venice.


The train took them directly to the Venice train station, but their hotel was actually twenty minutes outside of Venice, on the mainland. The Venice train station is on solid ground, but as you may know, the rest of Venice is not. They peeked out the main doors of the train station, and there was Venice, in all of its rainy glory—for the rain in Rome had followed them to Venice. Despite the rain, it was still lovely in a Romantic poet sort of way. Danielle imagined Byron musing on the rainy skies over Venice, and found that odd, because Danielle does not even like Byron. After taking in the view, they waited for the train to take them to their hotel, which was in a small town outside of Venice. Alicia’s parents paid for the hotel as a part of Alicia’s birthday present (for which Alicia’s three friends feel immensely grateful). The hotel was nice in a hotel kind of way, and they rested for only a few minutes before heading out once more for Venice, despite the rain and their weary feet. They stopped in a little diner nearby for lunch (it was nearly 3:00 pm) for they were famished and fainting from lack of sustenance.

Upon returning to Venice, they needed to make a rather difficult decision: which vaperetto tickets to buy. Perhaps you scorn. Perhaps you say: “Pssh Posh.” Perhaps you say: “What’s a vaperetto?” A vaperetto is the “bus” system in Venice—there are no actual automobiles in Venice: it's a bus boat. There is no other way to get around, other than walking or taking a Gondolier. You don’t hire a gondolier to get around for ordinary traffic—you take a vaperetto. And, because Venice is essentially a giant tourist trap, waiting to take all of your money, the vaperetto is remarkably, incredibly, exorbitantly expensive. After deciding to sell their future first-born children to the city of Venice in order to be able to pay for the 36 hour vaperetto pass, the four women lined up to purchase the pass from the vendor.

In this photograph, Danielle, Alicia, and Kari are looking at the vaperetto sign, and pondering: "How badly do we really want to ride the vaperetto? Is it possible to just walk, rather than selling our future first born children?"


The automatic machine did not work, and Danielle informed the man of this problem.

“I am better than machine.” He told her with a wink.

When Kari went, she asked him where they could catch the Number 1. He told her “You want #1, you come to me.”

Apparently, he has been working on his English.

It was still cold and rainy, and they huddled in the vaperetto shelter, waiting for it to arrive. Of course, by the way, they huddled in the wrong shelter for fifteen minutes before realizing that they were in the wrong shelter. Eventually, they found the correct one, and the correct vaperetto. The plan was to ride the vaperetto all the way up the Grand Canal to take in the view of Venice, first. Venice was crying—hopefully not because of their arrival—but, as stated, it was lovely in that dreary, poetic sort of way that inspires the Anne of Green Gables of the world to write poetry or re-enact “The Lady of Shalott.”

They took the vaperetto to nearly the end of the line, just past St. Mark’s Basilica, and then decided to walk around. Rick Steves told them that the most remarkable sight of Venice was Venice. Rick Steves, once again, was correct: Venice is indeed the most remarkable sight of Venice. As evening came on, and the rain drizzled down upon them, the lights of the small streets cast a comforting warm glow on the whole scene. Someone in the group suggested that they “follow the warm glow” as the guide for which streets to explore, and so they did—drifting down side streets and up alleyways, guided by the streets with the warmest glows. It was a perfect way to explore Venice, and their meanderings led them to St. Mark’s square—which was practically empty because of the rain, past tiny cafes closing up for the slow tourist night, to dead ends that emptied into side canals, up and over countless bridges and walkways, guided entirely by the glow.

Rain and pedestrians in Venice.


Views from the vaperetto ride down the Grand Canal.






A wet piazza.


Follow the Warm Glow!


For some reason, when Cori walked over a bridge, someone suggested that Cori needed a bridge song. So, every time Cori walked over a bridge, she “tooted” Pomp and Circumstance. Every single bridge that they crossed in Venice.

Every single bridge.

There are many bridges in Venice.

Once again, they attempted to find a place to eat that did not exist, or which existed in some parallel universe of the author of the guidebook, and they ended up walking and walking for miles and miles, as they had in Rome. At long last, they settled on a little place that looked welcoming, if not quite the example of the nightlife or youth culture one might want in Venice. They settled into their seats, foot-weary after a long cold day of walking in drizzling rain. The restaurant was mostly staffed by international waiters—there didn’t seem to be any Italian employees, although the restaurant served delicious Italian food. They spoke some English, but there were a few translation difficulties.

