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Italy, May, 2005

Meet my parents, Paul and Bonnie Cornn. They’re 53 and 54 years old, respectively, and they live in Indiana. They both grew up in what Midwesterners call the tri-state area, the rural communities where Indiana, Ohio and Kentucky intersect. They married in Indianapolis 31 years ago, and they’ve lived there ever since.

My parents are not travelers. They’ve been out of the US just once, and that was a day trip to Tijuana. Their biggest international experience was the “It’s a Small World” ride at Disney World. Their list of exotic destinations includes Las Vegas and San Francisco. Not that there’s anything wrong with Vegas and SF (don’t call it Frisco). It’s just that my parents are the last people I would expect to go on international travel.

So I was surprised when they suggested that we take a trip to Europe together. They knew I wouldn’t come back to the States during my year-long contract in Kuwait, and I suspect this trip is an effort to ‘meet me half way’ and see me during that time. We had very different destinations in mind. They wanted to avoid any language or cultural barriers and visit England. I wanted to leave Europe behind and go to Egypt. When they suggested London and I suggested Cairo, we drew an imaginary line between the two cities and found a rough halfway point: Rome.

Ten days in Italy, with the parents. That's my next vacation. My mom and dad have a long list of sights they want to see. My mother was raised Catholic, and she wants to see the Vatican. She was also raised on bad epic movies like Ben Hur and Spartacus, so she wants to see the Coliseum as well. My father always wanted to see Pompeii, so a trip to Naples is on the itinerary. We also plan to visit Florence, but we don’t have time for other cities like Milan, Venice, or Trieste. Next time, next time.

What’s on my Italian must-see list? I just want to show my folks a good time. They put up with my lazy butt for 28 years and they never let me down. Now I think they deserve a nice vacation, and I’m going to give it to them. I’m acting as a tour guide for this trip, and I’m footing the bill. There are plenty of places in Italy that I want to see, but mostly I just want my parents to have fun. This is their first trip outside of the US. If it’s goes poorly, they might never leave America again. If everything goes well, they might make more trips overseas in the future...Today, Italy. Tomorrow, the World! Here’s the plan:

May 1: I fly into Rome and drink a big glass of wine. Then I check into our hotel and get everything ready for the parent’s arrival. Note: For any trip I take outside of Kuwait, the itinerary always starts with “I fly to (city) and drink a big glass of wine.” I swear, I wasn’t an alcoholic before I came to Kuwait.

May 2: The ‘rents arrive in the morning, and I drag them to the hotel. Hopefully, we’ll take a walking tour of the Trastavere area. Probably, we’ll all sleep off the jet lag.

May 3, 4, and 5. Roma: The Vatican, the Coliseum, il Centro Historico. And whatever else we can find.

May 6: A day tour of Pompeii, a night tour of Naples, and a midnight train to Florence. I’m sure Naples deserves more than a day, but we’re limited on time, and, frankly, Florence and Rome are more interesting.

May 7 and 8: Two days in Florence. Just two short days. I wish American companies gave their employees more vacation time.

May 9:I drink a big glass of wine and fly back to Kuwait. My parents fly back to Indianapolis the next day.

My trip starts this Sunday. Expect to see a new post every day.

Sunday, May 1. Welcome to Roma York

The day got off to a smooth start. In true English fashion, British Airways ran their flights like clockwork. My flights-from Kuwait to London and from London to Rome-were probably the most uneventful flights I've ever taken, and that's a good thing. When flights are eventful, the events are usually fires and crashes and lots of screaming.

The trip from the airport to downtown went just as smoothly. There's a convenient train that runs from Fiumicino Airport to Roma Termini, Rome's central station, for only 10 Euro. I hopped on the train, popped in my earphones, and rode into Rome. The trip wasn't too scenic, but it was comfortable and quick. All the bridges and underpasses we passed were tagged with graffiti. One of them read, in bold multicolored letters, "Welcome to Roma York."

Roma Termini is a huge and hectic station where all of Rome's trains, subways and buses intersect. It's also home to a large shopping and dining area and a string of taxi stops. Inside there are elite stores for Nike, Emporio Armani, and other fashionable brands. Outside there are open-air shops made from shaky tables or blankets spread out on sidewalks hawking cheap belts and purses, day-old pizza, and imitation watches.

Where the trains and the shops intersect, the people intersect as well. Every inch of floorspace both in and out of Termini is occupied by a human being. The people are mostly Italian in both language and appearance, though there's a smattering of south Asians and Africans speaking Italian as well. European and American tourists join the mix when the train from the airport arrives. Some of them are easy to spot as they stare blankly at the Arrival and Departure boards while the crowd flows around them. Others are noticeable by the nervous look in their eyes as they try desperately to blend in and go with the flow. Moving through this mass of people is like swimming through a school of fish. It has a rhythm and flow that the Italians feel instinctively, and it seems as if anyone who moves out of the flow will be drowned or eaten.

Moving through this mass with a backpack and a suitcase wasn't very easy. My suitcase has rollers, but the wheels are tiny and troublesome. It doesn't handle corners very well, and on rough pavement it jumps and tips every few feet. Dragging it behind me was like leading an angry toddler by the hand. The six blocks from Termini to my hotel felt like six miles. I had been awake for 30 hours straight, I didn't speak the local language or know the local roads, and I had to protect my luggage and myself from the ubiquitous pickpockets. I managed to arrive at the hotel with all my belongings just as the sun set.

The Hotel Seiler is on Via Firenze close to Termini Station. It's a 2-star hotel that was converted from an old aristocratic mansion. I got there a day before my parents so I could check the hotel and see if it was up to par. The exterior and the lobby were gorgeous, but the rooms were tiny. With private rooms, including a private bathroom with hot water, it was a step up from the lodging I'm used to. With its thin walls and lack of room service, it was a step down from what my parents were used to. It was a nice compromise between my desire to stay in a small hotel with personal service and my parents' wish to stay in a deluxe resort with all the trimmings.

The room was...cozy. The queen-size bed took up almost the whole room. The walls were taller than the floor was wide. I had about a foot of space between the bed and the walls on all sides. It looked like the owners had divided the mansion's vast salons and dining halls into as many tiny rooms as possible. I put my luggage on the left half of the bed and took a short nap on the right.

When I woke up, I took a much-needed shower and shave and hit the town. That involved walking back and forth between the hotel and Termini so I could remember the way to the station. I was supposed to escort my parents to the station the next day, and I didn't want them to wander around Termini the way I did. The hotel clerk warned me that Termini got dangerous at night, but I didn't find any trouble. There was one guy who invited me to join him for a drink at a local bar, which I politely declined. He might have been a con trying to cheat me out of my money, or he might have just been a maricon looking for a lay. I'll never know. After memorizing the way back to Termini, I went back to the hotel and settled in for the night.

May 2, 2005. Colloseo.

My parents really impressed me. They arrived at the Airport at nine in the morning looking jumpy and anxious to start the trip. I thought they'd be fatigued from the long flight, and I expected them to crash as soon they got to the hotel. But barely half an hour after check-in, we were on the subway bound for the Colosseum.

The Colosseum proved to be a good introduction to Rome. It was a single monument with a simple layout, so it was easier to navigate than the sprawling sites around the Vatican and other tourist spots. It was also very easy to reach. The Colloseo subway station is just a hundred meters from the Colosseum itself, and you can see the stadium from the subway exit.

The wait to get into the Colosseum wasn't too bad. We spent half an hour in line, but that was inside the Colosseum, so we were in the shade and we could look inside the stadium. Once inside, the stadium was horribly crowded. The short line to get in made us think the Colosseum wasn't very busy, but the tour groups got in through a separate entrance. It was packed with school kids on field trips and bunches of tourists. The young kids weren't too bad. They ran around a lot, and they were noisy, but they were nice enough to step aside when you wanted to move past. And besides, they're kids. The tour groups were different. Each was led by a local guide who held up a flag or a folded umbrella to show everybody where to go. When the guide stopped to talk about a particular spot, the group crowded around the guide to hear him or her talk. They formed dense clusters of people who wouldn't move for anyone. Quite a few times, I had to backtrack because a tour group blocked my way.

The Colosseum was surprisingly accessible. By that I mean that we could get into more parts of the Colosseum than I expected. The center of the stadium-where the gladiators, animals, and heretics fought, ate, and were eaten-was closed off, but the area around it was open. The floor was removed, and we could see the corridors beneath the main area where fighters waited to be brought up to the arena floor. Most of the stands were also open. I never felt like I was being herded along a set path. It seemed that I could wander anywhere I wanted in the Colosseum. Despite this freedom of movement, the Colosseum's simple circular design meant that I never got lost. Combined with the easy access, the friendly atmosphere, and the freedom of movement, this simple design made the Colosseum the best first stop in Rome.

May, 3, 2005. Vatican Museum.

We took the subway to the Vatican and arrived a little after 8 in the morning. The line to get in was literally a mile long. An energetic young tour guide convinced us that we could skip the line if we joined her group. The tour cost 25 Euro a person, but it was worth it just to jump ahead in line. We planned to ditch our guide once we were in the Vatican, but he was so friendly and knowledgeable that we stuck with him for the whole tour.

