Venice, Italy

Like Rome, I traveled to Venice during my college study abroad trip. In my last post, I recounted to you a little of what this trip entailed, with our British professor enrapturing us students as she narrated the stories of the buildings we were studying. During the day we belonged to her, and we would have followed her to the ends of Italy if she had desired as much, but the night was ours. The night was when we strayed from the protection of our mother goose to explore the wonders of the foreign cities. Everything was new and exciting. The people we met, the customs we encountered, and the vistas we gazed upon that appeared so different in the glow of the moon. It was one such night in Venice that I and a fellow student encountered a most fascinating and eldritch experience.

It was our first night in Venice and naturally we were thrilled to be in the waterlogged city—if not a bit nauseated by the surplus of star-crossed lovers—and decided to venture out into the streets alone. The night was warm and the moist air rolled off of the canals to circle our bodies in gentle caresses. Clouds covered the sky, but not so thick as to obscure the moon entirely. It glowed out through the haze like a flashlight held beneath a thin white sheet, offering us the slightest bit of comfort with its presence. People were all around as we walked along the Grand Canal. Restaurants with live music beckoned to us with their savory smells and sounds, the low murmur of lovers whispering sweet nothings as they strolled around us. A gondolier—clad in the typical uniform of white trousers and striped shirt complete with a straw hat encircled by a red ribbon—approached us, insisting that he could offer us a spectacular time at a low cost. Smiling, we politely refused his generosity only to be accosted again and again by similar proposals. Growing weary of the constant sales pitches, we veered away from the Grand Canal and down a narrow street.

As is the usual sequence of events in stories such as this, it didn’t take long for my friend and I to become very lost. So enthralled were we at the prospect of being in such an interesting place that we had all but abandoned the normal roads and found ourselves standing helplessly on yet another bridge crossing yet another canal. We gazed around our surroundings, laughing nervously as we tried to decipher our location. What had us most concerned was not that we were lost, however, but the profound silence of the area. There was not a living soul to be found and not even the water seemed to move. I felt like Truman Burbank on the set of The Truman Show as he begins to suspect that the world he has been living in is false. The silence was so heavy and pressing in on my ears in such a way that I felt as though my eyes would bulge with the pressure. As we continued on and came to the next narrow street—still with no people present—my heart thudded with unease. I had just begun questioning whether or not a mass evacuation of the city had been ordered without my knowledge, when all at once we stepped out into large square.

There were people everywhere! My friend and I gaped in wordless awe, breathing easily now that we were no longer immersed in strangling solitude. There were people sitting at outdoor pubs, couples wandering around with their fingers tenderly entwined, and people gathered in the center of the square around a great fountain. The fountain dwellers appeared to be in their early twenties, all boisterously singing: “Ciao Venezia, Ciao Venezia!” while strumming guitars and—to our surprise—thumping with considerable enthusiasm on djembe drums with their heads thrown back in gay abandon. Feeling relieved, we pressed on, continuing our search for our hotel. We tried to talk to a few of the people, asking if they knew which way to go. Unfortunately our Italian was severely lacking and they scowled at us as if we had just sprouted horns from our heads before shaking their own heads and continuing on with their musical release.

With no other option in sight we continued on and, alas, once again found ourselves amidst a silence so intense as to drive a bat mad. On and on we went, crossing bridges, walking along the waterways, always with a growing sense of hopelessness. Though side-by-side with a fellow student I can scarcely recall a time that I have felt more alone and helpless. There was nothing to be done. Even when we did happen to cross a sentient life form we could not communicate with them. Worse yet, my counterpart was proving to be useless as a navigating assistant and had even gone so far as to relinquish the responsibility upon me entirely.
So there I was, gazing wildly around my surroundings—all of which were beginning to look increasingly the same—trying to figure out which way to go while my friend—now free from the stresses of navigating—stood merrily by my side. I strained my ears to pick up any modicum of sound, hoping to use this as a means of directing me to the next area of thriving humans. I closed my eyes, feeling the soft brush of wind across my face as it breathed through the alleys of the city. Carried with the breeze was a distinctly musical sound and my eyes flew open with excitement.

