Bonjour!

I’m back from Europe and while I prepare a couple of lengthy entries, I wanted to let my Four Readers know a couple of tidbits.

*United Airlines sucks.

*No matter how many times you say “I will not, under any circumstance, take a taxi from an unauthorized, shady character at half-past-midnight who will charge me four times the going rate and could possibly rape me” you will. Get over it, and fork over €50

*Londoners are cold and detached . . . but talk to them for more than a minute and they warm up immediately.

*London is obscenely expensive, £4.00 for a one-way metro ticket . . . that’s $8!

*Parisians were amiable, always polite and wanting to help. I felt at home while in Paris.

*Paris is beautiful, even away from the tourist areas, but we all knew that.

*The people of Rome were uncaring saboteurs, don’t-know-don’t-care bureaucrats bent on sending you on a Brown-esque search every time you asked them a question.

*Rome has the largest conglomeration of hot women I have ever seen.

*The Vatican is an incredible place. Doesn’t matter your religion or lack of it, this place will move you.

And now, a precious-few photos

One

The Protagonists
Christopher Lee
Alma
Demetrius
Juan Carlos
Cantinflas
Our Lugagge

The Good Guys:
Mr Escamilla, Washinton-Dulles Airport
Mrs Thongley, UA clerk
Jenny Page, UA London
Aline, ticket clerk at Paris Eurostar
Delphine and night receptionist at Paris Hotel
UA Night clerks on bagagge claim at London-Heathrow Airport

The Bad Guys
Staff at Chicago Airport
9 out of 10 people we interacted with in Italy
Receptionist at help desk, London-Heathrow
Striking public transportation, Rome
Shady taxi drivers
Train ticket saleswoman, Paris Metro

It was the day after my birthday and even though my plan of not sleeping and staying buzzed until getting onto the plane did not work, I got up with ample time to shower shave and even change a couple of times. It was getting late and D hadn’t shown up. Repeated calls and text messages to her phone were not returned. Naively, I did not panic much. I thought that if one missed a plane, they could easily get on the next one. I will be proven wrong time and time again. Chris and Alma have already gotten to the airport, they have checked in. I finally call a cab, when D shows up. Her grandma had gotten sick and she had been taking care of her, her phone was, ironically, forgotten in her packed bag.

We took off to the airport and check in, all this is new to me because I haven’t flown in more than 15 years. It’s also new to D because, well, she’s used to the good life, going around the rest of the plebes and straight into the plane. Once we met with Chris and Alma, their bags have that green tag that means they’ve been “selected” for screening. This would prove to be a recurring theme. Chris hands me a copy of the Da Vinci Code and says “Happy Birthday.” I had been looking for the book at Half-Price Books because I didn’t want to have to bring it back if I didn’t need to. The reasoning is this: when I go on a long trip, I wear stuff that occuppies the most space and try, as much as possible, to have stuff that I can leave or throw away so that if I need space in my lugagge, I can make use of it. So I wore my tennis shoes (I hardly ever do) and had a jacket with me. Other important things accompanying me in my camera backpack (thank you Tina!) were a book of chess openings, a magnetic chess set and Cantinflas.

He is a Mexican comedian (b. 1911 d.1993) that has become the embodiement of a México made of people that come from the countryside to live in the surrounding areas of a large city. Chris and I thought it would be cool to have him standing around in all the cool places we would soon be exploring.

And travelocity had beat us to the gnome.

Unfortunately, our flight was delayed because of “windy conditions” in Chicago, where we would take the flight to London. Chicago’s moniker is The Windy City so this seemed an ironic antiphrasis at best. I caught up on reading, tried some chess strategies, played some chess with Chris (he kept his pieces protected behind his pawns while I attacked, which helped him in the middlegame, but he missed several opportunities and I got him in the endgame).

We arrive to Chicago to find that our flight has taken off and there are about 100 people trying to get on the last flight. The clerks are assholes, yelling at people. They’re obviously frustrated and have no idea how to deal with uneventualities. One, a tall chubby man (which, coincidentally looks like my friend John) and with a Cuban accent utters this gem:

Leydy, ee’s not our follt. Ees de weather, de weather is ancient!

We wait on the sidelines until things calm down, D plays her charm with the other, shorter Cuban man. Saying something bad about Puertoricans helps too and we get put on the first line of stand-by for the next day . . . but we have to spend the night at the airport and leave in the morning for Washington. We eat at the last restaurant open (our second airport restaurant meal) and we play cards. Alma kicks both of our asses. Royally. I don’t want her in our weekly poker game. The rest of the night we charge our ipods, read and walk around. I slept about 20 minutes, I sleep little at night anyways. The airline comes by to give us some blankets, which we kept and would prove priceless later on.

The next day, we are ready to board the plane, a few names get called out and for a moment, I think the rep last night screwed us over and we are not at the top of any list. Finally they call our names and we get our boarding passes and board. Our seats are not all together, Chris is sitting with either me or D, almost never with Alma. This, too, will be a recurring theme. We simply switch boarding passes.
During the flight, D points out the window, I look out and see a sea of, I think, short, bumpy hills.
That’s the ground . . . right? I ask
Those are the clouds, they look dirty. she answers.
I smile, trying to keep the childish awe welling up in me.
Arrival at Washington was uneventful, departure, however, was a little hectic. The clerk at Chicago did not print the boarding passes for Washington to London so Washington had no idea what to do with us, they send us to Customer Service (this is standard procedure for United, I suppose). We head over there, ten gates down and get behind other forty people in line. D returns to the boarding desk to see if anything can be done. We finally hear “the passengers on standby for London, please come by the boarding area”. Alma and I get ouf the line, Chris is on a public phone and has not heard the announcement so we rouse him from what he is doing.
We finally make it and board the plane. Thanks be to Mr Escamilla for sorting it out.
As the plane takes off, I warn D I’m about to do something very sophomoric but to bear with me. She looks at me, an odd look on her face. I turn to the front, and raise both my arms in triumph. She cracks up.
During the flight, I sleep, read, watch a little TV (or “tele”) and drink some wine.
We arrive at London-Heathrow late at night and head to get our bags. Only Alma’s made it. Onto customer service, again. Claims forms are filled out. It’s kind of cool that we don’t have to describe the bags, they have pictures. Chris makes one claim for his bag, and D and I make one for both of ours.

