I Make New Friends, III

This Sunday after church, I found even more students who needed to hang out with other people. Among them were Steve, an actual, real life Steve (I've always wanted to meet a real and good Steve), who is getting his Ph.D. in History, going through the Vatican archives. I assume the Vatican archives are filled with different copies of the same four books. Another was Danny, a career study abroad student, who is in Rome for the long haul, as in, until she gets her degree.

Danny, having been in Rome last semester, agreed to hold a crepe party for all the new students. You know, the really thin pancakes.

On Monday we all came to her apartment in the Campo di Fiori, which is prime real estate, if you don't mind me saying so (and since you can't talk back, I'm just assuming that not only you don't mind, but you actual support this claim). There were probably five Arkansas students, and the rest came from John Cabot, which is the English speaking university here in Rome that most come to study at. Steve, the brigand, did not show.

In an attempt to impress my new friends, I told them all I was a wonderous cook, and proceeded to boil five cherry Starburst to use as filling in my crepe. Now, I haven't compiled a long list of accomplishments in the kitchen, but boiling Starbursts goes directly at the bottom of my culinary achievement rankings. I didn't let anyone else eat it (although no one wanted to), and told everyone it was fantastic.

Oh yeah, and we celebrated Danny's and my birthdays, early.

A Place To Read A Book And Write A Letter: Ravello

After Pompeii, I took a train to Salerno; Salerno's a port city, an industrial city, and thus not a tourist destination. It can be used, however, as a jumping off point for prettier, less productive costal towns. The main pedestrian walkway is wide and looks like a lower class Spanish Steps, with less people. The rest of the city smells like fish. Good hostel, though: it runs flush with a church, and at night the choir might sing you to sleep.

In the morning I took a bus to Amalfi, a popular costal town, then to Ravello, on the cliff above. The road from Salerno to Amalfi was like a basketball hoop: you are positive only one ball can fit at a time, but, sure enough, two basketballs can barely slide by, side by side. The road from Amalfi to Ravello, though, was like a small plant pot, into which two basketballs are being forced. Exciting.

Ravello is kind of famous for its villas. Up on the cliff, old people (as in people of old) built first the Villa Rufolo, then the Villa Cimbrone, looking out over the Mediterranian Sea. I walked the Villa Rufolo first. It was purchased and renovated by a Scottish botanist a century or two ago, and is known for its gardens. Even in the winter, these gardens were beautiful. I can only imagine (or look at pictures on the internet; see above) how it looks in the spring. Upside to visiting in January: there's none else here. How it looks in the spring is filled with hordes of ignorant tourists. Not at all like myself. Rufolo is now owned by the Rufolo Foundation, which is a great advocate of Richard Wagner's music. Apparently, he called Rufolo the physical representation of his music (I know what you're thinking, cause I thought it too; no, he's not the same guy who was in Hart to Hart).

Villa Cimbrone is probably three times as big. It didn't have any flowers, not yet, but it did have extensive walking ways, and a lot of statues; it reminded me a lot of Pemberly. I ended up sitting on a bench at the edge of the property, overlooking the sea, AGAIN (are you serious? I mean, enough is enough, Mediterranian), and hung out with a statue I named Steve for a couple hours. Good man, that Steve. Fun Fact of the Day: Greta Garbo, 1930's starlet, eloped in the Villa Cimbrone.

I Explore the Mysteries of Pompeii

As a group of twenty one architecture students and four misfits (because, if you didn't know, the program I'm attending is an architecture one. It's okay, I didn't know it either, till about a week to go. And I only have three months left), we set out today for Pompeii. In terms of worldwide consciousness, Pompeii's story is about halfway between unknown and bible stories, around the level of Casablanca - nay, more than halfway, nearer to the story about my time as a fairy dancer. Pompeii was buried by a volcano in 79 A.D. - not by the lava, but by the ash, which floated down like snowflakes but didn't melt, and instead of bringing holiday cheer, killed everyone. The city was left undisturbed and unlooted, so when in the 19th century it was again unearthed, it was a figurative gold mine (literal stone mine) for archaeologists.

Let's be honest: I don't have a clue what is going on when it comes to archaeology. I'm just along for the ride. They've asked me to keep a sketchbook, along with everyone else; this sketchbook is partially filled with a series of incomplete Coloseums, and partially filled with drawings of aliens. So Pompeii went over my head. Wow, these are really big old rocks. Those faded frescoes are almost somewhat life like. Look at how those rocks are stacked! That's downright masterful.

