The Pantheon

Somehow, during our first visit to Rome, we missed seeing the Pantheon. So on Saturday, the Pantheon is our quest.

We purchase all day passes on the Metro, figuring that along with the Pantheon, we'll try to stop at each of the stations on the line to at least take a look around. However, after we get off at the Spagna station, and we're in front of the Spanish Steps, something unfortunate happens: I ask one of the locals for directions.

Thus begins a trek across the better part of Rome. It is also a trek across Lisa's patience, as I confuse the directions, missing the piazza that Lisa (correctly) insists is where we should turn. Finally, hours (maybe days) later, we arrive at what I determine is the correct location.

It isn't.

So I am fired as the family navigator, and Lisa takes over. Within short order, we arrive at the Pantheon.

Something happens to my sense of direction when we're here in Italy. At home, I have a near perfect sense of direction. You could tell me, 'Dan, I need you to drive me to [insert the most obscure town you know], which is somewhere near [another obscure town]. I don't have a map, nor a GPS. Can you get me there?' And I'll get you there (well, you know, if I like you) in the most direct, time-efficient way possible.

Lisa, on the other hand, can get lost between the garage and the end of the driveway. She'll refer it I-57 as Memphis Avenue, because there's a sign that says, 'Memphis 300 Miles'.

Yet when we come to Italy, I seem to have forgotten to pack my sense of direction, whereas Lisa can somehow intuitively find anything and everything, without a map, in the dark. Blindfolded.

I don't get it. Maybe I think in grids, and she thinks in roundabouts.

Anyway, Lisa gets us to the Pantheon, and it is spectacular. It's a sunny day, and as we enter the building (which is free of charge - something the Italians seem to have overlooked), the temperature drops about 10 degrees. It's cool, it's dark, and as I look up, the open circle at the peak of the dome allows a bright beam of light to cut through the dimness. It reminds me of the religious paintings where the saints are illuminated from heaven. Lisa and I stand in the beam, which is nearly blinding. The perfect geometry of the dome is breathtaking. Raphael's tomb, along with other less-notable, patrons, is inside. Between the beauty of the dome and the reverence of the religious shrines, it is a moving place to be.

Reacquainting Myself with Rome

It is 7:30 am, and I'm on a mission from Lisa to find a grocery store, and return with coffee, milk and sugar.

Any serious coffee drinker knows that this is a tall order: overcoming sleep deprivation and jet lag while wandering streets that you've never seen in daylight, searching for un'alimentare (a grocery store) in a commercial area, using a non-native language. All without having had any coffee. So I do what any caffeine-deprived coffee drinker would do in such a situation: I immediately get lost.

I walk in circles, hoping to find where I last knew I was lost. I do, however, eventually take enough time from being lost to enter a local bar and order a cappucino. The proprietor, or so I assume, is very entertaining and friendly, so I get my first chance to butcher the Italian language (I succeed!) while he whips up a wonderful warm drink in spite of me. For example:

Barrista: 'What would you like?'

Me: 'The cows jumps over the moon.'

Barrista: 'Ah...you are American.'

Me: 'Thank you.'

And so it goes. I leave to wait for the cappuccino at an outdoor table, explaining that 'Roses are red, and violets are blue.' He seems to understand perfectly, and in a few moments, I have a rich cappuccino to sip as people on their way to work pass by, chatting on their cellphones. I try to listen in, and pick up much of their Italian ('This American just ordered his cappuccino using only childhood rhymes!')

By the end of the cappuccino, I've regained lucidity. Life is good again.

And Rome hits me full force.

First and foremost, there is the roar (if you can imagine such a thing) of the Vespas on every street. There are always more Vespas than cars, and they're always in front of the rest of the traffic at each traffic light. If that's not the case, they drive up the sidewalks to get to the front of the line before the light turns green. I think it's a law.

And with Rome being both an Italian city and perhaps the world's number one tourist destination, there are so many languages drifting by - Italian, Italian dialects, German, English, American, Dutch, French - that it's like having a cappuccino outside the Tower of Babel. Within a short time, I stop trying to identify what language I hear, and simply assume that I can speak it.