At the end of the meal, over dessert, the main waiter approached our table. This was just after he got excited about Danielle’s t-shirt—she was wearing a Dakar Academy shirt, and he probably thought it said “Dkaka”—he looked like he could be from Bangladesh (sometimes mail sent to Dakar ends up in Dkaka). He set his tray down, and crossed his arms, and then uncrossed them. He gestured to the group, but began to address Cori.

“You make take this as insult, or you may take this as compliment.” He began. We all looked at him with interest. “But, you look like…Dazed and Amazed.” He told Cori. Cori started.

“Me?” She asked, in confusion.

“Yes, Yes. All the others, they are looking wide awake, they are looking like alert. But, you, you are dazed and amazed. Dazed and Amazed.”

At this point, Kari and Danielle were struggling to hold in their bubbling laughter, and the waiter made his exit, fortunately. The four women spent the next couple of minute laughing so hard, but unable to laugh out loud, because they didn’t want to draw attention to themselves, or embarrass the waiter. The man must have realized that the four friends didn’t quite take his comment as he may have intended (how is one to take that comment?) and he avoided them ‘til they finally made eye contact long enough to ask for the check.

For the rest of the night, as they made their way back to the train station, and back to the hotel, they quoted the waiter to Cori: “You look like…dazed and amazed. Dazed and Amazed. Dazed and Amazed.”

They crawled into their beds, each one of them feeling dazed and amazed after another long day of tourism. As much as they had enjoyed Italy, Rome, Venice, Pasta, Espressos, and each others company, they were really ready to get home to the ordinary, humdrum dullness of everyday life. Vacation had begun to take its toll. Fortunately, they were going home very soon.

When in Rome: Day 6

Highlights

Walking around an entire country: Of course it was the Vatican, but it’s still cool to be able to say so. It would have only taken about 45 minutes, but we meandered for over an hour.

This is the starting point of our trek, the entrance to the Vatican Museum.


A view of St. Peter's Basilica as we walked around the Vatican.




Cori and the Swiss Mercenary Guards who guard the Vatican. "According to Rick Steves," the uniforms may have been designed by Michelangelo.


St. Peter's Square.




The temporary Vatican City post office. I (Alicia) would have sent postcards from here, but it was closed.


View of the Church--St. Peter's Basilica.


McDonaldi’s!: While walking to McDonald’s for lunch, Alicia thought up a prank for people back in Dakar. She said we should tell everyone that McDonald’s in Italian is pronounced McDonaldi’s and that no one says “McDonald’s” nor understands what you mean when you ask for McDonald’s. We would tell people that they would have to ask for McDonaldi’s if they came to Italy. We decided not to actually do the prank (it would have been all Alicia)—but she did exuberantly declare “McDonaldi’s” every time we saw a sign for the restaurant while we walked, which ended up being quite often. We began to wonder if we would ever find it.




Seeing nuns eating at McDonalds: When we got there, we found it hilarious that there was this group of about seven nuns eating at McDonalds. Cori kept taking paparazzi shots of them the entire time. Alicia went to the restroom and there was no toilet paper; she asked the nun standing in line for a Kleenex, which the sister graciously gave her. We thought that this McDonald’s was a perfect commercial—there were nuns, families, young people, old people, alpine climbers, and tourists all converged on this one neighborhood McDonalds.





Running to make it to St. Peter’s Basilica on time: We somehow got the impression that we’d misread the closing times for St. Peter’s; we realized at 3:19 precisely that it closed at 4:00 (having previously believed it closed at 5:00), so we leap up from the couches just after coming home from our walk around the country and lunch to dash out again. (We hadn’t gone into St. Peter’s during our walk because we wanted to avoid the lines, and planned to come back later). So, we raced the half mile or so to St. Peter’s Square to stand in a line about two hundred meters long (by Vatican standards, that’s short). Fortunately, they didn’t close at 4:00, and we were able to get in.
The Vatican has a dress code--and they actually do check people and kick them out if they are not in dress code. Maybe we need a sign like this at DA...