Let me summarize some of the facts concerning the comedy of errors happening from here so that you just try to fathom what we went through. Mind you, this is day two (almost day three) of me wearing the same clothes.
–My passport includes my paternal and maternal last names. For some reason, airlines think it’s cool to print all the first names together and all the last names together, like so: JUANCARLOS FARIASAGUILA (notice they missed the last “R”). Even Spanish speakers have trouble with my last name even though it’s very simple, now my two last names run together? in Queen’s English?
–Demetrius kept being referred to as “Mr.”, comical at first, but increasingly annoying.
–Since we were all together, eventually, somehow and at different, sporadic occasions, we were all “filed” under either one of our names, others the airline did not know one from the other even as we were standing all together and still others we were “filed” under some other thing that, cryptically, meant we were all together. Notice I write “filed” in quotations. Truth is, I don’t know what the hell they were doing. D gets her bag the next day after insisting her medicine is in there. I pick it up the next morning. The ill-humored clerk “helping” us wants to chastise D for keeping her medicine in the checked bag. I dismiss him telling him I will let her know, which, of course, I don’t. They tell us Chris’ and my bag will arrive later tonight. So we leave D’s bag at the airport and leave to visit London.

Day three of me wearing the same clothes, I haven’t shaved and I’m using D’s deodorant and a pair of her halter-socks, tiny “look-ma!-I’m-not-wearing-anything-under-my-shoes” socks which kept going down into my tennis shoes, but at least kept me from blistering.

Finally, we make it onto London proper. I will continue tomorrow once I add more photos.

1:47 PM, May. 24, 2006

Hello, London!

We dropped off D’s bag at the airport and decided to get breakfast out of the way. We ate at Garfunkel’s right at the airport. We’re still getting used to the exchange rate and are glad the prices are similar to Denny’s or IHOP . . . but in pounds. Nevertheless, we sit down to eat, figuring airport meals are always more expensive. I order some eggs, free-range eggs that is. Seems that’s the only thing they serve in London and some back bacon. I’m expecting a couple of thin strips of toasted bacon like in the States but I’m greeted by a thin steak of meaty goodness and very little fat. I’m liking my breakfast already. Coffee is Lavazza. I’ve seen their ads in Photo magazine, even have a calendar so I expect it to be good and it is. Alma and I, the coffee crack-heads in this trip give it our indelible stamp of approval.

Next we take the metro to Picadilly Circus. This is a bustling central area, luckily, there were no clowns! ha ha! (pause for laughter). All-right, so the “circus” refers to the central area (circle) where several streets meet, but the circus analogy is not too far. There are a lot of people, mostly tourists, and is a veritable City of Babel; I heard English, French, Portuguese, Spanish and Dutch within minutes of stepping onto the square (sorry, circle).

Aside from “mind the gap”, warning to be careful of the space between the train and the floor, there were other “helpful” signs. Possibly (I wonder) prompted by an unwary American.

Look at this example.



And this one:

We look around for a bit and get some souvenirs. We want to take a guided tour so we approach a woman that works for them and ask her where to buy the tickets, she points us to a little self-help stand. Chris gets some tickets (I must mention he got thoroughly raped by the exchange rate and commission fees back at the airport).



We then try to board the bus and the same woman tells us the tickets are for the regular buses. Did she not remember we asked her specifically for tour bus tickets less than five minutes ago? We ride the bus, letting it take us to the end of the route. Chris spots a Texas Embassy, wants to check it out. I tell him as we approach it that we both know the only country that recognized Texas as an independent country was France so this was odd. The embassy turns out to be a bar.

We eventually reach the National Gallery, Chris checks to see that it’s free and we go in. I remember I saw a Velásquez, but I remember best Madonna of the Pinks, by Raphael and Botticelli’s Venus and Mars. Mars is asleep, without weapons and Venus is awake, looking at him (post-coital, perhaps?).

We have dinner inside the gallery. I try some chicken with pasta and sliced almonds. It’s sweet so I like it. D and Alma get some sort of soup that tastes, well, like crap, or so they tell me (I didn’t taste it).

Light is fading (around 9 pm) so we head back to the airport to check on our luggage. In order to get to the claim area, we must go to arrivals, which is not accessible to the public. To get there involves calling someone that then sends security to escort us to said area. Calling inside the airport turns out to be difficult (more so because I keep dialing Pakistan Airlines). Finally, we make it to the claim area after about an hour. Our luggage is, not surprisingly, absent and the clerks seem to not know what we’re talking about. Two helpful ladies behind the desk make some calls, type some things and tell us our bags will be here tomorrow. I try to make the matter more urgent by telling them we’re leaving to Amsterdam early the next day and then we’ll be in Paris and Rome and God-knows-where after that. Chris interjects saying “we’re staying two days in Paris.”

I give him a stern signal with my index finger hidden from the clerks who agree to have the luggage delivered to Amsterdam. We leave still frustrated but with a little hope and a direct phone number.

Our train to Amsterdam leaves early in the morning so I call the airport to tell them we’ll be in Paris because we’re only staying a very short time in Amsterdam. Sure enough, our bags would not have made it to Amsterdam either but a jolly woman on the other end of the line gets the information for our hotel in Paris. The next day, our train to Amsterdam leaves at 10 am and we miss it because we thought it was leaving from one station and it left from another, which, by the way, had work in the metro so we had to get off one stop before. We don’t realize this until the announcement comes on the metro’s intercom. D and I hear it and tell Chris and Alma that we need to get off. Alma gets off right away, but we have to pass by Chris (who wasn’t paying attention to the announcement) at the door. We hurriedly tell him about the closed station when there is a sound, a long, muted beep warning that the doors would be closing. Chris yells for Alma to get back on while we urge him to get off. Neither happens and we see Alma get smaller and smaller as the train leaves.

Chris is about to break down, worried about Alma. I tell him repeatedly that she will be fine, secretly thinking to myself that Alma is not stupid and will not do anything “tourist-ey” to get herself into trouble. We make a rapid return to where Alma is (after arguing which train to take and which direction). Finally, the lovebirds are united again.