After I pay for the cappuccino, I start again in my search for a grocery store. And that's I notice that people are coming up the sidewalks in waves. I get swept away a couple of times like a loose bobber floating down a river. The energy is incredible, and the whole of the morning rush - the languages, the people, the Vespas, the traffic, the noise, the wonderful scent of fresh paninis, cappuccinos, and croissants being prepared - it all hits me, and I duck into a fruit store.

Or so I thought; there are boxes of fruit outside, and they do sell produce, but...they also sell coffee. And milk. And...yes! yes!...even sugar.

I return (well...eventually) triumphant.

That's a Wrap

Madrid

We don't bother to unpack. The room in the Hostal Rober, here in the center of Madrid, is so small that we have to shift our suitcases from the foot of the bed to the side to get through to the bathroom. Then, if we want to go out, we have to shift it back. We finally put the luggage on top of the bed and leave it there until we sleep.

What our room lacks in size, however, is made up in location. We are right in the center of Madrid, and when we walk out the front door, we are in the middle of movement, sound and color. It is our kind of place. We immediately head out to get lunch, and then to get lost in the downtown.

After walking the streets all afternoon, we come across an Irish pub, La Fontana de Oro, and stop in for a pint. To our surprise, the Irish pub has several Irish patrons inside. We've run across very few Americans in all of our travels, so the English is a pleasant change of pace. We sip Newcastle and enjoy the conversation. I lose my sunglasses but find an umbrella on the floor beneath our table. As it is pouring outside, it seems like a fair trade.

Thursday Lisa wakes up with a cold and flu combination; her body aches, her throat hurts, and her stomach is upset. She is a trooper, however, and decides that the best remedy is a long walk. We walk and shop all day, taking advantage of our last afternoon to pick up souvenirs for the kids. The shopping is much cheaper here than anywhere in Italy; I end up buying myself a coat for less than five euro.

There are sex shops in several places downtown, lit up like the Las Vegas strip. I notice that there are provocatively dressed young women in front of several of these locations, standing and smoking. Waiting. They are the only people that don't seem to have a destination in mind. Lisa and I do the math, and laugh. We aren't in Kansas anymore.

We eat lunch at La Taurina, whose decor has a bull fighting theme. There are bulls heads mounted along the walls, and pictures of bullfights. Having spent a lot of time around livestock growing up, I try not to imagine what they would look like alive; live cattle always have mucous coming out of their nostrils in streams. I keep my imagination in check, however, and the food is delicious.

Over the Atlantic

The flight home is the longest I've ever endured. We are heading west over the Atlantic, and because we are following the path of the sun, it is perpetually noon. The six hours we lost on the trip over is added back, so we have a 30 hour day, 11 hours of which are spent in the air.

I read, I write, I scribble. I fantasize about what we'll be brought for lunch. There is a movie on with Spanish subtitles, so I assume that it's in English. It turns out to be French, however, and I have already been confused enough with Spanish and Italian. A third romantic language is too much. I go back to my book.

Lisa, meanwhile, sleeps. She can sleep anywhere; she sleeps during the cab ride to the the airport, during the flight, and during the drive home. I envy her.

It's a really, really long flight. We arrive in Chicago two hours late, at night, in a downpour. Our friend Les drives us from Chicago back home, and I force myself to stay awake, catching up on everything that's happened since we left.

Back Home

Something seems different.

I'm not sure what it is, exactly, but as I walk through the downstairs, the house looks strangely empty. I sit at my desk, drinking coffee, pondering this, and finally it dawns on me; after all of the narrow streets and tiny, crowded hotel rooms of Europe, the house looks big. I can relate to a comment that I had laughed at from my British brother-in-law when he visited us: 'It's amazing how big the houses are here.' I guess my perspective has been changed at least that much over the three weeks overseas.

But it's more than that, really. Lisa has commented several times on how interesting it is to be in a place where the news, what little of it we have watched, is so non US-centric. We watch the BBC one night, and while it is in English, it is so unlike the news at home; it seems to be a series of local interest stories. The United States is a minor detail.

