Before I launch into recounting my exciting weekend, I must pause for a few moments to apologize for not keeping yall updating with how I am getting along. If my using the word yall wrinkles any of your noses, note that almost every language (voi in Italian) possesses a word that directly addresses multiple people. That fact coupled with my belief that language is not the possession of literary scholars who publish dictionaries, but rather a communal gift open to all who speak, fuels my determination to share my belief that yall is a proper English word. Perhaps one day, Microsoft Word will stop eliciting a squiggly red line every time I write the word ‘yall.’ Maybe yall will use it too.
About a month ago I lost my debit card. I think I left it at Ipercoop (an Italian mini-Walmart outside of the city walls), but they never found it, nor did anyone who thought to use it. Because I am the world’s most productive procrastinator, I took my sweet time locking my account with Bank of America and even sweeter time reporting it lost and seeking a new card. Thanks to two small loans from USAC, two Western Union transactions from my beautiful parents, and one from my Bubbie (thanks Bubbie!), I remained relatively unflustered by my lack of access to the plethora of money that the University of Maryland loaned me. On more than one occasion I found myself hungry and without money, but being broke is nothing new to me and so I successfully found ways to fill my belly with food AND wine.
Borrowing money from some of my friends proved to be invaluable. They were really generous and patient with me and I cannot thank them enough for helping me out. I’m almost finished paying them back too. USAC was very helpful and understanding when I was unable to pay my rent on time also. More than anyone, though, I must thank Café Blitz. Every evening around 6:00 PM, the bartenders arrange a full side of their large island bar with appetizers ranging from pastas to pizzas, vegetables and breads. I stopped by Blitz most evenings after class, charmed a friend into buying me a drink and proceeded to casually fill up on appetizers. All of the bartenders know everyone's name ("Ciao Simone!") and preferred beverage. Following my almost-rude eating sessions, I would look for an American inviting people over for dinner, tag along, and apologize for failing to bring a bottle of wine.
In the midst of being broke (again, nothing new to me), I managed to continue travelling to new places (my second trip to Rome was on loaned money) and have a great time. Two weeks ago, I realized I was registered for twenty credits this semester, but USAC does not permit students to receive more than eighteen credits per semester. Surveying my class list for something relatively expendable, I finally settled on dropping my Italian Gardens class. Between much of it being redundant information from my Italian Renaissance class, it is scheduled for 9:00 AM on Thursday morning. It escapes me whether or not I have shared with yall that Wednesday night in Viterbo is similar to Thursday nights in College Park. All the bars and discotecas are packed with university students, some of whom have insisted that I join them into the ore piccolo (literally- small hours, aka 1 AM-5 AM). While this makes for much midweek fun, it did horrors to my Thursday mornings. I was unsure at first about dropping this class, but reveled in joy when I realized I could still attend all of the field trips to various Italian gardens. Score 1, Alex: No more classes before 11:00 AM.
Two days after dropping the Gardens class, I met the class and professor outside of Porta Fiorentina (the north gate to the city) at 9:30 AM for a trip to Bagnaia and Bamarzo. I stopped at Café G on my way to grab my daily breakfast, macchiato, and to check out the girl behind the counter, who may be (and I have given this considerable thought) the most beautiful ragazza in Viterbo. Though I have not asked her, I am sure she has a boyfriend, as every pretty girl (and I mean every single pretty girl) in Viterbo has a boyfriend.
Ragazze aside, I met at the bus and we drove no more than ten minutes before arriving at Bagnaia. My friends all went there on the second week of our stay for the annual Bagnaia fire festival. Though I would have loved to join them, I had a most excellent time in Rome that weekend. From the central piazza we walked up a long, steep road to the gardens of the town’s medieval lord. Though his name escapes me, I remember that it meant ‘crawfish’ in Italian, for nearly every fountain in this fantastic garden bore reliefs and sculptures of those critters. At first I was a bit surprised that someone named ‘Crawfish’ would be so proud as to adorn his garden with their likenesses, but then I acquiesced and realized he was probably beating
everyone to the punch (including myself). A large fountain of Pegasus lies behind the entrance to the garden. Black and flanked by ten humanlike statues—apparently gazing with the same awe as mine—I found myself hypnotized by the long straight vertical stream emitted from Pegasus’ rock as it danced and swayed in the early morning wind, which was unusually cold even by central Italy standards.
We paid two euro to enter the gardens and they were well spent. The first section of the gardens consisted of small hedges that looked like tiny labyrinths at first. I knew Italians were short, but not that short. In the garden’s center lied a fountain with four men standing in the center holding something above their heads. My curiosity steered me towards the teacher and asked her what was the object the men carried, prompting a well-deserved remark that (in a British accent), “if you had been in class yesterday, you would know. I don’t have time to tell you every little thing about every garden we’re going to if you don’t have the decency to come to class. Class, please tell this young man what they are holding.” “The lord’s coat of arms,” several students answered in unison. Ouch. Shrug. Oh well. At least I was sleeping off Wednesday night (a crazy one that lasted until 4:30 AM with Viterbo’s professional women’s basketball team, I might add) while they dragged themselves on a thirty-minute walk to class only four hours later. No regrets here.
After ascending a beautiful staircase, the previous section took form as a perfectly symmetrical square of hedges and fountain. Immediately behind me 
lied two more sections of fountains that aligned perfectly with the garden below. The first, a virtual amphitheater of small 
fountain streams ten in a row; the second, this twenty foot long table, where guests of Lord Crawfish would actually sit and eat, using the fountain as a means of passing food down the table. Much cooler than your average pool cooler. Then my camera died and now, two weeks later, I remember little else.
Some time later we returned to the main piazza in town, grabbed some sandwiches and coffees, and hopped on a bus to Bamarzo—the monster gardens. In the interest of time I will show you some pictures (still haven't collected them all from people), move on, and simply say what an extraordinary and unusual place this is. Some crazy statues and great photo ops. We piled back on the bus and headed home for a pleasant weekend in Viterbo.
That night we went to Via Bussi for a surprise 22nd birthday party for Felicia. Derek, Nick and I arrived after the surprise, but managed to score a big “Surprise!” upon our arrival. We had a fun little time and a few glasses of wine before heading to Blitz. A few minutes after the night’s first jagerbomb, a small group of dolled-up girls entered making noises that caught my ear. I couldn’t hear a word of what they were saying, but the sound mimicked the noise made by drunken girls walking down the street, in the bars, and the pizzerias back home. I knew that sound (and so do you I’m sure). Not all girls make this noise, and the ones who don’t make this noise HATE this noise even more than men do. The noise is the one that screams, “I’m a drunk girl!” so everyone can hear (ala, Oh my G-d!). To my amazement, but not my surprise, as the girls walked closer one of them screamed, “Where’s the bagno?” rhyming bagno with banjo. I knew those girls sounded American! As it turned out the four or five of them all hailed from Chicago and are living in a small town in Tuscany for the semester. I’m thinking they probably saw Under the Tuscan Sun and plunged right into that beautiful, yet boring with a capital B, region. One girl approached me and asked, “No way, are you American?” Sporting my Maryland hoodie, I replied (without any semblance of an accent), “No parlo inglese,” to which she gasped, “he’s cuuute,” prompting her friend to then punch and scold her, “He’s wearing a Maryland hoodie, you dumb slut!” Priceless.