Seeing a purple lady: While standing in line: I observed an older woman who had dark purple hair. Then, I noticed her shoes—purple. Then I noticed her shirt—white with purple strips. Purple purse, purple coat, and purple hat. I like purple. I hope to one day have enough guts to color coordinate my accessories with my wild hair color.

St. Peter’s Basilica: As usual, amazing and impressive and difficult to describe. Alicia and I took “awe” pictures to show our wonder. It’s a huge church. The funny thing was, the whole time I wandered around in that enormous monument to Peter and The Church, I kept thinking of this tiny little church in Manantali, (a small town in Mali)--a church that my family visited over spring break two years ago. The contrast between the two houses of worship struck me deeply—the harmonious voices of the choir singing in the Mass contrasting with the shrill Malian singers of my memory worshiping enthusiastically and unashamedly in their minuscule hut of a church, to the jubilant clanging of a grated pipe and clacking of cowrie shells on a calabash. I’m so grateful that I know the pleasure of worshiping in tiny African churches. (Sorry...my inner Miss Bowers has this tendency to soap-box...)

An entrance way into the Basilica.


Statues at the edge of the roof of the church--the shadows make them look like people looking down upon the crowds.


St. Peter's Basilica is bigger than any church you've ever been in. Unless you've been to the cathedral in Cote D'Ivoire--that one is supposed to be bigger.






The altar over St. Peter's tomb. It was made by Bellini.


The Pieta, by Michelangelo


The main dome of the Basilica, over the altar.



Awe and wonder.


Africans: While waiting for Alicia and I to stop being awed, Cori met some Congolese who worked in St. Peter's—they were “modesty monitors” and their job was to check for dress code violations, and tell people not to lean against the pillars, which is what Cori was doing when they met her. They talked for a while—they invited us to a discotheque and we declined, playing the missionary card (and the “we really don’t like Discotheques” card, as well).

Awkward moment at an Irish Pub: Kari wanted to go to an Irish pub she had read about for dinner that night, so we set out on our last night in Rome. We found the pub, and walked in to a stunned silence. The denizens of the pub turned and looked at us with utter…confusion and surprise as the four of us doe-eyed North American tourists entered their territory. It looked very authentically Irish (and the barman--woman--had a delightfully thick Irish accent), but it was only the bar part of a pub, and not the food part. We left to find better sustenance than Guinness, giggling for several blocks over the moment that we stood awkwardly in the doorway with the goggled-eyes of the bar’s patrons staring at us stupidly.

Day 7: Venice!

When in Rome: Day 5

Morning:
Kari headed out to see her brother (Jeff) and sister-in-law (Liza) again (remember, the whole Rome idea started with them). She went to the Coliseum and Forum for a second time (and was able to use Alicia’s information to guide them.)

Alicia, Cori and I went out for breakfast and H&M. It’s one of my favorite stores, and I really wanted to shop there.We found H&M, and a bunch of other stores. We bought things. (For the record I, Alicia, only bought a shirt and earrings)

Yes, I heart H&M.

I went into Levi’s to look for jeans, and for some reason got suckered into getting my “Curve IQ” done. What is a “Curve IQ”? I’m not really sure. This skinny stick of a girl measured me, and frowned a lot, and then told me I had “Bold Curves.”

Um, thank you. I think. I’d rather not think about what that means, actually.

Afternoon:
We headed back to our area to meet up with Kari and Jeff and Liza to go to the Vatican. Alicia and I got lunch at Subway. Have you ever ordered the Italian BMT sandwich at Subway (I don’t remember what the BMT stands for)—I always get that at Subway at home (by home, I mean the USA, not Senegal. I'm a confused TCK (Third Culture Kid), okay?). Well, in Italy, at Subway, it’s just a BMT. This answered the question I had been asking myself the whole trip: what do they call Italian Dressing in Italy? Dressing.

When we got back to the flat, we all changed into our new clothes. It’s nice to feel pretty, and not touristy. I regret wearing my black flats, though, and not my sensible sneakers for what was ahead of us.

Side Note: When we got back from Pompeii the night before, Kari told us about her day with Jeff and Liza. One thing she told us was that “Jeff is such a tourist: sneakers, backpack. He’s even wearing a fanny pack.” We have this long running joke about fanny packs, and had been discussing them the day before. Then she corrected herself: “Actually it’s not a fanny pack. It’s a Rick Steves money belt—that Liza got for him.”