Lisa has been most affected by being in countries where English is not spoken, or not spoken much. She comments that she has so much more empathy now for non-English speaking people here in the US. I'm less affected, as I speak Spanish pretty fluently, and I have learned enough Italian to at least make myself understood and to get around.

So our trip is...over. We'll be traveling again, however; probably next year. Where? We're not sure.

Maybe Morocco.

Roma

Moving In

We get out of the taxi at Via Baccina 20 and meet Enzo, who is waiting for us with the key to our apartment. While I pay the driver and carry the luggage in, Enzo gives Lisa a tour. This studio apartment, which is perhaps 600 square feet in size, will be our home for the next 5 days.

Lisa found the apartment on the internet before we left the states, and although it doesn't have internet access, it is perfectly situated for us, with ruins at one end of the street, and a small piazza, with ristorantes, bars, and stores at the other. The choice highlights the differences in personality between Lisa and I; she spent weeks researching every available location in this section of Rome, and put together spreadsheets of pros and cons of each. She knows the distance, in centimeters, from the front door of the apartment to every landmark in Rome. I, on the other hand, was put in charge of choosing the hotels for Barcelona and Madrid. It took me roughly five minutes.

Once Enzo leaves, Lisa takes charge of moving in. Everything comes out of our suitcases and goes into drawers and shelves. Within an hour, it truly feels like our apartment. Lisa is delighted, and I have to admit, it does feel like home.

In Ruins

Once unpacked, we immediately venture out into the streets and ruins of Rome. This becomes our daily routine; we get up, we get out, we see ruins. We eat at outdoor cafes. We people watch. We walk all day long, uphill and downhill, down narrow brick alleys. We take photos endlessly. We get lost on the subway enough times that we finally figure it out. We pick up bread, meat, cheese and wine at local grocery stores before returning to the apartment at night. As the week continues, I start taking fewer photos; we've seen so much that I begin to become confused as to what it is that we happen to be looking at. We've already gone beyond planning our days, and simply wander the streets. As there is art everywhere in Rome, we continue to find incredible views, piazzas, churches, etc. Then we look at the map to see where we are.

For the first three days, we do nothing outside of this. Then, after seeing Vatican City, Lisa discovers an outdoor market. Our routine is interrupted. Our last day in Rome is spent shopping.

Our last night in Rome, we meet up with Cathryn, the sister of a friend, at a local ristorante. Cathryn is an art critic and travel writer, an ex-pat that has been living in Rome for six years. She and Lisa hit it off immediately, and after the ristorante, we head up to the piazza to a wine bar. Cathryn has traveled widely and has endless tales of her travels. It is a lovely night; between the stories and the chance to speak English, we stay up late. The next morning is spent rushing to get our apartment back into our suitcases for an early morning flight to Madrid.

Un-American

The waiter comes to our table and, before speaking, sizes us up. He looks back and forth between us, then looks at Lisa and says, 'English'. He looks at me and says, 'Spanish'.

It is a trend that started in Sicily and continues in Rome; the locals aren't sure where I'm from, but they're all pretty certain that I'm not American. As an experiment, after our first couple of days in Rome, I stop shaving. Short, scruffy beards are everywhere on the faces of Italian men, so I'm wondering if it will help me to fit in. It works. After two days, I am stopped three times by Italians asking me, in Italian, for directions, assistance, etc.

During our shopping marathon the last day in Rome, a Chinese shop owner, having asked me what country I am from, refuses to believe that I am American. I do my best to convince her, but she's not buying it: 'Okay,' she says, 'but where are your parents from?'

As we climb into the cab to head to the airport, the taxi driver looks at me and abruptly says, 'Ah! You are Spanish!'. He wants to practice his Spanish with me, so I figure, what the hell, I'll be Spanish. We chat all the way to the airport.

Waiters

Waiters do not wait on tables in Rome; the tables wait on the waiters. They are very quick to pull you off the streets as you pass by to put you at one of their tables, but then they leave you at the table to ponder what you are going to order, or perhaps to ponder the meaning of life. Indefinitely. Lisa has remarked several times at how beautiful the Italians are, especially the Sicilians, and how she simply doesn't understand how they can eat five course meals and stay so thin. My theory is that they eat at the local restaurants. That way, they are limited to maybe two meals a week.