But not as priceless as what transpired moments later. My friend, Nick from New Jersey, whispered into my ear, “Listen, tonight…I’m from New York, okay?” This just moved to the top of my list of favorite things to say to people from New Jersey who think it rules, despite having two NFL teams who pretend they’re from New York.
On Saturday night, I made my first visit to Monestero’s, arguably the best
pizzeria in Viterbo. They have forty-six (46!) different types of pizza and every time you go, you order two types and they serve you two pizzas, usually for around seven euro in total. I have publicly sworn an oath that I will order one of each type of pizza before I leave Viterbo. At the time of writing this, I have tried five and only need to make twenty-one more trips between now and May. Let the Monestero challenge commence!
Sunday afternoon, Katie, Chelsea, and Kayla hosted a most excellent brunch at their apartment. Lots of eggs, potatoes, French toast (I put peanut butter on mine like some other people and it was absolutely
delicious) and many mimosas made for a fun, lazy Sunday. I made a run to the store for some more ingredients and caught a small Carnivale celebration with lots of children and babies wearing costumes, playing games, and throwing confetti. These people are all about their confetti. Chelsea spilled a huge bag of it in Ipercoop once.
About a month ago I lost my debit card. I think I left it at Ipercoop (an Italian mini-Walmart outside of the city walls), but they never found it, nor did anyone who thought to use it. Because I am the world’s most productive procrastinator, I took my sweet time locking my account with Bank of America and even sweeter time reporting it lost and seeking a new card. Thanks to two small loans from USAC, two Western Union transactions from my beautiful parents, and one from my Bubbie (thanks Bubbie!), I remained relatively unflustered by my lack of access to the plethora of money that the University of Maryland loaned me. On more than one occasion I found myself hungry and without money, but being broke is nothing new to me and so I successfully found ways to fill my belly with food AND wine.
Borrowing money from some of my friends proved to be invaluable. They were really generous and patient with me and I cannot thank them enough for helping me out. I’m almost finished paying them back too. USAC was very helpful and understanding when I was unable to pay my rent on time also. More than anyone, though, I must thank Café Blitz. Every evening around 6:00 PM, the bartenders arrange a full side of their large island bar with appetizers ranging from pastas to pizzas, vegetables and breads. I stopped by Blitz most evenings after class, charmed a friend into buying me a drink and proceeded to casually fill up on appetizers. All of the bartenders know everyone's name ("Ciao Simone!") and preferred beverage. Following my almost-rude eating sessions, I would look for an American inviting people over for dinner, tag along, and apologize for failing to bring a bottle of wine.
In the midst of being broke (again, nothing new to me), I managed to continue travelling to new places (my second trip to Rome was on loaned money) and have a great time. Two weeks ago, I realized I was registered for twenty credits this semester, but USAC does not permit students to receive more than eighteen credits per semester. Surveying my class list for something relatively expendable, I finally settled on dropping my Italian Gardens class. Between much of it being redundant information from my Italian Renaissance class, it is scheduled for 9:00 AM on Thursday morning. It escapes me whether or not I have shared with yall that Wednesday night in Viterbo is similar to Thursday nights in College Park. All the bars and discotecas are packed with university students, some of whom have insisted that I join them into the ore piccolo (literally- small hours, aka 1 AM-5 AM). While this makes for much midweek fun, it did horrors to my Thursday mornings. I was unsure at first about dropping this class, but reveled in joy when I realized I could still attend all of the field trips to various Italian gardens. Score 1, Alex: No more classes before 11:00 AM.
Two days after dropping the Gardens class, I met the class and professor outside of Porta Fiorentina (the north gate to the city) at 9:30 AM for a trip to Bagnaia and Bamarzo. I stopped at Café G on my way to grab my daily breakfast, macchiato, and to check out the girl behind the counter, who may be (and I have given this considerable thought) the most beautiful ragazza in Viterbo. Though I have not asked her, I am sure she has a boyfriend, as every pretty girl (and I mean every single pretty girl) in Viterbo has a boyfriend.
Ragazze aside, I met at the bus and we drove no more than ten minutes before arriving at Bagnaia. My friends all went there on the second week of our stay for the annual Bagnaia fire festival. Though I would have loved to join them, I had a most excellent time in Rome that weekend. From the central piazza we walked up a long, steep road to the gardens of the town’s medieval lord. Though his name escapes me, I remember that it meant ‘crawfish’ in Italian, for nearly every fountain in this fantastic garden bore reliefs and sculptures of those critters. At first I was a bit surprised that someone named ‘Crawfish’ would be so proud as to adorn his garden with their likenesses, but then I acquiesced and realized he was probably beating
everyone to the punch (including myself). A large fountain of Pegasus lies behind the entrance to the garden. Black and flanked by ten humanlike statues—apparently gazing with the same awe as mine—I found myself hypnotized by the long straight vertical stream emitted from Pegasus’ rock as it danced and swayed in the early morning wind, which was unusually cold even by central Italy standards.We paid two euro to enter the gardens and they were well spent. The first section of the gardens consisted of small hedges that looked like tiny labyrinths at first. I knew Italians were short, but not that short. In the garden’s center lied a fountain with four men standing in the center holding something above their heads. My curiosity steered me towards the teacher and asked her what was the object the men carried, prompting a well-deserved remark that (in a British accent), “if you had been in class yesterday, you would know. I don’t have time to tell you every little thing about every garden we’re going to if you don’t have the decency to come to class. Class, please tell this young man what they are holding.” “The lord’s coat of arms,” several students answered in unison. Ouch. Shrug. Oh well. At least I was sleeping off Wednesday night (a crazy one that lasted until 4:30 AM with Viterbo’s professional women’s basketball team, I might add) while they dragged themselves on a thirty-minute walk to class only four hours later. No regrets here.
After ascending a beautiful staircase, the previous section took form as a perfectly symmetrical square of hedges and fountain. Immediately behind me 
lied two more sections of fountains that aligned perfectly with the garden below. The first, a virtual amphitheater of small 
fountain streams ten in a row; the second, this twenty foot long table, where guests of Lord Crawfish would actually sit and eat, using the fountain as a means of passing food down the table. Much cooler than your average pool cooler. Then my camera died and now, two weeks later, I remember little else.Some time later we returned to the main piazza in town, grabbed some sandwiches and coffees, and hopped on a bus to Bamarzo—the monster gardens. In the interest of time I will show you some pictures (still haven't collected them all from people), move on, and simply say what an extraordinary and unusual place this is. Some crazy statues and great photo ops. We piled back on the bus and headed home for a pleasant weekend in Viterbo.
