À la prochaine: Strasbourg

My course in school finished, my glorious return to the maison of my infancy not impending, it seemed that all the adventures I could have, I had already had, much like most of the world's beautiful women. With no fresh adventures a field to be sought, yet alone found, I found myself in a state I had envied after all my life - it seemed that it was at last time to rest on my laurels, and write my memoirs.

As I began to write, however, I found that, for the first time in my life, the act of writing felt utterly pleasureless. My sentences, which had once risen up with that full, firm dignity you know so well, seemed to have turned flaccid, limp, and, what is most troubling, small, in my very hand. Thankfully, as should be apparent from the eight commas in my last sentence, my ability to write rich, long, and intricate sentences has since returned to normal. But still the mystery remains: how could such an affliction strike my proud, Coq-like pen? I know now the answer to this question, but only thanks to that blessed 20/80 vision with comes with hindsight; at the time I had not a single clue. I became panicked. I did everything to bring my former strength back : changing my diet, exercising, even delaying the moment of writing until seconds before I intentionally smashed my car into oncoming traffic. Nothing worked.

And so it was as I stared blankly at my notebook one night not so long ago. There was only one sentence written on the page: "Finally, I left Rome." I nearly burst in to tears then and there, looking at those pitiful, mocking, Hemingway-esque words. I knew there was so much more to say, but I knew not the means to say it. It was then, with a single tear rolling down the left side of my cheek, that I received an urgent facebook message from the King of Monaco, the subject header of which read "Elections European." As you are no doubt aware, that universalist, republican sham which goes by the name "The European Union" held elections several weeks ago, to decide which whores and curs would serve in its Parliament. I, naturally, boycotted the election, not only because I am not a citizen of any European country, but also out of respect for a certain principle: when the Hindenburg explodes, makes sure you're watching - from a safe distance. In any event, here is the text of the King's message:

Hey Chat B,

Yo it's your dog King M. Can't wait to finish reading about your trip to Italy - hope it comes out soon : >. Anyways, I'm writing because I don't know if you've noticed this, but of all 734 elected members of European parliament, not a single one professes to be a monarchist. For shame! Where would Europe be without the Kings of Europe? Physically, probably in the same place . . . but metaphysically? It's hard to even imagine. World War I probably wouldn't have happened, nor World War II, the Holocaust, the French Revolution, the rise of communist Russia, or nearly any of the European wars, famines, plagues and pestilences that one can credit as ultimately stemming from the malfeasance of European monarchs. Why, we'd be little more than an America without Ronald Reagan or apple pie! But who am I writing to, Chateau-Brian-D., the paragon of all that's right and true, the foremost defender of the one true political faith: Monarchism. I plead to you, Monaco has but one representative in European parliament - I was going to appoint my third son Jean-Maximillian August to the post, but the boy is like a pure-bred Dalmatian: blind, retarded, and with backwards joints and black spots all over his albino skin. It would be better if you served in his place. Do it Chateau-Brian. For the good of Europe, I implore you.

TTYL

King of Monaco

Who could not be moved by this impassioned plea, and the kind gesture of denying his own son for my sake? I decided immediately, there was not one moment to waste, I would go to Strasbourg, challenge evil at its source, grabbing the Socialists, Sarkozyists, and Greens by their roots . It would be 734 of Europe's most brilliantly deceitful Parliamentary tacticians in collusion against moi - the only one who I would be able to count on even as a fickle ally would be the irascible crypto-fascist Jean LaPenn – and even then only on issues relating to the sanctity of French national sovereignty.

And so it was that I find myself tout de suite packing the entirety of my suite at the Cambodian house, in the hopes of getting to Strasbourg the next morning.

For some, the idea of moving all one's worldly possessions from city to city by one's self seems frightening and unreasonable – they might even pay to have someone else do it for them. But not I. In fact, I treat it very much like a training exercise for my favorite sports-pastime – competitive moving. In the sport of competitive moving, the objective is to carry as much stuff as quickly as possible from city to city. One can choose what suitcases one takes and what one puts in the bags; there is, however, a required item. In every race, one must carry a tennis racket. For although the tennis racket is not particularly heavy, it is always particularly awkward, since it inevitably cannot fit into any other bags. The result is that you always ends up having to carry it strapped around your shoulder, and as the course of the move continues, the position of the racket will change, and the strap will gradually twine itself tighter and tighter around your neck. This at once presents two grave difficulties for the competitor. On the one hand, he is being choked. On the other hand, he is being choked by a tennis racket. The former poses a physical challenge, as he won't be able to breathe, while the later presents a more psychological one, as the competitor is forced to deal with the irony of feeling himself choked by his own instrument of pleasure.

Of course it need not be said that my boy-hood friend, an infamous Marquis who need not be named, would have not seen this as a great irony.

In any event, I was sure the course to Strasbourg would be nothing for such a fierce competitor as myself. It was only two years previous that I had finished in legendary time, and with a heroic burden, the Iron Mensch Competition, wherein one moves from New York City to Tel Aviv. Not to revel in past glories, my remarkable burden consisted of 3 backpacks, one rolling bag 50+ lbs, and a tennis racket, which I carried over three train transfers and a wrong terminal in New York City. No elevators or escalators at any of the subway stations - a special difficulty for the rolling bag. And also a special surprise for the course: on the way to the first train station, one of the backpacks, the University of Chicago bag I received orientation, rips completely in half. No time to buy another one, everything packed to the gills, I have to use my arms to hold together the shattered corpse of my backpack together, and if anything falls out , there's no way to pick anything up without the bag shattering completely.

And yes, things did fall out.

But that is a story from a different time, we were discussing Strasbourg.

At the crack of dawn I wake and after forty-five seconds of moving I know that the weight would not amount to anything grave. And yet I steadied myself not to become overconfident, for one of the rules of competitive moving is that there is always a surprise. Maybe a turnstile would lock before I went through. Maybe a band of gypsy children would surround and attack me. But in fact, what challenge awaited me was one of a purely psychological nature: the scorn of rush-hour Parisians.

From my boarding at Cité Universitaire, until my descent at Gare d'Est, I find the air filled with aggravated quips aimed at my general direction. "Pardon Monsieur," "Excusez-Moi, Monsieur," "Ne mettez pas ton sac sur mes pieds, s'il vous plait, Monsieur." My existence that day seemed to offend one elderly Parisian in particular. He was well-dressed, and had with him his dog, a Pomeranian, which he kept on a short leash. I accidently brushed this man's shoulder with the side of my backpack. "Herumphah" he said, and followed with a statement whose words I cannot exactly recall, but were to the effect of "Why does this idiot have all these things with him?" Several indignant quips came immediately to mind, but I wasn't sure about their gramaticity so I decide to let it be.

I arrive at the Gate t the East, grab what was to be my last espresso in Paris, and my last Paul, and enjoy what will be my final exposure to that intoxicating mélange of sludgy, acidic espresso and crumbly, buttery Paul. For a moment Paris pauses, rush hour detouring itself around me and my bags, as I eat on the steps between the correspondence of Gare d'Est and Metro 14.

And then I'm off, running precisely on schedule for my train. I validate my ticket, and then take an endless walk down the train's length until I reach my car. My seat is next to an elderly Maghrebian, who appears to be performing some sort of numerological analysis of Arabic text. He lets me sit by the window, I stare out as we leave the station.

I'm not sure I will live to see interstellar travel, but if I do I expect to find it much like riding the TGV. Basically for a long time I cruise along at normal speed, watching the vast emptiness of the French country side meander by. Then I hear over the intercom "Mesdames et Messieurs, vous vous préparez: nous commençons TGV Vitesse." "Guchsprach, bich bach, mich schlack tung: TGV Shpeed." "Ladies and Gentleman, prepare yourself: we are now entering TGV Speed." A great noise from the front of the train is heard, and trees by the side of the track tear by so quickly that you can't distinguish one from the other, as if light itself bent around our train's wake.

Watching the countryside on the TGV isn't like any window-viewing experience I've ever had. Maybe this is a common weather occurrence in France, maybe it has something to do with the unusual speed of the TGV, but as I look out the window I see clouds rolling over the hills at a height of no more than 60 feet. These are honest to God clouds, not the great puffy white cumulus kind we used to love to watch as children, these are a bit more wispy, but nevertheless all have definite color, shape and form. Which is to say, clouds, nonetheless. I watched them like great specters as they ran across the land; when the train turned so I could see through to its back, one could see these forms churning in the TGV's wake.