The Vatican Museum was overwhelming. Our guide told us that there are so many pieces of art in the Museum that if we spent one minute looking at each piece, it would take us 11 straight years to see them all. I won't even try to give a step-by-step tour of the Museum. The sheer number of halls, courtyards, and exhibitions was, as I said, overwhelming. I'll just touch on a few areas that caught my interest.

Just a little past the entrance is a courtyard of ancient Greek sculptures. I was amazed that works of art from three thousand years ago were still intact today. Some of these statues were ancient before Julius Caesar was born, and they'll be admired for centuries after we're all gone. I was doubly amazed at the detail the ancient sculptures showed. They were more accurate and dramatic than some of the art produced five hundred years later. The looks on the faces of some of the statues feel more real than a modern movie. It makes me wonder if human art peaked in ancient Greece, and we've just been imitating perfection ever since.

After the courtyard, the path through the museum goes indoors. The next few halls exhibit pre-Christian artwork from Greece and Rome. It's mostly sculpture, though I don't know if that's because the Romans favored sculpture over other art forms or because old paintings and tapestries just don't last in a museum setting. Our guide pointed out the similarities between pre-Christian art and Renaissance art. We noticed the similarities between the Pagan Cupids on Roman sculpture and the Christian Angels on Papal art. We saw how Renaissance painters had copied images of Biblical figures from sculptures of Greek mythical figures. It reminded me that, just as ancient artists inspired modern artists, ancient beliefs inspired modern religions. No matter how much we want to believe that the teachings of Jesus and Mohammad are superior to the "pagan" religions, it's clear that the new religions were influenced by the old. The old practices might die out, but the mythos will always stay.

After a long walk through the first half of the museum, the path moved outdoors again. The vast Corta Della Pina is named for a twenty-foot tall bronze pine cone at one end of a big open plaza. What does a pine cone have to do with the Church? Saint Peter himself is probably scratching his head over that one. It's a beautiful courtyard about the size of a football field. Surprisingly, there are few works of art in the court. Two big bronze peacocks flank the pine cone, and the only piece of modern art in the museum-a bronze sphere-sits in the center. The rest of the court is just grass and gravel walkways. The relatively empty court is a good place to rest from the Museum's interior, where every inch of the walls (and ceilings) is covered in paintings, frescoes, and tapestries.

If most of the museum was overwhelming, the Sistine Chapel was underwhelming. The sacred chapel isn't very sacred anymore. On the day I visited it was packed with about a thousand tourists and two very annoying guards. The Chapel is an amazing work, a lesson in artistic technique and oblique symbolism. It's also a lesson in modern copyright law and Italian bureaucracy. Twenty years ago the Vatican started a restoration project on the chapel's famous ceiling. Centuries of candle smoke, human breath, and natural dust had blackened it to the point that some of the frescoes couldn't be seen from the ground. The restoration cost billions of dollars, and a Japanese TV station funded the work. In return, the Vatican gave the station recording rights over the Chapel for the next 25 years. For twenty years now, and for five more to go, no one else can take photographs or record video in the Sistine Chapel. This deal is enforced by two Vatican guards who stroll around the chapel and shout, "No foto! No video! No foto! No video!" The tourists ignore them, and they just stay at the front and repeat their mantra, "No foto! No video!"

To preserve the sanctity of the chapel, visitors are asked to maintain their silence. They must maintain their silence. They are asked to maintain their silence by a pre-recorded message that plays in six different languages and reminds visitors to please maintain their silence. The message repeats once per minute so visitors do not forget to maintain their silence. In the holy Sistine Chapel, where the College of Cardinals choose the leader of the Catholic church, the Vatican will remind its visitors to please maintain their silence. And the guards will remind them, "No foto! No video!" Crushed between tourists in tank tops and low-rider jeans, with camcorders pointed to the ceiling, the Vatican will remind you once again, please maintain your silence, and "No foto! No video!" Every time you catch some unique detail in a corner of a painting, the Vatican kindly asks you to please maintain your silence, and "No foootoo! No viiideo!"

After the Chapel, we exited the Museum and made our way to Saint Peter's Square. In six hours, we only saw about half the Museum. A serious art student could spend weeks there, and even visitors to Rome who don't care for art should give the Museum half a day. If nothing else, it's a lesson in the ways that theology and art intertwine, and how past beliefs influence the present.

May 3, 2005. Saint Peter's Basilica.

The exit from the museum led into St. Peter's Square. There was a short little path that lead straight to the Basilica, so we followed it in.

I can't offer much description of the Basilica. It just didn't have a huge effect on me. Maybe it's because I'm not Catholic. Maybe it's because I was fatigued from walking through the Museum. Maybe it's because there were hundreds of tourists and no priests. I'm not sure. I just took a quick trip through the Basilica and proceeded up to the dome.

The dome of the Basilica made a bigger impression. There were two ways to get to the dome-a staircase of 320 steps, which cost 5 Euro, and an express elevator, which cost 7 Euro. We had walked around the Vatican, through the Museum, past St. Peter's Square, across the Basilica, down in the Catacombs, and now over to the dome, and we weren't about to climb 320 steps. We handed over 21 Euro and stumbled to the elevator.

The elevator took us to the roof of the Basilica. We took a short walk across the roof and entered the dome itself. It had a nice aerial view of the floor where we had been just a few minutes earlier. We were awfully tired by that point, so we didn't stay for long. We walked around the interior of the dome once, snapped a few pictures and got ready to leave. Then I saw a little doorway opposite the dome's entrance. I went in and saw a small staircase going up. I called my parents over and said, “Hey, let's see where this goes.”

If I ever say, “Hey, let's see where this goes,” again, my parents are going to throttle me. The staircase went up, and up, and up again. We had paid extra to avoid 320 steps only to stumble into 500 more. In a steep, tight right spiral, the staircase wound up the side of the dome. After a few flights, it ran up the curve of the dome, and the corridor tilted to the right. The staircase was narrow, barely three feet across. We had to walk single file, and there was no way to turn around. Rest stops were few. In thirty minutes of walking, I counted only three places where a person could step to the side and take a rest.

My dad started complaining of chest pain after a few minutes so we all sat down at one of the little alcoves by the stairs. He didn't look very good. I had walked as much he had that day, and I felt worn out. I'm half his age, so I knew that if I felt worn out, he must have felt awful. We sat him down, and he started to look a little better. I joked that if you die in the dome of the Basilica, you're guaranteed to go to Heaven. Mom didn't think that was very funny. We sat in a little alcove by the stairs while dad's heart rate went down. He asked me how much further we had to go. I told him I didn't know. He said he wasn't sure if he could get all the way up.

After a few minutes, three nuns walked past us. Three short, frail little women, none more than five feet tall and all skin and bones. They glanced at us and smiled and walked right past us. They never broke their pace. I frowned at my dad. “Come on, dad. If the sisters can make it up the stairs, so can you.” His manhood thus challenged, he got up and started back up the steps.

The journey is long, but the reward is great. After half an hour of climbing, the staircase opened up to the best view in the whole city. We found a balcony that wrapped around the top of the dome. It was a clear and sunny day, and we saw the whole Vatican and half of Rome spread out before us. We walked around the dome, took pictures from every side, and pointed out and chatted about all the sites we could see. It was like watching the city from Heaven, but then I guess that was the idea.

That was when I first felt overwhelmed. My legs were sore and my back was hurting. My shirt was soaked with sweat and my shoes were falling apart. I had walked up, down, and around the city, and now I saw how vast the city was. For all that effort, I had only gotten a taste of Rome. I saw parts of Rome from the balcony that I never got to see up close. I saw whole neighborhoods that I never entered later. And I knew that beyond my line of sight, there was even more of Rome that I would never see from any distance. These three days of travel could barely be called an introduction.

Rome will never run out of surprises. I'll never see it all. I can 'see' Rome. I can 'visit' Rome. But I can never really 'know' Rome. Every time I turn a corner and say, “Hey, let's see where this goes,” I find something new.

May 3, 2005. Fontana Di Trevi.

We got back to the hotel and collapsed. Mom had blisters, Dad had chest pains, and I had some serious BO. We spent a few hours recovering from the Vatican and then we set out for Trevi Fountain.

The Fontana di Trevi is one of Rome's largest fountains. Filled with sculpture and cascading waterfalls, it's also one of Rome's prettiest sights. The plaza around Trevi is a popular meeting place for both locals and tourists. It isn't as easy to find as the Vatican or the Colosseum. It's several blocks from the nearest subway station and it takes a few twists and turns to get there. We got a little lost, but that was okay. Most good travel stories start with, “we got a little lost.”

By this time we were all really hungry so we wandered into a little underground restaurant. It turned out to be a high-class place with some excellent food. We found that what the restaurant calls 'roast potatoes,' we call 'french fries.' Mom ordered them expecting to get some oven-baked potatoes with fresh herbs, but she got french fries. Deep-fried potato slices just like the ones you get at McDonald's. We didn't mind. They were really good fries. It was just funny that we had a table with pizza con quattro formaggio, prosciutto di Parma, spaghetti alla carbonarra, and french fries.

