Le Voyageur Sale: Un Blog En Sept Tableaux Troisieme Tableau: Voyage du Nord

It's 3:00 am . . . and a scary black form enters my room. The half-naked Asian in the bed next to mine yelps, waking me. I groan as I feel a familiar pain in my lower back from sleeping on bed too soft, and roll over to find the black form barring down. I tense, knowing that I had given a potential enemy an unfair advantage, but at the same time also aware that he would certainly need it. But there is no need, the man is drunk, and on closer inspection just some dumb frat boy. I quietly hear the Asian apologize, and so decide to roll over and attempt to return to sleep.

As it turns out, my first Hostel experience is a lot like sleeping in a ditch -and in a completely different way than I would have expected.

What I would have expected:

"Welcome to Hostel You Sleep Cheap!"

"Hi."

"You sleep cheap?"

"Yeah, that's me."

"Pay now, only cash – dollar, euro, peso, is all good. No traveler check."

I hand over my money.

"Ah, Euro" attendant smells money, "For you, I get nice bed," as he continues to sniff my money in rapture.

"Okay, to get to bed you need take bus, you lucky last one, we go now." I go out to a refurbished paddy wagon in the back alley, open the back door. The people that greet me are covered in grime. Melancholy faces, they barely look up at me. There's no air conditioning on the bus. We drive for an hour, no one talks, I thank heaven for the powerful body odor which covers what I believe is the smell of human excrement. Finally we stop. Two obese, poorly shaved men in unwashed wife beaters who both look like they could be first cousins of my super Ves, open the wagon door.

"Yashha boyeah zhuga" says one. "Uhp Uhp!" the other intones. We file out of the paddy wagon. I find myself in the clearing of an unknown forest, late at night. In the center of the clearing is a freshly dug hole. "In." one says. People begin filing into the hole. There isn't enough room. People start piling on top of each other. Those on the bottom struggle, but eventually it appears they stop. I hold off until the end, and get a spot on top of the pile. I turn over and fall asleep to the sound of men heaving, and a slow pitter patter of dirt building up on top of my skin.

Reality:

The bed I sleep in is a very, very firm layer of cloth, wrapped around the frame, a bit like a hammock. When I put my weight down in it, the cloth bends and so the way it ends up my body is below the edge of the frame. As I say, as if I was in a ditch. So not that bad, although it did give me strange and terrifying dreams. I now have an idea what may have given Kafka such wondrously terrifying story ideas.

I awake again at 6:30 as the Spaniards arise. I mostly sleep through their ministrations.

Finally at 9:00 I awake to begin my route. My plan is to cover the city in two days, the first day making a broad arc across the Northern most edge of the city, which would take me to the west of Rome, over the river Tiber, and into Vatican City. Afterwards, I will head back across a more central part of Northern Rome, and see how long it will have taken me.

I set out, stopping in briefly at a supermarket near my hostel. I found a ridiculous bargain on bottled water, an entire two liters for only twenty-five cents. I think to myself, why not have a smooth, refreshing sip to get the morning started. I turn the plastic cap and immediately hear a tell-tale hiss, as my water fills with bubbles. I had inadvertently bought seltzer water. Inspecting the bottle, I found the two seemingly-innocuous, but actually fatal words, which had sealed my fate: "Con Gas." Normally I do not prefer seltzer to regular water; I drink it grudgingly between biscuits, if at all. There was something strange about the taste of the seltzer too. I suspect the producers were using "con gas" as an excuse to con me into buying dangerously low grade water.

I mark out my first site, a gate at the east side of town, with a statue to commemorate the soldiers of the great war. Along the way I spot a café and finally decide to get the Italian version of the standard overpriced breakfast menu that can be found throughout all of France – Juice, cappuccino, and pastry for 5 Euro. I justify the price by spending a good forty minutes there, until I finish Les Justes. Thus I have a second project for the day, finding a new book to read.

I take a picture of myself using the camera timer, and have surprising success. I admit that as I took the picture I felt a bit a fool, posing for myself as cars passing by honked at me, and horn-dog Italians whistled cat calls in my general direction – I have no way of knowing if they were meant for me or some other moving-thing in my general vicinity.

I begin the great northern arc and track along the old city wall. I stop in a bookstore but find the foreign books section to consist only of works by Judith Piccolo and Dan Brown. I detest both of them. If you're going to write under a pseudonym, at least pay me the courtesy of picking a name that sounds unique. But I suppose for some books even the name of the author has to be kept at the third-grade level.

