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After 6 years I am finally back in Salvador, to see Bahia Street, the school for which Alex and I provided money to purchase a new school building. 

Pictures:  http://flickr.com/photos/97143488@N00/sets/72157594347542864/

I arrived into Salvador on Wednesday and went to my hotel/apartment called Barra Flat.  Everyone is very nice there, which is sometimes uncommon for Brazilian business.  I called Rita to let her know I had arrived and she beckoned me to come to the school, so I wrote down the address after some difficulty.  Talking in Portuguese on the phone is still very difficult for me; I really rely on being able to see the person's face to aid my comprehension.  I wasn't sure where it was, so I went down to the lobby to ask.  One of the bellboys there lived in the area, but he had not heard of the street.  However, he assured me a cab driver would know, so I hopped in a cab with the laptop that I had brought for Rita.

As we got closer and closer, my worries intesified, probably due very little to the actuality outside.  What I saw, however, was that this was a busy neighborhood, and it looked to me like it was on the edge of a slum.  My greatest fear, and I think I share this with a lot of Brazilians and a lot of tourists, is that I will mistakenly stumble into a slum with no sense of my bearings.  Too many Brazilians have warned "don't go into a favela, they will kill you there."  I know this is pure hyperbole and that paranoia seems to be a cultural trait that rivals even my the people of my own country, but at that moment, those thoughts echoed in my head.  We had to stop and ask for directions once we had arrived in the general area, which worried me even more: this would of course let everyone know that I did not know where I was going.  After a few minutes we wound up a small hill, and then rolled around a small road, which descended through a small alley paved with cobblestones.  The buildings were dillapidated.  After about a hundred feet we stopped at the address Rita had given me.  I was relieved to see her appear immediately after I knocked.  The door was open, but there was an iron gate in the way with a padlock on it.  She let me in.  I had arrived, and safely!

I quickly found out that I had not come on a normal day.  This was the week of "gincana" which as far as I can tell is a celebratory competition.  The girls were broken into teams of four, with names like "gatas in ação" or "chicks of action."  They compete as teams and over the course of the week tabulate their points.  There were various forms of competition, judged by teachers or visitors like me. 

One of the most amusing was when six opaque plastic jars were placed on the table, filled with liquid and something else.  Natalia, a teacher and graduate student from Sao Paulo, organized and ran the event.  One girl from each team was selected; she had to stick her hand into each jar while blindfolded and then whisper what she thought it was to Juliana, one of the younger teachers there.  Most of the girls stuck their hand in only for a second before yanking it out and hurriedly whispering to Juliana, who then recorded their answer .  Everyone was laughing, and the girls not involved in the competition were rapt at attention.  After everyone had tried each of the six jars, the items were removed and placed on the table.  The items were all plastic toys: a rat, a ladybug, a frog, a snake and a spider.  Natalia then read the answers given as Feo tabulated the points on the wall.  Sample answers were "a shrimp" for the rat, "an onion" for the ladybug, and "a plant" for the spider.  It was hilarious to witness and see the looks on the girls faces when they saw what they really felt.  It was also fitting for me, as I noticed the connections and disconnections between what they felt and what was really there, as I experienced the same thing only moments before, in the cab, experiencing my own reality grazing up against the new reality I found myself in.

On Thursday I returned again to the school.  Afterwards Rita and I sat and talked, and she showed me the upstairs, which is still under construction.  It was really enlightening to hear her take on things, and I was suprised how much I understood of her Portuguese.  It was really fun.  She told me how they were able to purchase the building for R$ 40,000.  When Margaret from Bahia Street visited for the first time she expressed some worry because the building was completely destroyed, and she wondered how she would tell her board of directors, and how she could talk to the people who had loaned the money to make the purchase.  I really laughed at this, because after spending a day there I was convinced this was the best money I had ever spent in my life.  Being around the girls for even a moment makes you want to commit anything to them.  It is obviously a place of safety and happiness for them, and I imagine that is not always the case in their lives.  I told Rita I thought the building was "maravilhoso" or "wonderful."

On Friday the girls had the last day of gincana.  Normally they had their usual lessons of Math, Portuguese, English and others, for most of the day, with gincana at the very end.  Today, however, gincana started early.  They had a competition to see which team could jump rope the longest.  One of the teams never made it past one as the girls spun the rope too fast for the jumper to enter.  She was very frustrated by that.  Another competition involved skits where the girls had to make a commercial for sunblock.  They had ten minutes to come up with the skits in their entirety.  The last of the competitions the teams were told they had to take a song and use the same lyrics but change the genre, going from hip-hop to classical, for example.  The last team to compete had three of the younger girls in leotards and tutus while the oldest sang in a beautiful voice in opera style.  She truly was amazing, and to compose the song in a few minutes made it doubly so.  As she sat down the teachers asked if she sang in church and she responded that she did.  I was asked to be a judge again for the final competition, and the sight of those shy 8 year olds in tutus dancing while their older mentor sang alone in front of sixty people made my heart melt, so I voted for them.

Feo and Rita then tabulated the points.  Over the course of the week there had been various competitions, and different teams had succeeded in different ways.  The winning team, in the end, was the same one with the young girls in the tutus dancing to opera.  They exploded when they won.  Rita noticed that some of the other teams were disappointed, and made an inspiring speech about what the gincana was about: teamwork.  She said that the team that won, in the end, competed as a team, was not negative towards their teammates, and supported each other over the course of the week.  I really got the importance of the gincana right there, and it was inspiring to see Rita recollect everyone at the end of the week for a common purpose.  The winners took home gold medallions suspended around their necks by a ribbon; they all proceed to bite on the metal as if to prove the consistency of the gold, but everyone got medals of some kind, even me, chocolate medallions made to look like Canadian currency.  As the girls left with their mothers they clutched the medals and showed them to everyone around.

This week has been different, where the girls returned to their normal class schedules, which meant I only got to see them at lunches, or in the few minutes before they left the school for home.  I forgot that this week was a vacation, no school on Thursday and Friday, so that meant I would only see them on the final Monday before I left for Rio.  Not realizing this, I did not come for lunch on Monday or Tuesday because I was trying to get work done, which meant I saw them very little those days.  Oh, I regretted that.  I did get to spend some time with them after school as I showed them the pictures I had taken of them at the gincana, which happened to be in the same account as a bunch of other pictures.  I showed them my ex-girlfriend, who looks Brazilian.  They all said she was very pretty, and were amazed that she didn't like me anymore, which was funny and flattering.  I did spend Wednesday during lunch with them, which was terrific.  One of the older girls, Rafaella, kept trying very hard to properly pronounce my full name ("Christopher, Christopher, Christopher" over and over), and I asked them all simple questions in English.  The terrific thing about kids is that you can ask them ten times to repeat something and they really couldn't care less, because the urgency to tell you something is so much stronger than their concerns about communication problems.