That night we went to Via Bussi for a surprise 22nd birthday party for Felicia. Derek, Nick and I arrived after the surprise, but managed to score a big “Surprise!” upon our arrival. We had a fun little time and a few glasses of wine before heading to Blitz. A few minutes after the night’s first jagerbomb, a small group of dolled-up girls entered making noises that caught my ear. I couldn’t hear a word of what they were saying, but the sound mimicked the noise made by drunken girls walking down the street, in the bars, and the pizzerias back home. I knew that sound (and so do you I’m sure). Not all girls make this noise, and the ones who don’t make this noise HATE this noise even more than men do. The noise is the one that screams, “I’m a drunk girl!” so everyone can hear (ala, Oh my G-d!). To my amazement, but not my surprise, as the girls walked closer one of them screamed, “Where’s the bagno?” rhyming bagno with banjo. I knew those girls sounded American! As it turned out the four or five of them all hailed from Chicago and are living in a small town in Tuscany for the semester. I’m thinking they probably saw Under the Tuscan Sun and plunged right into that beautiful, yet boring with a capital B, region. One girl approached me and asked, “No way, are you American?” Sporting my Maryland hoodie, I replied (without any semblance of an accent), “No parlo inglese,” to which she gasped, “he’s cuuute,” prompting her friend to then punch and scold her, “He’s wearing a Maryland hoodie, you dumb slut!” Priceless.
But not as priceless as what transpired moments later. My friend, Nick from New Jersey, whispered into my ear, “Listen, tonight…I’m from New York, okay?” This just moved to the top of my list of favorite things to say to people from New Jersey who think it rules, despite having two NFL teams who pretend they’re from New York.
On Saturday night, I made my first visit to Monestero’s, arguably the best
pizzeria in Viterbo. They have forty-six (46!) different types of pizza and every time you go, you order two types and they serve you two pizzas, usually for around seven euro in total. I have publicly sworn an oath that I will order one of each type of pizza before I leave Viterbo. At the time of writing this, I have tried five and only need to make twenty-one more trips between now and May. Let the Monestero challenge commence!Sunday afternoon, Katie, Chelsea, and Kayla hosted a most excellent brunch at their apartment. Lots of eggs, potatoes, French toast (I put peanut butter on mine like some other people and it was absolutely
delicious) and many mimosas made for a fun, lazy Sunday. I made a run to the store for some more ingredients and caught a small Carnivale celebration with lots of children and babies wearing costumes, playing games, and throwing confetti. These people are all about their confetti. Chelsea spilled a huge bag of it in Ipercoop once.As per the recommendation of our Ethiopian-immigrant friend, Alvaro, we—Derek, Katie, Chelsea, Nick and I—went to this seafood restaurant in San Faustino (the other side of our small town). Though no one else particularly enjoyed it, I did. I think part of the blame lied in my companions’ dinner selections. I ordered lamb while Nick and Chelsea 
order the seafood platter, complete with about two dozen of these tiny, fried, bait-like fish. Nick, in a Frankenstein-like manner, devised this shrimp-
sardine hybrid fish. Chelsea didn’t like it. Thank goodness for us and for the USA that the restaurant was bone-dry empty except for us. I suppose that restaurant may be as bad as my friends are saying.
Last week my attention focused entirely on waiting for my debit card to arrive via FedEx. Much to my delight my plastic treasure chest arrived on Tuesday morning, but a cruel twist of fate insisted that my PIN number change before I could open the latch. My bank sent the PIN to my parents’ house in Baltimore, and meanwhile, USAC kindly lent me some more money. I would need it direly, for on Friday I was headed to Carnivale in Venice, one of the biggest and oldest festivals in world history.
Again, I must delay our plunge into this exciting weekend to share with yall my plans leading up to a definite highlight of my stay in Italia. Immediately upon arriving in Italy, Chelsea organized a small group’s travel and lodging plans for Carnivale. I made no such immediate plans. With Carnivale less than a week away I still had begun neither, knowing that it would (as it always does) work out perfectly in the end. First, as I slumped dozing in my Italian language class, I barely heard my friend Christine exclaim, “I’m trying to rent a car to drive to Venice for Carnivale, but every car leased by Hertz is a stick-shift and I don’t know how to drive one. Anybody here drive a stick?” I launched up immediately and wiped the bit of drool off the right corner of my mouth. “As a matter of fact…” I was so excited at the prospect of driving to Venice that I dared not tell my parents lest they convince me how bad of an idea that could be. Fortunately for them, just days before we left for Venice, Christine switched to Avis and an automatic transmission. Although I was bummed at missing out on such a cool experience (driving through Tuscany and Veneto to Carnivale!?!), I gave myself a well-deserved pat on the back for securing my transportation to and fro.
Securing a hostel was a different story. In the weeks leading up to Carnivale I began making inquiries about hostel arrangements. Much to my disappointment, every single spot with USAC kids was full. After a brief, futile campaign trying to persuade friends scattered throughout Europe to come with me, I all but settled on a website called CouchSurfer.com that links travelers with people owning a couch to sleep on for a few nights. My plan: sleep on strangers’ couches that I met online…Luckily, this guy Chris bailed on his spot and offered it to me. Only fifty euro for two nights is a great deal. I would find out days later that part of his reason for bailing was that I would be rooming with six girls and no other guys. I, on the other hand, gotta do what I gotta do.
USAC kids made travel arrangements by air, train, and car. Consequently, we all left at different times. Only my fellow car passengers remained in Viterbo on Thursday night, preparing to leave at 8:30 AM Friday morning. I planned to get a good night’s sleep, but no further opposite could have resulted from my Thursday night/Friday morning. Katie, Chelsea, and I hung out at an empty Blitz until we learned that Luscia was giving out free Pilsner Urquell polo shirts. I herded the girls out and over there quickly. Immediately after entering, Luscia sticks a bowl in front of our faces and instructs us to pull out a piece of paper. None of us could read our papers, but mine had more words than theirs, two of which said ‘Pilsner Urquell.” I won the very last shirt!
The girls and I ordered Pilsners to go (you can do that here) and away we went. On the way to their apartment we stopped at the vending machines and bought a few more beers (you can do that here too). Katie cooked potatoes for us and before we knew what happened, it was 3:30 AM. We had two options: sleep for four hours at most or keep going. The girls both voted to keep going, overriding what I remember as the slightest urge to head home. Instead we returned to the vending machines and bought cappuccinos (well, macchiato for me), and more beers. We called Derek, Nick and some of the others who went to Rome for the night before an early flight in the morning. Though they were enjoying themselves at the Scholars’ Lounge, I think we convinced them that the real party in central Italy was occurring at the Casino, my name for their apartment. People have started using the Casino as the name for their residence, thanks to me, not so much because of any gambling (I don’t remember any gambling there), but because of another well-known meaning in Italian which I will allow you to Google for yourself.