We split a big bottle of Chianti and took a bottle to go. I talked the waiter into giving me a wine glass so we wouldn't have to drink straight from the bottle. The owner came by for a chat and told us we were just a few blocks from Trevi Fountain. We took his directions and found the fountain pretty quickly.

The sun hadn't quite set by the time we got there, but it was low and hidden behind the buildings. The daylight was fading and the streetlights hadn't come on and the sunset gave the marble a faint orange hue. The steps around the fountain were crowded with people. Two young parents watched their toddler run back and forth around the plaza. A few couples wrapped around each other in one of those hugs that seems to last all night. A young artist was selling sketches to the German tourists sitting next to her. A lone man walked up and sat down on the edge of the fountain. He pulled a coin out of his pocket and stared at it. After mentally making his wish, he tossed the coin over his shoulder and into the water. He smiled to himself, stood up, and walked away. Vendors hawking roses and scarves roamed around the fountain. One of them put three roses in my mother's hand and asked for six Euro. She gave him four and he took a rose back.

We sat on the steps close to the fountain and filled our glass. Dad walked around taking pictures while me and Mom passed the bottle back and forth. We were happily buzzing when the streetlights came on and the sun finally set.

There's a skill to maintaining a good, happy buzz. Sometimes we drink too little and don't feel any alcoholic effect. Usually we drink too much and end up drunk. The trick is to empty your bottle slowly but steadily and to keep yourself just a little bit past sobriety. The happy buzz isn't quite drunk; it's just enough to loosen the muscles and the mind. I sat back on the steps of the Trevi Fountain and emptied my wine glass. I looked around at the people, I looked at the statues, and then I looked up at the sky. I rolled my empty glass between my fingers and I whispered, “this is the life.” That's the happy buzz.

May 5, 2005. The Forum.

When we visited the Colosseum, we saw the Forum from a distance, but we didn't go in. By the time we finished touring the Colosseum, the Forum was already closed. Today, our last full day in Rome, our top priority was to see the Forum up close.

The Forum was the center of ancient Rome. The city's major government and religious centers, as well as mansions for priests, senators, and sometimes emperors, were built there. After the Empire collapsed, the city center moved to other areas, and the Forum fell into disuse. Today, it's a major archaeological park, both a tourist draw and an ongoing excavation. There are two large intact arches that served as the east and west entrances to the Forum. A temple dedicated to Jupiter-now topped with a crucifix-is perfectly preserved. The Forum was used for over 900 years, and the preserved architecture represents buildings from every stage in the Roman Empire. It was fascinating to see so many different buildings from the reign of Julius Caesar to the death of Nero.

The Forum is a place that's hard to describe in words and easy to describe in pictures. I won't bother with a long description here. I'll just point you to my photo site: http://expat.fotopic.net

May 5, 2005. En Route to Naples.

The train from Rome to Naples arrived at Roma Termini at 6:45 in the evening. We got to the station at five. We got our tickets easily, but we weren't sure where to go from there. Termini has about thirty platforms, or binarios, at which the trains arrive. Each binario is a hundred meters long and runs parallel to a train track. Just like at an airport, there are big electronic boards labeled “Departures” that display train times, destinations, and platforms numbers. It seems simple enough: You go to the Departures board, match your train number up with a binario, and go wait on the binario for your train. There was just one rule we forgot: Never trust the Board.

We went to the big Departures board at the front of the station. It said our train was due to arrive on platform 11. So we walked down platform 11, set our luggage on a bench about halfway down, and waited for our train. Nobody sat next to us. In fact, nobody sat on the platform at all. They all bunched up at the end of the platform, staring up at the Departures board. It seemed odd to me. The board said the train would arrive at platform 11. Why didn't they just grab a seat and wait for the train to arrive? Why keep staring at the board?

At 6:40 our train hadn't arrived, so I got up and checked the board again. It said the same thing: 18:45 to Napoli, Binario 11. I got a snack at the cafe and went back down the platform and sat next to my parents. Trains pulled in and out of the station, but no train showed up on our platform. At five 'till seven, I got nervous and walked back up to the board. Our train wasn't listed. It was off the board. I skipped over to platform 12. The departure sign for 12 listed our train! I ran up to the conductor and in a mix of English, Spanish, and Italian, asked "Essa tren a Napoli now?" He said "Si" and something else in Italian. He tapped his watch and pointed at the train. I got the message. I sprinted back up platform 12 and down platform 11. My parents saw me running and grabbed the bags. I came to a skidding halt next to them and almost crashed into my dad. They started to say something, but I jabbed my finger at the next train over and said, "That's our train!" While we ran back up platform 11, the station announcer said something about Eurostar Napoli, and the train's engine revved up. We crossed over to platform 12 and bolted down the lane. The conductor was waving and yelling at us in Italian but we ran down the platform anyway. Just as I reached the second-class car, the door closed. I pounded on the green "Open" button, but the train started to pull out. I threw my bags on the ground and sat on my suitcase. My parents caught up with me. I said, "We missed our fucking train," and for once, my mom didn't ask me not to curse. I looked around. On the other platforms, people were boarding or disembarking. Nobody was standing in an empty platform waiting for a train. They were all at the front of the platforms and looking at the board.

The Board is evil. We depend on it to tell us where to go and when to go there. But it doesn't list our trains until half an hour before our train arrives. And it doesn't list our trains' platforms until fifteen minutes prior. Even then, we don't dare go to our platforms. Because sometimes, the Board changes platforms just a few minutes before the train arrives. If you leave the Board before your train arrives, like we did, you might miss it. You might have to buy new tickets, and you might end up back at the front of the platform, looking up at the Board. The Board giveth, and the Board taketh away.

May 5, 2005. Naples

Every vacation has risky moments. No matter how well you plan your trip, something will go wrong. Whether your problems are disastrous or just annoying doesn't depend on how much you've prepared, It depends on how smoothly you react. Good travelers anticipate problems and adapt quickly. They stay flexible and alert, and they never look scared or lost, even when they are. Some travelers think a little danger is necessary for a good trip. They actually look forward to making mistakes. They get as scared as everybody else does, but they get a good laugh out of it later on. To a seasoned traveler, scary moments are some of traveling's greatest joys. For the inexperienced tourist, they're some of traveling's greatest fears.

We rolled into Naples Central Station around 11 that night. The train arrived on the bottom tier of the station, and we had to walk up a staircase to reach the exit. The Naples Welcoming Committee was there-a fat drunk flopped on the steps halfway up the staircase. I wish I could say he was passed out and harmless, but he was awake, and he stared at everyone coming up the stairs. He looked either totally passive or highly dangerous, like he might flip between the two extremes but never settle in between. The ground level of the station was no better.

Up top there was a pair of policemen leading a muzzled German Shepherd. A schizophrenic lady stood around mumbling and walking in a big circle. A pair of scruffy old men sat on a rail and passed a bottle back and forth. A gauntlet of half a dozen taxi drivers waited for us by the door. They were smart; they picked their targets well. I was in the lead, and they let me walk right past. When my mother came up after me, one of them asked if she wanted a ride. She stopped and set her bags down and asked me how far it was to the hotel. The other drivers, the old men, and even the schizo lady perked up. Two other drivers started walking our way. I ignored mom's question and picked up her bags. I told the driver no, she didn't need a taxi. I wanted to add, especially not from a shady-looking guy with no id who only offers rides to the sole woman in our group. Mom was arguing with me over whether we should get a taxi, dad was reaching into his shirt pocket for some Euros, and I was looking for those cops with the dog. I told the driver again, “No queremos taxi” and sharply told my parents, “come on.” The hotel was just a few blocks from the station, and there was no way I was going to pay forty bucks for a two minute ride from a guy who might take us to a dark alley instead.

I've ridden the Los Angeles subway at night through Artesia and Watts. I stumbled through Hollywood at two in the morning so drunk I saw double. I walked through Hawali the day after Kuwaiti police gunned down a terrorist and let three others escape. But I never felt so vulnerable as I did when I dragged two parents and seven pieces of luggage through Naples Central Station.

The directions from Napoli Stazione Centrale to the Hotel Ginevra: Exit the station and walk across Piazza Garibaldi. Take a right at the corner with the kiosk selling pirated porn movies. Step around the sleeping drunk and mind the puddle of vomit. Continue past the first dumpster, and take a right at the second dumpster (the smelly one). Twenty meters down on the right, you'll see a big wooden door with a small buzzer hand-labeled “Ginevra.” Buzz to get in as fast as possible. Do not, under any circumstances, ask someone for directions. And don't track dog poop into the hotel. The manager really hates that.

I'm sure Naples has a good side. Somewhere there are pretty parks where children play and everybody' s happy. But we didn't go there. We only had one full day in Naples, and that would be spent in Pompeii. Maybe someday I'll go back and give Naples another chance. Despite the danger, I want to see more of this dirty little town.

May 6, 2005. Pompeii.