That being said, the food is beautifully presented. Even a cappucino is a work of art, and the beers are served with hors d'oeuvres that will, if you want to bar hop, eventually serve as dinner.

Sicily

We bounce across Sicily, staying in Palermo, San Leone, and Catania. Here are the moments that stand out:

Cappucino

The barista and I face off across the counter.

It is a tense moment. He is a burly man with large, hairy arms, thick eyebrows and a severe expression. He knows that I am American, that my Italian is limited, and that I do not understand how to properly order or consume a cappucino.

I am determined, however, to learn.

'Vorrei un cappacino, per piecere.'

He grunts, then launches into Italian at a clip far too fast to understand, gesticulating wildly, his voice raised. The rant ends with the word "cappucino", and I nod. 'Si. Un cappecino, per piacere.' He throws his hands into the air and turns his back to me as he operates the cappucino machine.

There is an uncomfortable tension while he prepares the cappucino, so I momentarily step outside to the outdoor seating, where there are tables under large green awnings with Heinekin logos. These awnings seem to be everywhere in Sicily; it is as if Heinekin had a huge garage sale, Sicily showed up, and after some negotiation, Heinekin sold them 100,000 awnings for a euro. I sit at a table and listen to a group of women chattering in Italian at a nearby table.

Before I can get up to go back in, the barrista comes out with the cappucino on a tray and sets it in front of me. I am amazed. This, I decide, may have been what he was ranting about - perhaps I'm supposed to go sit down, and not wait at the counter. I thank him, and he grunts.

I visit the barrista every day that we are in Palermo.

The Streets of Palermo

It has been the plan all along that we would rent a car and drive across Sicily, from Palermo to Catania. That plan changes during the cab ride from the airport to the hotel in Palermo. It is night, and the cabbie drifts across lanes, drives twice the speed limit and pays absolutely no attention to stop signs. There are scooters everywhere - Vespas - and they are fearless. During the daylight hours I see them passing between cars with less than six inches of clearance on either side while chatting on their cell phones. At night they scream down the street, often in packs, as fast as the little engines will go.

In short, there is no way that I'm going to drive in Sicily.

I tend to arise early, and our first morning in Palermo, Lisa sends me out to scout out a place for coffee. I comply happily, anxious to explore. The streets of Palermo are a sharp contrast to the streets of Barcelona. There is garbage and clutter scattered along the sidewalks. Also, the people park on the sidewalks, so walking along the street means that you are often in the street to get around the haphazardly placed vehicles.

Then there are the vendors. They show up early in vehicles that are functionally pickup trucks, and set up shop along the street and on the sidewalks. The big sellers are fish and flowers. The flower stands strike me as a bit comical, because invariably, it is big, burly men that sell them, and they walk in the street, a bouquet of flowers in hand, calling out to the passing cars. Imagine Mike Tyson selling lingerie, and you'll get the idea.

The fish vendors neatly place their fish upon piles of ice, but fortunately, unlike the flower vendors, they do not walk in the streets holding out, say, a raw squid, calling out to the passing cars.

Sicilian Food

As Sicily is an island, there is plenty of seafood. There are also a lot of pastries and pizza. And coffee, either as espresso or cappucino. And beer and wine. The Sicilians are big on sweets, especially ice cream. There are ice cream parlors (gelaterias) everywhere, and they serve both ice cream and alcohol in roughly equal quantities. The adults drink, the children have ice cream. It seems to be a family favorite.

Much of the seafood is served raw. One particular night, in a single antipasto, I consume octopus, squid, a raw oyster, raw stuffed salmon, and two other types of raw fish. The raw salmon, to my amazement, is delicious, probably due to a wonderful sauce that covers it. It becomes clear to me that sushi will no longer be a challenge.

After three nights, we leave Palermo for San Leone. The hotel talks us into hiring a private car for the two hour drive, which provides breathtaking view of hills covered with vineyards and olive trees with mountains in the background. As I watch vistas pass by, I am filled with a burning question: Is the barrista going to miss me?