Dallying along the wall for too long, I drop south from the old wall, stumbling towards a few big old buildings from the late 17^th, early 18^th century. About this time I encounter a group of expensive hotels with American names. It occurs to me that maybe I can cherry-pick some free internet from them using my iPod touch. All of the places that are giving me any signal are pass protected, however, save one. I can see it flickering in and out, like color in half-light, something called "Roma WiFi." Was the signal of free public, city-funded wifi real? Or merely a mirage, fabricated from a devil's admixture of human desire and too-cooked air?

Near one of the fancy hotels I see a sign for Park of the Borguese. Such a park is nowhere to be found on my map. Aware of my near-disaster attempting to find that Belgian El Dorado, which the natives know by the name "Atomium," I nevertheless decide to test fate and follow the sign where it leads. Luckily, after crossing the city wall again, I stumble upon the Park's central entrance, which also has a beautiful map giving me the lay of the land.

What is immediately apparent is that the park is a magnificent treasure. Large as the combined total of the Tulieries and Luxembourg gardens, it is full of beautiful gems: remnants of antiquity, botanic gardens, cafés, and museums. I decide to place a two-hour delay in my planned route, so that I can wander the park.

But in drawing up my plan of attack for this great Northern park, I see, marked like pox, green stickers which say "WiFi!" I head for the hot-spot on the park's east side.

While crossing the park, I happen upon a simple fountain amidst a slight clearing in the wood. Suddenly I feel my legs buckle, my breath catches in my throat, held so tight that I begin to choke, eyes turn blood-red from asphyxiation. A horrible pain seizes my chest, I feel as if a great blow lands on my back. And I am thrown to my knees.

I was under attack. But, this seemed impossible, since there was no readily-visible assailant, and in my current space-time continuum the Bonapartists did not yet have cloaking devices. It was something else, as if it were my body itself that was betraying me. But no, I thought, my body would not be capable of such tretchery – it must be. . .

"BEAUTY!" I cried, but only to myself for it had smashed my voicebox and deflated my lungs. Beauty - coming in through my eye. I was its beholder and as such I could not let it go. Tears come to me unbidden as I whelp helplessly. Alas, I am slain, and without the chance for a clever rejoinder: a last touché to death, who even in denying me life, simultaneously ensures that I have the final word.

But just then, I hear something:

"Hey Marlene, look at this thing!"

With my final bust of strength I crane my eyes upwards to see the trundling form of a morbidly obese American, in camouflage shorts and Stars-and-Stripes shirt. In an instant I gasp, my breath releases, and I crumple to the floor panting, weak, but saved. Thank God for Americans, if it wasn't for them, an overabundance of beauty might come into the world and slaughter us all.

Ready now for the fountain's beauty, I inspect the scene to see what it was that had so affected me. It is not the fountain itself, that's for sure, nor is it the clearing and the fountains placement in it as the mis-en-scene. A great analyst, in an unpublished volume which I somehow have access to, came within striking distance of solving the problem of conjectures, thereby rendering analysis itself a trivial clerical exercise. One of his maxims is "Never underestimate the ubiquitous – somehow it manages to find its way into everything." I tell you now that his genius has been proved once again, for when I looked upon the scene with his maxim in mind, everything instantly became illuminated – it was the lighting.

I cannot explain why, but somehow the lighting in the park was absolutely perfect. Strong, but not overpowering, it make the whole scene more lustrous, colors became fuller, textures became richer. The scene before me looked less like reality and more like a painting. I see now why the Renaissance started in Italy – the natural light provided the inspiration.

After several attempts to capture the magical affect of Italian light on film, I finally make it to an enormous column-like building from the Roman period. I see it has been defaced by graffiti. Rome has been ruined by the Italians, we should have trusted it to a more responsible people –like the Germans.

Around this tower children were playing soccer. I think to myself what a wonderful thing an impressive building is. How many children, in how many generations, must have said to each other, let's go play by the big column? How much happiness it must have given them to have as a place to meet as their hang-out.

Of course the pleasure that I wanted to extract from this hang-out was the simple pleasures of a child. No, the kind of pleasure I wanted was that which only comes from a good checking of my email. There were supposed to be three separate WiFi routers in the plaza I was in. Indeed, I connect fine to all three. But when I go to browse the web, at each separate router, I get the same message "Not connected to Internet."

What? Wifi – but no internet. How could this be? What the hell kind of city would create a wifi network, without connecting it to the internet. Who would dare to concoct such an absurd masquerade?