Motioning for my companion to follow, I hurried towards the noise; pausing every so often to be sure I was on the right path, like a bloodhound hot on the scent of a rabbit. Rushing forward the sound grew louder and I was able to tell what it was. It was a tenor male voice singing with such gusto one might suspect he was auditioning for the part of the phantom. The singing led us to the front of a small church and we stood outside its doors while we contemplated what to do next. The singing continued on inside only to be accompanied by a chorus of other voices sounding wonderful and threatening all at the same time. I smiled with irony as the music grew in volume and intensity, this hopefully marking a rather climactic end to our journey. Then, abruptly, the music stopped.

The sound of excited chatter replaced the singing and the doors burst open to emit two heavily sweating males, both rather rotund in physique and one with a bushy blond beard. They paused when they saw us standing at the bottom of the steps staring up at them, our jaws sagging and eyes wide with the surprise of our discovery. I—having recently become the leader of this unfortunate expedition by means of forfeit—addressed the men, greeting them in Italian and praying that they spoke even an ounce of English. The men smiled, probably amused at my poor attempt at their language, and the man with the blond beard descended down the stairs to assist us, informing us that he spoke only a little of our own language. I set off explaining to him our predicament and he nodded politely, scratching his chin with thought and causing the whiskers there to make a rasping sound beneath his thick fingers. He smelled quite extraordinarily of unwashed male and it was all I could do not to gag during inhalation. After having listened to my desperate explanation he gave one final nod and opened his mouth to speak—he hadn’t been lying when he said he spoke “little” English—but he attempted to help us all the same using a combination of English and hand gestures to get his point across.

As seems to be typical with most cases of misdirection, we weren’t all that far away from our hotel; in fact we were embarrassingly close. Resisting the urge to plug my nose, I thanked the man who in turn insisted on shaking my hand, and hurried on towards the path to civilization. We passed through more areas of bustling crowds and profound quiet before we got back to our hotel where we wasted no time in retiring ourselves for the remainder of the evening.

Venice really is all it is cracked up to be. There is no place like it in the world and the calling of the gondoliers, the beauty of the canals, the surplus of rich and artistic culture, the pigeons in St. Mark’s Square where Hemingway sat creating his masterpieces, the Doge’s Palace, the Peggy Guggenheim Museum of Modern Art, the Murano glass factories, and everything else (the good food goes without saying!) only add to the city’s appeal. I visited all of these places and more, and I recommend all of them to you provided you have the time and money. For every one of these places provide sights and stories that can be enjoyed and cherished by people from all walks of life. Ciao Venezia!

Rome, Italy

Without question Rome is one of my favorite places I've been. Yes, I am a bit of a history buff who is drawn to all things historical. Yes, throughout the trip I caught myself—on more than one occasion—ambling around the ancient city with my eyes wide and mouth hanging open, accurately mimicking the gaping expression of a freshly snagged large mouth bass. But the history of this city is such that can be appreciated by all! Two thousand years ago Rome was the center of the entire world! It was home to a people that marked the turning point of technology and thought! Much of what they discovered is still with us and used today! You can see this excites me and yet I can scarcely begin to describe the sheer wonder experienced while strolling leisurely past the Pantheon, seeing its Corinthian columns lining the façade and the great dome bulging into the sky, perfect and round as a glass marble. Or what it is like to walk over the black stoned roads that snake through the impossibly narrow streets, buildings rising up high on your either side and casting you in their shadows. Or better yet what it feels like to see Constantine’s Arch located near the grandness of the Colosseum, a structure that in and of itself is enough to thrill me to the point of hyperventilation! This is what is so wonderful about visiting a place like Rome. The history there is breathtaking. Even if history is not your thing, you can’t help but be fascinated by the wonder of these two-thousand year old structures that are still standing throughout the city as if having arisen suddenly from a different world. In fact, I have yet to meet a person who has stood before any of the fore-mentioned buildings that was not rendered incapable of speech as well as the use of their eyelids.