Oh, yes. Jeff was sporting Rick Steves fashion accessories. It does not get any better than that. I think Alicia was jealous.

Kari and her family got back from their morning of tourism, and we all headed out to the Vatican Museum.


Our main aim was to see the Sistine Chapel, of course, but to see the Sistine Chapel, you have to see everything else. Everything else is an overwhelming amount of Famous Art.

We didn’t have to wait in line to get into the Vatican, which was a relief because Cori had been telling us about the long lines she waited in four years before. We just walked right in. I was disappointed, because we didn’t have to get our passports stamped (because the Vatican is a separate country from Italy—the smallest country in the world).

Star Trek Fans: Doesn't this look like a Borg Sphere? (You know you're a Trekkie when...you go to the Vatican and see Borg Spheres...)


We started walking down corridor after corridor filled with Famous Art. The popes of yesteryear lived opulently, and the Vatican Museum is the former palace of the popes. I don’t know how the current pope lives in terms of luxury, but in the past, the position of pope was more political than religious. Their living space reflects the power of Mother Church. The first corridor you encounter is a long hall of statues—hundreds of busts and full statues. We thought that the Sistine Chapel was the next exhibit, so we spent a lot of time in this corridor. Little did we know that there was a mile or more of walking to go. I’m not exaggerating: the full extent of the Vatican museum is over four miles long. We didn’t go into the Egyptian exhibit (I would have liked to see that, rather than the statues, but there was no way to know), but we saw most of the rest of the exhibits.

Hall of Statues. The tip of the Vatican iceberg.




After a while, it got overwhelming. It was crowded—it felt like being herded like cattle. Alicia at one point was being pushed along by man’s belly, which she found rather disconcerting. After every corridor, you thought you were surely almost to the Sistine Chapel—but you weren’t. We saw famous tapestries, famous frescos, famous sculptures, famous paintings—famous, famous stuff. Have you ever been a museum, and you know that what you’re looking at is probably really famous, and one day you’ll read about it, and feel like you’ve seen it before, but you didn’t know enough at the time to know if it was famous or not? That’s how the Vatican felt: famous, famous, famous till your eyes were crossing.

This is a ceiling. A ceiling! And not even the Sistine Chapel ceiling, either. Just a run-of-the-mill ceiling in the Vatican.


This is Famous. It changed Renaissance art forever and ever. Can you name this sculpture?


This is the renowned, School of Athens. I, Alicia, was particularly interested in seeing it because I studied it back in the day. Yes, I'm a nerd.


Finally, finally, finally, after walking for miles and after being overwhelmed, awed, and exhausted by marvelous art, we reached the Sistine Chapel.

It was worth it.

We don’t have any pictures of the Sistine Chapel, because you aren’t allowed to take pictures (even though other, naughty people did). The museum personnel who monitor the Sistine Chapel kept repeating in a piercing, nasal monotone that cut through the majesty and sacredness of the room with: “No photos, please. No photos, please. No talking, please. No talking, please.”

I can’t describe the Sistine Chapel to my satisfaction or yours. It’s incredible. It’s everything that they say that it is. It’s more than they say that it is. I wanted to lie down on the floor and gaze up at each and every intricate, detailed, phenomenal part of the fresco. I'm pretty sure the guards would have yelled at me, so I didn't.

Eventually, we had to go back into the real world. (In the process of re-entering reality, the six of us managed to get almost entirely separated from each other--Alicia stayed behind to listen to the (Rick Steves) audio tour on her iPod, and somehow ended up outside before the rest of us found our way out--but we all finally stumbled out of the entrance, blinking into the ordinary sunshine of an ordinary Saturday afternoon in Roma).

After miles of Famous Art, and after the Sistine Chapel, we were tired. Cori, Kari, and Liza decided that they have Art ADD. We all wished that the Sistine Chapel could be at the beginning of the tour, not the end—because by the time you get there, your mind is full-to-the-brim with incredible Art, and almost can’t handle one more piece—no matter how majestic the Sistine Chapel is.