I walked through most of the ruins thinking about something else, but at one point, not the begining or the end, it occured to me that people actually built these structures two thousand years ago. We build things with a planned twenty year lifespan. And it's not just the ash that kept it intact; there are other ruins, surviving as long, wearing the weather.

It's easy to write, but much harder to think. I can't even think it now; well, I can think it, but it doesn't mean anything. I guess the whole of the ruins are a little overshadowed by the rest of Pompeii. I walked through the modern part of the city on my way to the train station, in order to go to Salerno. Trash lines the sides of the streets as if a snowplow pushed it there to fade. It smells like old food.

The worst part, though, are the dogs. Even in the ruins, packs of stray dogs run free, unchecked. And I know that's something that Hal Naughton, Jr., said on Talledega Nights, but there it's true. Even on the streets, dogs lay in apathy or instinctively follow tourists. One native Italian had to pull a stray off the train tracks before the train pulled in.

And you thought this would be a happy post.

LOST: A Brief Course

As everyone in the world knows, because the Pope himself announced (I heard it in person - I'm in Rome, you know), the new season of LOST will be able to be seen from outer space. I'm not sure in what capacity, but he is inerrant. And I don't really care, either, because if aliens  haven't yet made contact, LOST is how I want them to first experience humanity. They'll be so confused they won't bother attacking us.

So I'm here to spread the gospel, and call all ye to watch it return January 31. If you only have 8:15, go download the "LOST in 8:15" on iTunes for free (8:15, flight 815, ha ha, they're so clever). It gives a quick rundown of all the important events with some dry narration ("Mr. Friendly throws like a girl.") It even mentions some things I had forgotten, as if pertinent to the new season. It said nothing, though, of Richard's supposed immortality.

If you have more time, watch the entire third season. On fast forward.

Here are some points to review:

RESCUED: So at the end of the third season, rescue is on it's way, and by the looks of the previews, it arrives immediately. The question is, then, how are the next three seasons going to be filled? There are three more seasons to go; will the show turn to a Big Brother type, and put everyone in a house together, and play it as comedy?

FLASHFORWARD: I have read that all the flashbacks LOST is so famous for will now be flash forwards. So...how will a story work if we know the ending? And what about all the favorite flashback characters, like Nathan Fillon and Cheech? (P.S. The funeral Jack attended - Locke's. Locke would be the least likely to survive off island, and it would just be ironic if he was one of those who left.)

NAOMI: NOT dead. If you slow down the trailer, you can clearly see her strangling Kate. She's pretty, and has a hot accent, so my guess is she'll be the shady figure in this upcoming season, alternately helping and hindering those who are lost.

LOST's premise is people on an island, so any chance you have to incorporate new blood, you need to take it. Second season it was the tail-enders, third season it was the others. They tried to call up two extras to join those on the beach, but audience reaction was so completely negative that the two, Nikki and Paolo, got their own episode. About their death.

RICHARD: Seen in Ben's flashback, he never grows old. And seeing how Ben grew old, I think this means that Richard is immortal. My question: Is Richard Jacob? Jacob, the supposed ruler of the island, seems trapped by Ben. Maybe Richard is some enslaved materialization, a body stolen from the crashed pirate ship.

MANNIE FRESH: The rapper will not be appearing on the show, as rumored, as one of the new rescue teammates, and thus will not be performing his hit single, "Real Big," with all the pimps and hos of the beach. Among the disappointed, I count myself.

So there it is. I crave LOST like Italians crave dance, like I crave dance, so I'll be watching it ASAP, which will probably mean February first. So don't tell me what happens.

I Make New Friends, II

This past Sunday was the second Sunday that I have gone to church. This time I went with friends, knew the surroundings, and was even able to greet people, but that did not make this church experience any less awkward. In fact, it was well more awkward than before.

The high level of awkward had nothing to do with the service: it was uneventful (except for the sacrifice; I still haven't gotten used to that). The Rome Baptist Church itself is pretty plain jane - and I love it that way. It's a church stripped of Christian tradition, of 2000 years of complications; it seems to me to be like an early fellowship, without the stylish togas.

No, the awkward time came afterwards. The pastor's wife invited the students from Arkansas to come to her house later that evening, to watch a movie. So we came - and happened upon the church's growing singles ministry. Wow. I've made a lot of mistakes, but I just did not know how to deal with this one.