Four minutes after engaging TGV drive, I arrive at Strasbourg. It seems we had gone so fast that we had caught up with the previous days weather, sporadic downpours of frigid rain that come in big fat drops, so large that even one soaks my hair through and through. It is out into the cold rain that I walk, carrying my all-terrain back pack, battle-racket, and orange shopping bag overflowing with excess clothes and computer cables. After searching the plaza in front of Strasbourg's main gate, I eventually determine that the city tram I was looking for actually had its station underground.

I board the city tram, make my route to the hotel with one stop-over at a place called Homme de Fer, and appropriate enough: although cold and wet, it seemed that Strasbourg itself was bowing down to recognize that the Iron Mensch had at last arrived. Even on the tram, I noticed however that there was something very different about the Strasbourgeois from the Parisians. Something about their speech was somehow . . . clearer. In France people are usually very quite on trains, if they talk, they talk at a volume so as not to disturb others, which makes it a bit difficult for me, since I like to listen in on their conversations, and I need for people to talk to me LOUDLY and CLEARLY if I'm going to understand them at all. But somehow, it seemed that on the Strasbourg tram, it was possible to hear more of what they were saying than I was used to.

I get to my hotel, and the man at the desk says, "Bonjour." I say Bonjour back." He says to me, "Do you speak English?" Immediately, I notice something strange about his accent. It sounds like a French person trying to impersonate German, while still speaking in English. I think for a moment, maybe he's faking. But then I reconsider. Usually when people affect an accent, it sounds forced, especially when they're trying to do it in a language not their native. After listening to Italians, French, and Germans all try their hand at a British accent, I can say that such attempts uniformly lead to disaster. But this man now before me was speaking as if it was completely natural for him, as if this was the way he had only ever spoken English, as if this was the only way he could speak English. Maybe he's a German who lives in Strasbourg, I thought, and maybe this is the result. I switch to French in order to answer his question: "Je peux dire quelque chose, mais je suis ameicain aussi, so I speak English." He gives me directions to get to the room in French, the whole time I try to pay attention with half my brain to what he's saying, while with the other half trying to find signs of Germanity in his French - signs not found.

With my keys and bags I walk up to the fourth floor where he says my room will be. On the top of my room card, the Franco-German had written 1432 in black marker, so I assumed that this was somehow code for my room - a code easy enough to figure out. 1 probably meant first building, 4 meant 4^th floor, and then 32 must mean my room number. When I get to the 4^th floor, however, I find that the corridor is almost pitch black, except for a light coming from one side of the corridor. I go towards the light, and find a room full of hotel soaps, mops, bleach, and various other cleaning supplies. It doesn't look that there's a room on the other side. I go back, and use my iPod to illuminate the numbers on the doors. In fact there's only 5 rooms on the floor, 401, 402, etc. Well, I think to myself, maybe the two doesn't mean anything, so I try room 3. No luck. Then I think, well, maybe for some reason the 3 doesn't mean anything, so I try room 2. No luck.

Could it be that there's another building and I didn't notice he said anything about it? I go back down with all my bags, and back outside, butting myself once more again a wall of cold enormous rain. I squint through the sheets of rain, looking for another building. There isn't one. Clearly, the stakes had been raised too high, it was time to fold.

I go back into the hotel, the Franco-German isn't at the desk. I poke my head into the restaurant; he's in there waiting tables. I wave over to him; he sees me and comes closer. I say, for some reason a bit breathless "I think I've misunderstood something. Is there another building?" "No, just the one."

Shit, I had definitely screwed something, "But, I look on my key" and then I show him my key, "and it says 1432, one for the building, four for the floor, and then 32, for the room."

"No, no, that's not your room number." Then, he points at the key a little lower. A bit faded, and smudged, I can make out the letters "ch" and the number "401." "Voila, chambre quatre, nul, un. The other number is the code for the door if you come back after midnight." I make the mandatory, Oh, obviously, motions with my hands, and go up to my room.

At the request of my father, due to the rather lackluster evaluation of my dear friend Carl, and because it befit more a representative of the sovereign kingdom of Monaco, I had decided to eschew spreading my largess upon French hostelery, in favor of giving all the more to an American budget hotel. That is to say, rather than spending 20 euros on what was likely to be a filthy and uncomfortable French hostel, I decided to take the chance, and see what more 40 euros would get me from a reputable American company: The Comfort Inn. By symbological analysis, it is clear that Comfort in is somehow affiliated with Days Inn, which as we know is fighting neck and neck for survival against Motel 6 and that other company, you know the one, it's like Motel 6, but it has an 8 in its name instead of a 6, and it doesn't really have the word Motel in its name, because Motel 8 definitely isn't what it's called. Mega 8? Hotel 8? Super 8, I think it is, but I'm not really sure that's it. Anyways, I wasn't sure if Comfort Inn was a higher-end version of Days Inn, designed to compete with such luxury hotel lines as Holiday Inn Express and Budget Inn, or if it was a lower-end version of Days Inn, designed to compete with crack-dens and park-benches. After looking at the room I can say, definitely the former; in the room I found an HDTV, a down comforter on the bed, plush Pier-1 Imports Style Papazan Chair, and, best of all, a water boiler with tea set, including biscuits. I put the water on a boil, had a shower, and then watched out my window as the rain fell, while sipping tea and eating biscuits in a towel-robe the hotel had provided. In short, I had within twenty minutes of arrival determined that although I was paying twice as much, I was getting much more than twice the quality.

After I finishing my tea, and soiling my robe, I decide that enough is enough; Strasbourg is my hostess, and I'm not one to keep a lady waiting. But what to do about the rain? I had no umbrella, and although there was daybreak for the moment, if I went without protection, Lady Strasbourg might later stab me in the back, like most women do when I don't wear protection. I decide to take my black Calvin Klein late-fall, earlier winter coat. Fashionable and sportive, the Calvin Klein is flexible enough to weather anything from a light chill to deep winter. The only problem is that it clashes horribly with my brown shorts and sandals. No matter.

So I set off for the city in my black winter coat, my brown shorts, and my Adidas flip-flops. I had a map of the city with me, and I proceed to make my own impromptu route from the hotel to centreville. The route takes me through a charming part of the old city called Petite France. Located in the southwest of Strasbourg, Petite France is on a tiny island between two branches of the Strasbourg River. In total, the two branches can be no more than a hundred feet apart, so Petite France is packed to the gills with charming buildings that look like they came out of a Hans Christian Anderson stories. For some reason, there are also locks to go up and down on these tiny branches of the river, and I stand on one of them, watching as a boat, as long and as wide as the dock space itself, goes up to cruise around in the highly cramped maritime space of Petite France.

After Petite France, I go to investigate some of the well-known squares in Strasbourg. While walking up a side-street to one of them, I suddenly see, down another side-street, my first view of Strasbourg's main cathedral. Although the church did not incapacitate me to the same extent as Italian lighting did several weeks prior, it still struck some nerve inside me, and an eloquent expression of my appreciation came unbidden to my lips: "Whoa ho ho!" I said, and turned red when I realized I must have sounded like a California Surfer-dude version of Santa Claus.

After getting a good look at the thing, I move along down the avenue I had been on, stopping and enjoying some of Strasbourg's more wonderful plazas. After this, I walk along the banks of the river, see a couple nice statues, and take some pictures of me interacting with them.

After that, I made south for some more of the city's plazas, and immediately run into two encounters which I think are indicative of some of the major cultural differences between Paris and Strasbourg. The first, is two middle-aged women sitting in a park, sweetly talking and playing with each other's dogs. From their conversation I could tell that these people were strangers, but could enjoy each other's company very easily. Strasbourg seems to be a friendly place, with a friendly, small-town, Midwestern vibe. The other thing I noticed was that I accidently stumbled upon a couple making out in the middle of an empty street, and when the couple saw me, they decided to stop making out and continue on their walk. I was absolutely shocked and appaled. A halting to a public display of affection! In France! No! Really, this was completely new for me – if one stumbles upon the same thing in Paris, one gets the sense that the display gets if anything more intense, when the couple knows their being watched.