Exchanging the tickets for the next train costs us a pretty penny (pence I should say). Train leaves in an hour so we wait until it’s time to board. We pass by customs (oddly French customs) which emblazons our passports with a blue French stamp. Trés jolie!

Not three minutes have passed after customs that we hear an announcement:

Due to a small fire on the track, there will not be any trains leaving today.

We wait to see if it’s really true. I imagined things would change, fire would be put out etc. But we wait and nothing happens until, officially, we have to leave before getting kicked out. Trying to exchange our tickets would be useless since everyone is trying to do the same. Best plan is to wait around the station and see if there are any developments. I check my email and write to my sister, letting her know what’s going on and I write to some other friends too. Finally, we get a letter from Eurostar, kind of an “excuse” to let us exchange tickets without charge because of the fire. Some people leave to Ashford, a train station we would have to pass on our way to the “chunnel” to see if they can catch a train from there. We talk about that, finally deciding to stay put.

“I’d rather be stuck in London than Ashford if anything happens.” I conclude.

We had no idea where Ashford was and if it had a nice station around it or was just an open area (it turned out to be the latter).

It’s somewhat early so we go exploring once more, hitting Big Ben, Westminster Abbey, the Millennium Wheel Eyesore and Tower Bridge.

Back at Waterloo station, we walk around. I’m pulling D’s Big Bertha and Chris is carrying Alma’s suitcase as he had all along. His complaints about this impedimenta were becoming more and more frequent. I blamed it on the way he was carrying it: straight arms close to the body and leaning away from it but I wasn’t about to tell him how to carry his stuff. His constant stops prompted me, however, to look at the suitcase (I always walked behind) and see how I could make it easier for him to transport it. I thought about buying some of those plastic pads that are nailed to the bottom of appliances so that they slide easily. I thought about some makeshift wheels along a rudimentary axis. Even empty water bottles figured in my schemes.

I remember hearing the suitcase “click” whenever he put it on the floor. At first, I thought it was the little “feet” put there to protect the suitcase (nothing more than four buttons, usually) but now I intently looked at the bottom as he picked it up again.

“Chris, doesn’t the suitcase have wheels?”

He looked at me, then at the underside of the suitcase.

I think he said “are you fucking kidding me?!”

He seemed confused, nevertheless, because there was no strap to pull it. I told him to use the cord holding his diaper bag (ahem, passport holder) which he proudly (?) wore on the outside. He wouldn’t part with it, much to my chagrin so he opted to use his belt. But it was too thick to fit through the tab so I used a smaller spare strap I had (I can’t remember from where) to latch the belt.

Few times have I seen him as happy. Looked like he was walking a puppy he just bought.

Need I tell you we kept count of how many times the suitcase fell over? Didn’t think so.

We get to a Starbucks (Alma is addicted and relax for a bit. Two American girls sitting next to us and carrying huge backpacks decide to leave for Ashford and try to get a train there. We decide to camp out at the station and wait for the next day. Chris checks, twice, that the place doesn’t close. We scout the area for the warmest spot, virtually displacing a homeless man. Out come the United Airlines blankets as we huddle on the seats. D begins to worry that people are looking at us strangely. I told her to look aloof and to look back at everybody as if we belong there. That’s not enough and a third check with someone lets us know that the place would close at 1 am. Chris has had the idea of going to a hotel for a while so he quickly finds one using the internet/phone booth we had used earlier. We take a taxi because we just missed the last bus and get to the hotel. The three of them check in and I stay in the lobby, waiting to be snuck in later because the reservation only allowed for one and two guests. Chris comes down a few minutes later and we go to the adjacent bar. The place is small, few locals are there drinking, Chris gets a beer and I get some water. We talk a bit about the day’s events, then it’s time to turn in. More adventures the next day.

The next morning, back to the terminal. We exchange tickets once more and since we already lost our Amsterdam reservations we want to go straight to Paris.

No can do (or something along the lines in French) says the lady at the counter. We have to go through Brussels and Amsterdam then get on a train to Paris from there. Fine, we’ll see Amsterdam after all! With a little better humor, we make it to the boarding area but not before Chris and Alma get on an escalator for a train going straight to Paris. I catch D about one third of the way up to let her know while I talk to a clerk who confirms that is not our train. Chris and Alma try to get off, but it’s an up-escalator and they give up after a few tries. The clerk tells me “don’t worry, there is a lift up there.”

We sit down to wait for them, expecting to see them come out of the elevator, but instead see them coming from the same place as before. Chris greets us by saying “going down an up-escalator: not a very good idea.”

I quietly call his attention to the elevator on the other side.

The announcements at this terminal are in English and French. I was understanding all of the French announcements which made me feel really good. Once we got on the train it was the same thing, except they included Dutch in the Netherlands.

Amsterdam and Rotterdam looked great from the train but were pretty much uneventful. It did takes us a while to find the toilets and I found this in the men’s restroom.

It says “Big Willy”. Must’ve known I was coming, huh?

Our stay in Amsterdam was a little over an hour. At some point, I offered my seat to an older woman waiting for a train also. She started speaking in Dutch and looking at me. From what D and I picked up, she apparently was trying to hit on me and, at one point, apparently, wanted someone to take a picture of her and I.

Yessir, I still got my mojo.

Once in the train, it’s time to finally relax, listen to the ipod, read and drink a beer.

The Parisian night will greet us soon.

Salut, Paris!

. . . wherever you go for the rest of your life,
[Paris] stays with you, for Paris is a moveable feast.
Ernest Hemingway

Il n’y a pas de petit chez soi
There is no place like home.

Our arrival in Paris was long overdue. Especially for me. I’ve been waiting for this moment, well, all my life. You know how they say all babies come from Paris? I’m pretty sure it’s true because now I felt as if I had come home as I looked out onto the Parisian morning.

We arrived the night before, got off the train and made it to the terminal. We looked around for taxis and someone finally pointed us to the outside. We stopped along the way to buy some chips from a vending machine. The chips, invariably, stayed stuck. Not a great start but I just laughed it off.

The line was very long and as we waited, I was hoping to see my luggage waiting for me at the hotel. Eventually, some man with a leather jacket approached us, asking if we needed a taxi. He said something about Parisian taxis being small and that he had a bigger car on the other exit.