Kari, Jeff and Liza headed out again to do more tourism, and we arranged to all meet at a restaurant called Ivo’s for dinner. Cori, Alicia and I went back to the flat, physically and mentally exhausted, and rested till we went out for dinner.

Evening:
As usual, it took us a while to figure out how to get where we were going. We eventually worked it out after extensive map-checking and cross-referencing with the internet and Rick Steves. We had to take a bus from Termini station to the restaurant, and half of Rome got on the bus with us, which, as you can imagine, was an extraordinarily uncomfortable and unpleasant experience.

We found the restaurant, and enjoyed a pleasant evening with Kari’s relatives, getting to know them a little better and telling them about our lives in Senegal. We ate outside, and since it’s a popular restaurant (and we’d gotten there unfashionably early) the people who arrived after us lined up against the wall and watched us eat.

Alicia was sitting on the end of the table, and got the brunt of the passersby and the envy of the waiting, hungry customers. At one point, a man walked past her, and sneezed on her shoulder. Then, a family began waiting for a table, and leaned against the wall across from our table. They had a cute little boy—probably about two years old, and he had a helium balloon. After a few minutes of waiting and squirming, the cute little boy walked up to Alicia and bopped her with the balloon, which she didn’t appreciate (I think she was as offended with the balloon bop as the sneeze).

In Rome, there are a lot of street vendors, just like in Africa. When you eat outside, the street vendors come to you. So, we were sitting there eating and minding our own business and the onlookers when one of the vendors approached us, selling roses. I’ve lived in Africa most of my life, so I just ignore people very well; however, Liza, Kari’s sister-in-law, wasn’t ready to ignore the guy, or let him off the hook for interrupting our dinner. She began to question him in English about his job, but he didn’t speak English. He just had a strange and almost creepy smile on his face. He held a large long stemmed rose in one hand, and, never taking his eyes off of Liza’s face, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a giant lighter, about the size of a small paperback novel, which he proceeded to light up for us. It also had a flashlight, which he shined on our table. We waved him and his giant lighter away. Instead of leaving, he put the lighter down on the table. Again, without taking his eyes off of Liza, he reached into his back pocket and pulled out a handful of smaller lighters, which he waved under our noses. Laughing, we finally waved him away and resumed our dinner.

A strange phenomenon happened at the end of this dinner: Cori didn’t finish her dinner—again. Cori always finishes her dinner. We were not sure what Italy was doing to her appetite. She didn’t even take it home with her to finish later. This is so rare an occurrence that it was quite necessary to include it in the group journal.

Of course, we had to wait for the bus—again. We really had become resigned to waiting for buses—what else could we do? We were simply catching the same exact bus back to Termini, to take another bus home—and we even knew which bus to take from Termini. (Incidentally, I should add that we discovered the night before, coming home after Pompeii, that the bus we had to take from Termini went right past the bus stops we had lingered by on the first night--remember the Opera Singer and One One Six? So, either we weren’t asking the right question, or the bus drivers were lying to us have a little fun. They were probably in cahoots with the fake priest.) We waited, and we waited, and we waited—buses came and went, very few people got on and off, and the crowd at the bus stop grew larger and larger. After waiting over thirty minutes, our bus came at last, and far more people than should ever cram onto a bus crammed onto the bus.

We were so tightly packed that Alicia, Kari and I (Cori somehow got separated from us and was pushed towards the front of the bus) were standing in the back of the bus with no access to handholds, but it didn’t matter—when we tilted, everyone tilted, and everyone just held each other up. There was no space to fall—we were pressed up against each other and total strangers. In between Kari and I there was a very tall man—our heads came up to his lower chest. At one point, the bus turned violently (because Roman bus drivers care nothing for their shocks or their passengers), and the man accidentally lost his grip and brought his elbow down on Kari’s head. When he realized what he had done, he patted her on the head like she was a little girl and apologized in Italian and English.

Up next on Day 6: we decided that we would undertake a rare and nearly-impossible undertaking: we would walk around an entire country.

When in Rome: Day 4

Compiled by: Alicia, Kari, Cori, and Danielle
Written by: Danielle
Photos by: Alicia, Kari, Cori and Danielle

I know that I had you on tenterhooks for Day 4. In case you were concerned, we narrowly missed being buried by volcanic ash by about 2000 years. Maybe I did lead you a bit astray… (Or, maybe you figured out we went to Pompeii?)