I'll cut to the end: the jokes were stilted and tired, the food was mediocre, and the movie was okay, but it felt good. It felt real good, to be awkward, and to have that awkwardness met by more awkward people. It's just good to fellowship, no matter what the feelings. I even met a new friend; no, Mircea, to my disappointment, was not there, but an Australian named David was. He told me he liked my flannel, and we were fast friends. I told him to call me next time he goes to karaoke.

A Place To Read A Book And Write A Letter: Assisi

I have found that people come to Italy for many different reasons: the architecture, the fashion, the wine, the lawlessness, et cetera, et cetera. (are you supposed to use two et cetera's?). I can only look at architecture so long before I realize it's all the same; I've never been one for fashion and I'm not yet one for wine, and although I do enjoy a good, no-holds brawl time and again, I have not yet really capitalized on the unpatroled dark side streets.

I have read a lot. And I have written a whole lot of letters. So I suppose that the reason I came to Italy was to find a pretty place to read a book and write a letter (I actually came to study, but, you know, et cetera, et cetera). And so this weekend I began my research.

Virginia, Emily, and I left Perugia for Assisi on Friday. Assisi is a small town built on a hill, most famous for spawning some sort of animal rights activist for all I can tell; I can't read latin. But I can tell you that if that was what my town was famous for, I wouldn't advertise it.

None of the streets go straight. They all double back, making little headway against the elevation. We took a bus all the way to the top, and then (in all seriousness) we illegally entered the ruins of a castle and I scaled one of the ramparts. Then I ripped my shirt and answered the Call of the Wild. And only one part of that story is true. Which? YOU decide.

From the illegally entered ruins we could see the whole town: it's all made out of the same white and pink stone, which makes it look like one big Franciscan compound. A deep fog rolled in from my right (that's the best I can do, in terms of cardinal directions), like a high tide. The city looks like what Perugia used to: clean, green, and open. No graffiti, et cetera, et cetera.

Going down is easy: the streets are all sloped. The hard part is figuring where you are, as all these streets are lined with multi-use buildings, and covered in the type of fog that causes shipwrecks. It all added to the ambiance, I think. Or at least it added to my definition of ambiance, because I'm still not sure what it is, exactly.

Overall, I award it 1300 moose, which is David Fish's equivalent of a gold star. And I operate on the David Fish standard.

I Dance At A Club For The Middle Aged

Last night, I was reading in bed when I got a call from my roommates, out on the town. They said that they were going dancing, and were wondering if I would like to come. I said that not only is dancing the only thing that would get me out of bed at that unholy hour, but is in fact the only thing that keeps me awake at night. Well, one out of two; I did not tell them of the constant burning question concering the chicken and the egg.

I dressed to the fives, which is my personal phrase to describe a stylish half effort: nice skinny black tie and a stiff shirt, but still the same jeans I've been wearing ever since I got here. We walked across Trastevere, the section of Rome we live in, to a club called New Scarabocchio. The club was at the end of a neon blue tunnel. It charged ten euros to enter. It charged two fifty to hold your coat. And it was full of the elderly.

Not entirely elderly; I exaggerate. The middle aged, to be more precise. We formed a small dance circle, threw out a couple of off hand moves, then sized the place up. And, sure enough, the mean, median, and mode age of the place was 42. There were those who tried to hide it: overly bronzed tone and skin pulled tight. But there were also those who cared not: bald spots and large tummies.

The club itself was equally ridiculous. The walls were covered in velvet and lined with couches. Epileptic lights alternately shone and shut off; because of this, I didn't talk to any pretty girls because there was a very good chance they had already birthed three children, mathematically speaking. There was a projection screen playing a subtitled Pearl Harbor the entire time we were there. Why? Exactly.

So offset was I that the entire time I was there I was only able to summon one, constant move, the simple (but still classy) snap. Whenever I found myself under the stares of older women, I would stand as still as a stone wall and would put on the strangest face I could remember, you know the one, the one from that Christmas I unwrapped WOW Worship. Sometimes it worked; sometimes it made the cougars want me more (that last part may be a lie; use your own judgement).

But here's the kicker: I stayed for a solid hour and a half, snapping all the way, afraid to look around because when I did I always met the gaze of the ghost of my mother. I had to know what happened to Dolittle's raid (Josh Hartnett dies).

Frenky Banana: A Man of Many Turns

This weekend, I set out for Perugia with two new friends, architecture students Emily Parker and Virginia Boyd. Perugia is north of Rome, about three hours by train, in Umbria. Built into a hillside, no street goes straight: all streets double back on themselves, making little headway up the elevation.