Here is the bad part:

We all knew this was a bad idea. We knew we would get screwed. We knew it was even dangerous.

Yet we sheepishly followed him. Only voice of sanity there was Alma who kept saying we should just wait for a regular taxi. Along the way, my suspicion and self-preservation started kicking in . . . weakly.

“How much will you charge us to get to the hotel?” I asked.
“Ten euro each.”
We all looked at each other obviously and silently saying “we’re getting ripped off!”
Yet we kept going and got into his car. A Mercedes (nice!).

To make the story short, he took us to the hotel but because neither Chris nor I had the complete 40€, Chris gave him some money and so did I. He ended up with an extra 5 in the confusion and left all smiles.

Putain de merde!

We checked in (bags nowhere to be found but I realized then they would be sent the next day) got into a very small elevator (two trips) and got to our rooms.

Chris and Alma’s room had double beds, and no a/c. They had a fan. Thankfully the night was cool.

The hotel included breakfast with the room which consisted of croissants and other sweet breads, butter, assorted jams, orange juice and choice of coffee or chocolate.

It was the best continental breakfast I’ve ever had.

I must briefly mention that breakfast was served in what appeared to be an old wine cellar because it was a small, cave-like room underneath the main floor. It was all painted white and its size and placement away from the (nonetheless quiet) street gave it a sense of intimacy.

Going through the lobby we asked the morning receptionist, Delphine (a very nice blonde who answered our every question with delight) about tours and things to do. She gave us a pamphlet for a tour but they seemed expensive at 25€ and up. We decided to at least make it to the Eiffel tower and the Arc de Triomphe and then decide what to do. Delphine gave us directions to get to a metro stop about a block away. As we walked through the quaint little streets I was half-expecting to see a car chase à la Ronin.

I also noticed the presence of a few adult-oriented stores and clubs. I thought, well, the Parisians are very open-minded people and that I was loving it.
Our short walk led us to Place Pigalle where we took the bus.
Getting around Paris is easy to understand once you look at the map, figure where things are, realize the lines are color-coded and understand all-day passes for metro, train and bus.

We became experts at it . . . but not until we got to Italy.

Meanwhile, I asked a nice old man where the Eiffel Tower was. He answered but I don’t think it was French, because I did not understand one word he said (which made me really nervous). Through pantomime and by looking around the very helpful signs peppering this beautiful city we arrived at Place Charles de Gaulle and got off to see the Arc de Triomphe. We took some photos from across the traffic circle but then went underground to cross it and get closer to the arch. There was a fee to get inside (into the museum). Chris was about to go in when I noticed a few people going the opposite direction, then I read the sign, accès gratuit. I caught Chris on time and we emerged at the base of the arch itself. More photos were taken while we admired the structure. I’d read something about la Marseillese so I took some time to check it out. The tomb of the unknown soldier is here too. Yes, it’s all in French, but, come on: “Ici repose un soldat Français mort pour la patrie 1914-1918″?

See the Eiffel tower on the background? That was our next stop: Champ de Mars.

One end has La Tour and the other the École Militaire. The name “Mars” threw me off a bit until I saw the military school, then it made sense. Apparently this was used for military training.

We stopped to see some souvenirs. I warned everyone (in case they’d forgotten) that we shouldn’t buy anything here because it would be ridiculously expensive and we still needed to offset the taxi fare from the night before.
The line to go up the tower is long. D and I decided to explore the grounds while Chris and Alma get in line.

We had some soft-serve ice cream. Walked around the beautiful beautiful gardens and finally made it back to the meeting point at the bottom of the tower.

Chris and Alma came down after a while, all happy.

Chris had just proposed to her at the top of the Eiffel Tower. D and I sighed with relief.

“Finally!” we both said in unison.

See, Chris had gotten the ring (after talking incessantly about it) a few months ago. Then, he actually showed her the ring and even had her wear it on one occasion. This had me all confused. Now, thankfully, it was the way it should be.

Not to mention that these two lovebirds are perfectly made for each other.
Congratulations, you two!
Now you guys need to decide who’s going to take your wedding photos, if it’s me, I want an assistant!

We were all hungry and found a nearby cafe/restaurant. Via my basic French and the waitress’ broken English I ordered some duck, D and Alma got salmon and Chris got . . uh, some salad thing.

My duck was uncannily delicious and juicy. It was served with some potato chips (no, not that kind!) which were the best I’ve ever had. They were a favorite of everyone else too. I tried the salmon off D’s plate and loved it. It was a savory, juicy, come-apart-in-your-mouth delicacy.

This was my second Parisian meal (if you consider our light breakfast a meal) and I was already wondering how on earth I would be able to eat anything back in the States.

Next, we left for the Musée du Louvre. We crossed the Seine river and entered through a palatial (the Louvre is a palace) courtyard. It might have been called Carrée. I hadn’t stepped into the Louvre itself and I was already awed by the size and detail. Here I was, surrounded by immense walls on all sides and being observed by statues and more statues adorning every niche.

Through those archways, I could see the Pyramid which marks the entrance to the museum. My excitement mounting, I walked around the pyramid towards the entrance, passing by triangular pools of water.

(For the record, I like the pyramid; I think it’s a modern approach to a timeless icon, but I digress.)

Some of my excitement turned into disappointment when we read that the museum was closed. Sure enough, I remembered then having read that places had odd hours in Europe. I remembered also that the other museum, the Musée de Orsay which is a close second or third to the Louvre was open when the Louvre wasn’t. I suggested this to the gang and we walked (after the requisite photo in front of the pyramid) past the pyramid courtyard through another triumphal arch commissioned by Napoleon: Arc de Triomphe du Carrousel.
If I’m not mistaken, the quadriga crowning the arch is from Venice.

This led onto Jardins des Tuileries, a large, open green area of neatly trimmed bushes and manicured grass adorned with statues throughout.

Paris is a romantic city and proof of it is that Chris found a condom stuck in the bushes, I saw a couple tongue-wrestling (can’t call it French kiss now, you know) and Alma and D saw a little kid making out with a statue.

Thankfully the statues were not entirely anatomically correct.