6:30 AM finally happened. I walked home wearing the Carnivale mask I painted a week prior and a Santa hat that I just jacked from the Casino. I quickly cleaned all of the dishes in the kitchen sink, showered, packed, turned the heat off and left by 7:45. I decided I still had time for breakfast at my spot, Café San Leonardo. The fellows behind the counter, Guido and Guido, were very excited to see me preparing for Carnivale announced it to some elderly men in the cafe. None of these men, apparently, had ever ventured to the apex of Carnivale in their weathered lives. Most of them looked at me with an aura of being impressed, while one shook him head muttering, "Damn American."
I arrived at Via Bussi at precisely 8:30 AM. I added five bottles of wine to my bag (terrible idea) and we took a nice, long walk to Avis outside the city walls. Christine, Kristen and I met Hailey and our new friend Diogo along the way. Diogo is an Erasmus student, meaning that he is in an identical program to USAC, except that Erasmus is for European students. Bear in
mind that barring Russia, Europe is still smaller than the United States. Diogo and I loaded up on chips and acqua grande (2.60 euro for six bottles) and rejoined our companions in front of a beautiful BMW 1 series. Christine drove while I navigated (most of the way).
I’ve written previously about the rolling green hills and vineyards of central Italy. On this trip I took the opportunity to capture a few photos of said rolling green hills. Unfortunately, tall guardrails disrupted a large amount of my photographs so I hope these will suffice. Despite the car being exceptionally uncomfortable (even in the passenger seat), I enjoyed the most beautiful scenery I’ve ever been privileged to witness.
order the seafood platter, complete with about two dozen of these tiny, fried, bait-like fish. Nick, in a Frankenstein-like manner, devised this shrimp-
sardine hybrid fish. Chelsea didn’t like it. Thank goodness for us and for the USA that the restaurant was bone-dry empty except for us. I suppose that restaurant may be as bad as my friends are saying.Last week my attention focused entirely on waiting for my debit card to arrive via FedEx. Much to my delight my plastic treasure chest arrived on Tuesday morning, but a cruel twist of fate insisted that my PIN number change before I could open the latch. My bank sent the PIN to my parents’ house in Baltimore, and meanwhile, USAC kindly lent me some more money. I would need it direly, for on Friday I was headed to Carnivale in Venice, one of the biggest and oldest festivals in world history.
Again, I must delay our plunge into this exciting weekend to share with yall my plans leading up to a definite highlight of my stay in Italia. Immediately upon arriving in Italy, Chelsea organized a small group’s travel and lodging plans for Carnivale. I made no such immediate plans. With Carnivale less than a week away I still had begun neither, knowing that it would (as it always does) work out perfectly in the end. First, as I slumped dozing in my Italian language class, I barely heard my friend Christine exclaim, “I’m trying to rent a car to drive to Venice for Carnivale, but every car leased by Hertz is a stick-shift and I don’t know how to drive one. Anybody here drive a stick?” I launched up immediately and wiped the bit of drool off the right corner of my mouth. “As a matter of fact…” I was so excited at the prospect of driving to Venice that I dared not tell my parents lest they convince me how bad of an idea that could be. Fortunately for them, just days before we left for Venice, Christine switched to Avis and an automatic transmission. Although I was bummed at missing out on such a cool experience (driving through Tuscany and Veneto to Carnivale!?!), I gave myself a well-deserved pat on the back for securing my transportation to and fro.
Securing a hostel was a different story. In the weeks leading up to Carnivale I began making inquiries about hostel arrangements. Much to my disappointment, every single spot with USAC kids was full. After a brief, futile campaign trying to persuade friends scattered throughout Europe to come with me, I all but settled on a website called CouchSurfer.com that links travelers with people owning a couch to sleep on for a few nights. My plan: sleep on strangers’ couches that I met online…Luckily, this guy Chris bailed on his spot and offered it to me. Only fifty euro for two nights is a great deal. I would find out days later that part of his reason for bailing was that I would be rooming with six girls and no other guys. I, on the other hand, gotta do what I gotta do.
USAC kids made travel arrangements by air, train, and car. Consequently, we all left at different times. Only my fellow car passengers remained in Viterbo on Thursday night, preparing to leave at 8:30 AM Friday morning. I planned to get a good night’s sleep, but no further opposite could have resulted from my Thursday night/Friday morning. Katie, Chelsea, and I hung out at an empty Blitz until we learned that Luscia was giving out free Pilsner Urquell polo shirts. I herded the girls out and over there quickly. Immediately after entering, Luscia sticks a bowl in front of our faces and instructs us to pull out a piece of paper. None of us could read our papers, but mine had more words than theirs, two of which said ‘Pilsner Urquell.” I won the very last shirt!
The girls and I ordered Pilsners to go (you can do that here) and away we went. On the way to their apartment we stopped at the vending machines and bought a few more beers (you can do that here too). Katie cooked potatoes for us and before we knew what happened, it was 3:30 AM. We had two options: sleep for four hours at most or keep going. The girls both voted to keep going, overriding what I remember as the slightest urge to head home. Instead we returned to the vending machines and bought cappuccinos (well, macchiato for me), and more beers. We called Derek, Nick and some of the others who went to Rome for the night before an early flight in the morning. Though they were enjoying themselves at the Scholars’ Lounge, I think we convinced them that the real party in central Italy was occurring at the Casino, my name for their apartment. People have started using the Casino as the name for their residence, thanks to me, not so much because of any gambling (I don’t remember any gambling there), but because of another well-known meaning in Italian which I will allow you to Google for yourself.
6:30 AM finally happened. I walked home wearing the Carnivale mask I painted a week prior and a Santa hat that I just jacked from the Casino. I quickly cleaned all of the dishes in the kitchen sink, showered, packed, turned the heat off and left by 7:45. I decided I still had time for breakfast at my spot, Café San Leonardo. The fellows behind the counter, Guido and Guido, were very excited to see me preparing for Carnivale announced it to some elderly men in the cafe. None of these men, apparently, had ever ventured to the apex of Carnivale in their weathered lives. Most of them looked at me with an aura of being impressed, while one shook him head muttering, "Damn American."
I arrived at Via Bussi at precisely 8:30 AM. I added five bottles of wine to my bag (terrible idea) and we took a nice, long walk to Avis outside the city walls. Christine, Kristen and I met Hailey and our new friend Diogo along the way. Diogo is an Erasmus student, meaning that he is in an identical program to USAC, except that Erasmus is for European students. Bear in
mind that barring Russia, Europe is still smaller than the United States. Diogo and I loaded up on chips and acqua grande (2.60 euro for six bottles) and rejoined our companions in front of a beautiful BMW 1 series. Christine drove while I navigated (most of the way).I’ve written previously about the rolling green hills and vineyards of central Italy. On this trip I took the opportunity to capture a few photos of said rolling green hills. Unfortunately, tall guardrails disrupted a large amount of my photographs so I hope these will suffice. Despite the car being exceptionally uncomfortable (even in the passenger seat), I enjoyed the most beautiful scenery I’ve ever been privileged to witness.
