this week in the odyssey
4.12.99 -- 4.19.99
rome, italy

Just Like Home!

After 87 straight days of rain in Seattle, we'd had enough. Enough of the references to Noah on the evening news. Enough of the mildew and must. Enough of being told to "stick it where the sun don't shine" and feeling like that was just about every single place we knew. So, we packed up our gear and headed for what we hoped would be the gentle climes of the Mediterranean. Sunshine. Dryness. Warmth.

Well, you can pretty much imagine what happened next -- rain, and lots of it. It's good old Seattle-style rain, too, the kind that's light enough to be blown horizontally by the lightest of breezes, rendering umbrellas useless. The kind that's always there when you go outside but always gone when you're inside. The kind that erodes your hope and sucks your soul. Actually, it's not really that bad, but "soul sucking rain" is certainly a phrase that I would not be able to use all that often if I was overly concerned with accuracy.

Kristanne is not a huge fan of rain. In fact, you could say that she actively detests rain, reserving for it a hatred just slightly more volatile than that held by slugs for salt, Red Sox for Yankees, or actual human beings for the music of Celine Dion. It's that bad. Ordinarily, Kristanne is the most lighthearted and kindest of souls, bounding through fields of flowers, frolicking in the surf with dolphins, and charming hardened ex-cons in halfway houses with her spirited rendition of "How Do You Solve a Problem Like Maria" from "The Sound of Music." Rain turns her, though, makes her mean. Junkyard mean. You can see just how mean by looking at the before and after pictures I've shown here. I must caution you, though -- a price was paid for that picture at the top of this page. It's best not to talk about where that umbrella ended up after I snapped that shot. Suffice it to say that my medical insurance is completely up to date. It even works overseas!

Well, at least two members of our near-rabid Odyssey readership have written in expressing sentiments much like the following: "Sid, as the contemplative and insightful soul that you are, you undoubtedly must have some pithy observations to offer on the Italian national character. Could you share some of your thoughts with us in your own inimitable fashion, leaving out none of the zesty wit, fiery intellect, and keen erudition that we, the Odyssey readership, have come to expect from you? Also, could you pop a breath mint every once in a while, halitosis-face?"

Never one to shirk from the needs of the folks back home, allow me to share a few of the many nuggets of wisdom I've mined during my daily inquiries into the world of Italians.

• Surprisingly, Italians actually do say "Mamma mia." They say it often and without any apparent sense of irony. It has taken me time to grow accustomed to this -- my first reaction of breaking out in laughter has proven to be an unfortunate one.
  
• Depending on your point of view, Italians are either the best or the worst drivers you have ever seen. That picture at right showing a Jeep Wrangler squeezing its way through a corner on a cobblestone street in the ancient village of Orvieto is a good example. Keep in mind that this is a two-way street with plenty of pedestrians. If you're going to drive fifty miles an hour down this street with one hand on the wheel and the other on the cellphone (like this dude was), you've got be good. Or drunk. Or both.
• The ancient Romans were way ahead of their time entertainment-wise. Hundreds of years before America began tuning in to decadent, fin de siecle television fare like "When Animals Attack", "America's Favorite Disfiguring Industrial Accidents," and "How My Child Died Violently," the Romans were putting on entertainments consisting of nothing more than the ritual dismemberment of a bunch of animals. No word yet on what "Jerry Springer" translates into in Latin.
• Italians will give you a receipt for just about anything. That deforestation problem in the Amazon? It's not because of American timber consumption or the need for new land to graze the cows that end up in Taco Supremes -- it's because the dang Italians give you a receipt for every transaction you complete, no matter how fleeting or minute. If you so much as make eye contact with a shopkeeper as you walk past his door, he will furiously vault the counter and assault you in the street so as to stuff your pockets with scontrinos. Pity the poor fool who actually tries to buy something -- you'll be lucky to get out the door with less than a pound of receipts per lira spent.