We enjoyed the garden for a while, taking photos and walking around. We also decided to go to Notre Dame as a light drizzle began to fall. I prayed the others wouldn’t notice because, well, I don’t care much if I get wet. Thankfully it stayed a weak drizzle as we walked to a bus stop.

Said bus stop was about a hundred meters from the Musée de Orsay, but as I tried telling the gang we were really close to the museum, they kept cross-talking and not paying attention so I gave up. We boarded the bus that would take us to the cathedral.

The bus stood still for a few minutes while we drank some water and rested from all the walking. Now that I think about it, I was mostly on my feet the majority of the trip. Anyway, as the bus began to move and stopped at the corner, it turned the opposite direction.
Once again, with more precious time being wasted we got off at the next stop. I convinced the gang to go back to the Orsay museum (walking) and from there go to Notre Dame. After a short walk (longer than what it would have been 20 minutes before) we arrived at the museum’s laconic sign only to find it closed (it was already 6pm). I think I sighed but I knew we could make it the next day. Nevertheless, I took some photos of the statues flanking the end of its courtyard. Finally, we went behind the museum and looked at some souvenir stores and also looked around for a bathroom. I asked one of the women at the souvenir shop how to get to Notre Dame and she told me to take the metro.

Once at the station, the train arrived. I wanted to make sure we were going the right direction so I got on to ask. I stood just inside the door and asked a woman (in plain view, through the window, of the rest of the gang). She verified that this train indeed goes by the cathedral and nodded repeatedly. I signaled my friends to let them know when the beep started (remember that beep?). I tried to get them to come on but it was too late.

There I went.

Here’s the really bad part: I figured they would follow me, after all, they knew it was the right train. So I got off at the Notre Dame station and waited. And waited, and waited some more until I figured they weren’t coming. I decided to come back but, incredibly, I had completely forgotten where they were.
I read and re-read the scrolling names of the trains and stations but they all looked equally familiar. Finally, I thought I recognized a train and got on. Sure enough, they’re still there. It’s already 7:30 and from what I remember (other than chastising them for not following me) I think we decided to go back to the hotel.

We got off as soon as we saw Place Pigalle.

Remember how I mentioned the sex shops? It turns out Pigalle is a red-light district. Good job D!

There were prostitutes beckoning, stores showing their very varied wares, strip clubs and peep shows galore.

There were other places catching my attention though.
Recognize these two?

We ate at a McDonald’s (I had some fries with pomme frites sauce which tasted a little less acidic than tartar sauce. Not bad) while the rest ate their meals. I eat pretty slowly so I still had some fries after they had finished.

At our hotel, Chris’ bag had arrived. Mine hadn’t. This just added to my mounting frustration. I started gathering all the paperwork related to the bags. Thankfully, everyone left me alone for I was not in any mood to talk to anyone. I tried using my credit card, a phone card and eventually tried to find the number for Charles de Gaulle airport. Unsuccessful, I went upstairs to Chris’ room to see if the tags on his bag had any information and to get the information for our hotel in Rome because I was certain I would not see my clothes until then.

Chris had booked the hotel in Rome so when I asked him and he gave me a puzzled look I got very very annoyed. He began looking for the info right away but realized he hadn’t printed anything. We went downstairs to the lobby and while I researched the names of the delivery companies on the tags, he bought an internet card and used the lobby’s computer to find the information in our inmediasres gmail account. The idea is to keep all pertinent info about the business (and about this trip) in a place that could be accessible to us anywhere in the world (I have photos of my birth certificate, ID and passport uploaded on the web, for example). Chris had booked the hotels through his work email, however, which has no POP access and did not forward them to the gmail account.

I talked to the receptionist who was trying to help me locate some of the companies on his computer and telling me that it would be better tomorrow (the French idiosyncrasy that “everything will right itself”) while Chris tried to locate someone at work to tap into his email and send him the information.

Finally, the receptionist got me someone on the line at Charles de Gaulle who had no idea what I was talking about but who recommended I dialed a direct number the next morning to see exactly what had happened because, apparently, there were supposed to have been two deliveries and only one was made that day.

Chris, after struggling with the European layout on the keyboard and complaining it was “all fucked up” finally got the forwarded email. He copied the information and so did I just in case something happened.

I was still very upset, took a shower (I think) and asked D for some money because I had no more cash and I wanted a drink. She only had five euro and I thought I had some change.

I left the hotel around 12:30 looking for the red-light district to take some photos and find a bar. I ended up making a couple of circles, never found the actual strip of bars we had seen earlier but eventually made it to a one where I ordered some Johnny Walker on the rocks. Now, I drink whiskey and I like Johnny Walker, but I always mix it with mineral water or coke. Let me just say it was very very good by itself. I paid the bartender but I was short about .50. He said it was ok and I promised to go back the next day and pay him and tip him (I never did, je suis desolé).

I returned to my room and pretty much passed out.

There will be another installment soon. Meanwhile, see more photos here.

Feeling much much better the next morning, I showered and made it downstairs for breakfast, which was exactly the same as the day before. I enjoyed my coffee and patries (I think I had three cups of coffee, I forget). Then I called the airport while the gang arranged our checkout. The Paris Hotel (if you haven’t caught on, that’s the actual name of the hotel, the Paris hotel”) is great: you can check out but keep your bags at no charge. They have a small closet out back past a small inner garden. Paris Hotel: definitely awesome. Alma was sitting across from me outside the closet-like phone booth. I told her: “you’re going to see something very stupid but very special” and I proceeded to do my “Snoopy Dance” (I used to think of it as a Fred Astaire dance but . . . never mind). My luggage would be delivered to the hotel between two and four that afternoon. I’d be able to finally wear clean clothes, my clean clothes, smell good, shave properly . . . Lest I forget, my apologies to Paris for I had planned to be all spiffy and cosmopolitan and instead I looked like a bum, worse, like an American bum. Paris: Je suis desolée.

Our train for Italy would leave at seven pm so we had half-a-day to enjoy Paris, get my bag and maybe even ride the train in clean clothes. We walked to Place Pigalle once again (yes, we checked out the sex shops and the strip clubs again). Chris was in dire need of a new bag with wheels so we visited some shops that the receptionist had recommended. We bought some souvenirs and Chris’ new bag, a big, gray rectangle that I was sure would be all they needed and would make it a lot easier for him to move around.