Shortly after these two encounters, a fierce rain begins. Luckily, it was already 6 o clock so it was reasonable to stop in for a pre-dinner beer as a way of avoiding the rain. I sat drinking a Kronenburg on a patio, looking out as the rain pitter-pattered on a plaza dedicated to the Republic. I checked my iPod, on which I had put a pdf of the LonelyPlanet Guide to Alsace-Loraine, and found that one of the restaurants they recommended in Strasbourg was actually located in the very plaza I was presently in. Finishing my beer, I walked twenty yards to my dinner place.

One of the timeless questions that has frustrated every man with even the remotest of intelligence is, "Would a pizza by any other name, taste as good?" I knew that at last I would be able to answer this question for myself, since one of the traditional dishes of Strasbourg is called Tarte Flambée, and it's basically pizza. The restaurant I was now in served some of the best Tarte Flambée in the city apparently, and I ordered the mixed Tarte, which came with four different sets of toppings at once, so as to get a sense of what the dish was.

When the dish came, however, I was horrified to discover that the dish was covered with shredded pork. Pork? What's the problem with pork, you might ask, quietly snickering to each other about me being some kind of kosher-keeping, bond-collecting Jew. To you I say that I am not, nor have I ever been, a Jew, that none of my friends are Jews, and that no matter what the meaning of "is" is, I have never had sexual relations with someone who was to my knowledge of a Jew or Jewish persuasion. In fact, if need be, I can prove to you my complicity in the Dreyfus affair, and tell you that I only did it out of my own bitter and heartfelt anti-Semitism

But why do I not eat pork? It's just one of the traditions of a noble family like mine, which we've kept for the entirety of our noble history. We have lots of other ones too: for example, circumcising male children 8 days after they are born. Or eating unlevened bread for the week before Easter. And lighting candles on Friday evenings. I don't do it because I'm Jewish. Trust me, the Chateau-Brian's are just as Celtic as the next Gaul, if not more so. It's just that we're noble, and so have these rules we have to follow and pass on to our children until the day Christ our savior returns to walk the land.

In any event, as I stare at the Tarte covered in shredded pork, I weigh my options of eating it or not. In the end I decide, with some hesitation, to do it, because you only live once, or in my case, nine times, and when Strasbourg do as the Strasbourgeois. The Tarte was delicious. I had initially been skeptical, since it used Crème Fraîche instead of cheese or tomato sauce, but in fact it had a taste very much like any other white pizza made without pasta sauce, if a bit heavier and tangier. Nevertheless it was great.

At dinner, however, I gained confirmation at last that the Strasbourgeois have generally the clearest French for English speakers to understand. The couple sitting next to me was certainly from Strasbourg, from the manner in which they talked with the waitress this was clear (the woman in the couples says to my waitress, a somewhat elderly woman, "Good to see you again my young girl, will you be our server tonight?"). But as the dinner went on I realized for the first time I was listening to a real conversation in a foreign language where I was following (nearly)-every single word.

My dinner finished, I step outside only to find the rain still falling. There is no point in wandering around the city getting soaked after dinner, probably to get sick and ultimately die. I decide to head back, walking through the rain to the central Man of Iron stop of the tram, and returning home.

At home I decided to watch for the first time on my trip French television. What I find was a fascinating look into French culture. First, I start watching a show that I had heard was one of the most popular shows in France: Les Experts. In the cafeteria at school and at my dormitory, one could always hear people talking about it or some other show, called Daucteau Ause. "Daucteau Ause, Daucteau Ause, Les Experts." It's all one hears French people talking about. I knew they were tv shows, but since I had no television I didn't know or care what it was.

At dinner once with my friend Marie, we were talking about T.V. shows, and I told her that she must watch Seinfeld, it's the best show ever. And she told me back, you know the best show ever made is still running, and it's American, so you really must watch it, it's called, as she says it, "Docteur Ouse." At that moment I made a connection, "Doctor House? Doctor House? This Daucteau Ause that everyone has been talking about this whole time is just House!" And then I laughed and laughed, "What's next: Loi et Ordre: Victimes Spéciales Unités?"

But I should have known better, as I watch television I realize within ten seconds that this Les Experts show was dubbed from American English, and, after another minute, that Les Experts is nothing other than CSI: Miami. You'll forgive me that it took a whole minute but I've never watched CSI, so had to infer what it was from the fact that the police were doing some kind of crazy computer investigation of fingerprints on a bullet, and that the panoramic city views reveal that the show is set in Miami.

After a few minutes I change the channel. I find it fascinating that these shows are so popular in France, since my impression of them is that there's nothing really unique about them. I'd already been watching Law and Order six years before CSI: Miami came out, and E.R. a long time before House. While I'm sure these shows are fine, I never paid attention to them, because they seemed to just be the same stuff that you could get in three or four other shows running at the same time – and the crime investigating/medical genre never appealed so much to me as the court drama show, or a good comedy show about Jewish people running pointless errands. For some reason, the Chateau-Brian's have always loved Jewish comedians.

The show that I began to watch afterwards was still more interesting than Les Experts. The premise of the show is that the producers are sent letters from thousands of women looking to find true love. The show selects six eligible bachelors, who read the letters and decide which ones they like. There's some screening process so that the contestants are only permitted to select women of similar ages. Then, there is some process of correspondence, exchange of pictures, finally terminating in everyone meeting for a speed date. Gradually the whittle down the pool of aspiring female contestants, and eventually they choose one. Then the show catches up with everyone a year later, to see how it turned out. The funny part of the show is that all the contestants are agricultural workers of some kind. I start watching and it's like "Jean is an éleveur de porcs." "Michel herds cows." "Gerard raises chickens" By the fourth one I was cracking up hysterically, thinking about all these poor, lonely French country-bumpkins. But as reality television goes it was actually great, and I think it should be brought to the U.S. in some form or another. I turned the tv off and went to bed, having wonderful dreams about spending a night with the dark-haired, hook-nosed, woman of my dreams. In the morning, I brewed myself another pot of tea, watch a ten minute cartoon show in French about why so many people are dying in Iraq. Answer: Sunni's hate Shi'ites, Shi'ites hate Sunnis, and everyone hates the Americans. But why are there Americans in Iraq, when America is on the other side of the world? Answer: Oil. America came to Iraq to get its oil. See, you really do learn stuff from cartoons.

My plan for this day called for a wide arc through less central Strasbourg, up to a near suburb called Cronenbourg, and afterwards to the Capital of European parliament where I would be able to notify them where the Monocan representative would be staying, and finally ending in park a kilometer east of town on the Rhine, dedicated to German-French cooperation and peace. The park had of course been destroyed repeatedly by invading German armies: rebuilt after WW1 using the money from German reparations, destroyed by Hitler during his Blitzkrieg, and rebuilt after WWII using the money of U.S. taxpayers, from where it gets its present look.

On the way to Cronebourg, I passed the train station and the museum of modern art. Both beautiful buildings, they were exceptional as the western side of Strasbourg is pretty residential. This afforded me opportunity to wonder if director David Cronenberg's family is from this unobtrusive suburb.

As I walk onto the bridge separating Cronenbourg from Strasbourg, I look ahead to see what awaits me. What I find is an impossible spectacle of disturbing violence, demented sexuality, and other unspeakable elements, which include a typewriter that looks like parts of the human anatomy combined with butterfly wings, a television that convulses like a busy prostate, and David Arquette sitting on a lawn-chair sipping a mojito. Instantaneously, I contract post-traumatic stress disorder, and stagger backwards from the bridge covering my eyes. I do not repeat what I saw in any detail, lest it kill or otherwise maim any of my beloved readers. Suffice it to say that the memory of what I saw still haunts me to this day, still causing me to question both the existence of God and the validity of reality itself.

I stumble away from the bridge, wondering how I would go on living after I had touched the very void itself by looking into that abject metaphysical blackness which goes by the name of Cronenbourg. But I exaggerate a bit, for it was only the briefest moment that I touched nothingness, before thinking again of myself, and how much faith I had in myself, my purpose, and my mission. A weaker man, less enamored with himself, might then and there have crumbled without anything to believe it. Me? I came away even more firm in the foremost pillar of my belief: me. In short, narcissism saved me from nihilism, much like it did post-world war II Germany.