Yep, that's Mount Vesuvius. Rick Steves told us that the two peaks that we see here would have come up to a single point--that's how much of the volcano blew away. It helps to understand how a town 5 miles away could be covered in volcanic ash!

It's just that Day 4 wasn't nearly as eventful as Days 1-3, so I'm digging for material here...

On Day 4, we had a schism within our group—but not a theological one. Kari was going to spend the day with her brother and sister-in-law, and Alicia, Cori and I were going to Napoli and Pompeii for the day. We would be reunited at the end of the day.

Kari had her heart set on running in Rome, so she went with us to the train station to find a park we’d seen the day before, proudly sporting her new Brasilia jersey that she’d bought during the trip.

Props to her for running on vacation. (I mean, we’d clearly walked at least twenty-seven miles in the course of our travels, so she obviously didn’t need the exercise…)

Alicia, Cori and I went to McDonald’s for breakfast while we waited for our train. In Europe, almost all the McDonald’s are fancy—they all have espresso machines and you can get croissants and pain au chocolat and other nice pastries. Yes, once again, I am defending our choice of McDonald’s. It's not that I have any great love for McDonald's. I'm just trying to shut down McDonald's Naysayers.

Just look how happy my fancy McDonald's coffee makes me. And how nice my scarf is. Oh, we weren't talking about my scarf?


After McDonald’s it was time to catch our train, so we found the right track, and our train and had no problems. It was about an hour and half ride. Naples is south of Rome; as we traveled, we got to see the more Mediterranean parts of Italy—sunny vineyards and olive groves and houses with terracotta tiled roofs and whitewashed walls. The trip was mostly pleasant—except for the person who sat behind me who kicked my chair in time to her music the entire time. For about an hour, I thought it was a child—until she answered her phone and revealed herself as an adult who should know better.

When we got off the train in Naples, Alicia informed us that Rick Steves informed her that Naples is the worst city in Italy for pickpockets, and she told us to “Trust no one!” Anyone could be a pickpocket, any thing could be a ploy, any commotion a distraction. Trust no one.

Alicia then proceeded to have drills with Cori and I, and attempted to pickpocket our bags, declaring herself head of security.

I passed the drill. Cori, I’m afraid, did not."Trust no one." (Not even Alicia)


As we waited in line to buy tickets to Pompeii, we had our second Rick Steves sighting (oh, I got my Rick Steves mixed up in the previous post—this was the British Rick Steves, not the one from Da Francesco’s). He was going to Pompeii, too, which excited us. And by us, I do mean Head of Security, Alicia.

And so, we rode the train to Pompeii—it was pretty crowded, and we had to stand most of the time, during which we watched everyone closely—men, women, children, youths, old ladies, old men—trust no one.

When we got to Pompeii, we had to use the restroom. I didn’t want to, being a bathroom snob, but nature was calling strongly. We found the train station bathroom, which was tended by this ancient Italian woman. As we stood in line, Cori suddenly started laughing and pointing at the wall. It was a dusty red metal sheet and written on the wall it said: “Leafs suck. A lot.”

Apparently, this was offensive to Alicia, who is from Toronto, and Cori was delighted since she’s from Edmonton.

I think it’s a Canada thing.

Then, we needed lunch. There are several sandwich stands along the road as you head towards the official ruins of Pompeii. We were hungry. We were caught in a what Rick Steves would call a tourist trap. He (the vendor, not Rick Steves) enticed us with freshly squeezed orange juice and sandwiches and by reducing the price significantly.

The sandwiches were good. The orange juice was disappointing because it was a little juice, lots of pulp, and seeds. When you have to chew your orange juice, it takes away from some of the magic.

I am looking askance at Alicia. Oh, check out the lemons behind Alicia's head. Lemons the size of grapefruit! Will such wonders ever cease?






A Cori Ibsen action shot.


After the tourist trap lunch, we headed to the sight of the Pompeii ruins. It’s a fascinating place—very well preserved. The volcano didn’t cover the city in lava, or anything (Vesuvius is 5 miles away from the city)—the volcanic ash and flying rocks caused the damage. Rick Steves also informed us that there were 20,000 people who lived in Pompeii, and that of the 20,000, only 2000 died—not the entire town (I was always under the impression that everyone was caught unaware, and died). The city is in good shape, and gives a clear picture of what life in ancient Roman times might have been like. If you ever go to Italy, I recommend Pompeii—it’s worth it.