But then it dawned on me. Let's say you don't connect to the wifi network. What's your first reacton? Maybe their computer is screwed up. They didn't set things up right. Etc. But if you connect to their network, and then you can't connect to the internet, the first reaction is, What is going wrong with my computer? I connected fine, why can't my computer connect to the internet?

What's so clever about this strategy is that it's exactly the type of thing that's at the limit of plausibly being an unintentional oversight. Oh, so there isn't any non-E.U. passport exit. We never thought about that since we're all in the E.U. Wait –we need to pay for internet, but I thought we already bought wifi? These Italian public officials are either idiotic buffoons or they're tricksters clever enough to pose as buffoons. Determining which was the case would become one of my foremost goals in my anthropological investigation of Italy - beside scoring of course.

I continue through the park, narrowly avoiding being roped into a mob of people practicing jazzercise in a public square. I wind up on the west end of the park, getting another panoramic view of the city, this time from the North. Seizing my last memory of the view, I descend from the park's high bluff, down into a public square.

In the square there is a public exhibition commemorating Rome's police department – which consists mainly of cops walking around, dressed in uniforms from the 1930s, and also driving around old-model police cruisers from various eras. All in all, the exhibit ends up being a lot of big tennis. Cop cars are cool, but there's a reason Jake and Elway never drove a Fiat.

I go into a pizza place near the plaza and ask for an order. The guy asks me how much I want. I say 1. Apparently this is not an acceptable answer. He looks at me a bit funny, says something I don't understand. I follow my standard "sail through any encounter" strategy: nod your head and make a face that can be construed either as emphatic agreement or refusal. The theory behind this is, "I don't understand the situation, let's see how the other guy plays it." He cuts me off what looks like a big slice and I take it to the register. At the register the cashier weighs my pizza. Suddenly I understand, pizza in this type of place is sold by weight.

"How many grams of pizza would you like?"

"Oh, I'll take one."

"What?"

"Just one will be fine."

After eating my pizza I wander into a bookstore downtown and find an entire French section. I pick up another existentialist play, Sartre's "Les Mains Sales: Un Piece en Sept Tableaux" (English Title: Dirty Hands: A Play in Seven Parts). Happy with my purchase, I continue along to the tomb of Augustus Ceaser – dear Octavian's monument is superseded only by that of Napoleon and the old Egyptian Pharaohs.

By now I'm nearly on the banks of the Tiber, due east from the Vatican. I make my approach and find myself staring down Saint Peter's Basillica. There is no shade on the road approaching the cathedral, the weight of my bag and the still undrunk gaseous water cuts my shoulder like a terrible wooden-burden. I drag along, through the middle of the road, as the powerful sun beats down on me. I feel feint, hot, oh Father, forgive me, I don't know what I'm doing.

Finally I arrive at the cathedral. To enter the cathedral one needs to observe a rather stringent dress code. Shorts and t-shirts are ostensibly forbidden, meaning I may have to go all the way back to the other side of town if I want to see the cathedral today. Concerned, I watch to see who is making it through security. After about ninety seconds it's already apparent that although the code is proscribed for both men and women, only one type of person is being denied entry. This type is of course the woman, usually 17-24, sometimes as young as 13, rarely as old as 46, who is so bent on turning herself into a sex-object that she cannot suppress for more than two hours the need to reveal some part of every part of her body. Needless to say, I love this type, and was sad to see them ostracized from probably the one place in the world where they are most sorely needed. However, I did not pine their absence too much, and instead pressed on into the cathedral.

Once inside the cathedral I again notice the powerful effect of natural light in Italy. The light that streams down from the windows actually looks like columns, and as they stream down on groups of nuns standing underneath them, I feel the power of their holiness and the sanctity of the church. Unlike Notre Dame, this cathedral is frequented by practicing catholics. I become moved by the fastidiousness of their faith, and the majesty of God's home. I think: What if this is the moment I become a Catholic? Then the old Jewish man's voice pricks up again in my head,

"I told ya you was a goyasha, you pric, you self-hater anti-semite, you- Shylock. Go then, be a Catholic, I don't care."

Nope, looks like that's not happening. I walk around the Cathedral, taking pictures, absorbing its excessive austerity. I wander through some door with security guards who don't stop me, and find a passageway filled with art. As I turn a corner, I see a procession of young catholic priests in purple robes forming up. They motion me to go behind them, and I stand with several other caught tourists in a small gift shop, watching as older and older Bishops, and possibly even Cardinals, prepare for some important ritual. I wonder, what if I see the Pope? But sadly he doesn't show, the procession moves out after fifteen minutes and I leave the cathedral.

I wander out and make for the Sistine Chapel. Unfortunately the chapel is closed so I instead wander towards a gelato place. The gelato is so good that it forces me to sit.