Lula, the president of Brazil for the last four years, was re-elected here last Sunday.  One of the assignments at the school was to write down what they wished for Lula to do.  Their responses are heartwarming and heartbreaking:

"Educação, saude, emprego, compromissos, amor, carinho"  ("Education, health, employment, compromise, love and caring")

"Senhor presidente.  Lula eu te amo é goste muito de você.  Eu axo que você  o melhor presidente para o Brasil eu te amo." ("Mr. President.  Lula, I love you and like you very much.  I think that ou are the best president for Brazil.  I love you.")

"Eu gostaria que para melhorar a minha vida.  Eu moraria numa casa melhor que seja menos perigosa."  ("I would like you to improvde my life.  I would live in a better place that is less dangerous")

"Quero que não mude a Bahia (Street)"  ("I don't want you to move Bahia Street.") 

"Lula eu quero que você dê casas para as pessoas que moram na rua." ("Lula I want you to give a place to live to people that live on the streets."  by Vanessa) 

I have to leave for the airport mid day on Monday so I will not get to say goodbye after school.  I know I am going to bawl when I leave on Monday.  It has meant so much to me to be around these brave and beautiful little girls.

Welcome to this Elgg installation.

This morning I decided to visit Mirogoj cemetery, in the north part of Zagreb. I got on the bus at the stop above the Dolac market. I wasn't sure about where to get off for the cemetery, but when I saw the countless older women holding bouquets of flowers, I knew that I could just follow them off and everything would be alright. I bought an all day ticket on the bus for 16 kuna after a woman on the bus politely explained in English that I could buy the ticket right there. I was worried that I would have to find a newspaper stand down in Trg Jelaèiæa.

Anyone who had forgotten flowers in their haste needn't have worried, for there were plenty of flower stands dotting the edge of the cemetery as the bus pulled up and dropped us off. The cemetery is enclosed in by a great wall with parapets every few dozen meters. The entranceway to the cemetery is truly amazing, with ivy covered walls and arched doorways. The entrance to St. Peter should be so beautiful.

I sit down after walking for a while in front of the grave of a one Marieta Pollack. It is a really big tomb, about ten feet wide and six or seven feet deep. She lived from 1875 until 1925, so this is one of the older tombs in the cemetery I imagine. There are a few other names added to her headstone. None of the names seem to have the same last name as she did. This was different from the rest of the tombstones which often had "Obitelj Markovic" or "Obitelj Balantin" inscribed upon it. From my little yellow dictionary I soon learned that "obitelj" means "family." Her headstone has the Star of David on it, and something in Hebrew which I cannot read, but which I see on a good number of the stones in this area of the cemetery. There is an inscription that reads "Što ljubav spaja smrt ne razdvaja."

Her headstone seems to be on the edge of the Jewish section of Mirogoj. Towards the edge of the cemetery I began to notice more and more German names, last names like Weiss and first names like Adolf. And, at the same time, more and more of the tombstones began to replace the long cross with the Star of David. The tombs are in most other ways identical to the rest of the ones I saw previously; typically black marble slabs on top of a black box, which was set into the ground, and with a matching stone headpiece sitting perpendicular to the ground. Marieta Pollack's grave also had a small bench in front of it. This wasn't typical. Only a few of the graves had a bench. About half of the benches had a back to them, and this back always forced the person sitting in the bench to face the grave, as if to remind the person for what they were here. Some of the other benches had no backing, as if to say that they appreciated whatever closeness and company they could get. I found it interesting that the benches with the back piece on them almost always were covered in moss and in greater disrepair than the ones with a back.

This truly is one of the most beautiful places I have visited in Croatia. The small paths through the cemetery cut straight through the graves, dividing them into large groups of several hundred tombs. I could not tell if these larger groups had any particular significance. Trees line the edges of the paths, and since it is early fall when I am visiting, the leaves, some of which litter the path and some of which stil cling to the tree branches, contrast nicely with the grey sky and the gravelly stone under my feet. The land in the cemetery is uneven, and the paths roll up and down the ground between the tombs. In most cases these paths go straight, but around the edges the paths curve and bend.

Today is Sunday, and the people here are almost all elderly, although I am not sure if this is normal. The footsteps over the concrete paths remind you of this fact; broken and deliberate footsteps, sometimes you can hear one foot as it is slowly dragged behind the other. Shhhh-tk. Shhhh-tk. Some people hover over the graves, holding flowers. Some dilligently clean the marble slabs with containers of water, brooms and by simply picking off the leaves. Some do this alone, while others have come in groups. As I pass people I try to check the date of the tombstone. One older man must have buried his wife recently; her tombstone says 2000. He stands alone in the long row of graves where he brushes the dirt from her grave.

As I continue about the cemetery, it seems like many of the graves followed the style of those around them. In one section most are black marble, with similar boxy construction. In other areas the stone is a lighter color. As I progress back to the entrace, there is more originality, some graves even add black wrought iron fences around them. I find it funny that there are several tombs on the very edge of each divided section which are so plain, in sharp contrast to the other tombs which are so careful assembled and planned. These simple tombs must get more attention from tourists like me than the more elaborate ones in the center. Then there are the older, fancier graves which in their day must have been magnificent, but in their decrepitude remind everyone that no matter what your legacy in life, death has a way of limiting your power over the future.

I went diving in Dubrovnik this morning. Anton met me at hisshop down the road the pertol station in Lapad. We geared upand left out to one of the islands a few kilometers from shore.

The first stop we made was for a cave dive. It was just thetwo of us, so Anton dropped his gear into the water afterfilling his BCD vest with air, and helped me into my twowetsuits, one with a hood, and then into my BCD. I droppedinto the water and then he followed. I was glad that he hadsuggested the second wetsuit, since the water was clear butextremely cold, and got colder as we went deeper.

As we went around the walls near the island, we sawcountless beds of coral, some with orange colored algae, butmost with a dark green. There were sea urchins everywhere.Most of them had a half shell stuck in their thorns, despitethe fact that there is no way their spines could pierce aclam shell. I think this is the same phenomenon as teenageboys who wear "Elevate and decide in the air" basketballt-shirts. Sort of a ridiculous badge of honor. Their wereeven albino sea urchins down there, or perhaps they weredead and had lost all their purple.