The modern town of Pompeii is a thirty minute train ride from Naples. The ride hugs the coast for the first ten minutes and gives passengers a gorgeous view of the Mediterranean Sea. Then it turns inland and glides up the mountains around Vesuvius. On the day we rode the train, a slate gray sheet of rainclouds blanked out the sky, and thin streaks of mist hovered around the volcano's peak.

We got off the train in Pompeii and took a little walk through the town. There are actually two Pompeiis. There's the ancient city that was totally destroyed by a volcanic eruption, and there's the modern town that was grew up right next to it. Some people never learn.

The wait to get into the ancient Pompeii was a lot shorter than we expected, and the crush of tourists wasn't nearly as bad as it was in Rome. You'll note that, in my photo log of Rome, almost all of my pictures have a bunch of people walking in the shot, while many of my shots of Pompeii are totally empty.

Pompeii is a place of contrasting impressions. Parts of the city, like the Basilica, are empty and desolate. The Basilica was the heart of Pompeii. Traders made deals there. Judges enforced laws there. Vital decisions were made, and ceremonies held, in the Basilica. Now it's just an empty courtyard with cracked walls and broken columns. There are no judges making decisions, no nobles or priests. No more ceremonies for them. There's just enough left to show us that real people lived and worked there. There's enough missing to remind us that our greatest monuments are only temporary. I thought of a line from The Waste Land: “Son of man...you know only a heap of broken images, where the sun beats, and the dead tree gives no shelter.”

Other places were busier, almost cheerful. The streets were narrow and crowded with tourists. We stayed out of the main part of the street and walked on the sidewalk. The lanes weren't hard to walk in. They just looked so much like our modern streets that we unconsciously stepped out of the lane and got on the sidewalk. At the intersections, we even crossed on the raised stepping stones the Pompeians left for us. We didn't need a guidebook for that. Just by looking at the stones we knew what they were for.

The theater looked alive that day. It's a big half-circle with cascading marble seats and an open stage. I sat down in the top row and watched the action on the floor below. I guess that was watching from the cheap seats back in the day. There were about a dozen other tourists on the stage. An Italian guide with a big red umbrella was giving some elderly Americans a lecture in broken English. A middle-aged couple flipped through their guidebook and half-listened to the guide. Mom was down there trying to make friends with a stray dog that was sprawled out asleep. They drifted from one end of the stage to the other, but, for as long as I sat there, they never left. The tour group followed the guide with the red umbrella upstage and down. The couple looked in the stands like they had a question for the audience. The dog wouldn't move, and neither did Mom. It looked like, well, a play. If you squinted your eyes and used your imagination, you could sit in the theater and see a dozen Roman actors and a big sleepy dog.

The amphitheater was stirring. A big oval arena like a scaled-down Colosseum. Gladiators fought here. City-wide meetings were held. Sometimes riots took place. Up to twenty thousand people watched at a time. The dirt floor in the middle of the amphitheater was open to tourists, so we strode into the arena floor. We had the view the fighters must have had when they looked into the stands. I know it sounds cheesy, but just for a second I heard Russell Crowe saying, “What we do in life, echoes through eternity.” It wasn't really Russell Crowe. I think it was Dad mumbling under his breath. Mom was humming the theme song to Gladiator. It was fun.

The gladiator barracks, where the fighters lived and trained, is the most tranquil part of the city. A large rectangular courtyard flanked by columns and surrounded by a row of small two-story cells. The courtyard is open and covered in fresh grass. Dirt covers the cells' floors and the tops of some of the walls, and weeds and flowers sprout from every open spot. Dead ruins and fresh greenery make for a relaxing scene. I crawled into one of the old cells and took a seat on the stone floor. I spent a while there looking at the courtyard, reading, and filling in my journal.

I didn't feel overwhelmed in Pompeii like I did in Rome, but I didn't quite feel relaxed either. I felt...temporary. It's difficult to describe. I won't go into it here. Just know that walking through a ghost town that used to be a metropolis makes you feel temporary. If you want a really good description of Pompeii, something better than I could ever give, I recommend you read Mark Twain's 'Innocents Abroad.' You can read his chapter on Pompeii online here.

May 7, 2005. Firenze.

The overnight train to Florence was a shaky ride. We spent the night in a little sleeping coach with three small fold-away bunks. It was a tight squeeze, but it was good just to get out of Naples and into Tuscany.

The conductor woke us at five in the morning, about an hour before our arrival. I stepped out of the coach and stood in the aisle. The sun had just come up. It gave the countryside a nice golden tone. The train cut through the western edge of Tuscany, where the coastal plains mingle with the Appenine mountains. Low hills with smooth slopes, with little vineyards on the eastern side. Big green carpets of grass dotted with wildflowers. Wide valleys criss-crossed with irrigation channels and rows of grain. That's Tuscany. I wish we had taken a daytime train to Florence. I would have spent the whole trip staring out the window.

When we arrived, I really wished we had taken a daytime train to Florence. Then we wouldn't have gotten there six hours before check-in. We pulled into the train station a little after 6 and got to our hotel a little before 8. But the concierge told us we couldn't check in until 2. She was nice enough to take our bags, but we couldn't enter our rooms for another six hours. There was no talking her out of it. No matter how much we needed a rest, a shower, or a change of clothes, she wasn't going to let us into our rooms.

We left the hotel and found a little cafe serving pastries and coffee. While we sat outside and got a caffeine boost, we eagerly went over our new map of Florence. My parents planned out the whole morning, and I almost fell asleep at the table. I was exhausted, but my parents were bouncy. I think the new city gave them extra energy. They unfolded maps, spread out guidebooks, and reloaded both cameras and the video recorder. I thought they might rent a pair of pogo sticks. I wanted to curl up in the hotel lobby and sleep while we waited for the room. They wanted to see every inch of Florence before noon. They won. They jumped out of their chairs, I staggered to my feet, and we all walked down to Piazza di Duomo.

That's the Plaza of the Dome, so named because it surrounds a massive domed cathedral. Mom wanted to go in the Cathedral right away. I told her there was no way we were going into a church looking like we did. She gave me a knowing smile and said, “God doesn't care.”

Now, my mother had a point there. If there is a God, he probably doesn't care if you walk into a church in a tailored suit or butt-naked. As long as you believe, that's all he cares about. But I don't believe in God. And if he does exist, then neither he nor I care too much about what the other thinks. I do, however, believe in people. And the people who do believe in God, especially the ones who worship him in five hundred year old cathedrals, tend to get upset when you walk in their place of worship in the same clothes you slept in last night. Besides, the line to get in was a mile long.

So we skipped the cathedral. We hung around the plaza for a while and walked down to the Arno River. Once we reached the Arno, we spotted the Ponte Vecchio, a bridge on the Arno that's covered in cafes and shops. I walked across the bridge in about ten minutes. My parents caught up to me an hour later. The bridge was crowded with tiny shops, and they decided to visit all of them. When we met up again, I told them that we should split up and meet back at the hotel at check-in time. They agreed. I wanted to look around on my own a bit, but I quickly wound up back at the hotel. It was noon, two hours before check-in, when I asked the concierge again if I could check in early. She told me firmly that, no, my room wasn't ready yet. I stumbled into the lobby and nodded off.

The concierge realized she had a choice: She could get an empty room ready for me, or she could have a scraggly-looking man sleeping in her lobby like a homeless bum. She woke me up and told me that my room was ready. I thanked her profusely and grabbed the key.

I was in my room for about five minutes before I fell asleep. I woke up a little after two and called the front desk. I left a message for my parents telling them to meet me at four instead of two, and I went back to sleep. I woke up again at four and called the front desk. I told the concierge to call my parents in their room and tell them that I was done for the day and to meet me in the morning. Then I went back to sleep. When I woke up again, it was already Sunday.

And this is where the trip took an odd turn. While I was unconscious, my folks were discovering Florence. After we split up, they crossed the river and found the old Medici Palace. They toured the museums in the palace and wandered through the Boboli Gardens. Then they walked back to the hotel just in time for check-in. When they heard that I was sleeping, they took a little nap themselves. But while I slept all night, they got up after just a few hours and hit the town again. By the next morning, they knew Florence better than I did.

When we met for breakfast, I was flipping through the Lonely Planet guidebook looking for ideas. They were listing all the places they'd seen last night. I closed the guidebook and asked them where we should go. For the whole vacation, I made the itineraries. I had told them where to go. I had lead them around like a tour guide. This day, they got to lead me.

May 8, 2005. Firenze.

Our hotel had a little restaurant in the basement, and we met there for breakfast. My parents were as excited as they had been the day before. They had seen half of Florence the previous day, and they still hadn't run out of energy. I tried to look smart by quoting passages from my guidebook, but they had already seen every place I mentioned. After a few minutes, we decided that they knew the city better than I did now, and they should plan the day.

The first stop was the Uffizi Gallery. It has the biggest art collection in Florence, but on that day it also had the longest line. We stood in line for an hour and barely moved. We decided that if we stayed there, the Uffizi would be the only sight we saw all day. Mom suggested we visit the Pitti Palace, so we jumped out of line and headed across the river.