San Leone

Our second stop in Sicily is Agrigento, or to be more precise, San Leone, just outside of Agrigento, by the Meditteranean Sea. It is an upscale neighborhood, and our hotel is about 100 yards (okay, fine, meters) from the beach. Lisa and I fall in love with this town; she points to various houses as we walk along the streets, saying,'No, no, that will be our retirement home.' We are on the move all day, and have dinner and drinks at seaside bars in the evenings.

It is here, during our stay in Agrigento, that we visit the Valley of the Temples. The temples are supposed to be the best-preserved Greek ruins in the world. It is the first of many ruins that Lisa and I will visit during our time in Italy. We walk all afternoon, taking photo after photo. We drift apart at several of the temples to sit quietly, taking in the beauty and the history.

Our last day in San Leone, we take the bus to the old district of Agrigento. Once we descend from the bus, we become completely lost. I use a map and my sense of direction to lead us to the edge of the city. The wrong edge of the city. I walk into a building that is under constrution and talk to a couple of the men working there, and they point out, on my map, just how far off course we are. We turn and walk about a mile uphill, back to the center of the city, to where the bus dropped us off. There are two women nearby, chatting, that look friendly. I approach them for directions.

'I am sorry,' says the older of the two women, 'but we are Morrocan. We are from Morroco. We do not know the city.'

'Morrocan.' I repeat, thinking of the woman on the flight to Madrid.

'Yes, from Morroco.' She looks up at me and adds, 'You must come visit.'

Lisa takes over navigation, and we promptly arrive in the historic section of Agrigento. The streets are steep and winding, and the buildings are ancient. We walk up dozens of flights of stone stairs. It is here, in old Agrigento, that we accidentally stumble across the Spirito Santo, which is advertised as one of the most beautiful medieval churches in Europe.

When I say we stumble across it accidentally, what I mean specifically, is that Lisa needs to find a restroom, and we are hundreds of flights of stone stairs from the nearest public facility. We see Spirito Santo, and throw ourselves at the mercy of the church. There is a man in the office at the entrance, and he tells us that the church is closed for renovations, so only the courtyard is open to the public. I explain that my wife needs to use the restroom. He looks at her, then at me, and relents, giving me directions to the bathroom, which is in the area of renovation. Chivalry is not dead in Agrigento.

There are men carrying out buckets of stone and concrete at the renovation site, and they look at us with concern and curiosity as we pass into the restricted zone. The bathroom is on the second floor, and Lisa ascends as I wait on the landing of the stairs.

And it is here, on the landing of the stairs, that I am struck by the simply beauty of the church. The walls are constructed of large blocks. There are stone busts lined up along the walls. There is natural light coming through a small window across from me. Apart from the sounds of renovation, there is silence. I am filled with a sense of calm, of tranquility, of sanctity. When Lisa rejoins me on the steps, we wander as much of the church as we can.

The sense of peace continues as long as we are on the church grounds. We will see many holy places during our time in Italy, including St. Peter's basilica and the Sistene Chapel, but in no place am I moved as much as I am here, at Spirito Santo.

Catania

Our time in Catania can be summed up in one word: Rain. We have only a single night here, and we will arrive late and leave early. There are black beaches, formed by volcanic rock, and Mount Etna, the largest active volcano in Europe. There are beautiful Greek outdoor theatres to be viewed.

We see none of it.

What we do discover at the hotel in Catania, however, is as beautiful as all of the sights we have missed: cafe americano. For the first time since leaving the states, we have real, honest-to-God coffee.

And then we are gone, on a plane bound for Roma.

In Motion

In Barcelona, we are constantly in motion. We get up, have breakfast downstairs, and then head out into the streets. We walk, we take the subway, we take in the sights. We take as many photos as our camera batteries will allow. We get lost, we get found. It is a blur of color, sound, and movement. Oh, and of flavor. There are bars everywhere, but these are different than the bars in the United States; these bars are all-purpose, serving coffee, food, pastries, and of course, beer and wine.

A few moments of the blur stand out.

First, our prodigal suitcase does, in fact, finally arrive. It shows up a bit late, looking ragged and in general hung over. It refuses to explain itself. We are no longer on speaking terms.