We took the metro to Champs Elisees and made our way towards the Louvre. We walked in front while the girls kept staying behind. Finally they said they did not want to go inside (D had already been) so Chris and I hurried inside.

You can go under the pyramid (it’s where the ticket office is) without paying, but it’s 8 euro to actually go into the wings where the art is displayed. We paid for the tickets, and after taking a few steps I stopped and looked at it.

“We’re at the Louvre man; we’re at the fucking Louvre!

We each got a guide to the museum, both in English (I got an extra one in French for fun. We walked around for a bit semi-planning where to go first. We wanted to see the Winged Victory of Samothrace so we consulted our guides. I thought it was one way, Chris thought it was another. We argued until we opened our guides side by side . . . the damn statue was in two different places . . . two different floors even. That was not cool. This is, however, pretty much what happens between Chris and I. We will both be right based on the information we have. Earlier in London we argued about some Roman numeral at a monument. We were both right except were looking at different sets of numbers.

We found the marble statue in the middle of a huge crowd. I barely caught a glimpse of it and I wish I’d had more time to examine it. It is said that what sets it apart as one of the best examples of Greek sculpture is the way its garments fall around it (or rather drape as if in a strong wind). Venus de Milo was next which was not so crowded, but I was only able to take a couple of guerrilla-type shots nevertheless. Finally, La Joconde. which was surrounded by a mob of almost every conceivable race that moved like a living organism. About the painting, I won’t talk about the smile or Leonardo’s sfumato, but I will say, however, that it’s a small painting (now covered by bullet-proof glass) that you would probably not look at twice if you didn’t know about it. Yet once you fix your eyes on hers you can’t stop looking at it and wonder what the joke is. Very strange.

Chris was getting tired fast and I still wanted to see places. I saw some works by Goya. I saw the Oath of the Horatii, the Presentation at the Temple, the Wedding Feast at Cana, the Clubfoot, David and Goliath. Disappointingly, I only saw one of El Greco (Christ on the Cross Adored by Donors). Finally, I saw some galleries almost running by myself and our last visit was to be the Islamic art wing, but once we found it it was closed so we made our way out before Chris collapsed.

There will be a next time. When I live in France. I see myself making my home here, waking up early, catching the metro to anywhere, stopping at a cafe and absorbing the Parisian morning. During our visit to the Louvre, we saw some students drawing using some of the works of art as models. I can remember when my teachers and even professors would feel creative and assign a visit to a museum. Maybe have us do a short “show-and-tell” presentation. Most people would get a book (now internet) and copy whatever it said, others would read a guide and very few would actually go. Even less would get something out of it. Here, in contrast, there is no way you can avoid it. Art comes to you and smacks you in the face. I can see little Johnny making his presentation in class, stumbling over two-syllable words as he tries to recall what he is supposed to say and Petite Pierre on the other hand dazzling us with a simple description of the Winged Victory. As the hordes of tourists walked hurriedly past me in all directions it saddened me that I have taken so long to come.

The girls met up with us as we emerged from the pyramid and together we walked leisurely through the Jardins de Tullieres again. We took a bathroom break and I snapped a photo of a tourist wearing a Pepe le Pew shirt. We got some water at a stand and I also got a cheese-dog (I thought it was just bread with melted cheese, but it turned out to be pretty big, and tasty). This helped me a lot for the next couple of hours. The day had been great until now but as we tried to make our way back to the metro station we couldn’t find it for at least an hour. We eventually looked at our cameras to see where we had snapped photos when we got there and that helped a little. Finally, the girls suggested one direction and we found the metro entrance behind a wall. We arrived at the hotel with about twenty minutes to spare. My luggage was there (had been delivered a merely 45 minutes earlier and not before four as promised) I almost gave it a hug. There is nothing like wearing cologne after days of not having it.

We consulted with Delphine once more our route to the train station to make sure we would not get lost and she kindly mapped it out for us. Chris wanted to take a taxi but it would cost us a pretty cent. Besides we had enough time to get there, were already familiar with the metro system, had only to change trains once and Chris had a (not brand)-spanking new suitcase. This would be easy.
Unfortunately, Chris still had two big bags to carry: the gray one and a green military-issue duffel bag. Alma had two more, one small duffel bag (with souvenirs, I think) and a small one with wheels similar to mine. I had D’s bag and D pulled my long-lost luggage. We each had backpacks also. I offered to take Chris’ army-style bag while he carried Alma’s (the new gray one with wheels), Alma pulled her small suitcase and the souvenir bag and D pulled hers.
Wait, oh, yes, I pulled my suitcase too. It’s a matter of knowing how to use your body, keeping the joints of my arms straight to keep the bag from bouncing on my legs. Eventually the most comfortable position turned out to be carrying Chris’ army bag on my shoulder, visibility sucked, but I’ve managed before (you should see me whenever I move to a different apartment). To make a story short, we went through a lot of stairs, changed bags several times (Chris, seriously, some animal protein wouldn’t hurt), lost each other for a few minutes, ran for a bit, tried to use a broken ticket machine, and figured out a way for Chris to carry both bags by putting one on top of the other (although that only worked for a short while, then I carried the bundle).

Did I mention we changed bags a lot?

Finally we made it to the train station. There were quite a few people and there was little information. We didn’t see any announcement for our train, so we started walking one way to find a seat, then stopped and walked the other way. Let me pause by saying that this happened quite a lot and I’d had it: we would start going one way, stop in the middle, decide to do something else diametrically opposite and lose time, get tired and even get lost. So when some argument started about whether there were seats down there or up over there, or where to eat I tried to make it more sensical. I told them we could do this very easily by dividing what we would do. One could go get food, another-
At this point Chris says “I’ll get food” and starts walking away.
I had to yell at him to stop him because I wasn’t done, once he was back, I continued. Two of us would stay and take care of the bags at a clear corner a few feet away, Chris would get food and D would get information. With all the running around, missing a lot of the sites in my beloved Paris and the onset of dehydration I was pretty steamed. I had told Chris to get me the biggest bottle of water they had and he delivered. 1.5 liters of crystal-clear goodness. I drank half a liter in one gulp I think. The remainder I drank as we waited for the train (which was a bit late) and I walked around the station, cooling off and bending my legs. I was physically tired, but I could not stop or sit.