• Speaking of lira, it actually takes much less time to get used to the slightly bizarre exchange rate of 1,800 lira, one suckling pig, and half a pound of provolone to the dollar than you would think. Simply knock three zeroes off every price you see in lira and divide by the gross national product of Yemen in 1994 (adjusted for inflation) to get your price in dollars.
• In the proud tradition of Chevrolet marketing a car called the "Nova" (literally, "it doesn't go" in Spanish) to Mexicans, Italians tend to give many of their scooters English names with little regard to what the names actually mean. Following close on the heels of last week's Flamer scooter, you can see the curiously-dubbed "Dink" scooter at the left. Unseen in this picture is the bumper sticker reading, "My Other Scooter Is A Jerk."
• Some quick guidelines to remember on common snack foods found in Italy -- "Pocket Coffee" is actually a surprisingly refreshing break in the day. The little burst of liquid espresso in the center of a chocolate square is quite tasty! "I Love You" chips may love you when you buy them, but they'll definitely break your heart in the end, leaving you flat broke in the divorce settlement to boot. Sometimes a chip has to love itself before it can love you. Finally, "Fonzies" are not too bad in a pinch, but you'll definitely want to avoid the "Potsies."

Here at the Odyssey, we take plagiarism seriously. That's why before I go too much further, I should definitely insert a disclaimer -- I copped that show title "How My Child Died Violently" from a short story called "Sea Oak," by George Saunders. It was in last month's New Yorker, and it was flat-out hilarious. Check it out this instant.

Sources now credited, it's time for us to delve into the tumultous world of Art History. For those of you who have not yet picked up on it, I'm here riding Kristanne's coattails as she studies art history with other students from the University of Washington. Fortunately for me, I've been allowed to tag along on a couple field trips. This week, we headed off to Hadrian's Villa just east of Rome. Hadrian was the Roman emperor back early in the first century AD. Having explored the Roman empire to its furthest reaches, Hadrian endeavored to design a villa that would evoke and quote from the monuments and sites he had seen during his travels. The villa was virtually completed in 134 (all seven square miles of it), but Hadrian was to die four years later. After that, the villa fell into disrepair, victim to the standard Roman practice of scavenging your old monuments to make some new ones. It's still an incredible place, completely impressive in scale. That scenic photograph below shows you a portion of the Piazza d'Oro portion of the villa.

Many of you are no doubt wondering what Art History In Action looks like. So was I. So, in the interest of public disclosure, I took this trip to Hadrian's Villa as my opportunity to bring the truth home to you. I packed up my camera and set out to document the straight scoop, the inside story, the dish. Who are these art historians? And just what the heck are they up to?

You can see the truth for yourself there to the right. And, as it turned out, there really wasn't that much of a seamy side. Oh, sure -- there was some compromising information on Corinthian order columns, and the stuff about the Grand Baths is probably not at all fit for our family audience, but on the whole, it was fairly tame. The only really scary moment came during a brief appearance by Miss Money Money who in response to the gushings of one impressionable young art historian was heard to remark quite clearly, "Yeah, but sometime ruins just look crappy."

Ouch, Miss Money Money! Please don't hurt 'em!

After a hard day's Art History, Kristanne and I needed a break. So, the next day, we decided to catch the train up to Orvieto, an old Etruscan town situated on the top of a plug of volcanic rock in the middle of a large valley. To get to the town itself, we had to take a funicolo -- a cable car -- that climbed at about a sixty degree angle from the train station at the base of the hill. Before we could do that, though, we had to pass an advanced mathematics examination to find our train from Rome. I don't know about you, but when I see signs in train stations that require me to remember the Fundamental Order of Operations in order to find my train, I get a little bit nervous. The picture of the stick figure swatting the hand of the other stick figure for getting it wrong didn't help my anxiety level, either. As I pondered the vagaries of binary arithmetic and wondered what the heck the quadratic formula was for, anyway, Kristanne pointed out that "Binari" in Italian means "platform." So, it wasn't binary arithmetic they wanted from me! My fears assuaged, I put away the dogeared copy of "Differential Equations and You" that I always carry, solved the equation for pi and asked the next person I saw where the heck the train to Orvieto was. That worked, and soon we were asleep from mental exhaustion on our way north.

Orvieto was beautiful, but we both soon tired of the monsoon like rains, gale-force winds, and sub-freezing temperatures. So, we funicoloed back down to the train station, got loaded on cheap booze and headed back to Rome, drunk off our asses. Did I just lose our "Family Fun" rating? Strike that -- we hugged once and had engaging conversations about the nature of morality on our way back to Rome. Exhilarating!

We close this week's adventure with yet another trip to the vast vaults of Mr. Scucherini. Completely commensurate with Mr. Scucherini's avowed philosophy of "The More Breasts the Better" we present a fertility fountain from gardens at Villa d'Este in Tivoli. Note that we cannot be responsible for any Freudian nightmares you might have as a result of seeing this picture. Also, keep in mind a favorite motto of Miss Money Money's: "It's not obscene -- It's Art History!"

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