Four hours into our drive, signs for Venezia (Venice) began popping up 
alongside the highway. Following our directions perfectly, we managed to avoid the correct exit for almost an hour. I recognized signs that subtly suggested we were heading to Croatia (!?!) and suggested we turn around just before Kristen grabbed a hold of our navigation and steered toward our destination. We almost exited the toll road, which would have cost us thirty euro, but Christine thought quickly and made a daring, illegal U-turn that steered us in the proper direction and kept our pockets a little heavier for the weekend. In the right direction, with a sense of purpose and driving 180 kilometers per hour we floored it to Venezia.
What a beautiful, and yet, confusing place. Venice is an island. More than an island, actually, it is a series of 118 islands, populated by less than 70,000 people, and connected by expensive ferry rides (with no ticket takers we learned) and bridges. Carrying the bulk of Via Bussi’s recreational beverages, we parked, walked ten minutes or so to a thirty minute ferry ride and met Chelsea and Lauren at our stop, Ospedale (Hospital). Just around the corner from the Ospedale, I learned a vital lesson about rooming with girls: despite everything girly that one must put up with, they will have the nicest place. For only fifty euro each we secured a two-bedroom apartment for the weekend. The kitchen was fully stocked with cooking and eating utensils, and despite all the warnings about eating in Venezia, we found the supermarket to be surprisingly cheap. Soon after arriving at our apartment I took a nap (still wearing my 
Santa hat) much to the girls’ delight. My “room” would be the kitchen and my “bed” would be the couch. Despite how crappy that initially sounded, the couch was very comfortable and I barely spent any time sleeping there anyway.
When I awoke, the girls just returned from a trip to the supermarket and began preparing dinner. Ken, Katie, and their friend Sarah—a USAC student in Viterbo last semester and now studying in Torino—arrived with more food and we had a most pleasant dinner amidst our pregaming. After dinner I adorned my mask and prepared to head out, but the girls whined that I looked too silly and urged me to leave the mask home. They proved to be wrong and I later felt silly for not having a mask.
Perhaps due to my earlier misfortunes with directions, I chose to leave the street navigating to the girls while I enjoyed the walk, the sights, and
simply being silly. Almost an hour after our departure, we arrived in Piazza San Margarita and met the other half of our USAC friends who were all in full costume (this is the part where I felt stupid for listening to the girls). Be that as it may, we had a great time amidst a city full of international travelers in town for Carnivale. Our friend Brooks thought it would be really funny to pretend to walk into the Grand Canal, but then he actually walked into the Grand Canal up to his shins. Oops.
A few hours passed and Christine was far and away the most blitzed among us. She needed to be walked home well before our crew was prepared to
leave, so as the only guy in our apartment, the duty fell upon me. For the first hour or so we seemed to be heading in the correct direction. When we were what seemed like just around the corner from our apartment (and I think now that we were less than 200 feet from our apartment) I could no longer tell which way to go. We asked a few locals where to go to the Ospedale and they turned us around saying we were far away from the Ospedale (you pronounce the ‘e,’ by the way, as you do with all Italian words, including Simone).
Two hours had passed since we left our friends and Christine and I found ourselves sober, lost, cold, and passing by the same giggling, crazy man three times. Finally, we ran into an American girl who knew where the Ospedale was. Her name was Molly and she accompanied her sick friend to the Ospedale only to be kicked out without access to a telephone. I told Molly that if she would escort us to the Ospedale, we would let her warm up for a bit at our place and let her use a phone. Five minutes later we arrived home and Christine put a kettle on the stove. Less than two minutes later, the rest of the girls arrived. No matter that we left the bars over an hour before they did, we only arrived a few minutes ahead of them. I introduced the girls to Molly and they all offered their sympathy immediately. Molly’s friends were of little help and refused to even try meeting us at Piazza di San Marco, the city’s central piazza. Looking back on it, I can’t blame her friend for not wanting to go out alone this late (about 3:00 AM) and find a spot she didn’t know. Neither of these girls spoke any Italian either. After much self-deliberating and map checking, I decided to bite the bullet and escort Molly home, using churches as spots on the map to plot my directions. Two hours after leaving our hostel I escorted Molly through the back door of her hostel. We sat for a moment with her friend, Jenny, who was awake and fearful for her friend. They are Virginia Tech students studying in Switzerland for the semester. I told them I am studying in Viterbo for the semester, to which Jenny replied, “I know someone in Viterbo. Do you know Stefano Rivolta?” What a small world…Stefano is on my program and a fellow Terrapin as well.
It was 5:00 AM and Molly offered me a couch to sleep on. Though I wanted to return to my hostel and I knew the girls might be worrying about me, my immediate yawn sealed the deal. I slept for about three hours and then left.
Though it was much easier to find my way home with the sun, shadow, and kind strangers to point me in the right direction, Venice is still the most confusing city I have ever visited. Streets walk you into walls. Canals block the direction you want to go. Nothing is perpendicular. There are barely any street signs. Maps can be useless and I’m a map guy, if you will. The only two major points in the city are Cathedrale di San Marco and the Rialto (a large bridge crossed the Grand Canal). Many signs point towards these two landmarks, but they are rarely of any help. Once I
followed a sign down a street whereupon I scanned the buildings for my next directions only to be steered back down the street from whence I came. Even directions from locals are of little help. “You turn left, right, right, left, bridge, bridge, bridge, left, right, left and then you are there.” What makes Venice even more difficult to navigate is the liberality with which people define directions such as left, right, and even straight. At least it only took me an hour and a half to walk home this time.
Seeing that it was relatively close to my path, I stopped at San Marco for a few minutes to admire the cathedral. The cathedral was originally built in 828 CE and has been rebuilt a few times since. It is the largest and most revered cathedral in Venice and the piazza in front is the center of the city. When I finally found the hostel I couldn’t get the door to open. Thank goodness Lauren was sitting in the kitchen/my room reading a book and opened a window for me to climb in. Our chatter woke everyone up slowly. I slept for a bit until Ken arrived and cooked a delicious pasta brunch for us. I remember noticing that the bread he brought tasted fantastic. Ken enlightened me with the fact that all bread from Lazio (the region in which Viterbo and Rome are) is terrible and brittle because the people don’t add salt to their bread. I agreed with Ken’s judgment and promised myself (though I failed) to visit a pasticeria (bakery) and stock up on pane (bread) before leaving Venice.
alongside the highway. Following our directions perfectly, we managed to avoid the correct exit for almost an hour. I recognized signs that subtly suggested we were heading to Croatia (!?!) and suggested we turn around just before Kristen grabbed a hold of our navigation and steered toward our destination. We almost exited the toll road, which would have cost us thirty euro, but Christine thought quickly and made a daring, illegal U-turn that steered us in the proper direction and kept our pockets a little heavier for the weekend. In the right direction, with a sense of purpose and driving 180 kilometers per hour we floored it to Venezia.