Formerly a royal residence, the Pitti Palace houses five of the most important art museums in Florence. The day before, my parents had bought a combination ticket to all five galleries. Of the five, the Palatine Gallery was the only one they liked enough to visit again. The Palatine has a unique design. The paintings aren't organized in neat rows like in most museums. They're hung in clusters, and they cover the walls from ceiling to floor. Where the wall does peek through, you can see the frescoes painted there. It looks less like a museum and more like a noble's home. We thought Lorenzo Medici might drop by to give us a tour.

The gallery had an great exhibit on Catherine de'Medici, daughter of Florence and queen of France. There were dozens of paintings of Catherine, all in chronological order. The front of the gallery had portraits of Catherine as a baby and a little girl. Halfway through, an expansive salon was filled with paintings of her wedding (by proxy) to Henry II of France. The halls in the back of the gallery showed images of the queen, her husband, and her children. Interspersed with the portraits were paintings that Catherine commissioned from artists in Italy and France. It was an amazing intersection of art and history.

After the Palatine, we headed into the Boboli Gardens. The Gardens were built (they were definitely built, not grown) behind the Pitti Palace as a retreat for nobles and visiting royalty. They're the size of a small town, and I can imagine that a nobleman in the Palace could spend his whole time in Florence between the Palace and the Gardens. The rear of the Palace opens into a vast grass and gravel courtyard. A wide path leads upward into a small forest and then branches off into dozens of little paths between the trees. You could spend all day in those little dirt pathways, and you should. If you visit Florence, buy a few bottles of wine, get a nice loaf of bread and a basket, and spend a day picnicking in the Boboli Gardens.

We left the Palace and the Gardens and wandered back across the river. We wound up in yet another plaza listening to a gypsy band play traditional music. My parents' energy finally gave out. They sat on the steps next to a fountain and watched the gypsies play. I took a walk around the plaza. One of the ladies in the gypsy band was walking through the crowd selling CDs. I bought one for mom. She told me later she listened to it all the way home.

My parents wanted to take me out to a nice dinner that evening. I never decline free food. We went back to the hotel for a rest and a change of clothes. When the sun went down, we went out.

My dad doesn't wear suits. He has had one suit for the last fifteen years. He didn't even know how to tie a necktie. The one tie he owns is a zipper tie-a pre-knotted tie that you loop over your head and zip up like the fly of your pants. Before he left Indiana, I insisted that he buy a new suit. He broke down and bought a new one, but he hadn't worn it until that night. After I changed into my suit, he came down to my room for tips on how to wear his. I showed him how to knot a tie, how to check his dress line, and a dozen other little tips. Never button the bottom button of your jacket. Make sure all your leather (belt and shoes) and all your metal (belt buckle and wristwatch) match. Keep your shirt buttons and your zipper in line. Buy a cheap shirt, but never buy a cheap tie. Women fret over earrings. Men fret over ties.

He looked handsome, but very uncomfortable. If we had given him half an excuse, he would have torn off the suit and changed into jeans and a flannel shirt. My stream of advice made him more nervous, so I cut it off and just told him he looked great. Mom hooked her arm around his, and he finally relaxed.

We didn't know exactly where we wanted to eat, so we just wandered around the Piazza di Duomo for a while. The sun had set. The plaza was empty and quiet. We didn't see anything we liked, so we drifted toward the river. We spotted a little restaurant tucked away in an alley between two streets. All the good restaurants are tucked away in an alley between two streets. Italy's just like that.

They gave us a seat outside. Mom and Dad looked like Lady and the Tramp eating spaghetti. We wished Mom a happy Mother's Day, and I think that was the highlight of her trip. She got to dine at a Tuscan restaurant in Florence on a Spring night with her husband and her only son. That's a pretty good Mother's Day gift.

When he brought out our food, the waiter took a minute to size up Dad's suit. “That's a nice suit,” he said. I think Dad might have blushed, and he told the waiter it was Italian. The waiter asked, “Where did you get it?” Dad told him he bought in Indiana. The waiter smiled. “Then it's not an Italian suit.” Maybe it wasn't Italian. It was probably made in Singapore. But it was nice enough for an Italian to compliment it, and that made Dad's day.

We stuffed ourselves with steak and bread and wine and sweets. There wasn't anything that could top that meal, so we slowly drifted home and went off to sleep at the hotel.

May 9, 2005. Going Home.

It was my last day in Italy. We all slept a little late and checked out around noon. We went down to the train station, got our tickets, and ate a light lunch before we caught our train back to Rome.

Mom and Dad had another day in Rome. They had reservations at the same hotel we stayed in earlier, and they talked a lot about seeing the Colosseum one more time. I had to fly away that afternoon. We knew I'd have to hurry once we got to Roma Termini, so we said our goodbyes on the train. When the train pulled into Termini, Mom gave me one last hug. It was her last chance to hug her son until Christmas, and she made it count. When she finally, reluctantly let go, I gave Dad a hug, said goodbye to both of them, and turned and ran to catch my next train. The last time I saw them they were standing on the binario checking their bags.

I caught the train to the airport just as it was leaving. Sprinting with a suitcase and a backpack is a pain in the ass. Fitting it all on an overloaded train is an even bigger pain in the ass. I promised myself I'd pack lighter on the next trip. I'll make that promise on the next trip, too. I do it every time.

The flight home was a red eye from 8 pm in Rome to 10 pm in London to 6 am in Kuwait. I fell asleep over France and I woke up over Iraq. The plane touched down before I even knew I was home.

At the start of the trip, I said, “If this trip goes well, they might make more trips overseas in the future.” A week after I got back, my parents sent me an e-mail asking if I would join them in Paris next year. Based on that, I'd say the trip went very, very well.

Jordan January 13-23, 2005

Madaba, 1/13/05. A special moment

Whenever I travel to a new place, I reach a special moment, and the vacation hasn't really begun until I reach that moment. The trip doesn't start when I leave home. It doesn't start when I get to my destination. The real beginning comes later. After the first rush of excitement, after the preparation and anticipation, after the initial confusion, I reach that special moment. It's that moment when I stop, look around and think, 'Dear god, what have I gotten myself into?'

That's the special moment. After I leave the airport and its big, clear, English signs. After I check into the hotel with the cheerful staff that are so happy to see me. At about the time I go out into the streets, where nobody speaks English, there are no street signs and there's not a single Anglo-Saxon face to be seen. That's the moment. It's a thrilling experience, and I really do enjoy it. But for just one special moment, it scares the shit out of me. And for a while after that, I go into a panic. I walk in circles looking for the right street. I search maps and guidebooks for any clue that will help me survive the next two weeks. God help any poor soul who speaks English to me in that moment, because I'll latch onto him the way a drowning man latches onto a life preserver.

I reached that moment in Madaba, my home for the next three days. I flew into Amman in the late afternoon. I picked up my rental car at the airport and turned off the main highway and got completely lost. It was a miracle that I found Madaba. Once there, I was still hopelessly lost. I spent an hour driving around at 10 kilometers an hour, leaning out the window to look for street signs that didn't exist. Drivers honked. Pedestrians laughed. I ran stop signs that I didn't see. I stopped at intersections when I should have kept going. I was clueless. The only English sign I ever saw was one that said I was driving toward the Iraqi border. I was 300 miles away from Iraq, but I didn't want to take any chances. Half a mile past that sign, I turned the car around.

By the time I reached my hotel, I'd forgotten all of my Arabic and half of my English. I stared blankly at the lady behind the desk and mumbled, "Michael Cornn." Thankfully, she spoke Arabic and English, and both better than I did. I found my room, I found my bed, and I curled up like a refugee seeking shelter from a war.

I woke up in the middle of the night and went over my plan. I had three days in Madaba including today. I would visit the mosaics for which the town is famous, and I would make day trips to Bethany and Mount Nebo. The fourth day was a road trip to Wadi Moussa, the town outside of Petra. Days five and six would be spent in Petra, and days seven and eight in Wadi Rum. From Wadi Rum, it's a short drive to south to Aqabba and the Red Sea. After two days in Aqabba, I planned to return to Madaba, then to the airport, and then home. I was still in that special moment when I fell back asleep.

Madaba, 1/14/05. History Lessons

Today I toured of Madaba, a small city south of Amman. Madaba's central location makes it a good 'home base' for exploring Jordan. Its main attractions are the Byzantine mosaics built on the floors of wealthy homes and Orthodox churches.

My first stop was the Church of St. George (the one who slew the dragon). The Church is over 1,400 years old and has been active off and on up to the present day. I got there a little too early and had to wait outside while a morning service finished up. The original floor of the church was a stone mosaic map of the then-known world: south to the Sinai, west to the Mediterranean, east into Arabia, and north to Asia Minor. Jerusalem is at the center of the map, and to the people who made it, Jerusalem was the center of the world.

After St. George, I walked down to the Madaba Archaeological Park in the center of the city. The park is an active archaeological site, part of which was closed during my visit. The park is similar to the Forum in Rome-it was the center of the city for over a thousand years, and visitors can see how Madaba grew and changed over time. I walked down an avenue paved by Romans in the 3rd century and viewed mosaics from a Roman mansion, later converted to an Orthodox church.