After trolling around the edge of the island, we came acrossa black hole in the wall. I had only about a fourth of atank left, but Anton motioned that this was OK, and weproceeded into it. On the surface he had said that it wentback about 200 meters. It seems now like this was muchexaggerated, maybe my excitement caught up with me. Antonheld an underwater flashlight, and I followed the light morethan I followed him. The "cave" was in reality more of acrack in the wall, and I slithered through with my tankbumping against the walls on the side and above me, andtried to keep up with Anton. As we came around the edge ofthe cave his light disappeared several times which wasunconfortable. Finally we arrived at a open area and I couldsee the surface of the water as Anton pointed the flashlightupward. Ascending slowly, we broke the surface. Everythingwas black inside the cave without Anton's flashlight. Whenhe shined it on the roof, a few feet above us, we could seetiny stalagtites, brownish and gooey. Anton said they lookedlike shark's teeth, and I thought this was a prettyinappropriate observation at that time. We then went backinto the water and he pointed to the entrance, and we couldsee the light blue crack from the opposite side.

As it turned out we descended to about 38 meters. I didn'thave a depth gauge on my regulator, so I had no idea. Thewater was so clear and bright that I had thought we hadn'tdropped beneath 15 meters or so. We were under for around 45minutes, which was a pretty long time for the depth we wereat, although this wasn't our total bottom time.

After we ascended and rested a bit, Anton said that we wouldthen visit a bomb dropped during WWII by the Germans, andthen proceed to a wreck and then see another cave. In factwe saw three German bombs at the bottom. All of them werecompletely corroded and you could see that they were emptyinside. Borin the cab driver had told me that some peoplehere in Dubrovnik would take mines found around the area andstuff them into fish which would then explode in the waterlater. Didn't look like there was much in the way of liveammunition down there, due in part to the heavy salt water.But one thing is for sure, war leaves even more than justdeath and hatred.

After we looped around the first German bomb, we descendedto see the sunken ship. The hull had almost completelysettled into the ocean floor so you could only see the topof it, but many other pieces of the boat remained scatteredabout. Anton said it was a tourist boat which hadunfortunately encountered engine problems, and the Serbs hadshot it down with machine guns. Only a few people had diedapparently. It was strange to see such geometric shapes inthe water after seeing the smooth rockiness of the coral inthe earlier dive. Another bomb sat on the floor next to thewreck. Lots of fish gathered about it as well; wrecksusually provide shelter similar to natural reefs for themarine life, and this one was no different. In a few yearsthe sea will probably have beaten it to a pulp and the shipwill return to the dust. As we went in the direction of thecave, Anton seemed almost clairvoyant as he found severallittle octopus, and a sea eel which had a head the size of aa coke bottle and probably several feet in length. Maybeeven the sea animals are interested in improving tourism inCroatia? After he found his friends, I looked and looked,but nothing ever looked different than grey sand until Antonpointed his light at something and it jetted off in a cloudof black ink.

Finally, we reach the other cave. As a now experienced cavediver, I had less anxiety in entering this one. This againwas somewhat like a crack in the wall. This cave, however,opened into the air within some rocky walls going up. "Thisis like a little lake," mentioned Anton. We then descendedback into the water, and followed the crack down. After wereached the boat, Anton informed me that we had reached 28meters at the lowest depth. Getting back into the boat, thefillings in my teeth stung a little bit from the pressureover the two dives.

These two dives, stretching over a few hours, cost me around$80, two dives ($58), including equipment rental ($20), theCroatian diving license good for one year (about 100 Kuna or$12), and the free boat ride out. Well worth it. Anton canbe reached at 435-737, via email at diver@vdu.hr [Click to view link]

I left my new "sobe" (private room) angry and bitter. After all the time I have put in traveling, I still should know better than to trust a cab driver to find me lodging. After a very nice stay in Hotel Lapad, I decided to call Borin, my cab driver from the airport to Dubrovnik, and accept his offer to find me something near the city at "1/10 the price" as he had told me. My first mistake was that I should have known that there would be a finder's fee or a trumped up fare to the place, and thought I didn't see the finders fee I am sure it was there, judging by the bargains he found for me. The trumped up fare was there, to be sure, in the form of 80 kuna, or $10. The fare to the airport was twice this, but took almost 30 minutes, while this took five. After exhausting myself by climbing up the stairs to the first sobe he found, and then arguing over the price for a place that I really had no interest in staying in, I finally succumbed to a worse deal after the second sobe shark latched on to me during the feeding. When I finally dropped my bag down the stairs, and went in to take a shower, I was almost not surprised to see there was no shower curtain, and the floor was completely soaked when I finished my shower. This, despite pointing the head to the wall the entire time, and turning off the water to soap up and down. This at a price of 150 kuna, or about $20, which is low all considered, but the same price I would have paid for breakfast, a stellar view, and a decent bathroom at the first joint.

The walled city of Dubrovnik would have none of this, and instantly banished all of those thoughts leaving me in awe. I decided to leave the sobe and get some dinner. I walked down a few stairs to see the entrance to the city looming above me. The view from the bridge was stunning to say the least, as I looked out over the small inlet where lightly illuminated boats hovered, protected by another arm of the city. I walked down countless cobblestone streets, jaw gaping, running my fingers over the limestone walls which towered sometimes over a hundred feet above me.

I decided to stop for dinner at the Dubrovnik Terrace. Almost empty it was, but fun. As I waited on my order, I watched Wheel of Fortune in Croatian. Unlike the American version, I didn't know any of the answers. The man waiting on me, as if to challenge the old world inside the city, had programmed his phone to ring with the song to Brittni Spears "Oops, I did it again." American culture pervades everywhere, unfortunately. I ate a sea bass, which he promised had been caught the same day. It was good. A glass of wine was only 12 kuna, which amounted to about $1.50.

Today I swam in the blue water of the sea, avoiding sea urchins and feeling the squish of the sea kelp underneath my feet on top of the volcanic rock. Dubrovnik is truly beautiful.

Italy is magnificent in the fall. I have never spent time here and not found it to be incredible, but the weather is absolutely perfect for fall. Sunny, with a little rain in the mornings to clean the air.

I am sure I was not alone in my thinking about getting on an airplane after September 11th. I definitely gave it more reflection and thought than I would have given it before that day. I have read countless pieces via email or on different web sites about what pilots have said before take off, and about what passengers have done to those sitting next to them, both negative and positive. Nothing out of the ordinary occurred, no tear jerking speeches from the cockpit, and no suspicious eyes following anyone as far as I could tell. Things seemed to be back to normal, as best they could.