What a beautiful, and yet, confusing place. Venice is an island. More than an island, actually, it is a series of 118 islands, populated by less than 70,000 people, and connected by expensive ferry rides (with no ticket takers we learned) and bridges. Carrying the bulk of Via Bussi’s recreational beverages, we parked, walked ten minutes or so to a thirty minute ferry ride and met Chelsea and Lauren at our stop, Ospedale (Hospital). Just around the corner from the Ospedale, I learned a vital lesson about rooming with girls: despite everything girly that one must put up with, they will have the nicest place. For only fifty euro each we secured a two-bedroom apartment for the weekend. The kitchen was fully stocked with cooking and eating utensils, and despite all the warnings about eating in Venezia, we found the supermarket to be surprisingly cheap. Soon after arriving at our apartment I took a nap (still wearing my 
Santa hat) much to the girls’ delight. My “room” would be the kitchen and my “bed” would be the couch. Despite how crappy that initially sounded, the couch was very comfortable and I barely spent any time sleeping there anyway.When I awoke, the girls just returned from a trip to the supermarket and began preparing dinner. Ken, Katie, and their friend Sarah—a USAC student in Viterbo last semester and now studying in Torino—arrived with more food and we had a most pleasant dinner amidst our pregaming. After dinner I adorned my mask and prepared to head out, but the girls whined that I looked too silly and urged me to leave the mask home. They proved to be wrong and I later felt silly for not having a mask.
Perhaps due to my earlier misfortunes with directions, I chose to leave the street navigating to the girls while I enjoyed the walk, the sights, and
simply being silly. Almost an hour after our departure, we arrived in Piazza San Margarita and met the other half of our USAC friends who were all in full costume (this is the part where I felt stupid for listening to the girls). Be that as it may, we had a great time amidst a city full of international travelers in town for Carnivale. Our friend Brooks thought it would be really funny to pretend to walk into the Grand Canal, but then he actually walked into the Grand Canal up to his shins. Oops.A few hours passed and Christine was far and away the most blitzed among us. She needed to be walked home well before our crew was prepared to
leave, so as the only guy in our apartment, the duty fell upon me. For the first hour or so we seemed to be heading in the correct direction. When we were what seemed like just around the corner from our apartment (and I think now that we were less than 200 feet from our apartment) I could no longer tell which way to go. We asked a few locals where to go to the Ospedale and they turned us around saying we were far away from the Ospedale (you pronounce the ‘e,’ by the way, as you do with all Italian words, including Simone).Two hours had passed since we left our friends and Christine and I found ourselves sober, lost, cold, and passing by the same giggling, crazy man three times. Finally, we ran into an American girl who knew where the Ospedale was. Her name was Molly and she accompanied her sick friend to the Ospedale only to be kicked out without access to a telephone. I told Molly that if she would escort us to the Ospedale, we would let her warm up for a bit at our place and let her use a phone. Five minutes later we arrived home and Christine put a kettle on the stove. Less than two minutes later, the rest of the girls arrived. No matter that we left the bars over an hour before they did, we only arrived a few minutes ahead of them. I introduced the girls to Molly and they all offered their sympathy immediately. Molly’s friends were of little help and refused to even try meeting us at Piazza di San Marco, the city’s central piazza. Looking back on it, I can’t blame her friend for not wanting to go out alone this late (about 3:00 AM) and find a spot she didn’t know. Neither of these girls spoke any Italian either. After much self-deliberating and map checking, I decided to bite the bullet and escort Molly home, using churches as spots on the map to plot my directions. Two hours after leaving our hostel I escorted Molly through the back door of her hostel. We sat for a moment with her friend, Jenny, who was awake and fearful for her friend. They are Virginia Tech students studying in Switzerland for the semester. I told them I am studying in Viterbo for the semester, to which Jenny replied, “I know someone in Viterbo. Do you know Stefano Rivolta?” What a small world…Stefano is on my program and a fellow Terrapin as well.
It was 5:00 AM and Molly offered me a couch to sleep on. Though I wanted to return to my hostel and I knew the girls might be worrying about me, my immediate yawn sealed the deal. I slept for about three hours and then left.
Though it was much easier to find my way home with the sun, shadow, and kind strangers to point me in the right direction, Venice is still the most confusing city I have ever visited. Streets walk you into walls. Canals block the direction you want to go. Nothing is perpendicular. There are barely any street signs. Maps can be useless and I’m a map guy, if you will. The only two major points in the city are Cathedrale di San Marco and the Rialto (a large bridge crossed the Grand Canal). Many signs point towards these two landmarks, but they are rarely of any help. Once I
followed a sign down a street whereupon I scanned the buildings for my next directions only to be steered back down the street from whence I came. Even directions from locals are of little help. “You turn left, right, right, left, bridge, bridge, bridge, left, right, left and then you are there.” What makes Venice even more difficult to navigate is the liberality with which people define directions such as left, right, and even straight. At least it only took me an hour and a half to walk home this time.Seeing that it was relatively close to my path, I stopped at San Marco for a few minutes to admire the cathedral. The cathedral was originally built in 828 CE and has been rebuilt a few times since. It is the largest and most revered cathedral in Venice and the piazza in front is the center of the city. When I finally found the hostel I couldn’t get the door to open. Thank goodness Lauren was sitting in the kitchen/my room reading a book and opened a window for me to climb in. Our chatter woke everyone up slowly. I slept for a bit until Ken arrived and cooked a delicious pasta brunch for us. I remember noticing that the bread he brought tasted fantastic. Ken enlightened me with the fact that all bread from Lazio (the region in which Viterbo and Rome are) is terrible and brittle because the people don’t add salt to their bread. I agreed with Ken’s judgment and promised myself (though I failed) to visit a pasticeria (bakery) and stock up on pane (bread) before leaving Venice.
After brunch, the whole crew slowly composed themselves and planned a trip to Murano, a Venetian island (there are six in all) that made itself the first worldwide center of glassmaking. Knowing that I will return to Venice in April as a tourist and that my sole duty this weekend was to enjoy 
Carnivale, I remained in bed until almost 3:30 PM while everyone else went out. When I awoke, I showered, dressed and adorned my mask and Santa hat. Only two blocks away from my hostel, I found a really cool second-hand store selling used clothes, records, and knick-knacks. The owner took my jacket and hung it over an old film projector that loomed well over my head. I recognized a few old blues songs on his stereo, including some Mississippi John Hurt. I didn’t know they played the blues in Venice. After some careful scanning I found a pair of overalls. I gleefully examined them, having been in want of a pair for some years. They fit me perfectly. I haggled the gentleman down from twenty euro to ten euro, paid, and happily left.