I traveled to Rome during my month-long study abroad trip in college. Rome was the starting point and from there we went on to Florence, Venice, and Milan, stopping in a few other key cities along the way. But as I said, Rome was my favorite. I was sharing a hotel room with a friend and the night before our first day of class we made sure to set an alarm so as not to be late the following day. Trusting blindly in said alarm we went to sleep only to be awoken the next morning not by the chiming of the clock, but by a pounding on the door. I sat up off my bed like Lazarus, blinking at the static door in confusion. That’s when I looked at the silent alarm clock and was nearly undone with undulating panic. It was 9 o’clock. The exact time we were supposed to meet downstairs to leave! After launching myself towards the door and assuring the girl there my roommate and I would be down shortly, we tore about our room with single-minded intent, throwing on our clothes without the slightest bit of thought before racing down the stairs to where our entire class stood waiting. It was not a very glamorous entrance, to say the least.

Luckily we were spared by our professor and were able to attach ourselves silently to the end of the group, cheeks burning with embarrassment. Over the next few days we woke up not only on time, but early, and visited all the best sites Rome has to offer, following our British professor faithfully like goslings to their mother, never straying too far from her side as she lectured us on the history of the places we were seeing. We went to the Palatine hill to see the ruined homes of ancient Rome's emperors and nobles, in the process passing by the ruins of the Circus Maximus. We went to the Palazzo Navona and walked through the area that played as the town square during the 15th and 16th centuries and a gaming area in ancient times. In fact, the marble benches used during these ancient games still survive behind the façade of the existing building which is now used as a church. We went inside St. Peter’s Basilica and got to witness a small mass taking place, the droning sound of chanting male voices and the scent of incense all adding to the ambiance of the space. We also went to the Vatican Museum where we saw Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel. He painted the ceiling himself as well as the entire back wall which depicts the final judgment. This scene was completed near the end of Michelangelo’s life and so has a much grimmer feel to it than that of the ceiling. The line into the Vatican museum was over an hour long but totally worth the wait in my opinion. We visited many museums during our time in Rome, entered many old basilicas, and wandered through many of the old, elegant homes once inhabited by the Italian elite.

We did so much, in fact, that there simply wasn’t enough time to see everything, more specifically, the Colosseum. As far as I was concerned, this would not do. The Colosseum is one of the main reasons to go to Rome after all! Anyone who has seen Gladiator will agree with me. So with that said, a few friends and I took it upon ourselves to visit the grand arena alone. It was everything one could hope for. The floor no longer exists and one can clearly see the maze-like compartments below that once held the slaves and animals intended for battle. The animals included lions, tigers, and the like and would be kept in the dark so that when they were let onto the main floor they would not be able to see properly and thus be easier to kill for the gladiators. Pretty gruesome, really, but interesting nevertheless. We spent quite a lot of time there in the Colosseum, marveling at the hugeness of the structure and what had taken place there, until all at once the skies darkened as if the clouds had been summoned there by Zeus himself.

Not at all keen on being caught in the rain, my friends and I left the ancient amphitheater without further ado. We raced through the streets, umbrellas at the ready, and thought we were in the clear when disaster struck, literally, and it began to pour as if a giant water balloon had burst above our heads. Now keep in mind this was summer, it was supposed to be sunny and warm and here it was a torrential downpour with gale-force winds! I opened my umbrella in a desperate attempt to protect myself from the water hurling down on me only to have it turn itself inside out with enough force as to almost wrench it completely from my grasp. There was no helping it and I’m sure I looked like Mary Poppins caught in hurricane Katrina the way I was waving the mangled umbrella about, struggling madly to right it again. My efforts were met with little success, however, and by the time we got back to the safety of our hotel I looked like a proper drowned rat. Worse than that, actually. My hair was drenched and hanging in my face, stringy and clinging like that depraved angry girl from The Ring who hauls herself out of her well every time someone happens upon her avant-garde home video.

We did make it back, though, and after I had hosed down my hair with clean water and thoroughly dried, my friends and I went to the hotel restaurant where we gorged ourselves on wine and pasta. The food is another perk of visiting not just Rome, but all of Italy. It was to die for! Now, I am indeed an avid pasta connoisseur, but not so much a wine drinker. But Italian wine is another story altogether. Not only is it cheaper than drinking water, but it tastes fabulous! Pasta is a must, of course, as well as the pizza. I wish I could tell you the names of all the quaint little places we found throughout our many nights of exploration, but alas, I cannot recall a one of them. And yet, I can still taste the fresh olive oil that was always served with bread prior to every meal. Yes, if you are the rare breed who cannot be bothered with the marvelous splendors of the ancient world, you must come to Italy if for nothing else than for the food.