I wonder if this is the way it should be after something like the attacks. One part of me hopes that this will be a catalyst for people to review what is going on in the rest of the world. I worry this will mean that Americans will stop visiting other parts of the world, people will entrust their vacations to resorts and Disney and cruise ships. As an American I feel that Americans are blessed in that we live in a country rich in resources and full of people with new ideas about how they want to live their lives, but I also see the isolationism that we are a part of because of our geographic location in the world, and because of the policies of our government in a great many cases. I hope that despite the terrible things that happened several weeks ago that Americans, and all people around the world, choose to learn more about the rest of the world because of it, instead of closeting themselves more because of fear.

Today we visited the Sistine Chapel. I missed it the first time I went to Italy several years ago. I almost did not take this trip because of the threat of more terrorism. I am really glad I did. Nothing can describe the amazement when you stand beneath those works of art, and everyone should have the opportunity to see that. It truly is a testament to the power of religion, and devotion. After some introspection, the issues of today are not so different as they were hundreds and thousands of years ago. Religion and a search for power still drive people to do incredible acts, and also commit terrible atrocities.

One thing never changes as we walk around the cities of Italy. We have seen people from all over Europe, and all over Asia, and people from the Middle East, and all other parts of the world. As you travel, you notice that their mannerisms might differ slightly, and their dress might not be the same as what you see in your home country, but at their very depths, people are people. We walked around Milan late at night the day America began bombing, and as if by fate, we walked by countless groups of Arabs out in the streets, listening to radios. My heart beat faster, but why? No one cared who I was. They were only interested in getting more information about the attacks, just like I was. And on the train from Florence to Rome yesterday, we overheard people talking about the "war," and I have yet to hear someone here speak out in support of this war, or any war.

I love to travel. It is a selfish thing in so many ways, just to expose myself to things that I think are beautiful. But, travel also exposes you to the rest of the world, and no matter what politicians want you to think about the rest of the world, people are people and individually people do not look to kill or injure other people. I hope that people can remember this after September 11th, and continue to remember that we are not so different from our neighbors around the world.

Riding a taxi in New York has to be one of the best ways to experience the city that is the Big Apple. Being from a (relatively) small town like Portland, Oregon, I always instantly appreciate the international flavor of New York when I touchdown into the city. And, of course, the taxi cab drivers you encounter are always a representative sample of that international influence. Most of the cab drivers you meet in Miami are from the Caribbean, like Haiti or Dominican Republic, but a good deal of them here in New York are of East Indian heritage. Yesterday I had the great pleasure of finding myself in a cab driven by Len, from Jamaica, originally Manchester Bay.

As we drove north from 15 Park Row to West 43rd, we talked about his homeland of Jamaica. I had been to Jamaica when I was 12, so my memories were pretty foggy. And, I think my priorities and understandings were much different then than they are now. I went SCUBA diving for the first time when I went to Jamaica in the 8th grade. The most vivid memory I have of the short week spent there was of the water which was so clear you could see down to a depth of thiry feet like you were looking into a glass of water. I also remember the man walking through the city market with a huge clear sack of Marijuana slung over his back, like a great big black inverted Santa Claus from a color film negative, green and black towering above us as he waltzed through the throngs of people. And I remember looking down from the hotel window, and hearing the steel drums beneath us in a locals party off the grounds of our hotel. Being twelve I, of course, didn't participate in anything "real" there in Ocho Rios in Jamaica; I just took part in the quasi-Jamaica activities our hotel presented to us within the confines of the private beach and as far out as the roped off sea in front of the beach.

According to this grizzled driver with a short beard and beret, though, many adult tourists take part in alternative routes of enjoyment when they visit Jamaica. We spoke about the Rastaman quite a bit in that twenty minute cab ride. He explained that the Rasta is basically the hippy of Jamaica. He considered it to be not so much a religion as a way of life, and seemed no more sympathetic to the Rasta way of life than the way most Americans view hippies here. He said that in Jamaica, when the cops arrested a Rasta, the first thing they use to do is to "cut off their dreads and they 'air." At first I thought he said their "dreads and their ear" but thankfully this wasn't the case. Now that the Rasta has become a kind of folk hero they don't do that anymore, he mentioned. He also spoke about how in Jamaica young white women would go to Jamaica and "rent-a-rasta." We had a good laugh since it sounded so much like something out of a Hertz rental car commercial. It seems that when these women returned their homelands they might refer to their after hours pleasures with their Rastas as "sitting on the face of the lion." Or, maybe this is just what Len and his friends jokingly guessed they talked about when they left the island. He didn't need to explain what this euphemism referred to, but he did anyway.

Len also talked about Marijuana. Len has been a cab driver for fifteen years or so, and said he had been smoking since he was fourteen, some quarter of a century. He told about how the taxi companies here test people for drugs, although not randomly. He said that a few years ago there were a lot of East Indian cab drivers who were getting into accidents in their cabs, and the cab companies suspected they were using drugs. So they began testing. According to Len, the root of the problem wasn't drugs, but greed. People were driving too fast because they were trying to make a quick buck, literally too quickly. For Len this meant he had to start changing his routine a bit. He professed that when the perennial time came he drank up on the cranberry juice and gingkoba, stopped smoking for six weeks and always passed his tests. I thought this was a pretty fair self-evaluation, since it has always been my opinion that if you know in advance of a drug test, and you can't stop long enough to get yourself clean, then maybe you do have a problem. I don't think Marijuana is particularly addictive as a substance itself, but I do think that the lifestyle associated with it can be an addictive one, and you have to be able to recognize when a lifestyle starts intefering with your ability to maintain your life in whatever society you find yourself in.

Remember to tip your drivers well.

Florence has been extremely wet since we arrived but I remember saying when we arrived here that there is no place that I would rather be than Italy when it is raining and I still think so after three days of torrential downpours. The rain turned out to be a convenient excuse to purchase two suede leather jackets as well, so that could have been it. Firenze has the cheapest leather goods of anywhere I have been to this point - belts, bags and great suede jackets. After we met a Turkish girl today I explained to her that I don't smoke or drink coffee, and the it dawned on me that leather jackets must be my addiction instead. But, for 400,000 lira, about $230, I couldn't resist and succumbed to my temptations. The first one I bought from a mexican kid named Raphael, and then next I bought from a funny man who described himself as "90% Florentine and 10% mafioso." As he placed the two jackets Alex and I purchased into plastic bags he kissed them for good luck. His name was Roby.