And of course there was the small matter of my duty to the people of Monaco, to defend them from the destructive fad of democracy, and also the much larger matter of my promise to the Monacan king – I never go back on a promise made to a friend.

So pressing on, for it was really not difficult, I made my way to the European parliament. But, since it was already lunch, I stopped in at a flee market in a statue garden that was on the way, and bought a buttery, mediocre croissant. After gobbling down the croissant – it was not a Paul after all – I see that my path goes by a Holiday Inn. I decide to stop in, to see if I can score some free internet, as I did several weeks before at a Hotel Ibis on Place de la Republic. I go in, walk past the desk with the attendants all staring at me, possibly because they aren't sure if I am a guest, probably because I'm so attractive, and head into the bathroom. I use the immaculate facilities. Then, by the time I come out, the attendants have since forgotten about me, which conveniently affords me the chance to use the computers. Unfortunately the computers are passworded. Frustrated, I move on.

At this point I'd managed to find myself in the real suburban waste land of Strasbourg. It's the type of suburban waste land that isn't quite as nice as Naperville, but has just as much crappy shrubbery randomly sprouting amongst undeveloped grassland. Think Oak Lawn. But my aim was sure, and my map was true, or at least it seemed so because I found all the streets where I expected them to.

Suddenly I turn a corner, and see what looks like a stadium combined with an office building. Probably about thirty stories high, at the very top of a building it seems there is an arboretum, with massive trees spurting out. This is the second biggest building I've seen in France, besides Tour Montparnasse, and as expected it is fact the European Parliament building. Somewhat surprisingly, the parking lot of the building is totally empty, hardly what I'd expected of a busy capital. Then I recall, oh that's right, this union is a farce, of course they don't actually do anything here. I commence walking in like I own the place, up to the front entrance.

A security guard sees me pass without stopping, and hurries out, shouting at me, "Entshuldigung!" or some other German jibberish. I guess when French people see somebody going wherever they want without proper permission, they're assumed to be German. I turn around and say in french,

"Hello Mademoiselle ."

"Oh, Monsieur. I didn't realize you were French. Today we're closed to the public."

I smile on the inside, forgiving the nymphet of her honest mistake, "Ah, of course, but, you see, I am not a member of the public."

She looks at me questioningly, not unsympathetically. I clarify.

"You see, I am the representative of Monaco."

"Really? You're very young."

"Yes - young . . . and gifted as well." I say smugly, confident and flirtatious. I was new in Strasbourg, after all, and it always helps to have friends in building management. She looks at me appraisingly,

"Mmm, I'm sure. But, something doesn't make sense here. After all, there is no representative from Monaco."

I feel doubt crawl up my spine spider-like.

"No, not yet, which is why I'm here: to claim my seat."

She looks at me now like I'm a sad or confused child, "No, what I mean is that Monaco is not a member of the European Union, and thus can have no representative in Parliament."

I flush red-hot. Could what she was saying actually be correct? How was such a mistake possible – could I really have been so credulous, naïve and trusting? Why had I not given the matter a second though – ah, of course,

"But in Monaco they . . . I mean, we . . . use the Euro."

" Yes, but so do all Microstates, like the Vatican, or San Marino. Nevertheless they are not members of the European Union, and so have no representation in her parliament." She was right, in the Vatican too I had used Euros without problem, to buy cocaine-laced ice-cream from that shifty Mexican cardinal. She adds, "Also, in Monaco they are native French speakers." She sucks in her cheeks and pulls her lips to the side, "Unlike you."

My face is now burning with shame, as I realize there is nothing to do; she has me. I am a fool. A twenty-one year old in a parking lot of a European Parliament not in session, with such a deluded sense of grandeur that I think myself rightfully a member. I am caught in my own arrogance, with nothing. The terrible biological process of humiliation swings into motion, my stomach turns to acid, skin to crimson, and my back tenses while my hairs stand on end, on top of my skin already turned to gooseflesh.

I think desperately . . . is there some lie I can say to get me out of the embarrassment? The art of lying is much like the art of writing, if anyone stands a shot at making a good lie it's me. I concentrate the totality of my essence upon the task – as I do whenever I write. To cull up from the dregs of my mortal soul something iridescent, beautiful, and timeless – it was already well-known that I was capable of doing this. But lately I had not been able to write, would I therefore not be able to lie? And indeed, it would be so much the harder to lie, for when I write it is for the sake of the divinity and, what is still more divine, beauty . . . could I apply the same necessary focus to raise up something so base as a lie, for so little as my own vanity?

To lie, or not lie. That is the question. Whether it is nobler to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous humiliation, or to take words against a sea of embarrassment, and by saying them, end it. And yet I realize, there is no choice: It is not a matter of suffering humiliation well, which I don't, it is a matter of suffering humiliation at all, which I won't. I must lie. And then something suddenly comes to me.

I switch to English and tell her, "Well, it was worth a shot – I thought it might get me in."

She bursts out laughing, "Nice try. I never heard that one before." I probably made that woman's day, her thinking that I was just some gutsy young American tourist trying to get into the European Parliament by claiming to be the representative of Monaco. What she didn't know was that she had ruined mine. My hopes, my dreams for Strasbourg – they had all collapsed. As had my friendship with the King of Monaco – who was probably in hysterics, balling fits of uncontrollable laughter on the floor, while his Dalmatian-like son licked his feet with sporadic regularity. I would have to do something about him – but not right away. After all, revenge, like sex, is a dish best served cold.

Also, I still had a lot of tourism to do in Strasbourg.

Still in a fragile state, I continue to the south of the European parliament, and find that the building is on the shore of the same beautiful river that continues on to Petite France. I cross to the other side of the river and look at various buildings of international law. But really I am looking for a park, in which to regain my composure. Very quickly, however, I find a great sprawling one to the south of the European Union buildings, and make haste to a park bench therein.

As I sit, head in hands, on the brink of manly tears, an enormous bird lands not ten feet in front of me. Birds are noble creatures, from the mightiest condor, to the lowliest pigeon - and each race of nobility has an avian analogue. German nobility are like eagles, Russian nobility like vultures, Frankish nobility like Coqs – these analogies are well known and I feel no need to detail them here. But the noblest of nobles is that of Norman stock, such as I am, and his bird is the stateliest and rarest of them all. Gaulic Blue Heron, Bird of Birds, it is you that now touches down before me. It takes only an instant of being in your presence for me to feel reinvigorated.

I spend the next ten minutes trying to take pictures of the bird, ("Okay, work it, work it. Now you're a tiger. Rarrr. Give me a Rarrrr. [Bird looks at me blankly]. Oh that's great, yeah. ") but eventually the bird becomes creeped out and flies away.

I continue south, emerging in front of another Arab bazaar. I walk through it quickly, these have become old hat, and arrive at Rue Descartes, which I can follow down to the main university of Strasbourg. I stop into a café for an espresso and to send an email to my father that I am alright, but that our family has been slighted by the Monacan king. Afterwards I walk through the campus, and marvel at how horrible the law school building looks. Pressing forward, I walk through a park that borders campus's west end. I stumble upon a man peeing in the middle of the road. I look away as he continues to stare at me, I adjust my route accordingly.

At this point my goal is to get to the park that celebrates peace between Germany and France. Unfortunately there is no path to peace-park, besides one that goes through the industrial wasteland of east Strasbourg. I walk along a highway for a kilometer. At one point I cross a bridge over a great river, not the Rhine, and on this river I see a boat, upon which is standing a half naked man drinking Kronenbourg from the can. His mangy German Sheppard notices is and begins barking up at me from the deck.

And that was the story of how I saw my first French hillbilly.

I make it to the park at last, after about half an hour walking on the highway. But then I see it, a great arching bridge over the Blue Rhine. In order to get to the bridge one has to climb up and down a number of small, artificially constructed hills – as if the French government wanted to force you to know what it was like to storm another bunker from one's home trench. At last I climb onto the bridge, and find myself in an international grey zone over the Blue Rhine – in a place neither French nor German. The only remotely metaphysical thought which occurred to me at the moment was that the Blue Rhine was rather Green – probably because St. Patrick's day had happened very recently.

