invasion of europe
Episode #8
Don't fuck with me boy, I'm the pope
Florence has the best food. Sadly, I don't eat like I used to and I have never eaten like the Italians do, but I am trying. When you eat here, you order a first dish, which is not an appetizer, it's a full dish. Then you order a second full dish, then a soup or salad or both, then dessert. All for twenty dollars. It's a lot of food and it's damn good. Table wine. Is free and it moves in pretty quickly.
So with all the gellato that I am consuming, I have entered into large meals of Italian pasta. I weigh two thousand pounds.
Back in Florence and I have hooked up with two eighteen year olds; a kiwi dairy farmer and a yank from Alaska. They have both been here a long time or are going to be here along time, so they are poor all the time. However, their company is invaluable to me at this time. I wanted a sancho ponchi and instead I got two.
Our plan was to wake early, see The David and then get on a train to Rome. See Rome as fast as we can and then get back here, most likely the next day. Then we all head in different directions. They to Milan and Venice and me, to Hilter's hideaway in the Bavarian hills. But first, there is Rome.
Rome by train, five hours of absolute discomfort. We missed the David due to a line that would take longer to wait in that it took to chip the marble to make David in the first place. On the train, we met some American girls that were all headed back to school on the east coast. The boys took to them right away. Of course, 18 year old boys smell like 18 year old boys, but a kiwi accent always seems to work. And 20 year old girls like boys.
We all check into the same hostel in Rome, well, hotel and we make plans to join forces on the mad dash of Rome. Our room is on the roof of the building and is so incredibly beautiful that we are all stunned. It's like being told that you are going to be living in the Real World house on MTV. You don't believe it. The view, the kitchen, the private shower, toilet. It's a good life. Buon Vida.
We meet the girls right away and head out into the Rome night to find food, gelatto and ruins. The food is horrible, the gelatto is the best I have ever had, and the ruins are indescribable. The night is warm, there is no clouds, but there is a lite haze. Rome has wisely put lights on strategic places on the ruins to make them come alive. I have photos, I will show you.
I stand where hundreds of thousands of Christians met a lion. I love it. Go lion. I stand where government was born, the preacher, the church, the spaghetti noodle was made popular. (go lions - I never get sick of saying that) I stand where men in robes determined the shape of Europe. I love it.
But it's killing my feet.
The girls go in. We go in. Kiwi seemed to make good with a girl, but he has no game and she goes home with her virtue.
The next morning, Kiwi decides to bolt and ride the train home. That leaves me and and alaska and we make the best of it. First, the sistine chapel. When we get to the vatican, we end up standing in the wrong line and discover that we are in line to meet the pope.
We would rather see the paintings thanks.
We move around the walls to the sistine chapel and stand in line. There we meet a bunch of Americans who paid 20,000 dollars to come to Rome for four months and learn art history. Their teacher is exactly what you expect. Beret, Small pointy goatee, green sports coat and tennis shoes, small glasses, reading a communist newspaper. I tell the kids that they could have said their money, bought a ticket, seen it all for themselves, painted or created from the heart and seen Europe, Asia, Africa and bought a nice place for two years with that money.
They tried to defend the, "you do it for the friends". Twenty grand for friends. Thats the problem with arty people, they have no friends and are sad enough to buy them. And they have pointy goatees. The teacher pulled the kids away and wouldn't debate me. He decided that he wanted to make a large statement behind my back, but loud enough so I could hear. I could have ended his life right there in the vatican.
How ironic that people filled with such individual freedom and with such a hatred of doing it for the man, would come to the one place on earth that would destory them for being an individual and were responsible for all the art that they paid so much money to see.
The sistine chapel.... Is a maze. It takes close to an hour of twisting and turning between gift shop after gift shop before you finally come to the sistine chapel. And its worth it. However, they are serious when they say, "no photos". And they clapped their hands and pointed at me for taking photos. Everyone looked at me as if to say, "you're doomed to hell".
The rest of the vatican is just as beautiful, but I am done with churches, art, beautiful buildings and european women. Done. I just want to see ancient Roman ruins and some hitler.
On the way out, we got to see the Pope in St. Peter's square. If you want to know what security was like, he is being guarded by italians. I could have walked in their with a tank behind me.
The pope is a rock star and he knows it. He has stopped wearing the robes and just wears white suits like a bapist minister on television. He rides around in a pimped out jeep, waves, high fives and gives the thumbs up to everyone. Then he chants and the girls go wild. He is a pimp and he knows it.
I could only stand five minutes and we left.
Rome - is hard to walk in bad shoes. But I saw it all. I loved it.
We got on the train back but my foot was so swollen it was not working. When we get to the hostel, I am informed there is nothing they can do, cause their idiot art students that are trying to justify not going home. They want me to soak my foot in the beday(misspelled).
Art students should have been thrown in with the lions. Only if they were run of the mill. If you can draw, you're not artistic. Talent is not found in your ability to recreate. Talent is your ability to create from scratch. Too many "sketchers" are taking up valuable sidewalk space. Feed them to the lions.
I could eat some gelatto and watch artists and catholics dodge lions all day.
I am heading to Munich tonight. If I can't get it together, I am doomed to return early. I wanted one more night in Paris and one more night in Germany, preferrably in the Hitler Hideaway, but with my aching foot, cursed by the pope for using foul language in his house. AND I mean I used a lot of foul language. As in, "fuck, look at that mother fucker! I bet that bitch took ten fucking years to fucking paint!" It is bad, I know. And not really me. What can I say, I have a foul mouth in countries where English is considered a waste of time.