Florence is a nice city but at a different pace than Rome. It is full of foreign students studying art history, architecture and even jewelry making. Where Rome was dominated by tourists and Sorrento was full of English senior citizens, Florence at times speak more American English than Italian. There are probably more things directed at students, like nightlife establishments, and there are definitely more Internet access points here than in Rome. The place we went to today provided a convenient meeting place for young foreign girls as well, all there to check their email. There was a good 20 minute wait so as my brother wrote his emails I waited outside pretending to read Jack Kerouac's "On The Road" while admiring the view. There were about 10 girls waiting outside. One of them was a fantastic looking girl with dark features. She was speaking with another pretty girl in a tongue I didn't recognize.

I asked them if they spoke English, and when they replied in the affirmative, in which language they were speaking. The light haired girl told me that they were speaking Turkish. I was hoping for that answer since Alex and I had plans to go there after Greece. The dark one was studying architecture and was 19; the other was studying Italian but had finished school in Turkey under a pharmacy degree. She was 24 and I can't remember her name although she repeated in two times.

As we left the Internet access kiosk I asked the light girl, who had made more of an effort in our conversation, if she could email me with suggestions on places to go in Turkey. She said yes, and since she was leaving as well, she came with us to find a coffee shop, which was we discovered, is an impossibility on a late Sunday afternoon, at least in Florence. We talked for a bit, and waited out a rainstorm in a dingy pizzeria. When we said goodbye we kissed each other on the cheek twice. I don't know if Europeans feel even a twinge of physical sexuality when they kiss goodbye, but those kisses to me are like lingerie is to the naked female body in that they mean less than an embrace or a deep kiss or sex, but yet they impart such an incredible, strong flash of energy.

Addendum: Today we were fortunate to find on German television a documentary on orangutangs. There is perhaps nothing funnier than a television show with monkeys, and those German comic geniuses don't disappoint. We hope that Gerhardt Schroeder will use the 11% unemployed Germans to make more quality show like that one.

First, let me return to those days in Turkey. As I said in my last entry, we arrived in Rhodes and took the hydrofoil to Marmaris, which was clear and beautiful. Our friend at the pension in Rhodes couldn't have been more wrong about the rain in Turkey. Our excitement was jolted a bit by the visa tax of $45, $25 more than the previous year, which was what our guidebook had listed. As we exited the port we were greeted by the usual gang of people hawking lodgings and we agreed to go to the Youth Hostel run by a Turk with a strong aussie accent.

The hotel was nice. The rooms were small but the people with us were friendly and we all ate dinner together that night. Even though it was mid October in Marmaris there were still plenty of SCUBA diving outfits trying to sell you a trip on their boat in the morning. I spoke with a few of them; all quoted the price in pounds, which was the first clue that Turkey had now become a hot tourist spot for the English. I didn't make a decision that night. Afterwards we returned to the hostel, changed and bought more alcohol, and visited the boat owned by our Turk landlords which was moored in the bay closeby. Of course we drank Efes, the Turkish beer. Many of the people were headed on the cruise the next day with Margaret, who had decided to leave the companionship of Alex and me. We drank there for an hour or two, and then Alex and I, along with two Australians whose names escape me, headed down the boulevard running along the sae cost to a nightclub called Cheers. It was full of English people and therefore it was fitting it was called cheer, although the logo was stolen from the television show of the same name produced in America. We grew bored of this place quickly. Alex went home and the remaining three of us sauntered off to another disco. At this point I had imbued myself with the courage of a few thousand men thanks to but a few bottles of Efes, and I kept prodding the two Aussies to accompany me onto the dance floor to sample some of the English birds flapping their wings there. I went on my own and found myself not so accidently next to a beautiful dark haired girl with two relatively unattractive blond friends. Using tactic #247 from the pickup lines handbook, under the "Dancehall" section, I asked the two other girls to help my Aussie friends on to the dance floor. The obliged me. I had a few words with the dark haired one, whose name happened to be Carly.

In a moment all was in confusion. I turned and saw a Turk lying on the ground, with blood coming from his mouth. It also seems to be the unfortunate circumstances that several other Turks were entering the fray feet first and mauling the one on the floor. The bigger Australian seems to be pulling people away from the crowd that had developed. I tried removing Carly to the outside though she resisted initially. Finally we all found ourselves outside in an open air cafe adjacent to the club. Things seemed to have calmed down inside the discotechque. I tried to make conversation with Carly, who grew more beautiful each time I was able to get a good glimpse of her, but she was either not interested or was too shy. At one point I asked her why she never made eye contact with me when she answered my questions. She looked at me then, but I felt it was more an act of defiance than a breakthrough in our conversation. I purchased her a water, she neglected to thank me, and we departed the cafe. I remember she hugged one of the Australians goodbye in a bizarre twist, and barely managed to wave goodbye to me as she slipped into her taxi.

It has been days since I wrote anything in my journal. I honestly don't fell like writing at all right now but since it is the last day before I depart for home it seems necessary that I should write something here. There are reasons why I don't want to write in specific, and there are also apathetic felings that keep me from writing that feel completely unspecified. I spent the last couple of days in Romania, specifically.

As soon as I arrived in Romania I felt awful. The skies there are consistently grey and it rained the last day I was there. I remember thinking that perhaps Bucharest received so few visitors that the city itself was crying to see me leave after only two days there. But truly, Bucharest is a sad place, with mangy, angry mongrels running about and snarling in every dark corner of the cobblestone streets which wind this way and that in no good directions. Gypsy children with dark skin made even darker from the dirt that covers their faces and almost the air you breathe wander the streets of Bucharest, streets which seems to ooze garbage through the gaps in the cobblestone sidewalks. People there burn the garbage and leaves, perhaps because trash services don't exist. I remembered passage on certain streets because of the pungent odor, or the number of tires missing from an abandoned car. I also remembered the Irish girl because for a day I couldn't shower I was so ill, and her smell laid underneath my nostrils until the next day when my health returned. Even after this kind of experience I still would come to return to Romania and see the grave of Vlad Tepes, or Dracula's famous historical counterpart, and discover something good or wholesome about the country, because I couldn't find anything while I was there back then.

On Monday, I flew to Prague. It rained as I left and I waited for the bus for about 1/2 hour in the rain. I think it has happened in every city I've been to thus far, but I think every beautiful woman in Bucharest came out to say goodbye on that day. I had heard various reports that Romanian women were some of the best in Europe, ut I hadn't seen very many in the first two days I was there. I changed my mind that Monday. Not as good as Rome, but definitely some beautiful Slavic women with long dark curly hair, amont others. CSA, the Czech airline, was wonderful. The seats were large and clean, and the crew was responsive in general. I think you can tell a lot about a country by its major airline carrier and just as I was impressed by CSA, so was I by the Czech Republic herself. Prague certainly was a beautiful city. My friend Ryan, who was so captivated by Prague, understandably must have been awed by the wonderful architecture amidst clean streets and set in a more Eastern environment than the Western countries like France or Germany, which sport the same castles and Bohemian attractions. Though I am only to spend two days here the beauty of Prague will long last in my minds eye.

