1999: Jumping Off the Big Boot
by Carl Russo
2.
I was slapped with a blast of wet heat as I stepped off the plane. I remembered feeling the same sensation on a family trip to Hawaii at the age of six. This was August, the month you're not supposed to go to Italy.
Not five minutes after my arrival I had my first run-in with the law. My seat mate on the flight had been a young guy from Naples who indulged me practice time in his language as he filled me in on Neapolitan night life. But when a brusque customs agent saw the guy accompanying me, I was made to open my bags. The agent fished out a miniature box of Tide detergent and opened it. White, flaky powder. He questioned me with his eyes.
"Soap for clothes," I replied in Italian. He waved me on. That's when I knew that the language really works.
A train dumped me at Rome's main depot, Termini, in the late afternoon. At last, the Eternal City!
As I heaved my giant suitcase/ backpack onto my shoulders I realized my first grave mistake. Clearly I had over-packed: too many clothes and most of my to-read stack of books from home. I was a turtle carrying my own weight on hind legs teetering through a crowded sauna. By the time I stepped out onto the Piazza de Cinquecento I was soaked with American sweat. Fortunately the Hotel Kennedy was nearby--and air conditioned. The brothers who run it insisted on answering my Italian with their English. A fair trade.
The neighborhood south of Termini is a seedy strip of overpriced tourist stalls and restaurants, which gives way to seedier African bazaars and a bustling hashish trade, along with a decent record store. The records would have to wait.
I doubt I can contribute substantially to the huge body of literature about Rome, so I won't try. I can safely say that walking ten hours a day for six days straight one can still miss most of the historical sites. Still, I was able to tromp around the ruins, see the Caravaggios, nap in the gardens of the Villa Borghese, gasp in awe at the skeleton chandeliers of the Cappuccini crypts, and send drunken e-mails to loved ones from the Internet Café.
The grand specter of the Coliseum is matched by its grand odor. 1,700 years worth of wild cat shit can have that effect.
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Italy: Sicily 1
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Spain, Portugal, Morocco
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France
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Greece
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Italy: Rome
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Italy: Sicily 2
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Italy: Mezzogiorno
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Italy: Sicily 3 & 4
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Italy: Sicily 5
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