We boarded the train, arranged the bags as best we could on the top shelves and sat down. The coach sits and sleeps six but our only company was a very nice Italian man that talked with us about beer, music (mostly to Chris) and politics (namely our Moron in Chief), we also talked about the Da Vinci code and why Tom Hanks was not the best choice for the lead (facha di culo he called him). We bought some sandwiches and drinks to dine because we were all very hungry but relieved to be finally on our way. I was in the middle of finishing up my last glass of wine when one of the bags fell down, crushed my cup and splattered everybody. Everybody but me. That was cool! (the not getting splattered part). We rearrangeed the bags and eventually went to sleep. Grazie mille to the Italian man for helping us set up the beds.

During the night, the coach turned very hot. Finally I went to the bar where the crew was hanging out and told them about it. They simply dismissed it offhand and said it was broken, almost shrugging. I shrugged it off too as an Italian idiosincracy

I had no idea.

Stay tuned for the next installment of the Chronicles: The Roma Terminii Code.

Solve the riddle:
(hint: It’s not English)
A Tapei lad on fun

La Bella Italia

Bella e volubile

We woke up in Italy, I washed up as best I could in one of the bathrooms. Wait, I took a leak in one and had to go to another one to wash my hands and face. At some point I ended up in the woman’s restroom. finally got off with all our luggage and into the station: Roma Terminii.

If you’ve read The Da Vinci Code or Angels and Demons by Dan Brown you will understand what we went through for five hours at the train station. I must have spoken to 20 people asking for information about the hotel, where to go, how to use the phone or phone cards etc. I spoke to them in English, Spanish, French, figured out that my Spanish accent helps a ton when speaking Italian (I became pretty fluent through this ordeal). I would ask one person something and they would either ignore me or dismiss me in a different direction onto the claws of another indifferent person or clerk. While I enjoyed talking to these clerks, which were almost invariably hot women in their early 20s, this got very annoying. At some point one kid that was heavily bandaged kept screaming at the top of his lungs, just being a nuisance. I yelled from across the hall: uccidere il bambino! which I think means “kill the kid!”. I went from clerk to clerk, spoke to a hottie from Pennsylvania (had come from Amsterdam) who was in the same predicament, talked to the help desk and tourist information desks of three different places, bought two maps, a train ticket and finally, outside the terminal, guess what I found?

Mexicans.

I heard them talking Italian with a peculiar sound, the sound I make when I try speaking Italian. I asked them what to do, etc, they pointed me in the right direction . . . and then offered to walk me there for five euro.

¡Ah raza!

Nevertheless, it was D did who made other inquiries and finally got some info and we knew (with a certain degree of certainty) where we needed to go.

After five hours (still not wearing my clean clothes, we managed to figure out which bus and train to take. Cool thing: if you buy a ticket for the train, it’s good for 48 hours afterward. We took some sort of shuttle to the hotel.

Ciampino turned out to be a city close to Rome (about 12 miles). The shuttle took us through the busy Roman streets and finally dropped us off at Ciampino airport. From there, another bus (orange this time) is supposed to take us to the hotel. Hotel Palacavicchi. I ask the lady if the bus goes there and they say yes (my Italian has gotten near impeccable by this time). The bus takes us slowly to the outskirts of the city and we keep looking around for the damn hotel. The bus stops. The driver and a woman at the front tell us to get off.

I look out the window and there is only an empty parking lot with a sort of porch. I ask the lady if that’s it and they assent, almost kicking us off the bus. As we walk into this parking lot, some kid in a bike yells out “facha di culo!” I don’t know if it’s directed at us or at the incredibly intrepid drivers of Italy passing through at this time but I yell back “la putana de tua madre!

Yeah, I was tired of being treated like crap.

The hotel was hidden behind some shrubbery. We check in and they keep our passports: I’ve read about this, I don’t like it but at least I know about it. Chris has a tough time understanding it.

Hotel Palacavicchi is, basically, a motel: One floor, about eight buildings in a line all the same and with a gap between each. It was easier to go through the outside than through the doors and steps separating each building. There was a cool breeze so this was a very welcome feeling.

As soon as I got into the room, I took a shower. I put on some clean clothes, my deodorant, my cologne, my gel!

My hair is a rebellious mess, myth has it that it’s broken a good pair of scissors once. It hardly stays in place. I use this “glue” that keeps it in place all stiff . . .I wonder if it’ll work on . . .uh, never mind. I also shaved. With my razor. Whoa! Helloooo new face! Goodbye pain!

I almost didn’t notice the bidet (the first one I saw in Europe) No, I did not use it.

We met the rest of the gang at the hotel’s restaurant: the plan was to eat, have a beer and then head back to Rome.



Dinner, however. turned out longer than expected, what with gnocci, pizza and pasta, dessert and beer it was a lot. I still wanted to go, it was light outside but it would have been potentially difficult to get back (especially after our experience earlier). so we decided against it. We did plan the next day’s trip however. Basically getting into town and onto a tour bus where we could get off and see the sights and then get on again. D and I stayed at the bar a little longer, I got a Peroni (one forty-ounce bottle was ONE euro! nice!). We pointed out some of the places we wanted to see. I wanted to see for sure Piazza di Spagna (the Spanish Steps) and the Sistine Chapel.

Day one in Italy was pretty much wasted, although I learned a lot of Italian. I realized also that Rome is infested with hot women. My God, I was turning left and right and that was just at the train station. Those women that were not gorgeous were in different stages of décolletage so they were easy on the eye too. I also realized that downtown Rome is eerily similar to Reynosa, México. The first time I wondered outside and saw the traffic I wondered how the hell to cross the street. there were four cars crammed into two lanes and some Vespas scurrying between the cars. Then I remembered I had seen this before, in México City, in Monterrey, in Monclova and Reynosa.

“Reynosa style it is” I said and started darting in and out of traffic, dodging cars and making vespas run around me.