Tonight I had to unique opportunity to see firsthand Capoeira, the Brasilian martial art unlikeanything else I have seen. I went with my girlfriendto Solar de Unhao, which is itself worth seeing onits own. The Solar de Unhao was a slave quarters and living space for a rich family called "Solar" in antiquity. The slaves used to cart the goldfrom mines to the sea using railways that stillsit in the cobblestone today. The view from the decks of the Solar de Unhao are unparalleled (well,every place on the coastline in Salvador looks over the magnificent sea there) and this should rankas one of the top ten places on the earth to takea date because of the history set amongst the tranquil beauty. On other occasions I have seen live jazz shows put on by local students, but tonight,being as it was the end of the tourist season, the only show was the Capoeira.

We went into the restaurant that sits in the belly the Solar de Unhao. Tonight there were few touristsand we were able to sit at a table near the centerstage. The entire restaurant is situated around a big wooden deck in the center of the room. We sat and waited a few minutes until the first fewmen entered the room and began to set up theirdrums. There were about five of them, three on tall drums, one on a fat round one, and the lastman, who was missing one of his hands, played a tulip shaped bell. They began their warmup andthe show started.

At first, all the men entered flipping and jumping.This was absolutely astounding. Some of the studentsdid hand stands and slid across the floor on theirheads. Others entered running and flipped in theair, touching their feet on the straw rolls pinnedto the ceiling. Every one of them demonstratedextraordinary agility and strength.

Then four people entered, three women and one man.They all had dresses on, the man in blue, and the three women in red, gold and the final one coveredfrom head to toe in straw. They began to dance asthe rythm accelerated. The man danced first. Hiscolors represented water. He spun and weaved on thefloor and when he finished, the woman in red danced, followed by the one in gold and finally the womanin straw. After the final dancer had completed her steps, another man entered, dressed in red. I wasinformed that he was the king, and in the ceremonyhe was married to the woman in gold.

After they finished, the dancers exited with the Capoeira students. After a few moments, some of the men returned wearing fisherman hats. They were soonjoined by the women, dressed in flowery dressesand headdress. The men sat on the floor and rowedin place. Then one of the men grabbed a net, andas they all chanted, he through it into the air.The women crowed and the men grabbed parts of thenet and spun around.

Everyone exited again, and in a few moments all returned and circled the stage. One man, topless and wearing red pants entered carrying two saucerscontaining red hot coals and burning flames. Heplaced these on the ground and began chantng and dancing about, stomping his feet inches from the saucers. He then procured two lances whcih he placed in the fire and set aflame. He stuck one in his mouth until it was extinguished. He lit it again and placed the other in his mouth untilhe had achieved the same effect. He then ran theflames down his arms and repeated what he had justdone until both we extinguished. Then he replacedthe lances and grabbed the plates of fire, swoopingthem around as he spun and muttered.

As he finished, another woman entered, topless aswell, and she danced about, although I couldn'ttell what was special about what she was doingother than the fact that she was doing it topless.

Following this, six of the Capoeira students reentered the room, topless and wearing straw skirts.The carried swords and their sheaths and they spunas they danced, at first whacking the sheathes againsteach other, and the using the swords creatingfantastic sparks. The drummers accelerated theirpounding and the students quickened their dancing.At first it was one-on-one, with two dancers, spinningcounterclockwise, smacking their swords together,and then spinning back clockwise. After time passed, four of them worked together, two spinning into each other, while the other spun apart, and then fallingback apart while the other two spun together. It wasa terrific rythm and the clashing of the swords andthe sparks gave a tremendous effect.

Finally, it was time for the Capoeira. Once againthe students entered flipping and weaving theirway onto the stage. The began to spar, which is a much different form of sparring from other martialarts that I have seen. In Capoeira, the flip andcartwheel, testing the other person. Once they see an opening, they kick, never landing a blow,but kicking and spinning, blocking and flipping.When two warriors are well practiced, they can kick in complete rythm so there is a flurry of feet passing by each other's noses. The continued.The drummers sped up their tempo every other minuteand as the pace increased, the higher ranking studentsentered the ring and the fighting became more frenzieand acrobatic. It became almost dizzying to seethe feet whipping through the air. Supposedlyone of those kicks could impart 160 kilos of pressureif it hit you in the face, so it was fortunateno one was hit.

At the en of the show, all the students and the women in the troupe came out and began to dance,plucking people from the crowd. The musiciansperformed their own acoustic version of "SambaJulianne" by Bom Balanco, one of the favorites in this year's Carnaval. The only drawback tothe entire night was that we found ourselves stuckwith a bill of $R 38,00 after drinking nothingbut water. Apparently, according to our waiter,they have been charging for 12 years, but my girlfriendsaid she had come several times and never receiveda cover charge. We agreed it was most likely a bill for the fact that I was a tall blond American,but the show was almost worth that cover anyway

I'm now entering the my third day in Salvador. There is, so far, much to like. The people are beautiful and they seem to know it, which makes them doubly so. The view from the beach is fantastic. The city itself, from what I've seen in two days, is full of deep history beneath the cobblestones. Before I left Portland I was having second thoughts about coming here but I know I have made the right decision now.

So far I've only really come in contact with people who speak English well. Aside from my roommate who speak English not at all, that is. The first person I met was Jussara, the daughter of the woman who is renting me the room. Jussara is medium height with a short bob for hair and the typical Brasilian countenance. She is almost too friendly for me to bear sometimes. Coming from America you grow suspicious of people who are overly friendly and I've had to catch myself thinking that there must be a reason that she is so nice to me, when in fact it is most likely because that is the way she is. Tonight we were going to head out to go Salsa dancing but because there is no phone in my apartment there was no way for her to contact me and I, her, so I assume they went off without me.

I also met Jandaira, the mother of Jussara. Full of smiles every time she sees me, but there is little communication between us because of the language barrier.

Today I finally met the Brittos, the family that helped me find Jandaira and Jussara. Rose Britto is the aunt of Louie, a friend of mine from Portland. She is very kind. I also met her husband today. He is retired and for now I gues that means he can nap when he wants to. I also met their daughter Ryan. Ryan and I spent a good part of the afternoon together. I think Ryan likes the company of someone like me because she can speak English. She took me to lunch at a 'Comida a Quilo' joint, of course, called Big Beef. I don't like the idea of paying for the food I eat by weight since I am not paid by how heavy I am, but the food was pretty decent.

