Spring Break Part 1: In the Mountains of Lazio

My laptop broke in March and regular blogging on a public desktop wasn't exactly how I wanted to spend my semester abroad. So here is a little summation of how the rest of my time in Italy went.


Spring break. Our program offered everybody a five-day tour of southern Italy. Naples, Pompeii, the Amalfi coast...right at their most beautiful times and for only $500. Too bad for me that I was bum broke and living off of my friends' potluck dinners. I stayed behind in Viterbo.

My friends were sweet enough to take me with them in spirit. Aaron drew a pretty decent caricature of me, and the gang took pictures all over southern Italy with my likeness. When they returned, I felt good that I had been missed. Not to say that I kept in my room the whole time.

My gang got together every night for a communal dinner. We would try to switch up the dishes and try new things as much as possible, but one of the only constants (aside from bread, olive oil and a little balsamic) was a couple bottles of Est! Est!! Est!!!. A semi-dry from the next town over, Montefiascone, and only 3.75 euro a bottle. So with all this free time I decided to go north out of Viterbo and be the first of my friends to visit Montefiascone.

It was a relatively small town built on a steep hill. One hell of a workout climbing those streets. I had two goals: one, to reach the summit; and two, to visit the Est! Est!! Est!!! factory. Took me all day, but I accomplished both. Beautiful day. All for me.

On the last day of my friends' southern Italy tour they were scheduled to climb Mt. Vesuvius, the volcano that buried Pompeii in 79 CE. Determined not to be completely outdone by my peers, I woke up that morning and glanced out my window at some not-too-far-off mountain for the hundredth time, and decided right away that I was going to find that mountain and climb it to the top.

I packed a few sandwiches and bottles of water, and forgot to tell anybody where I was heading. Navigating the urban landscape was tough. After a couple hours I came to a tall dirt wall. I figured it could take me another hour to go around it...so I climbed it. I fell into a field of grass and trees...and then I noticed the radio towers and barbed wire fences surrounding the field. I had inadvertently crawled into an Italian military base. I played it cool. Hid behind trees as I sprinted one by one until I was near the road. When I saw no one coming I sprang one foot onto the wire and launched myself over.

I was out of the city! The mountain couldn't be more than a few kilometers up the highway. I found the mountain and the trail, but the trail didn't seem to ever ascend. So me in my dumb mind decided to forget the path and just go UP. I spent at least three hours climbing and crawling through brush and thorns until I hit a dead end. There just didn't seem to be an actual way to get to the summit. I ate a sandwich, carved my name in a rock and started down. Then the trail appeared! I followed it all the way up and basked in the glory of having climbed and conquered a mountain. Monte Pizzo! All mine. Check. Did it.

There was the path leading back down the way I came, but it also led over the other side of the mountain. Why not? So I followed the path down about a third of the way when it suddenly disappeared. I had to climb back up a bit just to find my last trail marker, but I couldn't locate the next one. Maybe two hours left till sunset. I could go up and over back the way I came, or I could plow my way straight down. I chose to continue. What a dumbass.

It wasn't long before the brush got thick. Way thicker than anything I dealt with on the way up. I had to get on all fours and crawl my way through the thickest thorn bushes I could have imagined. The sun was setting at the same speed, but I had slowed down to a literal crawl. I got stuck a few times and started freaking out that I would get stuck for the night. After a little bit of nearly sobbing in frustration, I kept at it, grinding foot by foot until I finally cleared a solid 300 meters of dense brush. I found the road another half hour later and magically (seriously) found a guy walking his dogs who pointed me in the direction of Viterbo.

I arrived home all bloody from the thorns, and showered just in time to welcome my friends home from their trip. Their hike up Vesuvius was cancelled due to fog.

Bolognese in Bologna, Parmesan in Parma

Buongiorno! I apologize a second time for taking so long to update. The past month and a half has kept me very busy with travelling and studying. The time I would have preferred to spend writing in my blog has instead kept me studying for my classes and exams. Mi dispiace (I am sorry). I will separate my February and March travels into several parts to keep you from reading another twenty page thesis, but before I do, I feel obliged to begin introducing you to the friends I’ve made in Italia. I can think of no better friend to begin with than my very best friend, Tony.

Tony is a cat. He lives next door with my neighbor, Oksana, and likes to hang out on my porch. He is two years old, but has the wisdom of a five year-old already. Tony is a socialist, he enjoys yarn, tuna, drinking milk, playing scrabble, and discussing politics. He thinks all of the program-spending in the United States is just delightful. Some days I don’t see Tony, but many times when I come home or go out, he is outside waiting and says, “Meow.” I always return the salutation in his vernacular.