I continue on, and for the first find myself In KEHL! I thought to myself, maybe this afternoon I'LL DINE IN KEHL! I wonder if it's only English-speakers that can appreciate how funny the city name is.

I wander through the rather inoffensive, suburban town. Its main drag is pretty much a smaller version of Oak Park's. One advantage Kehl has over Oak Park is that there are lots of nice bakeries where one can get sweet, gooey German pastries. I buy one that's a bit like a donut made with strawberry jam – it was really delicious, and a welcome break from the subtle delicacy of French cuisine.

I think about getting a beer to drink, but find that it's really just the same brands as one gets in Strasbourg. After wandering around for an hour and a half I decide to leave Germany for good, and head back to Strasbourg. I manage to walk a different route to pick up the Tram in Strasbourg, which saves me a good amount of time and places me right in the center of town. The only events of note on the way to the tram were:

1) I ran into a guy wearing a t-shirt that said "Fuck you very much." I almost stopped him to ask what he thought he was accomplishing with the T-shirt, which is about as grammatically coherent as "Merde-ci beaucoup," and equally unfunny. And,

2) On the tram there was a big African guy who stood way to close to me, it was kind of like we were hugging each other for the entirety of the ride. He said to me, "Ca va" I said "Ca va" back. True pal.

At this point I had really finished the sites of Strasbourg, so I elected to pick up a new book. After I finished Les Mains Sales I had been deeply impressed by Sartre's sense of humor, and thought to try and read a second play of his. The choice was a known quantity, No Exit, which I'd already read, or something new – The Devil and the Good Lord. While initially I was skeptical of the title, when I looked at the excerpt on the back, I found the following:

Goetz: I'm going to take the city.

Katherine: But why?

Goetz: Because it's bad.

Katherine: But why should you do what's bad?

Goetz: Because what's good has already been done.

Katherine: By whom?

Goetz: By God the Father. Me? I invent.

Of course many are aware of my interest in things Good, Bad, Good-Bad, and Bad-Good, and for those who do know that, it should come as no surprise that I decided to buy the book. I took it to a park where students congregate and read. Much to my horror, I discover that what I have bought is undoubtedly the most Hollywood of Sartre's plays. In fact, I could easily see it being turned into a Michael Bay film. 11 Tableaus across thirty some scenes, set in the 16^th century, the main characters are the best General in all of Europe, his whore, the Archbishop, a Banker, a weak-willed priest who spits lines directly out of Soren Kierkegaard, and best of all, a proto-Marxist revolutionary whose name is Nasty, in English, and whose first line (in French) is: There won't be any peace until we get rid of all the nasties. Subtle Sartre . . . very, very, subtle. Also, the entire plot of the play is characters running from battlefield to battlefield, discussing the creation of the Kingdom of Heaven on earth.

But, since it was a book in French, I manage to forge on, continuing reading into dinner at a traditional Alsatian Brasserie. For dinner that night I eat potatoes in a soup-like substance, which after several bites is revealed to be plain sour-cream. Nevertheless, the meal is surprisingly delicious. Afterwards I have a nice nighttime walk along the banks of Strasbourg's river, and then return home.

As I walked home, several things occurred to me. I realized that there was no future for me in Strasbourg, that I still suffered from the listlessness that had haunted me in Paris. I felt that I had no purpose, nothing to guide me. And yet, I found that my heart burned with an intense passion, the kind brewed from the smoldering concoction of a quest for revenge and too much milk-product. But the King of Monaco was a foe unlike any I had faced before – and I am not ashamed to awknowledge that I was not yet ready to meet him.

There was only one man in the entire world who could help me; only one who had mastered an enemy still more fearsome than a micro-state monarch. I am talking of none-other than the scourge of Russian nobility, the vanquisher of the worst brand of Godless socialist plebeians that Europe had ever known. I am referring of course to my father, Chateau-Anatoly-S. - Chateaulya for short. I remembered that he would be sejouring in Madrid in just half a week, resting happily on his laurels at a conference to honor his erstwhile mathematical and scientific achievements. Yes, I would meet him there, killing the time until his arrival with a restful tour of the French countryside, stopping in Dijon, with Lyon and a flight to Madrid as my ultimate goal. As I curl into bed, a great contentment envelops me like a down comforter. In actuality it is nothing other than the joy of another prochaine.

 

Le Voyageur Sale: Un Blog en Sept Tableaux Quatrieme Tableau: Voyage du Sud

I trace my fingers along the red ridge, feeling its salt-covered slopes. I wince in pain as my leg burns with a heat not hot: a sign not sought of the terrible rash which runs up and down my inner thigh. I'm still baffled how I got this thing. It came from nowhere, one minute I'm walking fine on my way to dinner. I sit down for an hour. Then I get up, and suddenly I can hardly walk my rash hurts so bad.

I have no time for why's, only for cures, which is why I am in the bathroom of my hostel without any idea of what to do. It's already too late, the store is closed, and I haven't packed any soap. I have to wash myself, clean it to remove the salt, and use soap to dry the skin. With luck, I would be cured in the morning. But, to even give luck a chance, I would need to find some kind of soap.

While pondering what to do about the lack of soap, I peer into the shower, only to discover it is absolutely fetid. Not since the great Franco-Ukrainian "Whose Hair?" disputes had I seen a shower that was nearly as dirty. But whatever monstrosity had developed in my shower in Hyde Park, it was nothing in comparison to what I was now presented with. Literally mounds of dirt were caked all over the shower floor. I had to do something about it. I run water. Rather than carrying the dirt away, the shower floor turns to mud.

To recapitulate, at this point I'm in a dilapidated bathroom, with badly cracked pink-walls, the toilet has no toilet seat. I'm standing with my pants and underwear around my ankles, industrial LED lighting washes my face with incandescent blue rays as stare at a pile of mud in which I'm supposed to shower barefoot. I'm also wincing in pain the entire time.

I move into action. I take a sanitary bag that the management puts out to stop girls from throwing their tampons in the toilet, and fill it with hand soap. I strip off my clothes down to the socks, and I wade into the shower. Rivulets of lukewarm water course down my skin. I hold in my left hand the tampon bag. I plunge my hand into the bag, then pull it out covered completely in liquidy white hand soap, which I proceed to slather across my inner thighs. I repeat. I repeat. And then I stand waiting for it to wash clean.

I finish in the shower, the dirty job of cleaning myself finally finished. I pull back the curtain, and step down from the shower. Mud sprays across the floor and onto my clothes in particular. I have no towel, so have to stand there air drying in muddy socks. After five minutes of this, I take the t-shirt I had worn that day, and try to find the clean parts with which to dry myself. After forty-five minutes, I finally leave the bathroom, and go to bed.

I awake around 9:00 and wander out of the Hostel to look for breakfast. I head south, and find a kind of Tabac which serves a cappuccino and croissant for 1 euro 20. Expecting the traditional Tabac counter sock juice, I instead am surprised to taste a perfectly good cappuccino, certainly equal to anything Starbucks or Caribou produces. The croissant is a little mediocre, it's covered in sugar, which makes it seem more like a donut than a croissant, but it's certainly serviceable. All in all, this random place offers the best-value breakfasts I've had in Europe thus far.

After I have my breakfast, I go back to the Hostel, and begin phase two of my plan for assaulting Rome. Phase two calls for a great arc through the south of the city, culminating in dinner in the famed Jewish ghetto. I set to it, bearing southwest towards Termini station.

What I discover is that the immediate vicinity of Termini station is the city's immigrant quarter. Chinese, Indians, and North Africans all live amongst each other in that splendid harmony which can only be brought about by the utter inability of each person to effectively communicate with his fellow man.

Although harmonious, the neighborhood is nevertheless quite boring. The lack of a unified ethnic makeup prevents it from developing into a saleable commodity. Instead of being "Chinatown" or "Little Calcutta," it's just "Immigrant Town" and looks grimy and depressing. I forge ahead to my first real sight.

San Giovanni Laterano has a fascinating, wonderful history, which I know absolutely nothing about. But it was certainly the first major sight for me to see that day, I could tell this simply by looking at my map. For you see, the more important a sight is, the bigger its cartoon likeness on my map. Hence a picture of the coliseum occupies two third of my map's total surface area, while the other third is a picture of St. Peter's basilica. Between gaps in these two drawings, around the edges, and through the arches of the coliseum, one can see other relatively unimportant information like "street names" or "points of interest."