I am also certain that the way we were dressed (like a typical tourist: backpack, jeans, t-shirt, tennis shoes, dirty and disoriented) was a capital reason why we were treated so badly: Italians (much like Mexicans, yes, I know) seem to be very snobbish and look at the way one is dressed or how one carries oneself and judge you based on that, determining whether you’re important enough to talk to or not. The next day that we were clean, shaven and better dressed we got immediate attention.

Giorno the morning.

We woke up a little late and headed to breakfast. Mere sweets and coffee (also cereal, which annoyed me a little). Chris looked as if he wanted to die seeing bread once again. We were dressed in our “Sunday best”, even though it was a Thursday, because we were going to the Vatican. To get there, we needed to get to downtown Rome so we went to the lobby to get some information.

You’re not going to believe this.

Public transportation was on strike. No buses, no trains, no shuttles. I think I might have forgone my usual “¡me lleva la rechingada!” and used Chris’ “are you fucking kidding me?!”

We could take a taxi for 50 euro. No way I was paying that unless we got a big group to go. I refused to give more money to this country. And after the thorough rape we got in Paris, we were not about to pay another taxi. In any case, we didn’t have cash to pay a taxi so we had to go to the airport next door (about two miles away) thankfully the orange bus was still running, otherwise the hotel van would have charged us an obscene amount.

Once we got off at the airport, we passed by some carbineri guarding it. This made me a little nervouse because I would hate to get hassled by police, especially without our passports (the hotel kept them, remember?). Finally we arrive at the ATM.

Guess what? It’s out of order.

Merda!

There was another place upstairs that could get us some money so we headed over there.

We got in line, Chris talked to the lady and they were about to give us some money . . . .when they asked for our passports.

Fottuto!

We explained that the hotel kept the passports, surely she knew that.

No can do.

¡La puta que las parió!

They did tell us about another way, a supposed ATM outside the terminal, in the parking lot. We walked over there but it turned out to be an automated machine for parking payments.

It was then we noticed something peculiar. There were buses running. At least the busses that brought us the day before were running. So we raced back to the hotel and got the girls. Soon (but not soon enough) we were on our way back into Rome. Once back at Roma Termini, we approached the same old woman from one of the stands. She was a little more eager to help since I’m wearing this nice Izod shirt that Cindy gave me for my birthday, my black slacks and dress shoes. . . I look good, I smell good and I feel good to finally be doing something productive this day. I am back to being me. We bought tickets for a tour that would take us to several sites and from there we could stay on the bus or get off and explore and then get back on the next bus. According to the girls however, we bought the wrong tour, something about a bus and a boat and I don’t know what else. I swear I did not know about this. Nevertheless, the tickets we bought were a certain price, but we bought them at a lower price so we ended up saving about 30 euro and they were valid for 24 hour so if we woke up early the next day, we could use them again. I thought it was an incredibly good deal.

Italy is, in reality (and aside from planes and hotels), a very very cheap city. Train tickets cost about 2 euro, the night before we spent about 50 euro and we had at least six plates with drinks.

Oh, Peroni, that “tourist, shit” beer was one euro . . . the forty-ouncer. And it was very good.

So far, a lot of writing, a day and a half and still no sight-seeing.

Ultimo

We boarded the tour bus (but not before eating some gelato.

Gelato.

Whoa!

Ok, I must mention I’ve had a sort of gelato before. If you stay away from the commercial vendors and the small carts franchised to individuals in México and are lucky enough to find an old man on a bicycle carrying a big pail, you will be rewarded with one (count it: ONE) flavor of homemade ice cream very similar to gelato. Still, this stuff made love to my taste buds, left them all ravaged and wanting more.

All-right. All-right. Onto the bus. We basically rode around letting the guides do their thing. We saw some of the many many churches (and a synagogue) peppering Rome, some aqueducts and finally got off at St Peter’s Basilica. We worried about being let through because we did not have passports but the tour recording said a passport was not required anymore. St Peter’s Square is huge, a beautiful semicircle consisting of . . .ok, here’s a photo.





That’s St Peter overlooking the Square.

We made our way through the inside perimeter where there was a short line. We were hoping they would not give us crap for our clothes. Well, D’s clothes actually. She had a bad case of the swells on her upper protuberances. We got through without incident, had our bags checked by x-ray machines and entered the basilica.

Imagine the most beautiful, serene place, light filtering through the occuli, beautiful paintings, murals, busts, statues, engravings, etc. as you quietly walk in with the rest of the people. This photo really does it no justice.

Imagine all that I mentioned while a choir sings the Ave Maria. There was a mass in progress (in German) which I couldn’t hear because the space inside is immense, holding according to official numbers, up to sixty-thousand people.

As I took some photos, I kept pausing to admire what i had around me. The rest of the group kept on walking while I paced more and more slowly, finally stopping in front of one of the many confessionals, all of which had a long list of languages the priest could speak on its side. I looked up to the rest of the gang walking far away. I saw Chris stop, aim and fire his camera, look at the viewfinder and keep walking.

I realized I was alone, even as other tourists passed me. I looked up at more murals and statues and the physical realization of where I was came to me. I said out-loud: “I’m at the Vatican. I made it. I am here. I have done it.”

And I welled up. The tears poured, ran away from me. I could hardly breathe. Yet, I was smiling. Grimacing like a kid. I put my forehead on the wall and let the cool marble soothe me. I let go for a bit. Surrounded by many, yet in my own little space. A few minutes later I was able to move again. I cleaned my nose somewhat and started walking again. I didn’t wipe my tears away. I didn’t feel the need. I caught up with the gang. I’m sure they saw my face, but they said nothing. I’m sure they understood.

We looked around and snapped some photos. Chris kneeled at one altar and said a small prayer. They have this cool thing where instead of lighting a candle, you put some coins through a slot and a small electric “candle” lights up for a bit. On the way out we passed by Michelangelo’s Pieta. Too bad it was far away. Chris told me he tried and didn’t come out. I decided to give it a shot, put a telephoto on my camera and braced it on a prie-dieu. I think it came out pretty good!

We also visited the tombs of the popes. We saw the sarcophagi and elaborate carvings of many popes until we arrived at John Paul II’s.

So simple. Austere. Humble.