The Madaba Museum on the southern edge of the city was a nice site worth a quick visit. The museum has artifacts on display from Jordan's long history. I saw 4,000 year old pottery-pre-Islamic, pre-Christian, pre-Jewish, pre-Everything-that looked freshly made. One large display was dedicated to Bedouin jewelry, mostly rows of Roman and Nabattean coins strung together or sewn into clothing. I guess that was a good way to show off wealth-wear your disposable income. But pottery shards and old necklaces aren't as impressive as mosaics and ancient columns. I left the museum after just a few hours.

My favorite site in Madaba was the Church of the Apostles. This church is no longer active. It's just several large mosaics under an impressive modern shelter. But it's bigger than the Church of St. George and any single site in the Archaeological Park. Unlike the other sites, you can walk on the mosaic, so I got photos of every part from every angle.

The mosaic in the Church of the Apostles is the largest and best preserved in Jordan, maybe the best in the Middle East. Parts of the mosaic are new, products of a restoration in the mid-1990s. But most of it is made of the original tiles laid down in the sixth century. I can walk in that church, kneel down, and touch the tiles that a Jordanian artisan laid down 1,500 years ago. I can see him sprawled on the floor next to baskets of brightly colored stones. I can see him arranging the stones along a pattern. And I can see the shapes the patterns made-a young boy, an old man, a cat, a plant, a bird.

I can see the church a century later, when the Umayyads drove the Byzantines out. The Muslim Umayyads saw the Christians as heathens, heretics who worshiped a prophet as if he were God. But they allowed their subjects to keep their religion, and I can see black-clad Orthodox priests leading the Christians in prayer. Five hundred years later, my Catholic ancestors would invade this place and slaughter Muslims, Christians, and Jews across the Levant.

A thousand years after that, the Arab Muslim King of Jordan worked with a team of Italian Catholic archaeologists to restore the mosaic to its former beauty. And now people of all faiths (or no faith) can see a work of art that a Jordanian artisan painstakingly made 1,500 years ago. It's a lesson in tolerance, and reverence, that I didn't really learn until I knelt on that mosaic and touched that artisan's tiles.

Madaba, 1/15/05. Moses, Jesus, and Osama bin Laden

What a day. What a way to start the day. Reliable Rent-A-Car only gave me enough gas to reach Madaba, so the first task of the day was to fill up the tank.

The nearest gas station was a tiny cinder-block building with no glass in the windows and a single rusty pump out front. The first time I drove past it I thought it was closed. The second time I pulled in just to look at my map, and a teenage kid came out and asked how much gas I wanted. So it really was open. Good.

I didn't know the Arabic word for "full" so I tried to pantomime. By the way, if you're ever playing Charades and the word you draw is "full," just give up. It's impossible to explain the term "full" with hand gestures and weird postures. I wasted ten minutes pointing at the car, the pump, the kid and myself and repeating, "fool, fool," with no success. The kid just stood by the pump and tried not to laugh. There were four other guys in the cinder-block building, one of whom spoke a little English. While I was pointing at the fuel pump and holding my hand over my head and jumping up and down, he called me over to have a drink. I gave up my pantomime and went inside.

Inside the building I found: a mattress covered in blankets, three plastic chairs, an old car seat, a kerosene heater, and four very cheerful young men (plus the one pumping my gas outside). They were chattering away in Arabic and having a great time. One of them was sprawled out on the mattress. Two sat in the plastic chairs. The one who spoke English squatted next to the heater and filled a teapot with water. “Welcome, welcome,” he said, “Soon we have tea.” Gas Pump Guy ran in and asked my English-speaking friend something in Arabic. "How much do you want?" he asked me. "Fill it up," I replied. He translated, and Gas Pump ran back outside. I flopped down in the car seat and waited for the tea.

The four guys talked to each other in Arabic, and I had no idea what they were saying. They kept looking at me and gesturing toward me, so I guess I was the subject of the conversation. After a few minutes English Speaker turned to me and asked, "Where are you from?"

"The United States.”

"United States?" All four of them burst into Arabic. They talked to each other, looked at me, and laughed. Talked some more, looked at me again, laughed again. After a minute, English Speaker said, "Let me show you a picture." He pulled a cell phone out of his pocket and handed it to me. The background picture was a photo of Osama Bin Laden. The room became very quiet, but they all kept smiling.

"So what do you think?" English Speaker asked.

"Um, it's a nice phone."

"No, the picture."

"Yes, it's a picture of bin Laden."

"What do you think of bin Laden?"

I couldn't come up with a good answer. "I think he's in Afghanistan?"

"Where do you visit in the Middle East?"

"Just Jordan this time."

"Syria? Lebanon?"

"Lebanon next time. I want to visit Beirut."

"Israel? Iraq?" Laughter all around.

"I don't visit Iraq."

"Why not?"

"I don't think...Americans should...be in Iraq." I hoped that was a good answer. It made him laugh, so I took that as a good sign.

"What about Israel? What do you think about Israel? Israel no? Do you like Israel?”

Gas Pump came back in and asked me for forty dinar. I gave him a fifty and told him to keep the change. "No," he said in English, "Forty. Ten and four. Forty." I shoved fifteen dinar in his hand. English speaker asked me to sit back down and have some tea, but I mumbled something about seeing Mount Nebo at sunrise and rushed out the door.

In hindsight, the guy probably didn't mean any harm. He and his friends were just bored and felt like scaring a tourist. Well, it worked. I was on edge all day, but later I was more pissed than frightened. I couldn't really get angry at him for messing with a tourist. That's what tourists are for-entertaining the locals. Still, I feel like I lost a day of travel to paranoia. If I ever see that son of a bitch in the States, me and four of my redneck friends are going to corner him in the back of a gas station and ask him what he thinks of Jesus, George Bush, and squealing like a pig.

So with my gas tank full and my bladder empty, I went to Mount Nebo. According to legend, Nebo is the last place Moses saw before he died. Because he lost faith in God in Sinai, God let him see the Promised Land but not enter it. From the top of Mount Nebo, you can see half of Israel, and you can imagine Moses standing there at the end of his life.

After Nebo, I drove to Bethany, where Elijah went to Heaven, John the Baptist preached, and Jesus was baptized. My tour guide told me that Bethany comes from two Aramaic words-Bet Ain-meaning House of Crossing. The town was a popular place to cross the River Jordan, and it seems that every major Jewish, Christian, and Islamic figure stopped off in Bethany before going to Israel.

There's not much to see in the way of ruins, but it is a really beautiful natural setting. I was intrigued to stand on the east bank of the Jordan River and know that Israel was on the other side. I was tempted to jump over to the other side, just as a “fuck you” to Kuwait, which won't let me back if I ever visit Israel.

Wadi Mussa, 1/16/05, Road Trip

I've spent the whole day on the road, driving from Madaba to Wadi Mussa, the little tourist town outside Petra. I got a late start this morning. The dry cleaner that had my laundry opened late. There was a language barrier when I dropped off my clothes last night. I don't think he understood my English when I said, "I need these back at 8 am tomorrow." And I didn't understand his Arabic when he said, "We're not open tomorrow." Thankfully, my hotel manager knew the owner and called him on his day off. I gave him a few extra dinars and took off four hours later than I had planned.

I was delayed again and again on the drive south. This time, however, the delay was caused by the scenery. South of Madaba on the King's Highway, I drove through Wadi Mujib, a beautiful valley surrounded by steep, stark mountains. It had the look of a desert in bloom, just like highway 40 east of San Diego. I drove highway 40 many times, and Wadi Mujib made me homesick for California. I stopped the car about every few miles to take pictures and admire the view.

After Wadi Mujib, all the road signs were in Arabic, which I can't read. I had a cheap tourist map that didn't show all the roads, and I quickly got lost. After an hour of wandering, I made out the Arabic letters 'K' 'R' and 'K' on a road sign, guessed that it spelled 'Karak,' and drove off in that direction. I guessed right. After a few minutes I came around a bend and saw the biggest, crudest, meanest looking castle on the biggest, steepest, most evil looking mountain I'd ever seen.

The only other castle I've seen is Salzburg Castle in Austria. That castle looks like something out of a fairytale, more like a big palace than a fortress. Karak is nothing like that. Built by a French crusader, conquered by Saladin, and later occupied by Mameluke soldiers, Karak is a structure built exclusively for war. It's an amazing sight, but not in a beautiful or romantic way. Karak is powerful and imposing, an ugly and brutal monument from an ugly and brutal time.

I got to Karak at 3:15 and found that it closed at 4:00, so I couldn't spend much time there. I had to leave almost as soon as I'd come, and I didn't make it back later. Karak is at the first place I'll visit when I return to Jordan.