There's an overabundance of churches in Perugia. Pick your patron saint and go.

Dynamite chocolate. Clean empty hostel. Nice old man.

I even had good roommates. Peter and Phil were Austrailians moving from Europe bottom to top with their girlfriends. Phil, a devout Catholic, gave me a little spiel on relics. Today they hold mostly a symbolic position, he said.

But, most certainly, the highlight of the small trip (and quite possibly crown jewel of Europe; the jury's out) was our dinner. We ate at a small restaurant in the wall of a narrow side street called Vecchia Perugia, in Italian, or Old Perugia, in the language civilization and justice.

We were met outside with cries of "My friends, my friends!" from an old man in pin stripes and red. The pin stripes were from his suit; the red was from everything else: his vest, his shirt, his scarf. As he ushered us inside, on the walls were pictures of him in the exact same clothing: in the newspaper, at a jazz festival, with Don King. This was Frenky Banana.

Pronounced Frankie, Frenky Banana (for with him, both names must always be used) is a seventy-two (72) year old man who sang his handwritten menu to us, to the tune of James Taylor song(s) (I'm not sure if he used more than one tune; he was that good of a singer). He instantly recognized us for Americans, and started calling the girls "My Love" and I "Schwartzenegger." I'm not exactly sure how he made that last jump of logic, but I think he sensed my confusion, and in order to clear up what was muddled, boldly shouted "Viva La France!" He then sat at the table next to us and read the newspaper while we ate, alone in the restaurant.

I'm not really sure how to end this. It's impossible to relate his Don King impression, or his stories about Las Vegas. I can only say that at the end, when we took a picture with him, right before the photographer pulled the trigger he managed to get off a face more awkward than any I have ever put on. That is what earns my respect.

I Validate the Relics of St. Paul

It turns out that the Rome program is for architects, and people interested in architecture. I don't really belong here. But I don't mind - buildings are starting to grow on me (be built on me? No, too forced), and there's a lot of outside class time, like today, when we toured St. Paul Outside the Walls. It's a beautiful big church, which houses a marble and granite forest of pillars, with stone from three different continents. It also has a room strictly for relics.

The main relic is the purported iron chains that Paul wore right before he was executed. These chain links are housed in a little gold bird house in a room that many people have knelt in. In fact, when the church was first built, people used to scrap shavings off of Paul's chains and put them in medicine.

I'm not sure about now, but in previous years the Catholic Church used to require all churches under it's jurisdiction to house a few relics as proof of something - divine right, archaeological interest, thriftiness, who knows? Churches were shut down because of the lack of relics, or the presence of false relics.

It's not just the Catholic Church, but it seems humanity as a whole has taken what Jesus said and just ran with it, like Jim Marshall, the Minnesota Viking who picked up a fumble and ran it all the way back, the wrong way. Humans are so desperate to insert themselves into the gospel and justify themselves to God, like the story told of Paul's decapitation, where the newly separated head bounced three times, leaving three new springs of water. Then his eyes turned to dollar signs and out of his mouth came one thousands nickels, like a slot machine.

And it's me too; whenever I cling to absolute rules or concentrate on strict purity, I'm just trying to make myself matter to something who's intrinsic scale is on a different level.

That's probably all just fancy talk, though.

I Take On A Foreign Accent

Being in Rome these past two weeks has really altered my person. I eat a lot of cheese, cheese which I cannot name. I've read a lot of Italian literature, which, as you might expect, is extremely depressing (nothing ever ends well for Italy, so why should they make it so in books?). I perused a haberdashery, a life long goal, and bought a 50 euro hat (1 euro=15000 Chinese yin, or 70 million tons of rice). I have also gained an accent.

It was Mircea, the Rufio-esque church friend with the Eastern Bloc nose, who first noticed it. I was talking to him in my national tongue, and he stopped me. He said he could not understand what I was saying. I tried again, switching to what little Italian I know. He stopped me again, and said that he could understand English fine; he couldn't understand my English, because I was speaking like a foreigner (not to be confused with Foreigner).

It's true. I find myself slipping down a slippery slope of linguistics, constantly rolling my r's, screwing up my grammar, and inserting frequent pauses, as if I'm translating from one language to another. In the back of my mind, I assume, the logic is that if I'm not able to speak Italian, the best way to appear non-American is to not be able to speak English.

And I say the back of my mind because it's all unconscious, like an internal mechanism meant to patronize the locals and separate myself from the college kids still here shopping. But if I can't control this, maybe one day I'll start speaking uncontrollable Italian.