It is nearly sunset, and so I walk south along the length of the Tiber. I'm heading for a neighborhood that is recommended for food as being not super touristy but still touristy enough to have lots of restaurants. When I arrive it turns out to be the neighborhood where I had been the night before.

After a rather unremarkable dinner, not bad but not anything you couldn't get in Chicago. When I get up from dinner I suddenly realize that I have a horrible, horrible rash on my inner thighs that makes it difficult to walk. Where did this come from? I didn't have it before. Maybe I did? But how could that be. Suffice it to say that it had to be treated, with a good shower at my hostel. I make out a more direct path than the one from the night before. Along the way I run into the old Jewish quarter. This is supposedly a good place to eat, so I mark it on my map and decide to come back the next night.

While walking through the Jewish quarter my path crosses that of an enormous man, with shaggy hair, and scars on his face. Not exactly homeless-looking, his visage is still frightening. I pick up my pace. It doesn't exactly seem like he's following me, more like his path is in the same direction as mine, but he must have been walking behind me for a good fifteen minutes and so managed to scare the buhjeezus out of me. It was good that I'd actually been with Jesus that day, and hence had an abundance of buhjeezus, otherwise I probably would have been really creeped out. By the time I get to the monument Vittorio Emanuell, he was already long gone, so the whole incident couldn't have lasted more than twenty minutes. The rest of my journey to the Hostel is marked only by increasing resentment towards my horrible, horrible rash.

Le Voyageur Sale: Un Blog En Sept Tableaux Second Tableau: When in Rome, Act Like a French Prick

After I get off the airplane, I head for the custom's gate. Since I have no checked luggage I expect to zoom through, but am halted by the unexpectedly thoughtless design of customs check. The terminal which I go into immediately after leaving the plane has only one exit which has a sign over it that says "E.U. Passports ONLY." Seeing as I have no E.U. passport, my gut reaction is to look for another exit. But I look and look, and find nothing. Finally frustrated, I decide to stomach whatever humiliation will result from being a confused tourist who can't follow even the most basic directions, and go through the E.U. passport only exit.

And then I walk through the exit, and I've already left the terminal. No customs to deal with, no security screen, I'm literally already out in the street. This was the first of what was to be many indications that Italy is something like a set of movie Western. Presumably, if there was an exit for non-E.U. citizens then they would have to go through customs of some kind. But rather than deal with this problem, they've cut straight to the easiest answer: We'll only have an exit for E.U. citizens, and whatever happens, happens.

I buy a ticket to go to the nearest station of the Rome metro and go wait for the bus that will take me. While waiting, I decide to reorganize my bags so as to maximize comfort for carrying as opposed to discreteness of size. While carrying out this reorganization I realize that I can't find my iPod. I check through everything a second time, come up with nothing. I say to myself – it's only been twenty minutes, the plane probably hasn't left yet, maybe I have a chance to catch it before it leaves. I go back through the E.U. only exit, hoping to run into one of my friendly Australian stewards, to whom I could explain clearly my situation.

Immediately, however, I am picked up by the Italian airport security officer as having broken the golden rule of Italian Airports, "If you're in, get out, and if you're out, stay out." He approaches me.

What to do when one is approached by the force of law? In civilized parts of the world, it is best to meet that force directly, so as to show you have nothing to hide. They will question you whether you want it or not, what they're looking for is guilt that will revel there is something to be found. If you have done something wrong, or if you haven't, act without guilt, and you'll sail through fine. This was the great mistake of Josef K, whose immediate defensiveness lead to a presumption of guilt which he never was able to shake off. On the other hand, in some parts of the world, the law's main concern is not protecting the public, rather it's fucking you up. Such is the nature of law in Saudi Arabia, the Belgian Congo, and South of 62^nd Street in Chicago. The best approach with these officers is to get away as quickly as possible. What was it to be with my dear Italian, who was coming onto me so rapidly – I decided to take the chance, give Italy the benefit of the doubt, and assume that this brute was of the civil variety.

But as it turns out there is a third genre of police, possibly to be found elsewhere in the Mediterranean countries, probably to be found in Jamaica: the Joker Cop. His goal is not to enforce law, or to force the law down your throat, rather he's in the business for the laughs.

The cop assumes I am Italian, and says something to me like, "What're you doing you know you can't come back in once you're already out." I think what to say back, and of course come up desperately short. The look of confusion must have registered on my face, for the cop noticed it, and I saw his light blue eyes chuckle up a laugh, the light glinting off his irises took on a new humorous character, as a word flashed through his head, which I could read on his mind in the black ink of his pupils: "Touristo!"