Karak was great, but I had a problem: I was still lost and over a hundred kilometers from my destination. I couldn't find my way out of the town, and I certainly couldn't find the main highway. I met a man at the castle who spoke a little English. I explained to him that I was on my way to Petra, and I was lost. I hoped he would give me directions or show me where I was on the map. He did much better. First, he led me out of town. He walked through the street while I followed him in my car. At the base of the Karak mountain, where the town ended and a main road began, he flagged down a friend of his. This friend didn't speak much English, but he said he would drive to the King's Highway in his car and I could follow in mine. Halfway there he picked up a hitchhiker who lived about 40 km down the highway. When we got to the highway, the driver got out and said he had to go back to Karak. He explained that the hitchhiker didn't speak any English, but he could ride with me to make sure I didn't get lost. I thanked them both and drove off with the hitcher in my passenger seat.

So my passenger didn't speak English, but he was going to give me directions. I took the chance to practice my Arabic. I tried some really advanced Arabic phrases: "You house this town?" "What street this?" "I go Petra." He got a kick out of it and taught me a few Arab words, specifically 'left' (shmall) and 'right' (yameel). His house was pretty far off the highway, and I wasn't sure how to get back. When I dropped him off, he gave me directions, which to me sounded like, "Yadda yadda left, yadda right, yadda yadda not left yadda right." I smiled and told him I understood and wished him a good day.

Fortunately "left, right, not left, right" were all the directions I needed to get back to the highway. I rolled into Wadi Mussa a little after sunset, something I couldn't have done without help. I couldn't believe it. After being lost for hours, I met three total strangers who worked together to help a stranded tourist find his way. I had hoped they would give me a few directions and send me off. Instead, they stuck with me to make sure I got out of town, got on the highway, and didn't get lost again. I always hope to find that kind of courtesy wherever I go, but so far I've found it only in Jordan.

So now it's the middle of the night and I'm curled up in the Petra Moon Hotel. I'm about a thousand meters higher than I was this morning, and it's about 10 degrees colder. Assuming I don't freeze to death tonight, I'll visit Petra in the morning.

Petra 1/17/05 - 1/18/05 Dumbstruck

I finished my tour of Petra today. For two days, I've been trying to write an acceptable article about the place, but I can't think of any original way to describe it. That's partly because so much has been written about Petra. It's very difficult to write something that doesn't repeat what a dozen other writers have already said. But mostly it's the sense of reverence that Petra put into me. It's the feeling that Petra deserves more than just a few quick notes in a journal.

When I see beautiful sights in other places, my reaction is impulsive and exuberant. I yell to my friends, "Hey, look at this!" Or I grab my camera and line up a good shot. Or I just start scribbling in my notebook. Not in Petra. So many times here, I looked up at the ancient walls and just stared, dumbstruck. I didn't shout to anybody; I didn't reach for my camera; I didn't even think. The beauty of Petra paralyzed me, and every time I turned a corner or reached the top of a staircase I had to stop for a few minutes just to stand in awe.

Petra has an amazing sense of majesty and nobility. All the ancient buildings feel timeless and alive. The city is of course abandoned, but in Petra I'm not sure if it's dead or just sleeping. While I walked through tombs and theaters and temples and caves, I felt old ghosts watching me, demanding that I pay my respect.

And maybe that's why I can't write anything about Petra. On some subconscious level, I don't think that anything I write will show sufficient respect to such a rich and noble place. Maybe I might offend a few of those old ghosts. It's better that I just tell you to go there and see it for yourself.

Wadi Rum, 1/19/05, Climbing

I drove from Petra to Wadi Rum, a rugged desert nature reserve a short drive south. I checked in at the Visitor's Center, where I had to pay a 2 JD fee for entry. I gave them the name and phone number of my guide, whom they called and who said he would meet me at the guest house down the road.

The guest house was little restaurant with a few one-man tents out back. I spent my first night in Wadi Rum in one of those tents, and it wasn't a very happy experience. The temperature dipped below freezing, and a strong wind blew frozen rain through a hole in the top of my tent. But there aren't any other accommodations in Wadi Rum. Call it trekking or eco-tourism or just "roughing it," that's what Wadi Rum is all about.

After the first night, I met my guide, Radi, and started a two-day tour of the desert. Wadi Rum looks like Mars and feels like the ocean. Years ago, I spent a few days in Baya Concepcion in Baja California. It was a big, crescent-shaped bay, fairly shallow and dotted with tiny islands. The islands were only a few hundred meters across and about a kilometer apart from one another. I spent most of the day in a kayak, paddling from one island to the next. Wadi Rum reminded me of that bay. It's a desert filled with red and yellow sand. And scattered across this desert are small mountains, little islands of rock in a red desert sea. While Radi drove us between the mountains in an ancient Toyota pick-up, I had the same feeling I got when I paddled between the islands in Baya Concepcion.

I got my first taste of rock climbing in Wadi Rum. Radi, took me to a stone arch at the eastern end of the park. It was about 100 meters tall and not very easy to reach. The arch's sandstone sides were smooth and steep, almost vertical. They didn't have any obvious hand holds, just small divots a few centimeters deep-deep enough to grip with fingers or toes, but not big enough to plant a whole hand or foot. Radi showed me the easiest climbing path and sent me up. I got up about ten meters before I lost my nerve. I stopped and looked down and thought, if I fall right now, I'm going to die. And it was true. There wasn't any soft patch of sand beneath me. It was solid rock. Falling ten meters onto a slab of rock doesn't result in a broken arm. It results in a corpse. That thought became a fact. Then it became a certainty. I couldn't get it out of my head. So I pressed my body against the rock and crawled back down. I was defeated.

Radi was disappointed. He thought I would make it to the top, but I didn't even get halfway. He didn't say anything to me. He just shook his head and walked back to the truck. I looked at him, and I looked at the arch. I looked at the climb path, and I looked at the arch. I looked at myself, and I looked at the arch. And then...god dammit, I didn't care if I fell anymore. I didn't care if I fell twice. I wasn't going to pussy out on what ought to be the greatest physical challenge of my life. Whatever it took, I was going to get to the top of that god damn arch.

So I went back to the arch's base. I spent a long time just looking at the climb path, mapping out the divots in the rock. I jammed my right hand into one divot, wrapped my left hand around a jutting rock, dug in my feet, and pulled myself up. I slipped a few times. I scraped both my knees and tore some skin off my hands. Step by step, I pulled myself up that mountain. Fifteen minutes later I was standing on the arch and looking out over the whole desert. I was so thrilled that I spent half an hour just staring at it all. In fact, for the whole trip, the only picture I have of myself is at the top of that arch. I wanted to take a picture just to prove I'd been there. By the time I got back to the ground, I was hooked. I climbed up, on and over every boulder, crevice and hill I could find. Rock climbing is my new hobby.

I learned a new word in Wadi Rum-friable. That's what the brochure says. "Many of the stone formations in Wadi Rum are friable." I had never heard that word before. I was 50 meters up the side of a mountain when I learned what friable meant. I had my left hand jammed into a large hole and my left foot planted on a tiny ledge. My right hand was wrapped around a fist-sized chunk of sandstone that stuck out from the rock face. My right leg was hanging loose and trying to get traction on a small divot about waist high. I couldn't quite get my right foot into that divot. So with my three other limbs, I heaved and pulled myself higher.

And then the rock broke loose. The rock in my right hand became...friable. It snapped off from the mountain and broke into three pieces in my hand. I dropped all three pieces and swung out from the mountain. Now I had my left hand and foot planted, but the whole right half of my body was swinging in space. I hung that way while the chunks of rock fell fifty meters down and shattered at the base of the mountain.

Friable [adjective] Loose and large-grained in consistency. Easily broken into small fragments or reduced to powder. Ex. 1:"The rock in Wadi Rum is friable." Ex. 2: "Climbers who don't pay attention to Ex. 1 may become friable."

Wadi Rum, 1/19/05, Nightfall

In the afternoon, we went to Radi's father, Haoud. We would spend the night in Haoud's tent and finish the tour in the morning. Radi went to get fresh water, Haoud looked after his flock of goats, and the rest of the family started cooking supper. There was a little daylight left, and I had some time to kill.

Haoud's tent is a big rectangle about twenty feet long and ten feet deep, divided into two rooms-a living/sleeping room and a pantry/kitchen. The walls are black cloths propped up with wooden sticks. The floor is dirt with a few throw rugs arranged around a campfire that burns day and night. There's a small pen with about twenty goats outside. There's also a donkey tethered to a post and three guard dogs who bark and howl at the slightest noise. The tent is built on the east side of a high stone hill, so it warms up quickly in the morning and cools off in the afternoon. It wasn't built by wealthy people, but it has so much dignity to it that, when I stayed there, the word 'poor' never crossed my mind.

I had about an hour of daylight left, so I took a hike around the hill. I scrambled up to the top and watched the sun go down behind a distant mountain. Everything was red. The sunset was red. The stone was red. The sand between the mountains was red. I climbed back down, hiked back to the tent, and said hello to the animals.

The donkey didn't like me at all. He was bigger than me and looked ready for a fight, so I left him alone. The goats-well, goats look like mutant sheep and smell like day-old shit. The only time I interact with a goat is when it's on my dinner plate. That left the dogs. Two of them were friendly but skittish. I couldn't get within ten feet of them. The third looked and acted like a golden retriever. When I knelt in front of him, he obediently came up for a scratch. So I wound up sitting on the red sand, petting a friendly mutt, facing a little southwest. I was watching the mountains, watching the light fade. One of those moments of clarity in Wadi Rum.