I Make New Friends

Today I went to church. It's called the Rome Baptist Church; it's an English speaking church in the Piazza San Lorenzo. On the bottom floor of an apartment, the room has three rows of pews. I think today it was at capacity, at around 150.

Not everyone was American. In fact, very few of us were. There were three students, beside me, and a couple of tourists. The rest were from any number of nations, people who, like me, can't understand but a few words of Italian but still want the fellowship. That's why I went, by the way: I was lonely. I always thought I could live alone, with only myself and the people I invent, but that's not true. In fact, inventing people is rather unhealthy, and you last less long in isolation if you have imaginary friends. It's called going mad.

The best part was afterwards; two girls and a guy, all about the same age, who work in Rome, took the new students out to lunch and toured us around town (to sights we had already seen). I thought they were just being nice, but after talking a little I found that they were just as lonely as I. All their previous friends had gone home at the end of last semester.

Taina is from Finland, Esther from Switzerland, and Mircea (Mir-cha) from Romania. Tania can speak three languages, Mircea four, and Esther five. If time travel is ever invented, or if I ever get stuck in some sort of black hole anomaly that sends me back to ancient Greece, I'll be able to speak two languages. I was most excited about Mircea who kind of looks like Rufio, but with an eastern block nose. He tried to teach me Italian pick up lines (ciao, bella! bionda!), and kept catcalling girls way too young for him, but I guess that's a culture thing.

If you believe in this sort of thing, I think God answered a prayer.

I Attend a Brazilian Birthday Party

Carousing with my roommates Friday night, we stopped into the bar Bros, which serves wine and oranges, for some reason, at the foot of the hill that we live on. It was empty, with only a bartender standing guard; there was, however, a great party going on downstairs. We followed the music (for this is my motto in life and will be my epitath in death: He Followed the Music) down the stone stairs into Bros's cellar, where there were many happy Brazilians moving at the end of the room. We hung back for a second, ate some food,and then I took the plunge.

We were only discovered when I started dancing. As I graced about the floor, a tall Brazilian approached me. I thought he, too, wished to dance, but he only wanted to find out who I was. It was Felipe, the birthday boy. He guesstimated me to be American (because he spoke only Portugese and I spoke only the language of dance), and, after a brief announcement to the party goers to give me a sort of movement perimeter, I was accepted into his circle.

After a time of joy, tears, and more laughs than I could understand (but I laughed regardless) we all sang Happy Birthday in Portugese and I performed the traditional American birthday dance. It was actually the same dance I always do, but I insisted.

When I left the cellar, I said ciao and gave Felipe a hug, because, I believe that love can cross bounds of language, culture, and invitation only parties. Love, in fact, is the universal language. And that, knowledge, was my birthday gift to Felipe.

I Explore the Forum

Today we, as a class, followed our professors, Davide and Emilio, to the Roman Forum, on an architectural tour. Did you know that the area of the Forum used to be under 9 meters of dirt? Apparently everything in Rome is built upon something else, like science or legos. People kept knocking buildings down, filling in the cracks with dirt, and rebuilding.

Also, did you know that Mussolini was responsible for the excavation? He wanted to connect his Fascist regime with the Roman imperial glory of the past, or something or other. That's why he partially instigated the war: in order to reclaim Roman territory. So he excavated and restored not only the Forum, but countless Roman structures and artifacts all over the city and state. Evidently he's not such a bad guy.

So we saw the Temple of Saturn, referred to as the Fort Knox of Antiquity, because it seems the god Saturn was modeled after a leprechaun, and the altar where Julius Caesar was burned, and where now people lay flowers, in honor of his salad, but the thing that interested me the most was the Temple of the Green Gods.

It isn't much; just two perpendicular rows of columns. But it was the last pagan temple in Rome before the Christians shut it down. The Christians, who previously were horribly persecuted, now in power, were persecuting everyone else. It always sounded like Christians do their best thinking while under fire: Paul, the apostles, the pastor from The Patriot. Other times we don't think so straight, like lighting heretics on fire. It makes me think maybe this environment we've cultured is a bit unhealthy, where sometimes we are concerned more with politics and boycotting movies than forgiveness.

That's probably all rubbish, though.

I Am Mistaken for Patrick Swayze

I am begining to like Sacha, our real estate broker. He collects our rent for the local landlord, who never shows his face. If you see it, he has to kill.