Bolognese in Bologna

A few years back I was hooked on John Grisham novels and I luckily stumbled across one entitled, The Broker. Unlike many Grisham novels this spy-thriller never sees a courtroom, but instead primarily takes place in Bologna. Reading this novel, more than anything else, made me want to visit Italia in the first place. And visiting the city for myself did not disappoint.

After hearing me praise Bologna a few times, my friend, Nick proposed a trip to Bologna and Parma for the weekend of February 26-29. After class that Thursday, we packed our bags, a few slices of pizza, and Nick’s laptop and hopped on an 8:00 PM train to Bologna. Two trains and four hours later we arrived in the city past its apparent bedtime. We originally planned to head to our hostel first and see if we had time to go out, but we felt courageous and set out with our bags to have a few drinks and avoid wasting the night.

We grabbed some pizza and began walking in the direction recommended to us. Bologna is famous for its arcades (not the video game kind) and they did not disappoint. Nearly every building sports arcades that arch over the sidewalk, not only adding a level of beauty to the urban environment, but also providing shade and adding at least ten feet of space to every subsequent floor of the building. After a few blocks and hundreds of arches we found a bar and entered.

What a unique looking bar. The ceilings were twenty feet tall. The DJ stand was supported by a wall necessitating the use of a ladder to enter it. We ordered two pints of Tennant’s Super Lager (I thought the word ‘Super’ was a little much) and proceeded to another room comprising a large round table befitting some knights surrounded by steel chairs with tall backs that could rock back and forth. The room was decorated with photographs of New York City. What we originally thought was a photograph comparing Manhattan with Bologna was actually a photograph of a Jewish cemetery in New York (or at least all of the names on the gravestones were Jewish). I asked the only other people in the room to take a photo of us and the one who obliged claimed to be a professional photographer. Unfortunately, he did not understand how to use a camera and ended up switching it to video. Then, he asked if we wanted some girls in the picture and we had no objections so he then instructed the women in his party to get in the photo. One of the women dove into my lap, while the other one refused to get up. He yelled at her for a bit until she grudgingly rose, posed, and stuck her tongue in Nick’s ear. I’m sure it would have been a great photograph, but the ‘professional’ instead made this splendid, four second video.

After a few rounds, we collected our bags, paid, and left. However, we missed the last bus heading in our direction. We grabbed some sandwiches and beers from an open store and decided to start walking. “It looked pretty close to the train station on the map,” I reminded Nick. An hour later we were still walking, hopeful that this highway or that highway was THE autostrade (highway) we remembered seeing on the map. Finally, Nick had enough and insisted that we hail a cab. I obliged and a few minutes after getting in a cab we saw the autostrade, meaning that even after an hour of walking we were still less than halfway to our hotel. Thank goodness for Nick’s persistence. We checked into our hotel around 3:00 AM and watched Superbad on Nick’s laptop for about ten minutes before Nick fell asleep and began snoring.

The next morning we awoke around 9:00 AM and enjoyed a free breakfast downstairs of fruit, spreads, cheeses, and cappuccinos. We had already looked up all of our sites online so we grabbed a map and the bus and headed downtown.

Bologna has survived for over one thousand years without encountering much strife, which is much more than most Italian cities can claim. Its location, the culture, and most importantly, its laws, have produced a sober population that enjoys everything a thriving metropolis could want. Nick and I departed the bus at Piazza Maggiore (the major square) and admired La Fontana di Neptuna (the fountain of Neptune). Statues of Neptune, a Roman god, are popular in many Italian cities, most especially Firenze (Florence).

We walked over to the Basilica di San Petronio, but it hadn’t opened so we proposed to walk around it. This structure dominates the piazza. It was originally planned to be larger than Basilica di San Pietro (St. Peter’s) in Roma, but because the papacy insisted that San Pietro remain the largest Catholic church in the world, Bologna’s entire population was threatened with excommunication if they dared to outdo Roma. Bologna complied. Walking around this mammoth basilica, however, one can see from its adjacent construction that there must have been plenty of room to expand. Another piazza behind the basilica lends credence to this.