I didn't hear Haoud come outside. I didn't know he was standing beside me. I just heard the first notes of his prayer. "Allahuaaakbar, Allahuaaakbar." It came out of nowhere, but it didn't startle me. Haoud was facing south, toward Makkah. His prayer was somewhere between a song and a shout. Strong, so God would hear. Lucid, so God would be pleased. I paused in reverence, in respect, in awe. In this open and empty space, in the last of the light, I held my breath while the father of the house gave his sunset prayer to God.

The maghreb prayer lasted about two minutes. Haoud went back inside. The dogs ran off to get supper. The sound of the donkey and the smell of the goats and the rest of the world came back. A little breeze kicked up, and the moment was gone. We're just not meant to stay trapped in those little moments forever. I think we can only feel at peace for two minutes at a time. But I'll keep that moment with me. I'll keep it with me for the rest of my life.

Aqabba, 1/20/05, God Bless McDonald's

The nicest thing about being an American on travel is that you can find a McDonald's just about anywhere. In super-Sunni Riyadh, where non-Muslims are shunned, you can buy a Big Mac. In New Delhi, where the Hindus don't eat beef and the Muslims don't eat pork, you can eat Chicken McNuggets until you burst. In Berlin you can get a beer with your Quarter Pounder, and in Mexico City they give you packets of salsa for your fries.

The rest of the world hates this American export. At least, the snobbish, intellectual people of the world do. The rest of the rest of the world chows down on burgers and fries as much as we do. So for those outside America, I guess McDonald's is a blessing and a curse. For Americans, it's a gift from god.

See, when a person-any person, any nationality-travels to a foreign country, he has to speak a different language, eat a different cuisine, drive a different way. Sometimes he has to dress differently or walk or talk at a different speed. After a week or so of this adjustment, culture shock sets in. He longs for his own country. He wants to speak his own language, watch his hometown sports team, gossip about neighbors next door. And he especially wants to eat his national cuisine. Because eating in a foreign country means strange textures and unusual tastes. Sometimes it also means projectile vomiting and violent diarrhea. Hometown food is comfort food, especially when you have a live oyster squirming down your throat, or when you learn that your hard-boiled egg holds a half-formed fetus.

McDonald's has given Americans a great advantage in this area. I feel for the poor Japanese man who tries to find sushi in Morocco. I pity the German who orders a plate of wurst in Taiwan. I shed a tear for the Mexican in Egypt who doesn't know the Arabic word for tortilla. And I laugh at them all as I bite in to a hot, fresh Quarter Pounder with Cheese, wherever I happen to be.

After 8 long days, hiking through ruins, studying mosaics, climbing mountains, sleeping in leaky tents next to pissed off goats, after beheading, butchering, and eating said goats, I have finally arrived in Aqabba, Jordan's port on the Red Sea. I would like to thank the McDonald's corporation for building one of their fine restaurants here. For if they hadn't, I might never have had a decent burger and fries. I might have reached my breaking point, and I might have run off into the desert and never been seen again. Totally John the Baptist style, living on locusts and wild honey.

Madaba, 1/22/05, Aqabba Sucks

I've been in Aqabba for two and a half days. I was ready to leave two days ago. I had hoped Aqabba would be the relaxing part of my trip. I thought I would stumble into town completely exhausted, with sore muscles and skinned knees. And I would roll into a 5-star beach-front resort, and I would slap down my Mastercard (unlimited credit, of course) and rent the penthouse suite, 200 floors up, with a view of the entire Red Sea, an open bar, 24 hour room service, and a personal masseuse. I would spend my days in a jacuzzi bubble bath drinking champagne. It would be three days of luxurious pampering. After a week of scrambling, scraping, falling and walking all over Jordan, I had earned it.

It was a disaster, a total disaster. Everything that could go wrong did. The one place where I should have been completely relaxed was the only place where I was completely miserable.

In Aqabba's defense, the town wasn't really the problem. If I'd arrived two days earlier or two days later, I probably would have had a blast. Instead I arrived on Eid weekend, the biggest holiday of the Muslim year. Aqabba was packed with tourists from all over Jordan. It was like Tijuana on the Fourth of July. Traffic was awful. The people were pushy. Those 5-star resorts were fully booked. The only hotel that had vacancy for two nights was Aquarmarina I, a shitty one-star dump that was built in the '70s and hasn't been touched since. The air conditioner blew hot air, and the TV remote had a range of about three feet. The walls were so thin I could hear a stereo in one room and a couple humping in the next.

The locals (I should say, the other tourists) made me feel distinctly unwelcome. It wasn't anything specific, just a feeling, a vibe. The friendly smiles were replaced by angry glares, and the enthusiastic service I got elsewhere was a short and spiteful here. Bush's inauguration speech was Thursday night, and CNN was playing the highlights during breakfast the next morning. A man at the table next to mine glared at the TV, then glared at me. Sneered at Bush. Sneered at me. I finished my meal early and retreated to my room.

The dive trip was another disaster. I went to Aqabba International Dive Center. I asked if they had any snorkel tours. They said they only did scuba tours, but I could tag along on a shallow water dive. The divers would go into ten meter water, and I could swim over to a five meter zone.

The next morning there were no customers at the shop, just one employee. He told me I was the only person on the tour today. He drove me to a local beach, pointed toward the shore, and dropped me off. He didn't even get out of the car. I found out later that after he dumped me on the beach, he raced back to the shop and led a crew of divers on another tour.

He dropped me off at 9 and agreed to pick me up at 11, but by the time he was twenty meters underwater. I gave up waiting at 11:30 and decided to hitch hike home. At noon, I was still trying to catch a ride when the shop owner picked me up and drove me back to the shop.

A word about the water: It was my first swim in the Red Sea, so of course it was exhilarating. I saw sea urchins for the first time. I saw my first flounder that wasn't cooked. First lionfish, first puffer fish, first shrimp. Everything I saw was new.

And insightful. From a distance, the bottom looked like big gray rocks spotted with bright coral. At a closer look, I saw that the gray rocks weren't rocks; they were dead coral. Only about a quarter of the coral was alive. It looked like a bombed-out city with collapsed buildings and shelled-out hulls. I remember seeing a large sphere about twenty feet across. One end was bright orange. The middle was a dull yellowish orange. The top was gray. The other side had collapsed. Long cylindrical columns lay flat on the sea floor. It was like watching different stages of decay. After touring so many ruins on Jordan, now I was touring ruins underwater. It was the last remains of a once-vibrant reef, and the few living spots of color were not beautiful; they were just reminders of how beautiful it used to be.

I drove out of Aqabba as fast as I could. A storm came in just after I left. Five solid hours of driving through rain, snow, and sand have brought me back to Madaba, where I started my vacation. A hot plate of schwerma, a warm room, and a friendly staff that's happy to see me again. Aqabba is just a memory now, and I'm anxious to fly back home.

1/23/05, Kuwait City, No Place Like Home

I thought I might never get home. Trouble started last night when the schwerma I had for supper went into reverse. I spent the night puking my dinner into the toilet. In the morning I was famished, but I ate a small breakfast to go easy on my stomach. I figured I would catch a bigger meal in Amman.

I drove around Amman for an hour, but I was lost most of the time, and I never stopped for lunch. I decided to just go to the airport early and grab a meal there. But when I got there, the security guard wouldn't let me check in. I arrived at noon though my flight left at five, and the guard said I couldn't check-in until four. I asked if I just go past him to get some lunch, but he refused. So I sat in the lobby for four hours while I waited for the guard to let me pass.

At the Kuwait Airways check-in counter, the agent asked why I didn't make a reservation for the flight. I told him I made a reservation when I bought the ticket. He told me they had overbooked the flight, and I wouldn't be allowed on. I made a big fuss, but they wouldn't budge. Finally, about twenty minutes before takeoff, they let me buy an upgrade to first class for an extra $200. I paid with my now maxed-out credit card and got on the plane just before they closed the doors.

So I almost missed my flight, I had to pay an extra 200 bucks to get home, and my only meal for the last day and a half was a slice of toast. By the time I touched down in Kuwait, those first-classes flight attendants hated me. I was buzzing that damn call button every five minutes. Tea! Coffee! Water! Peanuts! Where's my dinner? Get me a pillow! Bring me that newspaper! No, the English one! Now! I feel sorry for them, but, dammit, if I had to buy a first-class seat, I was determined to get first-class service.

So now I'm home. I never thought I'd refer to Kuwait that way. I thought I would finish this trip with "So now I'm back in Kuwait." But Kuwait feels different now. Everything I own is here. All my friends are here. I know the roads, and I know the people. Every night I've spent in Kuwait, I've dreamed of being back in San Diego. But every night I was in Jordan, I dreamed of being back in Kuwait. Now I'm laying in my own bed, in my own apartment, and I don't care about moving back to San Diego. Kuwait is where I live now; it's where I want to be. I saw a lot of amazing things in Jordan, but maybe the most amazing thing is that, for me, Kuwait is now my home.