But Sacha came over last night during dinner to give us some dance pointers ("Do not go to that club. It has the, come si dice...gangsters") and take our down payment, and ended up staying a while. Through the conversation, we had this exchange:

"You are, uh...Californian, typical americano. You like [makes surfing motions]..."

"A surfer?"

"No, like the, uh, Point Broken, no?"

"Point Break?"

"Si! Patrick Swayze!"

He also compared me to Michael Knight.

An update: Wheels and the Wheelies have found a place, and are moving in this weekend. It's near the Spanish Steps, which means it probably isn't cheap, but it's better than living in cardboard boxes.

Which wasn't what they were doing. I just think it's better than that certain situation.

Three's Company, But Four Is Just Unhealthy Overcrowding

As you might have heard (because news about me travels fast), I'm taking this semester off to live with three girls. At first I thought I would pretend I was gay, and then we could be best friends with no sort of tension, and I could have an excuse for dressing nice all the time. But I decided to go a straighter route, and my roommates have be very courteous. I've lived in a bubble all my life: a nice, septic, beautiful bubble that kept me very conservative, so this arrangement is far outside my comfort zone. But I have been given my own room and bathroom, and in exchange I do the dishes and am in charge of the directions. It's much better than being gay. I suppose.

Before I commited to live with Ashley, Ellen, and Rachael, I thought about living with a group spearheaded by Keith Wheeler, aka Wheels. I saw Wheels at orientation yesterday, and he told me a horror story. Apparently, after they signed their housing contract and paid two months in advance, their apartment went back up for rent. When they tried to contact their broker, they found that he had changed his cell phone and left Rome. Now Wheels and the Wheelies are out two thousand plus euros and are without a place to stay. The hidden fees I find myself paying to our own broker, "You Liking the Disco" Sacha, seem a bit trivial in comparison.

NWA: the Original Gangsters

Northwest Airlines does operate flights to Europe, but they operate out of the seventies, so the standards are not that high. Two aisles of seats, a piece of chicken, and one showing of Daddy Day Camp. After Daddy Day Camp, if you are so lucky, a large Dutch man will drop a red backpack on your face. I was so lucky. I was not so lucky as to have him apologize. Because that is how NWA rolls.

I did sit next to an old German man named Maximilian, but whom I called Maxamillions. Maxamillions had hands that looks like old trees. He also had some stories. He told me that once he flew over the Atlantic in a zeppelin. But I think he was a liar; not because of the zeppelin, but because he told me he used to be a prisoner of Austrailia when it was still a penal colony. That makes no sense, chronologically.

Maxamillions did tell me he was from Dresden, which was a major location in Slaughterhouse-Five. I asked him if he ever read Vonnegut, and he said no, which is sad, because Vonnegut is the best thing to ever happen to science fiction (and since science fiction is the best thing to ever happen to language itself, concordently...). I asked him how Dresden was today, and Maxamillions said it was beautiful. Then I asked him how it was growing up in Germany, as it was, and he told me this story:

When we were kids, we were so poor that for Christmas our parents gave us boys pants with holes in the pockets, so we would have something to play with.

And then he laughed all the way to Amsterdam.

Luda Says I'm Taking Trips from Here to Rome

There's this television show called Pushing Daisies which is pretty good - it's a clever murder-mystery-supernatural-comedy-pie-making-really-cute-girl show that makes me laugh. But the best part of the show is the entire world that it takes place in. It feels like a Christmas claymation world, with a pie-shaped pie shop, color saturated fruit, and mosaic tiled sewers. In this town (which has a French name; remember, when not used as an insult, French language and customs equal magic in fiction), there is even a narration by a very nice old man, or at least someone who sounds like a nice old man. I wish he was my grandfather.

The point it, this show Pushing Daisies is how I imagine Rome is: bright colors and entire shops devoted to pop-up books. It's a retreat from here to a Technicolor world, where, I imagine, some wonderful people who always wear scarves will feed me delicious free gelato.

Oh yeah, if you didn't know, I'm going to Rome. Sorry. But I don't mind.

Someone said I should have a blog, and when I said I'd think about it I was really lying, because back in November I created a blog and furiously related science fiction to the world. I was just trying to get more people to watch Battlestar Razor.

So I'm in Rome for a semester, and if you feel like it, you might read this blog once in a while. I strongly suspect the whole trip will be one extended picnic, with some mixed pastas and wine, so if you're into that sort of thing you should do it yourself and not read about it. But if you don't like the outdoors, old ruins, democracy, history in general, the Catholic Church, or the last Winter Olympics, yet have a sincere interest, maybe you might read this once or twice more.