San Giovanni is the only drawing in the South East corner of the city, and its caricature is actually fairly big. When I get to the cathedral, I see why. The structure is enormous, certainly as large as Paris's St. Eustache, or any American cathedral I've been to. I go inside, and discover great paintings of Christian martyrs. I start trying to take a picture of myself imitating their forms, when I notice an old Italian couple scowling at me. As I put away my camera, an American woman, a Floridian by the looks of her, passes me and says, "Boy that looks like a funny picture. I think I'm going to take one like that with my kids."

On one side of the church is an entrance to a private garden. I go towards the entrance, but read a sign which I think says, "Entrance costs 3 Euro." I'm about to turn away from it, when I see someone pick up an audio guide from the table and drop three Euro into a basket. Oh, the charge must just be for the electronic tour. I proceed to walk through the entrance. As I'm crossing the doorway, a man sitting near the door says, "Hey-o!" He points two fingers at his eyes, and then turns his hand toward the sign which said something about paying 3 Euro. I nod my head at him. He shows me three fingers, and then points at me accusingly. I knew then and there that if I started communicating effectively, there could be no telling how bad this encounter might go. Thinking quickly, I lift my left arm and cock my hand, as if I was about to do the Egyptian dance. I then shake my hand left to right several time. The man looks at me blankly. I start nodding my head yes and slowly backing away. Not understanding what was going on, the man sits down, and eventually loses interest.

At this point I was pretty much ready to be done with my church sight-seeing, so I exit the building on the side opposite the one I entered. In fact, this was the church's front entrance; I'd accidently come in the back way before.

As I look around the church, admiring its front plaza, and also enjoying the nicely warm weather, an overweight Australian woman comes up to me. From a distance of fifteen feet or so, she shouts, "Excuse me, do you speak any English?" "Yes." I say, and we approach each other.

She begins by asking me a question of where we are on her map. I start saying, "Well let's see, I have my map here, and the place on my map here corresponds to . . . this place on your map here." It seems, however, that neither of us was very interested in what I was saying, but both were intensely interested in how I was saying it, and each for completely different reasons. In fact I almost couldn't finish my sentence, so surprised was I to hear the sound of my voice. It had been 3 days since I had said more than two sentences to anyone, and apparently the lack of activity had affected my voicebox. My voice was much deeper than usual, and cracked unpredictably in places. As those few who have had the priviledge of meeting me know, I have a very melodic, sotto sounding voice, without any hint of nasality or unpleasant cracks. Usually when I talk it's like listening to an opera recording, which is why it was so strange to hear my voice as it was: as if the record being played was warped, bent, and covered in dust.

Of course the woman was surprised by my tone for more predictable reasons, "Oh God, you're an American aren't you? [Starts laughing] You're rather dark so I took you for a native."

"Well, I have been out in the sun a lot."

"Yes, well, clearly it fits you. I've been out in the sun a lot too, but all it's done is to turn me into a lobster." I laugh. In fact she was rather burned, but no more than any of the beet-red Anglophones running around Rome.

What happened afterwards completely surprises me even to this day, and I say it with diffidence, only out of the spirit of total honesty and frankness with the reader: I proceed to make an effort to continue the conversation.

If she had been an attractive young woman, this would not have been such a surprise. But as it was, she was more dumpling than waif, more bamboozled than naïf, and in fact something of a boor. Nevertheless, I prod the conversation along, asking typical small-talk conversations like, how long are you staying, how long have you been here. You see, one of my great gifts in life is to make small talk. But the paradox of the gift, in accordance with the Aristotelian theory of drama, is that I hate making small talk, it utterly bores me. I don't know how, I don't know why, but at that moment there was a metaphysical suspension of that most dramatic irony, and I found that I was perfectly content to talk with this completely average seeming Australian for an indefinite period of time. In fact the conversation went on for fifteen full minutes.

What lesson did I draw from this? That I needed this vacation very badly. You see, you know me as a writer, an adventure, a statesman, and the foremost defender of all that is right and true. My enemies count me as a scoundrel and a fiend. My friends consider my enemies as cretins and plebes, and believe themselves to be more God's chosen than if they were Jews - which they are certainly not. My most true vocation, however, is to be an anthroposophist. At all times, I must work at that blessed intersection of sophistry and anthropology.

As an anthroposophist one has to love people, and to a lesser extent sophistry. But lately I'd found that only sophistry captured my interest, I was growing weary of the anthros. What I realized then and there is that there is a cure for boredom with everyone, that most stupefying form of ennui – just don't talk to anybody. After a short while, only a three day respite, I found that I was willing and glad to suffer whatever kind of fool might present himself.

After the Australian departs, I find a map of Rome and particularly its south. What I discover disconcerts me. It appears that my bogus-seeming map of Rome has in fact excluded a number of important sites in Rome, including the gravesites of many Saints, a Pyramid, and the world-famous Appian Way. I decide I must visit these things, but worry about how to proceed without a map. What I decide to do is copy the directions for a route very carefully, triple checking to be sure I have made no error. In total the route amounted to about three pages in my moleskine. I set off, and plunge into a mapless abyss.

It is at about this time that I began experiencing a terribly fierce need to urinate. In Paris, peeing can often pose a problem. In the city of lights, however, there is always hope: public toilets do exist, and where they don't exist, there's always plenty of hearty Parisian men willing to create impromptu public toilets wherever they see fit. In Italy, I hadn't yet seen anyone peeing in broad daylight, so thought best not to risk it. I begin looking for a place to eat, perhaps to solve my two problems in one shot.

I stop into a pizza place, and order a couple slices. I ask the lady at the counter where the bathroom is. She says it's out of order. The worst possible non-solution has now been found; I've bought pizza already, so can't use my lunch patron status as a means to bathroom access, and at the same time have to pee so bad, that I can't eat my pizza. So I'm now carrying around an enormous pizza box, looking for a place to pee, while the hot sun bares down on me. Never forget dear reader that I am also forbidden from deviating in my route since I have no map, only names of streets, so if I left whatever road I was on I chanced becoming immediately lost. Appropriate enough that I was carrying a Sartre play, for from this situation there was clearly no exit.

I continue following my directions, looking everywhere for a place with a bathroom. Finally a tobacco shop appears; I buy a Fanta, and head to the bain de sale. What follows is a terribly awkward whipping-out my dick experience, as I have to balance a pizza box in my left hand, a fanta in my right, and a backpack on my back. There weren't not a whole lot of options. I don't know how, but somehow I managed to get myself out of my pants without dropping any of these items or peeing on myself.

Much relieved, I resume my trail, only to discover after a few steps that the road I was supposed to follow actually was a set of train tracks guarded by a massive barb-wire fence. Clearly, I needed to regroup. I wander towards a big road that I see has a sign pointing towards one of my sites, the famous Via Appia. Hopefully back on track, I hold before pressing onwards, and begin eating my pizza.

In my youth, it was considered high strategy to pair pizza with Orange crush as a lunch meal. Since then, such a move has fallen into disuse. However, I report that the European variation on our old American gambit has met with great success, Pizza Napoli and Orange Fanta reprises all the best motifs of our old favorite, but with a higher quality of execution.

For lunch-entertainment, I had the privilege of being permitted by a pair of pigeons to watch them as they shared with me the physical act of love, as the pigeons interpret it. The first thing that happens is the male pigeon dances around, fluffing his neck. After this, the pigeons have a make-out session, where the two lock beaks and shake each other by the mouth, rather violently I might add. After this, the female pigeon turns around, the male pigeon hops on her back, and begins flapping his wings rapidly, so that he can stand upright on top of her. After several seconds of this, he hops off. Without looking at each other, they say "See Ya!" and move in opposite directions, continuing on their day.

Resuming my route, I run into the old City wall, this time the Southern wall, which I know will take me to the Appian Way. While walking towards the Appian way, I see a sign for the Italian Communist party, which is running for office in the elections of European Parliament. The leader of the Italian Communist party is named Diliberto. Ironically, he does in fact bear some resemblance to Dilbert, the disgruntled office worker who serves as protagonist of an American comic of the same.