After that we went to the Mercado Modelo. This apparently was the site of a slave trading business. They now sell arts and crafts from local merchants; lots of talismans and sculpture, busts, almost all in bright colors to contrast the dominant theme there which was dark black women in pure white dresses. The building where the Mercado sits in two stories with a basement. The basement is covered with water except for concrete slabs placed to act as a walkway. The water is only a few feet or so deep but is extremely murky; one child behind us grasping his father's hand tightly worried aloud that there might be 'tuberão' (sharks). There were definitely sharks on the first and second floors, kid.

Afterwards we stopped outside in the back to see the Capoeira fighters. Capoeira is a different kind of martial art than I have seen before. Lots of high kicks and spins, but landing a blow was something that only the lower students did mistakenly. I like the informal nature of Capoeira; it seems like there is a rhythm you find with experience but not necessarily something you would get from a teacher.

Next we followed the elevator up to Pelourinho, the haunting grounds of many of the characters from Jorge Amado's novels. All the streets were pure cobblestone and treacherous. We sat in a cafe outdoors and sipped limão and coca leite(?) from two straws. A pregnant woman gave me a cloth bracelet upon which tying around my wrist I was told to make three wishes. I wished for happiness in my love life in Bahia, happiness when I start my job and happiness to my family.

As I write this my body itches. This bed has bed bugs and there are mosquitos about. I am not sure if it is better that ther are silent but not one of them made even the slightest buzz the first two nights I slept here. But if this is roughing it then I really can't complain.

I never finished my introductions. The two men I live with are São Paulo, like the city I think, and Luis. Both are extremely friendly and talkative, about what I have no idea, but it is nice to hear them speak to a complete stranger like me without hesitation. I cooked up some leftovers for dinner tonight and Luis offered me his hot sauce (pimenta) and some flour type of stuff that I've seen before but don't know the name of. Then we talked for an hour or so and he gave me a pen from his company. After that he brought out his television and he tuned it to the news for me. None of what I am writing here makes any difference in the grand order of things but I am not sure that is the point. I am profoundly astonished, when I think about it and see it in cold black ink here on this paper, at the level of generosity and kindness shown to me since I have arrived in Salvador. Maybe that is why, without exception, everyone I have asked so far, loves living in here in Salvador. I plan to keep asking but I think I know the answer why.

The clouds out to the left of me form a lumpy white blanket which almost looks like the surface of the moon. You can almost see the tracks of a moon rover. The layer spreads out infinitely and I can see no breaks in it as far as the eye can see. I would assume that we are traveling southward and so the sun shines brightly to the east on my left. I can't help thinking that the clouds here are no different than the ones in America and so the excitement that should come with traveling to Europe still hasn't hit me.

The flight from Portland to St. Paul was completely uneventful. I enjoyed the connection from St. Paul to Amsterdam quite a bit. The service was good, the food was also, and there was an extremely attractive stewardess on the flight who was visually stimulating. She had dark skin and bright eyes that constrasted sharply with her complexion. I slept most of the time, but whenever I was awake I stared at her. She didn't return my glances except for once and maybe that was accidental. While I slept I dreamt of Erika. Europe so far has filled my head with thoughts of beautiful women so that has been less than difficult.

We just finished eating breakfast. KLM has, in my opinion, the best meals outside of first class of any airline that I have flown. Breakfast was an egg and potato omelete called a 'fritta' which was very good accompanied by a warm roll and applejuice and tea. For dessert we ate something called a 'sultana' which was a cookie with apple inside of it.

The cloud cover has now burnt off considerably and you can see the mountains below us. Quite a sight because in the morning the deep shadows in the crags are made even deeper by the bright sun at an extreme angle. As we progress some of the clouds still linger deep inside the peaks of the mountains for a fantastic effect.

As I write this I wonder if anything I'm writing will be of value to me in the future. Traveling is not so much a novel experience for me as it is an extension of my current way of life so will these experiences really alter my horizons and is a record of what I anticipate as an exercise in hedonism really necessary? Should I even care?

We just got out of Ostica which is a huge excavation of an ancient city outside of Rome. Most of the city was built around 2000 years ago, with a restoration occuring in the "Imperial" age which was not specified exactly. The city myst have been mammoth because we walked for hours and didn't see the entire thing. The most impressive thing, in my opinion, was the theatre which could have housed a thousand people. There was also a necropolis, and lots of bath houses. The train getting there was interesting because there was grafitti all over the outside yet the inside was well maintained. We ate at a little cafe and had salami or ham sandwhiches with mozzarella cheese that was placed in an over for several minutes before eating. Even in the ruins of Ostica most of the women wore four to five inch heels, most of them surprisingly well.

So much has happened in the last several days. On Saturday we trekked about Ostica and then went to the seaside. The sand there was soft and brown, fitting for Italy where the lovely skin of the women is the same. The beach was not very crowded; most likely the throngs of people had retired by the time we made it there about 4:00 in the midday. You have to pay to get onto the beach here but it is not very expensive.

At night Alex and I went to our first Italian discotechque. Heaven is a place called "Ciak." Surely the religious influence in Italy during the Renaissanceand before was due to the proliferation of angels in Rome. Most of them must have been in this nightclub. I have never seen such an abundance of oung beautiful women in one place. Long black curly hair, short bobbed dark hair, everyone from my most erotic fantasies and warmest daydreams was in attendance. I met a young girl called "Maraella" I think. Suffice it to say that she felt my intensity and passion for Italian women as we danced in the middle of the nightclub. We stayed until 3:30 or so, and then made our way home in a taxicab.

On Sunday we got up at 1:00 pm and had lunch. Then we met with Christoforo and Lorenzo, the son and his friend of Marta, the woman in whose hotel we were staying. The had been drafted as our guides to the soccer match between Lazio and Bari that day. Christoforo ran all about like he was possessed by the devils in Dante's Inferno, looking for tickets while we waiting for the bus. After he returned he fidgetted as we waited and waited but no bus came. Finally, my father suggested that we take a taxi instead. The taxi driver wouldn't take all five of us at once, so we were forced to take two taxis. As we drove there, Alex and I, who rode with Lorenzo discussed it over and decided we should pay for the fare rather than asking our father. Lorenzo, who had spent some time in America depsite being only fifteen, was extremely relieved that we were going to pay for the taxi.