One of the first things I noticed was a dog lying on the side of the road. I took a picture of it, because I thought it looked well preserved. Then there were many more “well preserved dogs” all around the entire site (we probably saw ten or more different dogs) so I took pictures of them, too, because I thought my joke was funny. It’s always important to find yourself funny, because that guarantees at least one person will laugh at you.



Ruins as you walk up the steep hill into the city. Apparently the water used to come right up to the city gates ("according to Rick Steves.")


A temple, I think.


I thought the stone work of this wall was beautiful.


Alicia tour guides, Cori listens.


Alicia took some time off from tour guiding to be a statue. I don't really know.






McDonald's of Pompeii--this would have been the fast food stands of the city (and in fact, all over the Roman empire)--the holes were for clay pots that kept food cold or hot. Most people didn't have kitchens, so they ate "out" a lot. I think they could take bread to be baked in the bakery, or take meat somewhere to be cooked, as well.


This is the interior of one of the houses--someone wealthy lived here.


Alicia pretending to be like the tour guides we saw, who held up a flag or an umbrella to herd their tours. Except, apparently Cori's the only one in the group...


After Pompeii, we had a few hours before our train, so we decided to find a restaurant in Naples recommended by Rick Steves. It was pretty close to the train station, and we set off into Napoli (trusting no one, of course). I didn’t love Naples, or at least the part that we saw. It was crowded and grungy. A strange thing happened—all of the sudden, there was a deafening noise that sounded like gunfire (but we later identified as fireworks) going off in the middle of the city. Cori, Alicia and I all looked around in dismay and concern, but no one else reacted at all. It was rather peculiar.

A scary dark street in Naples.


As we walked down the road that we thought that the restaurant was on, we sensed that we were lost. It was getting dark, there were many, many people, and it was cold. We walked for several blocks, looking at each cross street, trying to find the right street. In Italy, they don’t have street signs like in North America—all the names of the streets are posted on marble plaques on the sides of the building. Sometimes they get covered by scaffolding, or laundry, or trees. This makes finding places…challenging. Finally, we thought we were lost, we were ready to turn around, and, there we were, just like that.

The pizzeria we had selected was called Da Michele. It felt authentic…but it was very touristic, actually. They had 2 options: Margarita, and Marinara. Nothing else.

The menu, wood oven, and the pizza makers themselves.







We ordered Margarita Pizzas, and settled down to wait, enjoying watching the waiters interact with the clientele. Alicia pulled out her Kindle to do some more reading on Naples, and the waiters were all impressed with her fancy technology. When we took out our cameras, one of them jumped in the picture with us.




Delicious brick oven baked pizza!


Now, I was feeling a bit miffed because there were pictures on the wall of Julia Roberts with the whole wait staff, and a picture of her eating the pizza, a lot like Alicia’s picture below.


Here is why I felt miffed: my middle name is Marguerite, and I didn’t think it was right that Julia Roberts had her picture on the wall (you can see it over Cori's shoulder in the first pizzeria pic) when surely she didn’t share her name with the national pizza of Italy. Cori started calling her Julia Marguerite Roberts.

It turns out that Da Michele is the same pizzeria from Eat, Pray, Love, a book I've never read and movie I’ve never seen—but Julia Roberts stars in the movie, and they filmed the scene on location. I guess that’s a good enough excuse to have her picture on the wall, but I’m still skeptical and a bit hurt.

We headed back to the train station (and saw a lot of Senegalese vendors along the way), had some gelato for dessert while we waited for our train, made our connection, dozed most of the way back to Rome, found the right bus eventually (I had taken a picture of the bus sign near our flat so that we could figure out our connection), and made our way home. Kari wasn’t home yet, and she had the keys, so we stopped at the gelato stand near our flat and Alicia had more gelato while we waited.

Eventually Kari came home, we headed back upstairs, and some of us went to bed. I, however, did not, because I had far too much caffeine, and this kept me up to past 3:00 AM. This did not make me happy at all (but at least I had a good book to read!).