At last I am finally there, at Via Appia, the main entrance to Rome in the bygone days of the Republic. I thought back to when I was a young lad at Lycee, reading about this street while my tutor, the eminent Count Chocola, wowed me and my fellow young nobles with countless comic tales of cowardly slaves receiving rightful beatings from their aristocratic masters. I thought back more somberly to his tale of Rome's destruction thanks to loose morals and an excess of democracy.

One of the things Chocola never mentioned was how disastrously thin the road was. As is, it could barely support two lanes of traffic, let alone a walking lane on the side. As I walked, cars sped by me at fifty miles an hour, mirrors nearly grazing me. At some points, I found myself literally hugging the wall, inching sideways. I was also the only one walking down the street.

Eventually the traffic lets up, and I begin to see signs for the sites I'm looking for. Except, the signs say things like, "1.5 km up ahead!" or "So close, just 3 km!" I'd originally thought this detour was going to take an hour and a half, now what I was looking at was a hell of a lot of walking back and forth, and given the precautions one had to take when walking on Via Appia, it could end up taking over four hours to complete my route. But again, the damndest part of it was that I was trapped; I had to continue on my path otherwise I wouldn't know where I was going.

I press on, to the first grave. After an hour and a half of walking, I'm really ready to see something worth the walk. What I find, however, is a small cave in the midst of rolling hills that one has to pay 5 euros to enter. Also, it is overflowing with religious tourists. After a few moments, it quickly becomes apparent that this ridiculous cave's main purpose is to provide yet another way for the Catholic church to extract money from their most faithful adherents. I turn away from the cave without second thought.

This was the exact moment when I could mark my Southern Adventure on Via Appia a total disaster. It had taken an hour and a half to get here, would probably take an hour and a half to get back from where I was, and if I continued along my plan I'd probably find sites as bad or worse than the pointless cave. Part of knowing how to play is knowing when to fold, and though I hate to fold, I decided to capitulate my plans and accept that I would have to retrace my steps back to San Giovanni

An hour and a half passes uneventfully, and I arrive back at the southern gate. I recall, out of my robust knowledge of Latin History, that Via Appia connected to the Roman Forum, and hence downtown Rome, and that if I could track Via Appia I would reach salvation. But it would seem that at some point in the two-thousand year gap in my knowledge of Italian history, the portion of Via Appia contained inside the city walls had become a one way street. I could not go up Via Appia itself, lest I be crushed underneath an oncoming truck, or bus, or large motorcycle. I decide to take a street parallel to Via Appia, that goes north. I quickly arrive at the Southern tip of a great boulevard. I am back on the map, and now exactly how to get to the Circus Maximus.

The Circus Maximus, the Ruins of the Forum, and the Coloseum have nothing interesting to say to me. The view of them is very nice, but they're just fields and old ruins now. They inspire little in me that is profound.

I head off to the Jewish ghetto, where one can apparently find great food. What I find is lots of overpriced restraints, that don't look to be essentially different from other ones in Rome, except for large, somewhat dubious, signs that say "Kosher!" in Hebrew. I finally settle on one that looks good, tucked away in a little corner of the Ghetto, it has a nice patio, and a charming name: Jighetto.

I order the gnocchi, it's really delicious, perhaps not much better than what one can get at schuzzi, but it only cost 6 euro. After dinner, I have another charming cross city walk back to my hostel.

All the old gang is in the bedroom: the asian guy reading his blackberry , the Spanish women. I crawl into bed and open up my French existentialist play dejour. After a couple minutes of reading, a young Australian couple walks into the room and each says, "Halo" to the whole room. For a moment, no one responds. Deciding not to suck as badly as everyone else in the room, I say to them both "Howdy." They nod at me, and then take their beds, which happen to be next to mine. After settling in, the man turns to me and says, loud enough for the whole room to here, "Real friendly crowd huh?"

"You're telling me." I say.

"I suppose it's not their fault. They probably just act like bloody assholes because they're not too confident in English."

I look across him to the Asian, who the other night after sneezing had said "Excuse me, sorry" in what sounded to be standard American English. Sure enough, he was looking up from his blackberry, in my direction, bulbous eyes looking momentarily as if they might fill with water. But then his eyes are off mine, back to looking at his phone. I change the topic of conversation, asking the Australians about their travels, which appropriately kills fifteen minutes of time. After that, it's off to bed.

At five in the morning I am woken by the sound of a door opening. I turn around and see all one hundred seven pounds of my strange Asian bedfellow at the door, carrying a green camouflage backpack so big probably two or three men of his size could have fit in it. On his face he wears athletic glasses, the kind Horace Grant used to wear when he played for the Bulls. He gives me a salutary nod. I nod back. And then he leaves, and I go back to bed.

Graduating Paris

Hold it quick boys, this one is hot of the presses: the story of a completely retarded and frustrating afternoon in Paris.

The day starts out well enough, I bid my dear companions Dustin, Elan, and Chris goodbye, and help them take their over-packed luggage to the train station. After that it's off to Gare Montparnasse to buy train tickets. This station is world-famous for a picture taken of it during the early 19th century, one where a steam engine appears to have crashed through the window. This of course from the pre-C.T.A. era, when such massive derailments were uncommon.

In any event, I manage to finish making plans for my departure from Paris, which includes a three city swing in four days through Strasbourg, Dijon, and Lyon, before departing for Madrid to meet my parents and go to my dad's conference in Haca. But by the time I finish making arrangements it's already 2:45. I'd been planning for a week to go to a concert in which my friend Marie was singing on Sunday, and I knew it was in the late afternoon. I had thought it was at 4:30 in the afternoon, or 16 hours and half. In fact, it was at 15 hours and a half, which is actually 3:30. Translation: I was already probably running late. I quickly check the map for 17 place de la Republic.

Google Maps, in his infinite, but occasionally dense, wisdom, immediately zoomed in on the famous Place de la Republic, which is in the heart of Paris's very chic northeast side. In fact, I had been many, many times to this area of Paris so knew instantly how to get there. I hurtled out the door, knowing that if I could perform the miracle of getting my out-of-shape body to the RER station in two minutes, he could perform the miracle of getting it anywhere in the city in the nick of time.

The guilt-anxiety that always accompanies tardiness begins to nag me. Like a great turtle battling against a small Italian plumber, I feel myself being picked to shreds by a thousand little bites, and though I try to smack him with that great ponderous expanse of my massive, will, I cannot find any success. I arrive at the massive Chatlet stop of the RER and transfer over to the brown line.

The brown line moves fast and it becomes apparent that I'm going to be 5 to 10 minutes early. Or as we call it in France, fashionably early. I mount the stairs, feeling excited at the prospect of having cheated lateness yet again, and am suddenly in the midst of the place of the Republic.

I look around for a church, but can't find anything. The plaza is enormous, with trees blocking the view to the other side, so probably it's somewhere to be found. I look for a logical starting place, but am foiled because, as is common in Paris, it's totally unclear what number any building has, and also whether the numbers are increasing or decreasing in any particular direction. I decide to make a grand tour, going around in a circle until I find it.

I quicken my steps as a pass #26. The numbers are decreasing, I should be coming up to it, but something begins to tug at me. Shouldn't it look like there's a church here, if there is in fact a church here? Finally I confront face to face the much-sought after #17 Place de la Republic. I scan the surface of the building. It doesn't look like a church. I approach the door. It doesn't look like a church. I read the inscription on the front of the door. "Jean Pierre Marion - Dentist."

Unless Marie is performing gregorian chant in a dentist office closed on Sundays, something has gone terribly wrong. And then it occurs to me: on the original invitation, underneath the address, #17 place de La republic, had been a cryptic word I had thought nothing of: Vanuv.

Vanuv. Vanuv. Wait, no, not Vanuv. Maybe it was Vanive. Or Vanone? Shit, it was Va- something. I didn't know what that name was supposed to signify, it hadn't meant anything to me when I saw it.