I, sensing the charade lost, ask, "Speak English?"

The police man's soul squirmed with joy, a grin tugged at his lips as he desperately struggled to suppress a full-on smile. He says,

"No."

My proud crest falls, as the police shifts his Italian directly from first gear into fifth. His hands start gesticulating, moving through all possible constellations: One minute he's wagging his index finger back and forth to a scherzo; the next he's making a "left, then left"-motion at a presto. I genuflect, just to make sure he knows I'm following the conversation. All the while his mouth moves con gusto; his eyes fixed on mine revealing an insuppressible merriment.

I try to explain myself further, only to find myself inadvertently singing in a baritone, to what sounds to me like a Verdi Opera.

"Io-Podo Mio, in Air-Plano." I lilt

"No capis-co!" He responds at a basso, accompanied by the sound of strings furiously descending through a scale.

I try again, this time joined by a flute and clarinet duo, "Io-Podo Mio, in Airplano."

"No capis-co!" This time two other basso cops join his song, in addition to the strings and cop from before.

I try again, joined by all the lighter instruments in the orchestra, "Voglio Andare . . . Andare a . . . a Airplano."

"Inter-dit-o!" The cops intone, accompanied by dramatic upwards progression of the entire orchestra.

"Inter-dit-o?"

"Ho ditto!"

"Inter-dit-o?"

"Ho ditto!"

"INTERDITO!" I say, and am joined by the entire ensemble cast for the refrain, "Andare a Airplano Interdito, Andare a Airplano Interdito, IO-PODO MIO, IO-PODO MIO, NO PRENDO! NO PRENDO! Dios Mio!"

We take our bow amidst wild applause in baggage claim, and after the curtain falls, the cop says to me, "You have to go to information, that's a left and then a left, tell them that Mario sends you." And now the reason for the laughter had been revealed, he spoke fine English all along, and had merely been pretending. Best police practices? Only in Italy.

I go back out to the left and left, following the advice of Officer Mario. I find the information desk easily, and ask if I can get back on the plane since I left something.

"Ryana Aira, or EasyJette?" The woman behind the counter asks. "EasyJette" I say, looking through the bag once more just to be sure. Sure enough, I of course now find my iPod, and have to sheepishly tell the information woman I'm a moron who can't even search through the contents of his own bag properly.

I get on the bus for town, muttering "Bongiorno" to the driver, a rotund and sweaty man in sunglasses. He immediately stops me. "No, no, you say it like an Italian" and then in a proud rumble the words "Bongiorno" come tumbling out. His belly undulates under the powerful sonic force of the greeting. The rest of the bus trip and then metro passes without incidence.

I disembark at Rome's termini station, and am standing outside its front entrance. Truly now, I have arrived at the heart of Rome, I gaze out at the expanse before me. A great semi-truck was being followed by an enormous crowd of a thousand gyrating youths, music blasting from the truck, as musicians performed live music from a band stage at the rear of the truck itself. I watch the procession, all the more incredulous when I realized it was only 4 O'clock in the afternoon. I finally depart.

My hostel is conveniently located next to the train station, and various other institutions of sin. My check-in goes smoothly, I leave behind the desk only items which individually I estimate to have worth less than 12 dollars. I head out into the city.

I think it's probably pointless to describe to you the sites of Rome, I instead only attempt to describe my experience of them.

In the center of the city there is an enormous old roman building, larger than any building of the classical style that I've ever seen. The immense grandeur of the building once again made me feel that the expanse of my spirit could have only found a home in the age of the roman ancients, my only true peers the likes of Cicero and Marcus Aurelius. I imagined myself walking along the halls of that building in toga spun by early Christian martyrs and sandals made from the skin of Visigoths, holding forth discussion with the two, chiding them for weaknesses in their Stoicism, while eating the most choice dates in the World, offered to Rome by Hannibal as terms for appeasement. But soon that familiar melancholy seizes me, the one which recognizes that this life will never be mine, no matter how I try -and I must part.

I decide to make for the expansive hills on the west side of Rome, hopefully to make it there before Sunset, in order to get from on high a view of Rome before day bid sweet night farewell. I arrive at precisely the apex of the days beauty, and see my first sunset in Italy as a statue of Garibaldi views it every night. I say now that I have never seen a more beautiful sunset upon a city than the one I glimpsed from that high-hill.