When we got out we walked to the gates and then the excitement began. Lorenzo stayed with us while Christoforo found another young boy and we were off! We raced through the street beside the stadium to the ticket vendors. It appeared that there were no more tickets left and so we watched as Christoforo bargained with an aryan youth over six tickets. For some reason we purchased each ticket separately and when that was done, before we had a even a moment to catch our breaths, off we were again! Back in the same direction we ran. My laces cam undone on one of my boots and Alex ran by me with a mock howl.

When we got to the entrance gates, Christoforo ushered us in. The second stage of the gate required us to open up our bags and the man there removed the cap off my water bottle before allowing us to proceed. Making sure that if I spiked it with something that I would finish it early in the game? Then we hustled up the stairs two levels to a wall of people overlooking the stadium. We were on the long end.

For the entire first half we stood there behind several rows of people. Old timers with "SS Lazio" imprinted on their scarves gasped in disbelief at any call made against the home team and one pressed his ear to a radio as he listened to the play-by-play. One young man behind me offered his own commentary which I understood not a bit. Italians have a passion for football unlike anything I have seen outside Brazil.

After halftime we climbed up more stairs through people sitting on the steps, back to our seats in the back row of the stadium. It was so crowded and in such pandemonium that we just sat in the general vicinity of our seat assignments. At one point Alex had the camcorder trained on the corner kick at the other end of the field and the men behind us grew excited with cries of "zuma! zuma!" as he zoomed in on the action. The game ended in a scoreless draw so we never got to see either group of fans explode into happiness or disappointment.

Today we went to the Colliseum. It was, of course, magnificent, but no more than anything ekse I've seen here in Rome. Much of the beauty here is muted since everything is so incredible. I wonder if it is the same with the women, if after time had passed I would become desensitized to the long legs and beautiful breasts here. What a wonderful sense of unfeeling that could be.

I think, as I spend more time here in Italy, that the initial appeal has to be the pace of life here. It has been too long since I felt relaxed enough that I didn't notice my own mortality for even a moment. Of all places, Rome, with all the young lovely women, I would imagine that I would feel the strands of my youth fading away to reveal maturity, responsibility, and adulthood. But of all places it is Rome, with an incredible timelessness and antiquity, where I can feel the pace of life slowing down to the point where I have been able to enjoy the moment like I have not been able to in such a long, long time. As I write this my hear pounds with joy because I can feel my youth flowing back into me, me at 24 years of age, without children, a mortgage, without anything to drag me down, trapped underneath a glass-bottom boat, pouding with all my might as I suck water into my collapsing lungs. But here in Rome I am free, at least for a moment, which I can enjoy for a few more.

We've now been in Santorini for about four days. I like this island quite a bit. The first night we arrived we stayed in Parissa. We got off the ferry around 4:00 in the morning, on Saturday. The ferry was about an hour late. After we docked we were approached by several men asking us if we had lodging for the night. We discovered that one of them was named Andreas and since Heidi, the Canadian girl, had heard of his hostel, we decided to stay there. He drove us all in the van up a long, steep, winding road through the cliffson the edge of Santorini to his hostel. Some of us were tempted to see the sunrise, but decided against it in a few minutes.

The next day we awoke to a beautiful day, the sun streaming into our bedroom from the wooden shutters. I had slept on a lawn chair instead of sharing a small bed with my brother. We headed to the beach after we explored the hostel, which was a nice peach color with a huge swimming pool outside. The beach was a typical European beach, with more sand than rocks and unfortunately too few topless sunbathers. Jason, a guy from Atlanta, and I walked down the edge of the coast to the end of the beach and saw only one girl we liked. Her mother kept and eagle eye on us the entire time. The water was not warm but we were able to swim.

At night we purchased alcohol and drank in the cortyard by the pool. Craig, another one from Atlanta, got completely smashed and stripped down to his boxers and swam three laps at excessive speeds. I promised I would follow him if he followed through on his words; he did and so did I. We returned to our rooms to dry off and as I walked back to the pool I heard a great commotion, followed by a big splashing sound. Apparently one of the Aussies in the room above us had stripped completely naked and stuck a funnel of toilet paper up his ass, after which a friend had lit it on fire. Then, with a streak of light, he had jumped from the shed next to the pool into the water. He termed this a "flaming asshole" and after he had toweled off, explained to us profusely that it was much more fun in larger groups, among other things.

The next day we departed for Fira, where we spent the majority of our time. At this point my brother was securely in the clutches of a little girl named Elyse with curly red hair. She had done some acting when she was younger and had appeared with Fred Savage on "the Wonder Years," and all-time favorite of mine. In Fira we swam off a pier in the blue ocean next to fishermen and tour boats. The first day three of the girls went topless which was a treat. We rented motor scooters another day and covered the island, including an excavation lacking any of the frescoes which it advertised. We also traveled to a small island in the middle of the crescent that is Santorini, and visited a hot springs and saw the volcano. The hotsprings were at best lukewarm, and if the small island hadn't been covered with black rocks of an extremely porous material you wouldn't have noticed it was a volcano, so we decided a few of the sights in Santorini were more hype than they were made out to be. But, after all was said and done, the incredible beauty of the island more than made up for any shortcomings or problems we encountered.

We finally left Rome. That sentence bothers me because it sounds like I am happy that we were able to leave when in fact I wish I could go back right away. Rome was an experience to cherish always. Alex sleeps in the opposite section with his mouth gaping open as I do and did moments earlier. He has his headphones on as he rests.

On the first leg of the trip I sat across from a small Italian girl. She was wearing a tight black shirt with some blue print on it and blue jeans which were very light. She had her hair in a bob and sunglasses covering her head. Nothing like the hundreds of beautiful women parading the streets of Rome, but attractive nonetheless. She was small but her legs were able to stretch up and prop on the adjacent seat. I could see about two inches her skin between where her jeans ended and her shoes began. The same lovely Italian skin with a hint of oil perfectly browned even though everyone always seems to be wearing long pants. It is almost that the Italians are hiding that wonderful asset from me even though they are willing to share so much else.

Yesterday after dinner in Tras Tiveri with our waiter who thought he was Nicolas Cage, we went to the Piazza di Spagna with a bottle of red wine and mingled with the teenagers there. People here in Italy didn't seem at such a rush to do anything, and that includes meeting people. I would imagine that the old ways influence the new here, whatever that means, in that people still know how to deal with people here in Italy and the rest of Europe. In America it sems like we've forgotten how to interact with anyone around us so it makes bars and dance clubs all the more the anomaly since it is a forced meeting amongst people who are unaccustomed and inexperienced with social situations. Many people come together on the Piazza di Spagna, through drunkeness or however, but you don't find this kind of experience in America.