Paris, France

Paris is a city of love, a city of fashion and style, a city in a country with over 452 official government cheeses. I did not go there for any of the above, well, maybe a bit for the cheese. My trip to Paris was another family excursion. We rented an apartment in the city—which, incidentally, can actually be cheaper than staying in a hotel. It was a lovely apartment, close to the Champs Elysees and the Arc de Triomphe, and the Eiffel tower was visible from my parents' bedroom window. As was to be expected, my parents had secured the best room in the place for themselves leaving my brother and I to the tender mercies of one another's sleeping antics. It took only one sleepless night for me to discover that I could not share a bed with my younger sibling lest I was willing to forgo my sanity. For while my brother slept peaceful as a winged cherub, taking post in the center of the double bed with his head wandering over to drool on my pillow, I was left in a state of high agitation, like Cujo when he first begins showing signs of rabies. I felt wild with the panic to achieve sleep and tried at first to communicate my distress with loud sighs and growls, later resorting to dramatic thrashing and skillfully aimed elbows, all to no avail. Needless to say, the next night I opted for the large sofa downstairs—not without considerable grumbling—and was pleased to find that I actually preferred this to the bed. The next day I offered the bed and its hard mattress to my brother with affected generosity.

Another perk to renting an apartment is that you can save on food. Sure you can still go out for dinner or lunch, but every now and then a meal in doesn't hurt. Especially breakfast. Here is where we triumphed. Much to my father's delight, there was already a fully equipped espresso machine provided in the apartment—complete with espresso pods—and so for food we simply frequented the local bakery for chocolate-filled pastries and the like. The combination of all this made for a most satisfactory breakfast, and as I was sleeping on the sofa downstairs, every morning I was pleasantly awoken to the flavorful smells of roasting coffee and buttery, chocolate-filled croissants.

We spent five days in Paris enjoying the popular tourist attractions: Napoleon's Mausoleum, shopping down the Champs Elysees, a trip to the top of the Eiffel Tower during the day and enjoying the light show at night, the Louvre, and the Cathedral of Notre Dame. Here, near the Seine River, is where the focus of this story begins. It was the middle of June and the weather was warm, if a bit breezy. In the interest of appearing every bit Parisian I donned the white sundress I had recently purchased. It was a light and airy affair, with the type of skirt that would float out high around one if one was so compelled to twirl.

We made a point to walk everywhere we went. It is the best way I can think of to witness the true culture of a place. How else can you fully appreciate the young boy in the marketplace being berated by his mother in rapid French after having hurled a well-aimed stone at his younger sister? Or the man selling flowers who bestows upon you a toothless grin and insists you are the most beautiful woman he has ever seen shortly after insisting the same thing to the group of women ahead of you? If you opt for speed and comfort all of this culture, the very people who make up the skeletal frame of a place, will elude you. This is what traveling is about after all. It is about experience and learning something new from people you do not know. It is about discovering how similar we are as humans despite our race and language. It is about seeing, hearing, and smelling things you have never seen, heard, or smelled before.

But I digress.

So we were on our way to Notre Dame. When we reached the square in front of the church I stared up in wordless wonder, the eyes of the 28 kings of Judah and Israel staring back. The two towers rose up, casting us in the shadows of their sacred walls, walls that have endured the passing of time for nearly 900 years. As I looked up into the stained-glass of the rose window, I marveled at the sheer age of the place, the grace of its Gothic architecture, and the humbling power it seemed to exude. After walking through the central portal depicting the last judgment, my brother and I parted from my parents and wandered aimlessly around the vast space. Inside is dimly lit and one can feel the age of the stone. It seems to murmur as you pass, whispering at you the secrets of years gone by. It was easy to imagine myself in another time as I looked up all around me, the stone walls rising up into apparent darkness as colored rays of sunlight filtered in through the stained glass.