As I descend the mountain I discover that there is no ready means of descent. Finally I find what looks to be a scenic path through the woods down the hill. I take it, only to find that the path becomes slighter and slighter, until I'm essentially walking over unbeaten path down the hill, at night, in a strange place, wherein any kind of old homosexual bog man could take me by surprise. On edge, I finally find myself at the perimeter of a road through a park, which is protected by a high fenced wall. I continue along the wall, hoping to find an entrance that would allow me to pass through the park and hopefully back to Rome proper. The path near this wall starts climbing up the hill, and I climb with it, until finally I end up back up at the top of the hill, only a few yards from where I started descending from in the first place.

I decide to continue along the top of the hill, until an easy point of descent. Why didn't I turn back, "You could always go back the way you came from," some might offer. No, no I couldn't go back the way I come from – so long as the undiscovered country exists, I, I must seek it.

I finally come to the end of the hill, and an old church on a small plaza, which had a beautiful fountain illuminated by soft blue lights. A staircase was now in sight, and I took it, descending onto possibly the only untouristic neighborhood in old Rome. I walk through the neighborhood, pausing to look over the menu of several restaurants. I pass them all by, and end up in slightly more touristic environs. I decide to make camp at a wonderful and cheap pizza place, four Euro for a delicious personal pizza with mushrooms and spinach.

The people sitting next to me at dinner were of unidentifiable Eastern European extraction, I could tell this by their dress and the timber of their foreign tongue. I could also tell that they were laughing at me as I struggled to order my food, something about how silly it was for Americans to come to a restaurant and order in English. I pulled out my copy of "Les Justes by Albert Camus" and the Eastern Europeans were noticeably taken a back – suddenly the person sitting before them had been turned from "Idiotic Young American Tourist" to "Young Frenchman" – a substantially more intimidating type, for in the part of the world this sort comes from, the Gaul is viewed as the wellspring of all culture and civilization.

I read my book, and got within striking distance to finish, when I suddenly noticed that these people were not just Eastern Europeans of unidentifiable extraction – but rather that they were speaking in Russian. Their accent was very strange however, which helps explain why I didn't at least recognize what they were speaking. I debate saying something to them, but then decide after listening to their discussion that they aren't the most friendly types, and probably better not to. I promise myself to eventually make contact with some Russians on the trip, if I find them.

And so I finish my meal, and start to wind my way home. I cross the river Tiber and start heading East, and stumble upon a long, broad street, with some kind of structure at its end. I walk along the street for a block, appreciating the clear night and full-moon, when it dawns on me that the structure in front of my eyes is the Coliseum. I quicken my pace until finally the full glory of the building is upon me, illuminated by a great full moon, I walk around the building for a full fifteen minutes. And then I depart.

I end up going up some high road that looks as if it will take me in a good direction, but the streets are deserted, the neighborhood is quite residential. I walk for a mile on this street, alone at night, not exactly appreciating the choice of route. But eventually it terminates, a bit further south than I thought it would. But fortune is my friend, on the first corner after leaving the long uneventful passage, I find a café serving beautiful cannoli, and I have one for my desert.

I wander into much busier neighborhoods, strolling leisurely and enjoying the sights and sounds of night-time Rome. Finally I call it a night, and head back to my Hostel.

When I open the door to my room, it is completely dark, except for a night lamp next to the bed two over from mine. An emaciated Asian is sitting half-naked in the bed, reading his blackberry. He looks up at me, seems to find me to be without interest, and returns to his blackberry. Nice guy. I can't tell who the other occupants of my room are, they are shrouded in the darkness, but they speak in Spanish, and have women's voices. I lie down in my bed, the soft sound of feminine-voiced Spanish stroke my ears and serve as a lullaby to put me immediately to sleep.

Le Voyageur Sale: Un Blog En Sept Tableaux Premier Tableau: A Hard Departure

"To see Italy, and to die." These words can be found written all across Paris, a veritable advertising campaign for Italy, paid for by the Musee d'Orsay. Of course what my dear Musee probably wants is for me to die on its premises, but last week I decided to cut out the middle man, and go to meet my challenger directly. If Italy's beauty was indeed the foe to best me, I would prefer to be bested in person, rather than through that cracked mirror which goes by the name of Italian portraiture. But I also admit that I did not expect to be bested, for since I regularly read my own writing, I have quite a high tolerance for beauty.

To consider properly the story of my departure we must begin with a hungover. On Friday I met with my dear friend Michelle, who I have known since we were just gamins a l'ecole. We went to a park on the Northeast side of Paris, which is held by critical consensus to be the best park in all the city. I am not in disagreement. We all had a lovely time in the park, and afterwards at the bizarre exhibition of David LaChappelle.