Don't fuck with me boy, I'm the pope
Florence has the best food. Sadly, I don't eat like I used to and I have never eaten like the Italians do, but I am trying. When you eat here, you order a first dish, which is not an appetizer, it's a full dish. Then you order a second full dish, then a soup or salad or both, then dessert. All for twenty dollars. It's a lot of food and it's damn good. Table wine. Is free and it moves in pretty quickly.
So with all the gellato that I am consuming, I have entered into large meals of Italian pasta. I weigh two thousand pounds.
Back in Florence and I have hooked up with two eighteen year olds; a kiwi dairy farmer and a yank from Alaska. They have both been here a long time or are going to be here along time, so they are poor all the time. However, their company is invaluable to me at this time. I wanted a sancho ponchi and instead I got two.
Our plan was to wake early, see The David and then get on a train to Rome. See Rome as fast as we can and then get back here, most likely the next day. Then we all head in different directions. They to Milan and Venice and me, to Hilter's hideaway in the Bavarian hills. But first, there is Rome.
Rome by train, five hours of absolute discomfort. We missed the David due to a line that would take longer to wait in that it took to chip the marble to make David in the first place. On the train, we met some American girls that were all headed back to school on the east coast. The boys took to them right away. Of course, 18 year old boys smell like 18 year old boys, but a kiwi accent always seems to work. And 20 year old girls like boys.
We all check into the same hostel in Rome, well, hotel and we make plans to join forces on the mad dash of Rome. Our room is on the roof of the building and is so incredibly beautiful that we are all stunned. It's like being told that you are going to be living in the Real World house on MTV. You don't believe it. The view, the kitchen, the private shower, toilet. It's a good life. Buon Vida.
We meet the girls right away and head out into the Rome night to find food, gelatto and ruins. The food is horrible, the gelatto is the best I have ever had, and the ruins are indescribable. The night is warm, there is no clouds, but there is a lite haze. Rome has wisely put lights on strategic places on the ruins to make them come alive. I have photos, I will show you.
I stand where hundreds of thousands of Christians met a lion. I love it. Go lion. I stand where government was born, the preacher, the church, the spaghetti noodle was made popular. (go lions - I never get sick of saying that) I stand where men in robes determined the shape of Europe. I love it.
But it's killing my feet.
The girls go in. We go in. Kiwi seemed to make good with a girl, but he has no game and she goes home with her virtue.
The next morning, Kiwi decides to bolt and ride the train home. That leaves me and and alaska and we make the best of it. First, the sistine chapel. When we get to the vatican, we end up standing in the wrong line and discover that we are in line to meet the pope.
We would rather see the paintings thanks.
We move around the walls to the sistine chapel and stand in line. There we meet a bunch of Americans who paid 20,000 dollars to come to Rome for four months and learn art history. Their teacher is exactly what you expect. Beret, Small pointy goatee, green sports coat and tennis shoes, small glasses, reading a communist newspaper. I tell the kids that they could have said their money, bought a ticket, seen it all for themselves, painted or created from the heart and seen Europe, Asia, Africa and bought a nice place for two years with that money.
They tried to defend the, "you do it for the friends". Twenty grand for friends. Thats the problem with arty people, they have no friends and are sad enough to buy them. And they have pointy goatees. The teacher pulled the kids away and wouldn't debate me. He decided that he wanted to make a large statement behind my back, but loud enough so I could hear. I could have ended his life right there in the vatican.
How ironic that people filled with such individual freedom and with such a hatred of doing it for the man, would come to the one place on earth that would destory them for being an individual and were responsible for all the art that they paid so much money to see.
The sistine chapel.... Is a maze. It takes close to an hour of twisting and turning between gift shop after gift shop before you finally come to the sistine chapel. And its worth it. However, they are serious when they say, "no photos". And they clapped their hands and pointed at me for taking photos. Everyone looked at me as if to say, "you're doomed to hell".
The rest of the vatican is just as beautiful, but I am done with churches, art, beautiful buildings and european women. Done. I just want to see ancient Roman ruins and some hitler.
On the way out, we got to see the Pope in St. Peter's square. If you want to know what security was like, he is being guarded by italians. I could have walked in their with a tank behind me.
The pope is a rock star and he knows it. He has stopped wearing the robes and just wears white suits like a bapist minister on television. He rides around in a pimped out jeep, waves, high fives and gives the thumbs up to everyone. Then he chants and the girls go wild. He is a pimp and he knows it.
I could only stand five minutes and we left.
Rome - is hard to walk in bad shoes. But I saw it all. I loved it.
We got on the train back but my foot was so swollen it was not working. When we get to the hostel, I am informed there is nothing they can do, cause their idiot art students that are trying to justify not going home. They want me to soak my foot in the beday(misspelled).
Art students should have been thrown in with the lions. Only if they were run of the mill. If you can draw, you're not artistic. Talent is not found in your ability to recreate. Talent is your ability to create from scratch. Too many "sketchers" are taking up valuable sidewalk space. Feed them to the lions.
I could eat some gelatto and watch artists and catholics dodge lions all day.
I am heading to Munich tonight. If I can't get it together, I am doomed to return early. I wanted one more night in Paris and one more night in Germany, preferrably in the Hitler Hideaway, but with my aching foot, cursed by the pope for using foul language in his house. AND I mean I used a lot of foul language. As in, "fuck, look at that mother fucker! I bet that bitch took ten fucking years to fucking paint!" It is bad, I know. And not really me. What can I say, I have a foul mouth in countries where English is considered a waste of time.
posted by Daniel Loomis | 10:41 PM
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