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.