Could it be that there is a second Place de la Republic in Paris? Marie didn't say the church was outside of Paris, wouldn't she have said something if it was? But how could there be two Places of the Republic in Paris . . . I mean, how would the postman know which one to take the letter to? I don't know, retorted a voice in the back of the head, how the hell would an airport work if there aren't any exits for non-E.U. citizens? Probably what happened is one day two hundred years ago some jackass defaced all the street signs in some crappy cartier on the West side of town, ironically changing the street name from "Rue des Merde-Lanceurs," or whatever it was, to "Place de La Republic." Of course what must have happened then is that the simian inhabitants probably took a liking to the name and ever since sardonically called their street "Place de la Republic." The rest of Paris, not wanting to face the wrath of the Merde-Lanceurs, agreed to let the name go.

True histories aside, I had an enormous problem. I finally decide that probably that Va word indicated a metro stop, so went back down into the metro to examine the map. Unfortunately, the map I was presented with didn't have a listing of the names of all stations with their coordinates, so after spending five minutes looking in vain, I decided to go find another map. The easiest way to find one was to go back into the metro. I have unlimited use of the metro in Paris with my card, so it was no problem for me to go through the turn-style.

I go in, find a proper map, and look for the proper place. Sure enough I find something called Vavin, and it's the only stop with a Va name. But, as I look at the map of what's around the station, I realize that there aren't any churches listed near it. I feel indecisive, should I take the train and see what's there, or should I find another solution? All this while I roll into my fifteenth minute of being late.

In times of indecision, it helps to be a master of Good Policy. What is the proper policy for this situation? I check my policy book, and find the following entry:

Chapter ?: Being Lost

RULE #1: Rule number one of not knowing where you're going is to not go anywhere until you know where you're going. Chances are, if you don't know where you're going, you're going to go in the wrong direction.

Sound advice. But how to find out more definitively where I was going? Perhaps to ask someone? If the church was rather small, as was likely, it would only be known to people in the neighborhood. Maybe someone would have a book? Marie carries a book that lists all the streets in Paris, that would certainly be helpful.

I look around for someone holding such a book. No one shows up. I wait some more. No book. This is horrible. I'm just getting later and later. There's no telling when this guy with a book is going to show up. I wish I had someone to argue with; that might kill the time. As I see a homeless man being dragged along the train tracks by a portly slave-driver, I think to myself: Fuck this shit, I'm getting out of here; I'm not the kind of guy that waits for Godot, I'm the type that finds him.

I hurtle up the stairs three at a time. As I exit the station, I see an information desk.

Yes.
Information.
That's exactly what I need.
I'm looking for a place, I don't know where it is.
These people are paid to give me information about places I want to go.

I run over to the desk, cutting off an annoyed Frenchman in the process, and say breathlessly

"Madam, il faut que tu m'aides. Je suis deja tres tard pour un chance que je ne vais jamais avoir encore."

The woman is middle-aged, over-weight, and her uniform is poorly tucked-in. Her green blazzer is unbuttoned. She has three rings on various fingers on her right hand. She stares at me through her-horn rimmed glasses while chewing gum impassively. Somehow there is something overwhelming frog-like about her demeanor. I decide to press on.

"Sayez-vous ou est L'Eglise de Saint Remy?"

She pouts her lips,

"L'Eglise?" Apparently I had accented the word incorrectly.

"Oui, oui, L'Eglise. Comme une cathedral, mais pas grande."

She turns to her neighbor, "Tu as entendu de l'eglise de Saint Remy?"

The other worker doesn't respond. She humphs, or whatever the French do instead of humphing. She types something into her computer and clicks. It seems that she is searching something. I tap my foot impatiently, and tell myself things are moving. The woman clears her throat. She begins banging her mouse on the mouse-pad, and moving her pudgy, over-ringed hand in a circular motion.

Finally she says, "Non, c'est pas Saint Remy. C'est Saint Marie."
"Quoi?"
"Saint Remy, il n'existe pas. Tu veux Saint Marie."
"Non, je sais il existe. Saint Remy."

She wags her head disagreeing, and, to prove her point, turns her computer screen around to show some website that has responded to her search for "Saint Remy" with "Saint Marie." Now, rather than taking the time to explain to her, probably in broken French, why she has not in fact proved to me that there is no Saint Remy in Paris, I say merci and au revoir, and head for the surface.

Once there I begin searching for wireless internet using my iPod touch. This type of maneauveur had a proven track-record: there is a lot of free internet in Paris, and I had already used my iPod to solve a worse case of confusion earlier in my trip. The strongest internet was coming from an American hotel on the Place de la Republic, so I head towards it. Normally this is a screw, because they let you connect to the wifi for free, but then make you pay to get internet. But at this point I was so at my wits end that I thought, I'll pay the three Euro, it'll be worth it.

As I wander into the Hotel looking for the heart of the signal, I suddenly stumble upon the Hotel Business Center. Sure enough, the computers require no login, so I am on the internet checking my email within seconds. I check the email, one eye over my shoulder, looking for the guards hired explicitly to stop someone from coming off the street to use the internet. Fortunately, no one bothers me.

I query my dear Google Map again, this type search for Eglise St. Remy and "Vanves." What turns up is a church at #17 place de la Republic, in a Banlieu just outside the Periphery of Paris on the south side of town. In fact, it is two train stops and a short tram ride away from my house. Brilliant, I thought. Now I'm completely on the other side of town, heading to some god-foresaken suburb of the city of Paris, that it takes 3 transfers to get to. It's going to take me fifty minutes to get there, and Marie's performance will probably be over.

Well, tough shit happens, especially to tough shits like me, the question now was how to toughen out of this miserable, miserable shit. The ceremony had probably already started, I wouldn't even necessarily make the middle, but maybe I could get to the church before its all-important end. I fly back to the train station, and throw myself through the turnstyle. It doesn't turn. To prevent free riders, you can only scan once at the same station every hour. I push forward, hoping the metal bars, and force my conveniently slim frame through the metal guard-door. I run down the stairs, and catch the already waiting train.

I realize as I'm riding the train that I'm already sweating like a hot pig and probably look like red-faced crap. Which is another way of saying that I had nothing to lose by running through the train station. At Chatelet, I run out of the train and up the stairs before anyone else. Then I get to the moving walkway that connects the Brown line with everything else. I ride it for a little bit, staring straight ahead as someone who looks like Mike Nichols films me with a camcorder. Soon it becomes apparent that the lollygaggers are in control of this walkway, so I decide to run on the side. I take wonderful, big strides. I was a track star in college you know. As I continue to run through the station, some Jamaican guy sings a Raggae cover of "Heres to You Mrs. Robinson."

I brush aside some 70 year old man too firmly, say pardon, and don't see what happens. I get to the train I need, and see that the train is coming in two minutes. Did I really need to push the old guy? No. And now I see him walking up to me, and he looks at me in the eyes accusingly. I blink and turn around.

I completely zone out during the train ride, I'm not thinking about anything except "Gotta get there, gotta get there." I do my second transfer at a run, and take the third leg of my route in stride. I get out of the subway in the Banlieu, expect the equivalent of Austin or old Cabrini Green, instead find some place so hoity-toity it makes Wheaton look rinky-dink. I find the street I need to take, and run 4 great city blocks. Running. Running. Finally I see the church before me.

I run up to it. It's locked. I go to the other entrance. It's locked. Shit. I look some more around the back and spot a fire-escape. I grab it with one hand and pull myself up. I find myself on a balcony, with a door adjoining it. I open it.

I find myself in a dark room, I inch forward. I see a plexiglass window, and go over to it. Before my eye is a group of young women. And they're all: singing! Singing! Yes, I'm still on time! I look around this room for a way down. There is none. The only way out is the way I came in. I can't get into the church, there's no way Marie will know that I came!

Unless . . . somehow maybe I can get her attention? I start banging on the window:

"Marie! Marie!"

Suddenly everyone stops singing, they all turn around and look at my sweaty form banging on the plexiglass window in a room high above the pews. They all begin shouting at me. I can't really make out the words, but I think it roughly translates to something like, "Get down from there you American idiot!"

I look for Marie, what's she doing? She's yelling at me to get out of here, they've called the cops. Fuck, I run out of the Church, I can see in the distance cops swerving towards the church. I look to my left. Nothing. I look to my right. A yellow bus. Quick, I hop onto the yellow bus, run to the back, see the mob and the cops through the rear window as we slowly pull away. I turn back, a great big grin on my face.

A grin which slowly fades.

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.