That same night, we hear noises coming from the room next to ours. The voices start loud, then get louder. It is a couple, who at first seem to be arguing, but the loud voices are interspersed with giggles. Lisa and I lay awake, wondering aloud if the night will culminate in a final outburst of passion, but that it not the case. After about three hours of auditory torture, I muster up the most authoritative voice I can at that hour of the morning, bang on the wall, and tell them in Spanish to be quiet. It works.

La Sagrada Familia. This is the still uncompleted masterpiece of Antonio Gaudi. His works use virtually no straight lines; some of his completed works look like they were pulled from the pages of a Dr. Suess book. He worked on La Sagrada Familia for decades, but died before it was complete. The sheer size and scope of the structure make the visit worthwhile.

On the advice of the hotel staff, we decide to visit the Catedral di Barcelona. It is in the Gothic District, which is easily within walking distance. The Gothic architecture of the buildings are in contrast to the energy on the streets below; we pass by a group of South American musicians on samponas, street dancers, and groups of teens and young adults in groups. There are expensive shops with bright awnings. There is an undeniable energy here.

We pay to enter the Catedral, and enter another world. In contrast to the light and music outside, the interior of the cathedral is quiet, cool, and softly lit. Tranquil. Neither Lisa or I are Catholic, so we don't necessarily know the significance of all that we see, but that doesn't take away from our appreciation of the artwork, the architecture, and the sense of sanctuary inside.

There are inscriptions in several of the stones on the ground floor, marking the graves of some of the faithful. Some of the dates are from the 1500s. A plaque on the ground level reads, 'To the memory of the 930 Priests and faithful of this diocese martyred during the Spanish civil war.'

We are ready to leave. At the last minute, however, I accidentally discover that we are allowed to go the the terrace on the roof. We go up, and we are amazed. The view is spectacular; the rooftops of Barcelona are visible clear to the sea, which is also visible. We stay for a long time, taking photos of every conceivable view.

On the way back to the hotel, we stop to have a beer and finally speak what we've both been thinking all afternoon: We will come back to Barcelona again.

Barcelona

'You cannot possibly be American; your Spanish is far too good.'

So says our cab driver, Jose Antonio. It's a relief to hear. Truth be told, I had been concerned that my Spanish would be rusty and I would struggle and stumble my way through Barcelona, especially since I learned a South American dialect of Spanish, not true Castellano, as they speak here in Spain. The moment we get into the cab with Antonio, however, I find that conversation is effortless; there is no translation process taking place in my head, no thought required.

Our hotel is the Hotel Condestable, conveniently located in the center of Barcelona. Stepping out of the cab into the bright sun of midday is a sharp contrast to the night spent in a cramped seat in the dark; there are the sounds of traffic, pedestrians crowd the sidewalks. The streets are lined with the colorful awnings of shops and bars. Music pours out from somewhere down the street.

We check into the hotel and let the front desk know that we are expecting luggage, as we were instructed to do by the airport personnel. We take the elevator to the fourth floor, enter our room, and open our windows to a magnificent view of the plaza below us. There are none of the steel bars or other restraints in the windows that you would find in an American hotel; just a ledge and a four story drop to the street below. Lisa and I are both afraid of heights, so looking out and down is a bit of a heady experience.

Despite the jet lag, we cannot wait to explore, so we head out and walk along Las Ramblas, which is a long, pedestrian-only avenue of shops, restaurants, and street performers. We watch, we shop, we eat and drink at one of the outdoor cafes. It is a routine that we will follow for the rest of our time in Barcelona: sightseeing, shopping, eating, drinking.

Back at the hotel in the evening, we inquire about our luggage. It has not arrived. We are told that it could arrive tomorrow, or perhaps the next day. It was last seen at the airport in Madrid, sitting in an airport bar, chatting up a cute carry-on, oblivious to the standby flights it was missing.

This simply will not do. We have the hotel contact the airline, and the airline assures us that we need not worry; they will dispatch security to forcibly drag the suitcase from the bar and put it on the next flight to Barcelona.

With that, we head out for dinner.