My brother and I reconvened sometime later with my parents and left the interior of the sanctuary with the intent of venturing up to the top of the cathedral. This, we discovered, could be done for a price, and if we were willing to wait in the hour-long line outside. As it turned out we were willing and ended up spending the next forty-five minutes in a line that, thankfully, was positioned along a store-lined street! Mom and I were beside ourselves with glee and took advantage of our prime location, leaving the men to hold our position whilst we flitted back and forth between store and line like bees from flower to hive. When we were finally permitted to go up—and after completing a rather strenuous climb—the four of us gazed out at all of Paris spreading around us. The view was astounding. One could see for miles the buildings and bridges crossing the river, cars zipping along the streets below, the Eiffel tower rising high above the rest, and—Oh! As I stepped further out onto the exposed area at the top of the cathedral the wind picked up and took with it the oh-so-airy material of my sundress, sending it sailing up around my head like an umbrella in a hurricane. My hands flew to restrain the unruly fabric—not unlike Marilyn Monroe in The Seven Year Itch, but if her face had been contorted in mortified horror and her motions frantic and disjointed. I proceeded carefully after that until a photo opportunity distracted me and I released my skirt for the briefest of moments only to have it billow up once more. Fortunately my brother had been near at hand and launched himself forward to my rescue. From that moment on he remained close by my side lest the dress should again decide to take leave and rise aloft.

That night we lingered in town a bit longer to watch the light show at the Eiffel tower. I have heard that the locals find this display of electricity mundane and excessive, but I found it to be quite enjoyable and must assume that the people around me did as well. There were loads of people gathered all around; some standing at a distance, some directly beneath the impressive radio tower, and others perched on blankets in the grass. The atmosphere was light and cheerful. I can't be sure if our fellow onlookers were native Parisians, or enraptured tourists, but whatever they were, we all shared one thing in common: in that moment, we were all happy to be there.

Zermatt, Switzerland

If what you seek is a mosh pit of gyrating bodies, loud music, and mind-altering substances, if you desire waking up naked beside someone who resembles one of the extras from Thriller and an alarming rash forming on your left cheek, Zermatt is not the place for you. Okay, I suppose I'm being a bit unfair. For those of you who seek such experiences, I doubt the lack of local facilities would deter you in your quest. There are a few places here that might sate your party-goer's appetite (some even boasting closing hours of 4 am!) but this was not my experience.

After arriving on the train with my family in the small Swiss village, we dropped off our effects at the hotel, and stepped out onto a cobbled street with not a soul to be seen. Beckoned forth by my uncompromising stomach, I led the way in search of a place where my loved ones and I might find some form of sustenance. But as the search for dinner continued on without success, I began to feel a cold-sweat of panic stippling across my skin. I had just begun to decide which family member I would miss least if forced to turn to cannibalism when the mystical sound of music and soft chatter met our ears, leading us skipping and dancing towards its source like the children after the Pied Piper of Hamelin. Savory smells of cooking food soon joined the assault on our senses and before we knew it we were standing in the middle of a proper little diner! It was all I could do not to drop down to my knees in prayer, hands clasped, shaking above my head, and body aquiver with jubilation.

We were led to a table by a pleasant middle-aged woman—who made up for her lack of English, and our lack of German, with wide smiles and welcoming hand gestures—and collapsed into our chairs, forks poised over our empty plates like Fred Flintstone awaiting his supper. Let me now take the time to address you with the food of Zermatt, Switzerland. I personally found much success with my ordering choices, sticking closely to various pastas, but I fear I cannot say the same for the other members of my family, my brother in particular. Intrigued by the words "Wiener Schnitzel" he decided to be adventurous with his meal—a heretofore unprecedented event—and ordered the Wiener Schnitzel salad. This, however, turned out to be a monumental error in judgment for a starving boy to make. Whilst I basked in the creamy-goodness of my four cheese macaroni, he was left prodding his fork experimentally at the bowl of green leaves accompanied by thinly sliced hotdogs. Now as some of you may know, Wiener Schnitzel is meat that is breaded and fried, usually veal. Not hotdogs. I do not know why the meal was so falsely advertised, but perhaps we should count it as one of God's small blessings—no doubt my finicky brother would have been overcome with the vapors should he have been presented with veal amongst his lettuce leaves.