Knowing that everyone from my hostel wouldn’t return for a few hours, I called Derek and planned to meet him and some others at San Marco. Midway there, I bought a black cape from a costume shop, thus completing my Carnivale costume. I stopped at an Internet café on my way there and collected my PIN from an e-mail my Dad sent. I had some money on me so
I didn’t worry about finding a bancomat (ATM) just yet. After much maze-wandering I found Piazza San Marco packed full of people wearing all sorts of elaborate costumes. Though I couldn’t find Derek, I found Nick and Katie waiting for mass to begin shortly in the cathedral. We ran into our friends Amanda and Hanna and in the confusion I lost Nick and Katie, joining the girls instead. Men on stilts wore dinosaur costumes 
standing twenty feet tall. They carried speakers playing scary music and T-Rex cries. All three dinosaurs would walk from one side of the piazza, turn around, and walk back to the other side. People scampered to get out of their way as the dinosaurs didn’t wait for anyone. Even I ran to get out of the way while taking a picture.
Amanda returned to her hostel while Hanna and I met up with Cali and Seoul, thinking we would grab dinner. Instead, Seoul led us into San Marco for mass. I took off my cape, mask and hat and sat down silently. I spotted Derek, Nick, Katie and Aaron sitting in the front row before the altar. In moments of silence, everyone could hear the absolute chaos outside. I stood when they stood and sat when they sat, but my attention was focused entirely on the elaborate frescos in the ceiling. Just short of an hour later, we emerged from the cathedral, my friends revitalized from a nice session of prayer. I made it a point to hold off talking with G-d until leaving the cathedral. It seemed to be in better taste. One of my friends asked me, “Wait, aren’t you Jewish?” I joked that I just got baptized in the Grand Canal.
Derek, Aaron, Katie, Nick and I headed to Katie’s hostel so she could put on her costume. Before arriving at the hostel, however, I found a bancomat and for the first time in over three weeks I withdrew money. Abbondanza!
Aaron’s mask being far and away the creepiest in the city he opted to go further by putting on black eyeliner. All of us in full dress grabbed dinner at a pizzeria and headed out for the “Woo!” Ten minutes later we entered a large piazza full of people, pubs, and music. We approached a tent with a green cover
and I ordered the first round, very appreciative of reacquainting myself with money. We called Chelsea and directed her to meet us back at San Marco where we figured the action could only be getting crazier. We were incorrect and the piazza was nearly empty. We decided to return to the piazza from before and proceeded to have much fun for the next several hours.
Two exceptionally notable moments: First, a group of guys began swinging lit torches. Our friend, Caly, asked for permission to join and proceeded to put on the best show of the evening. I had seen her perform the exact same moves before, but with potatoes in socks. Fire was much cooler and more impressive. She managed to execute the whole 
routine without torching any of her dreadlocks. Second, well into our festivities Katie called to me, “Simone, give this girl a Valentine’s kiss!” motioning to her friend, Emily, beside her. Beyond the point of rational thinking, but not wanting to be rude, I went to give her a quick peck when she grabbed me and kissed the heck out of me for way too long, much to the delight of my camera-happy comrades. Uffa (Oy vey).
Some hours later, we began walking to what we thought would be a party,
but got sidetracked when I discovered a kebab (falafel and shwarma) joint. The guy behind the counter was very cool and played Italian reggae music on his stereo. After I ordered my kebab, the girls lined up and made an official kebab stop out of it. By the time we finished, everyone was thoroughly Carnivaled and ready to return to our hostel. Two American guys who were scamming on my girls tried directing us somewhere. I protested and instructed the girls to follow me. When they didn’t listen, I and all the juice I consumed that nice became irritated and left them, joined by Chelsea. I get really agitated when asked to play the role of the protective guy for the purpose of warding off unwanted men, but not when it comes to taking charge. Call it a personal flaw, but I was annoyed.
Chelsea and I proceeded to spend four hours trying to get home (no joke). She decided to wear brand new boots out and consequently we had to stop every fifteen minutes for her to sit down. Some time later we found the Grand Canal and a water taxi that offered us a ride home for sixty euro. Not a shot. We hopped on the bus (which is a boat) and a few minutes later we arrived at San Marco, the only logical stop for us to depart. However, Chelsea insisted that we stay on the boat until arriving at Ospedale. I insisted that no boats go to Ospedale this late (perhaps 4:00 AM) and that we must walk about twenty minutes from San Marco. Our argument continued further, but needless to say, before I convinced her that we were at the right stop, the boat took off. We exited the boat at the next stop, which was even further from Ospedale than when we began. An hour and a half later, we arrived back at San Marco on foot and proceeded to walk for thirty minutes before finding ourselves back at San Marco for the third time on our journey home. In the dark and with barely any landmarks in our neighborhood, we did not arrive home until 7:00 AM.
The next morning (though it was the next morning well before we got home) we awoke at 10:00 AM, cleaned up the hostel and hopped on a boat. We headed to the old Jewish ghetto for breakfast. Hoping there might be lox and bagels somewhere, I entered several stores saying, “Boker tov” (good morning in Hebrew). Some people responded with boker tov, others with buongiorno. The Hebrew speaking in Venice was slightly better than in Rome, but as a café owner in a yarmulke told me in Hebrew, “There are no lox and bagels in Venice, my friend.”
After breakfast we painfully made our way through streets packed to the canal with people wearing costumes. Ten fully grown adults wearing all white hurried in a single file line, walking and clucking like chickens. Our crew took an hour or two for last minute purchases. I bought a new pair of
sunglasses, which I have dubbed my Venetian blinds. I also bought up pink and purple masks for my cousins Elizabeth and Rebecca (don’t tell them Uncle Rick and Aunt Vicki!), figuring they’ll enjoy them even before they can appreciate them. Unfortunately, by the time I began looking for a pasticeria (bakery) to buy some Venetian bread, I couldn’t find an open one. We hiked back to Tronchetto—the island where we parked our car—and began our journey home. This time we didn’t get lost.
I definitely want to return to Carnivale one day. It wasn’t as jam-packed with partiers as I imagined given what Mardi gras is in the United States. In medieval and Renaissance times, Carnivale was even crazier than Mardi gras because the nobility completely mixed with the peasantry, all of them in masks, and completely released all the sin they could muster before the beginning of Lent. When Napoleon conquered Venice, he prohibited Carnivale festivities and they only reemerged in 1980 as a successful initiative to boost tourism. Today, the biggest and best parties are lavish balls hosted by the Venetian nobility, costing hundreds of dollars for tickets. One day I’ll attend such a ball in full costume, but as for now, I had an excellent time at Carnivale.