I will save my excoriating critique of David LaChappelle for my remarks about Milan, wherein I examine the whores of babylon who staff the harem of the socio-politico-economical order we call modern global market capitalism, but suffice it to say that I thought the €8 museum charge unreasonable.

In any event, almost immediately upon entering the exhibition I noticed a throbbing feeling in my head, and indeed felt a headache coming on. This was of course to be expected, since I had been drinking rosé quite steadily throughout the afternoon. But usually I don’t get day hangovers, only during the night, when passion overtakes me, do I go too far beyond the limits set by my formidable Stoic will.

When I arrive home exhaustion overpowers me. I never sleep in the afternoon; since it is done by les faibles it is not done by me. But nevertheless I slept, a dreamful sleep with a wonderous content – but I say no more, lest I strengthen too much the hands of the Freudians.

I awake and it was dark, the migraine had not gone away. I drank more water, and made to do my laundry, suffering for two hours from a terrible headache as I waited for the insufferable drier to finish.

When it did finish, I went to bed, praying that when I awake the headache would be gone. God, who in his infinite wisdom provides conundrums too all who need them or don’t, decides that my migraine should remain with me when I awaken, but that, in case the poor headache was lonely, perhaps it would be best if it had some nausea to keep it company.

After some thought it occurs to me that this is the first real migraine I’ve ever had in my life. Headache, nausea, sensitivity to light, it was all there. But much as I love a new experience, I had trouble fully feeling that love as I wretched on my bathroom floor, clutching my stomach from the fierce pain, tears welling in my eyes. The whole morning I alternate between drinking whole liters of water and puking.

Finally it appears we had arrived at the crossroads. Go now for the airport, and suffer through until the disease passes, or stay in Paris. The funny thing about the disease was that I could feel it wouldn’t last long. In every contest there are competitors, and if one is competitive then one learns something about one’s competition. In dueling, fencing, tennis, or illness, it makes no difference; I could see my opponent for what he was, and I knew I was the better.

I made off for the airport having eaten nothing at all. I quickly buy a Nestea since I’d read on Wikipedia that sugar helps the body absorb water and so non-carbonated soft drinks good for when the dehydrated. The refreshing coolness of Nestea’s Peach Passion buoyed my strength, but also more importantly, my spirits.

I arrive at Paris-Orly airport ridiculously early, over an hour before check in, and have a somewhat frustrating encounter with the man managing the flow of customers in the line. EasyJet, which basically is to Southwest Airlines as Southwest is to United, has a window on when it is acceptable even to enter the check-in line. Why do they do that? Surely we’ve all seen the sight of someone coming late to their plane, running frantically on the way to check out, rehearsing their speech about why they should be let on the plane, or baring that, another plane but without additional charge – and when it goes badly these are the people that bare inordinate responsibility for the long lines we invariably encounter. EasyJet, in order to get away with as little counter staff as is efficiently possible, has decided to counter this problem by having large, bald men, of the “rather stupid” persuasion, standing at the entrance to ask which flight you are on. If you’re not in the window of acceptable entrance – then you have to go to another terminal where the “well-staffed, friendly customer service representatives” will be glad to help you. Thankfully, as I was very early, I was on the other side of the problem: I had to wait to wait in line.

At the airport I discovered that although Orly may be Paris’ budget airport, they aren’t exactly catering to the thrifty with their concessions. Three fifty for a can of soda, six for a coffee, orange juice and croissant. And people actually support these institutions – which is a wonderful way to see how deeply nested is the impulse to have whatever crap is immediately in front of one’s eyes. If you’re in Orly airport, you probably think you’re really screwing somebody with how little you paid for your ticket – and presumably you enjoy that feeling enough to schlep out to a bullshit airport, and fly bullshit airlines, and in general be treated like bullshit to get from place to place. And yet out of this self-selecting pool of cheapskates, we still find people willing to pay absurd amounts for things they absolutely do not need. Besides the food, the best example of this phenomenon to be found in the airport is “airport-only services.” For example, there was a woman in a one piece red mini-suit offering to saran wrap your baggage for 8 Euro. Of course many of the customers I assume were men who were hoping that the purely business interaction would turn somehow sexual. “I love saran wrap? How about you? . . . Oh, you want my phone number – that’s such a coincidence! I was just thinking about how you’re so attractive and that it would be like a fantasy for us to sleep together – boy I’m really glad I came over to have you wrap my junk in plastic – oh whoops, I guess I’m getting ahead of myself!” But actually many other people were getting the wrapping done – “You know, I really should get my bag wrapped in pink plastic. If I don’t do it I’m going to really regret it later”