The next day we set out to experience all that Zermatt had to offer. As mentioned before, Zermatt is a small town that boasts a population of a whopping 6,000 local residents. Combustion-engine cars are forbidden in the village and only electric cars or those that are battery operated are permitted. This is done to prevent air-pollution so as not to disturb the crisp alpine air circulating throughout the village. The main road in town cuts its way through the quaint, brightly-shuttered buildings and ends at a path leading to the hallmark of Zermatt. The Matterhorn. This, in my opinion, is the prime reason for coming to Zermatt. With its peak jutting majestically out of the earth at approximately 13,000 feet above sea level, I couldn't take my eyes away from it. The sight of the mountain filled me with such a humbling sense of insignificance as I stood in its shadows that I demanded to my family we go for a hike.

It didn't take long to discover that we were not the only people embarking upon such a trying physical experience, however, and were often passed by hikers of such physical prowess as to put Bear Grylls to shame. My family and I had started out the cool summer day wearing jeans, sneakers, and long sleeved shirts, but as we continued our ascent it became imperative to turn said jeans into capris, and long sleeved shirts into tees. I do not mean to mislead you into thinking we had hiked anything that resembled a respectable distance, but it was a strenuous trek for amateurs such as ourselves nevertheless. I am convinced that if not for the bubbling enthusiasm the mountain inspired within me, I would have found myself squatting at the side of the road panting like a black dog in summer with just a touch of asthma.

Along the way we saw things of such natural beauty as to stop us in our tracks. Green grass rose up all around us, dotted with small yellow and white flowers, all waving back and forth in the wind as if to lure us into its depths. To our right, thin white waterfalls carved their way down the rock face where sheep gathered like specks of cotton against the dark gray slate. The way up was never-ending, as if every step we took was bringing us nowhere. I remember closing my eyes and breathing in the clean, crisp air of the mountain, listening to the roaring speech of the river as it followed us from its position deep within the gorge to our left. We paused here for a moment, peering precariously over the edge of the cliff and down into the frothing white of the churning waters. It was at this rather significant moment during our nature excursion that my brother took it upon himself to pretend as though he were going to push my mother over the edge of the cliff. Both parents responded to this unfortunate lapse in intelligence with a fierce alacrity that could have subdued a grizzly bear. They regarded him with identical looks of profound disillusion and pummeled him with rhetorical questions that all centralized around his lack of mental capacity. I, meanwhile, watched the exchange from a safe distance away and continued to stare placidly around my surrounds until they had finished.

We traveled on for a bit longer, me leading the pack with my brother bringing up the rear, tale tucked between his legs. The wind was light, rustling around us, and the sky a clear, forget-me-not blue. A forested area had just begun taking form to our right when my mom plopped herself down upon a rock at the side of the path, my dad coming to stand beside her in silent camaraderie. Mood lightened considerably by the discovery of an interesting stone, my brother too came to a pause beside my parents, forcing me to stop my ascent with marked impatience. After a few moments rest it was brought to my attention that though everyone found the Matterhorn as equally awe-inspiring as I, they had no desire to reach its summit, and certainly not before lunch. So, wheezing and red-faced, we all turned around and began to make our way back down to the foot of the mountain. It seemed to take much less time to get down than it had going up—funny how that happens.

We only stayed in Zermatt for two days before continuing on our journey by train. It is a lovely little town and the view alone is worth the visit, but there really isn't much to do there unless you are an avid hiker or skier. If outdoor sports are your calling then this is the place for you. And for the rest of us, like I said, it is definitely worth the trip.

Bonjour, Guten tag, Hola, Buongiorno, and Hello!

Why do we travel? Some people travel to relax, retiring on a tropical beach where they collapse in the sand like a fish cast up from the sea. Others seek the rush of adventure, of putting themselves in situations that would render most of us paralyzed with terror. Then there are those who relish in the exploration of a different culture, of trying something new and unfamiliar. And those who love all three.

Every Sunday I will discuss a different city from somewhere in the world and invite you to share your own experiences as I regale you with the tales of my own travels--the good, the bad, and the ugly. Follow me each week and sate your wanderlust!