Carnivale, I remained in bed until almost 3:30 PM while everyone else went out. When I awoke, I showered, dressed and adorned my mask and Santa hat. Only two blocks away from my hostel, I found a really cool second-hand store selling used clothes, records, and knick-knacks. The owner took my jacket and hung it over an old film projector that loomed well over my head. I recognized a few old blues songs on his stereo, including some Mississippi John Hurt. I didn’t know they played the blues in Venice. After some careful scanning I found a pair of overalls. I gleefully examined them, having been in want of a pair for some years. They fit me perfectly. I haggled the gentleman down from twenty euro to ten euro, paid, and happily left.Knowing that everyone from my hostel wouldn’t return for a few hours, I called Derek and planned to meet him and some others at San Marco. Midway there, I bought a black cape from a costume shop, thus completing my Carnivale costume. I stopped at an Internet café on my way there and collected my PIN from an e-mail my Dad sent. I had some money on me so
I didn’t worry about finding a bancomat (ATM) just yet. After much maze-wandering I found Piazza San Marco packed full of people wearing all sorts of elaborate costumes. Though I couldn’t find Derek, I found Nick and Katie waiting for mass to begin shortly in the cathedral. We ran into our friends Amanda and Hanna and in the confusion I lost Nick and Katie, joining the girls instead. Men on stilts wore dinosaur costumes 
standing twenty feet tall. They carried speakers playing scary music and T-Rex cries. All three dinosaurs would walk from one side of the piazza, turn around, and walk back to the other side. People scampered to get out of their way as the dinosaurs didn’t wait for anyone. Even I ran to get out of the way while taking a picture.Amanda returned to her hostel while Hanna and I met up with Cali and Seoul, thinking we would grab dinner. Instead, Seoul led us into San Marco for mass. I took off my cape, mask and hat and sat down silently. I spotted Derek, Nick, Katie and Aaron sitting in the front row before the altar. In moments of silence, everyone could hear the absolute chaos outside. I stood when they stood and sat when they sat, but my attention was focused entirely on the elaborate frescos in the ceiling. Just short of an hour later, we emerged from the cathedral, my friends revitalized from a nice session of prayer. I made it a point to hold off talking with G-d until leaving the cathedral. It seemed to be in better taste. One of my friends asked me, “Wait, aren’t you Jewish?” I joked that I just got baptized in the Grand Canal.
Derek, Aaron, Katie, Nick and I headed to Katie’s hostel so she could put on her costume. Before arriving at the hostel, however, I found a bancomat and for the first time in over three weeks I withdrew money. Abbondanza!
Aaron’s mask being far and away the creepiest in the city he opted to go further by putting on black eyeliner. All of us in full dress grabbed dinner at a pizzeria and headed out for the “Woo!” Ten minutes later we entered a large piazza full of people, pubs, and music. We approached a tent with a green cover
and I ordered the first round, very appreciative of reacquainting myself with money. We called Chelsea and directed her to meet us back at San Marco where we figured the action could only be getting crazier. We were incorrect and the piazza was nearly empty. We decided to return to the piazza from before and proceeded to have much fun for the next several hours.
Two exceptionally notable moments: First, a group of guys began swinging lit torches. Our friend, Caly, asked for permission to join and proceeded to put on the best show of the evening. I had seen her perform the exact same moves before, but with potatoes in socks. Fire was much cooler and more impressive. She managed to execute the whole 
routine without torching any of her dreadlocks. Second, well into our festivities Katie called to me, “Simone, give this girl a Valentine’s kiss!” motioning to her friend, Emily, beside her. Beyond the point of rational thinking, but not wanting to be rude, I went to give her a quick peck when she grabbed me and kissed the heck out of me for way too long, much to the delight of my camera-happy comrades. Uffa (Oy vey).Some hours later, we began walking to what we thought would be a party,
but got sidetracked when I discovered a kebab (falafel and shwarma) joint. The guy behind the counter was very cool and played Italian reggae music on his stereo. After I ordered my kebab, the girls lined up and made an official kebab stop out of it. By the time we finished, everyone was thoroughly Carnivaled and ready to return to our hostel. Two American guys who were scamming on my girls tried directing us somewhere. I protested and instructed the girls to follow me. When they didn’t listen, I and all the juice I consumed that nice became irritated and left them, joined by Chelsea. I get really agitated when asked to play the role of the protective guy for the purpose of warding off unwanted men, but not when it comes to taking charge. Call it a personal flaw, but I was annoyed.Chelsea and I proceeded to spend four hours trying to get home (no joke). She decided to wear brand new boots out and consequently we had to stop every fifteen minutes for her to sit down. Some time later we found the Grand Canal and a water taxi that offered us a ride home for sixty euro. Not a shot. We hopped on the bus (which is a boat) and a few minutes later we arrived at San Marco, the only logical stop for us to depart. However, Chelsea insisted that we stay on the boat until arriving at Ospedale. I insisted that no boats go to Ospedale this late (perhaps 4:00 AM) and that we must walk about twenty minutes from San Marco. Our argument continued further, but needless to say, before I convinced her that we were at the right stop, the boat took off. We exited the boat at the next stop, which was even further from Ospedale than when we began. An hour and a half later, we arrived back at San Marco on foot and proceeded to walk for thirty minutes before finding ourselves back at San Marco for the third time on our journey home. In the dark and with barely any landmarks in our neighborhood, we did not arrive home until 7:00 AM.
The next morning (though it was the next morning well before we got home) we awoke at 10:00 AM, cleaned up the hostel and hopped on a boat. We headed to the old Jewish ghetto for breakfast. Hoping there might be lox and bagels somewhere, I entered several stores saying, “Boker tov” (good morning in Hebrew). Some people responded with boker tov, others with buongiorno. The Hebrew speaking in Venice was slightly better than in Rome, but as a café owner in a yarmulke told me in Hebrew, “There are no lox and bagels in Venice, my friend.”
After breakfast we painfully made our way through streets packed to the canal with people wearing costumes. Ten fully grown adults wearing all white hurried in a single file line, walking and clucking like chickens. Our crew took an hour or two for last minute purchases. I bought a new pair of
sunglasses, which I have dubbed my Venetian blinds. I also bought up pink and purple masks for my cousins Elizabeth and Rebecca (don’t tell them Uncle Rick and Aunt Vicki!), figuring they’ll enjoy them even before they can appreciate them. Unfortunately, by the time I began looking for a pasticeria (bakery) to buy some Venetian bread, I couldn’t find an open one. We hiked back to Tronchetto—the island where we parked our car—and began our journey home. This time we didn’t get lost.I definitely want to return to Carnivale one day. It wasn’t as jam-packed with partiers as I imagined given what Mardi gras is in the United States. In medieval and Renaissance times, Carnivale was even crazier than Mardi gras because the nobility completely mixed with the peasantry, all of them in masks, and completely released all the sin they could muster before the beginning of Lent. When Napoleon conquered Venice, he prohibited Carnivale festivities and they only reemerged in 1980 as a successful initiative to boost tourism. Today, the biggest and best parties are lavish balls hosted by the Venetian nobility, costing hundreds of dollars for tickets. One day I’ll attend such a ball in full costume, but as for now, I had an excellent time at Carnivale.
PS. I want to wish a speedy recovery to Noah Gorelick and my Zaydee, Sy Gudis. Keep them in your prayers, as I have.
- Wednesday, February 25, 2009 - 8:00 PM