I pass through these scenes in a daze – an hour turns in a blink of an eye and I reapproach EasyGoon at exactly the hour I was supposed to come. But I was stopped again for a few moments, as the man starts eyeing my bag uneasily. I had partly expected this. Much of the excitement of flying an airline like EasyJet is the give and take between screwing and being screwed. It’s really a game, who’s going to get the other one to spend money that they don’t need to spend. I offer several proofs that this game is really existing, and not just an artifact of my idiosyncratic worldview. First, when you’re on your last screen before buying your ticket –suddenly EasyJet reveals that it’s going to pass along the Airport Tax to you, the consumer, rather than having included it in the listed price. Second, they mention that every customer has “The right to one piece of ‘Hold Baggage’” up to 20kg. But then, it turns out, that you have to pay 11 euros for this right, and that actually you can forfeit the right and be charged 11 euros less. This made me question if I understood what I was even being charged for in the first place. “Hold Baggage” –what is that? Having now investigated, I can say with some certainty that they mean “Checked Baggage” - but the link to explain what is going on uses intentionally obfuscating, excessively British English to confuse Americans and other Europeans who have for the most part studied American English. Finally, at the end when you’re about to buy your ticket – EasyJet gives you the option to help the environment by paying for Carbon Offsetting. Because the people who admit to being big polluters, are really the ones you want to be giving money to in order to fix the environment . On one level ew can say that it’s only a little bit of a cynical ploy on their part – they can say they’re committed to helping the environment, but their commitment is essentially shifting the responsibility onto the consumer, and that they really aren’t doing anything. OR, it’s a really cynical expoitation of guilt over the environment in order to win EasyJet free money.

But back to the matter at hand, which was that the gendarme was staring at my carry-on bag. EasyJet gives unlimited weight for carry-on, assuming one’s bag isn’t too big in terms of volume. I guess they’ve probably done calculations on how dense most baggage is and how much weight is likely to be incurred. In any event, they police the volume restriction like hawks – forcing people with bags to thick to check and pay hefty fines for late-check-in. My problem was that, the day before, I’d realized that it would not be possible to fit my clothes into one bag – so it was either give up on clean underwear or move to a bigger bag, which I didn’t have. So what I decide to do is to cram my two back-packs, filled to the brim with stuff, into my large Orange shopping bag that I use for groceries. Ever the post-modernist, I was in fact taking three bags as carry-on, even though to the untrained eye it looked like one bag.

I don’t know what thoughts went through that mans head as he stares mesmerized at my carry-on – “He’s carrying bags in bags? Can they do that? I wonder what he has in those backpacks? Other bags? Are they like Russian dolls, getting smaller and smaller, and eventually stopping? Or could there be an infinite regress of bags? But why would he need so many bags anyways? Probably a drug transportation thing – let security deal with that.”

“Okay, move along.” And he attached a card saying my bag had been approved. Brian Chateau: 1, Easy Jet: 0.

I go through the check-in no sweat, even succeeding in sneaking my tooth paste through security even though it's completely in violation of the "No Tubes or Gels" policy" - when you're beating security without even trying in the slightest it makes you start to wonder about how secure it is/is it providing any deterrent at all? On the other side of security there is a sandwich place that sells for 3 euros bread and brie. I investigate my stomach, and feel its libido begin to perk. Yes, at last my stomach no longer feels like a witches-brew of churned acid - "J'AI LE FAIM!" I think to myself joyously, which I suppose makes me indelibly on the "haves" side of things as opposed to the "have-nots."

I get on the plane no trouble, and my stomach had returned to sufficient strength that it could suffer whatever turns would be induced by the inane scribbles of that insufferable Algerian cretin, Albert Camus. I admit that the book could scarcely hold my attention, for I was sitting behind a Parisian girl on the plane, who had a bit of that really arrogant bitchy look that drives men wild. A look a bit too smug, her features gone over too many time with excessive care, and finally a bit of a downward curl of her lip, as if she, out of spite for you and the whole world, could not deign to smile. As if she might spit in your general direction at any moment. Of course it is the forbiddenness, and the impossibility, and the disgust, which create the temptation - and the reason d'entre for seduction.

Of course, we said nothing to each other during the flight - probably since I was reading Camus she thought I was too deep for her. I don't doubt it; I often have problems finding women deep enough for the massive girth of my . . . "personality."

But I tried my best to focus on the book, amidst the glorified street merchants called EasyJet attendants hocking their wares. At last, we arrive safe, in Rome.