As we traversed the eastern side of the basilica I noticed to our right an arch decorated with beautiful paintings and I suggested we enter its courtyard. Beautiful portraits and memorials littered the walls. We realized we were standing in the old university. The University of Bologna is the oldest functioning university in Western civilization. Since 1088 CE, scholars from all over Italia have come here to study Latin, philosophy, medicine, rhetoric, history, and law. It boasts many famous scholars and authors including Dante, Petrarch, Copernicus, and Pope Nicholas V, the humanist pope who built the Vatican Library. Today, the old university building—built in the sixteenth century—is a museum and the new campus is located in the northeast corner of downtown Bologna, a short walk away. Nick and I wandered up the stairs slowly, admiring as many of its immaculately adorned walls as possible. There were simply too many to look at them all, but I took careful note of the many plaques dedicated to Pope Pius IV, a patron of the university whose palace in Pienza we visited just one week prior.

Finally, we entered the one remaining classroom in the university. In the center stood a marble table and this was a medical examining room. Ropes bar visitors from climbing past the first row of wooden benches—I think, because they are over five hundred years old—but that didn’t stop a polite gentleman from backing up to take a photo for me and Nick. An old lady began scolding him in Italian, prompting a “Mi dispiace.” I walked to the head of the classroom and surrounding the lecture podium were wooden sculptures incorporated into the architecture of this pulpit featuring men without skin, I read, to demonstrate human muscle tissues. After a few minutes, the old lady left the room. Nick and I locked eyes and I quickly said, “Go for it.” Nick hopped behind the podium and I snapped this beautiful photo of my friend sitting at a half-millennium old desk. After taking a second picture the old lady returned and began yelling again, prompting yet another, “Mi dispiace.” We slunked out of the university, completely enamored by the majesty of intellect which still rests in this place of scholarship that celebrated its nine hundred-year birthday the year I was born. Nick and I made a pact that we will both return for the university’s millennium for our hundredth birthdays if we can still walk by then.

We headed north, turned right on a main street and headed toward the Torre Arsini. As we approached the towers, I stopped to appreciate the site before me, which I think might be lost on most city residents and tourists. I spotted an arcade made out of wood. The arcades in Bologna—if you haven’t noticed yet, an arcade is an arched walkway supporting the building over it and covering the sidewalk under it—are a distinct feature of the city and the wooden arcades are historically preserved medieval arcades. This means that even several hundred years ago, when the city restored its arcades with stones, fifteenth century city planners chose to preserve a wooden arcade here and there for history’s sake. In one glance an observer can relish the site of medieval, Renaissance, and modern architecture (the modern arcades are square).

After this moment of informed excitement, Nick and I entered a curiously narrow and relatively inconspicuous doorway and began climbing a spiral staircase. Half a minute later we stopped at a ticket counter and

paid three euro for a ticket to continue climbing the stairs. Hundreds of wooden steps half as long as my foot run along the tower’s perimeter and every which way in between. One must stop periodically in a corner to let those descending pass and continue walking. Likewise, periodic windows allow air to circulate through the tower and also allow medieval defenders to position themselves to shoot crossbows at invaders or warring neighbors. This type of understanding is necessary to understanding Italian history. In America, we have enjoyed a level of peace unknown throughout most of the world. We keep the Shot Tower in Baltimore because it’s a powerful symbol of our revolutionary defense capabilities, but in Italy architecture still remains everywhere you look that was built with defense in mind. Continuing up this seemingly endless staircase, the air grew cold from a perpetual lack of sunlight. After perhaps twenty minutes we reached the top and took in the sight. Unlike these sorts of sights in cities like Rome or Florence, there are barely any specific sights to look for, as in, “Look there’s the Coliseum!” Just the city. If one looks carefully he or she may notice several layers of city. The walls surrounding Bologna were built, destroyed, and rebuilt several times throughout its history; because of war but mostly because of periodic urban renewal. Iron bars completely enclose spectators, I suspect, because one or more persons may have tried to end their lives by jumping off the tower’s peak. Bologna is almost completely surrounded by mountains. Though one may think this would put the city at a military advantage, when you have a city as littered with towers as Bologna—almost 200—it provides one with camouflage and obstacles for invading armies. Way off in the southwest distance we spotted the world’s longest arcade. I read about it in The Broker and Nick had also heard about it. An arcade stretching three kilometers long leads to the top of a hill with one of Bologna’s oldest and most endeared churches. Though we wouldn’t get the opportunity to traverse this arcade I plan to do so one day, whenever that may be.

After perhaps fifteen minutes atop the Torre Arsini, we began the descent. Though descending the stairs is easier on the knees it is harder on the nerves. My feet are twice as long as each step and more than once I stepped just a bit too far and slipped. When we reached the bottom, we decided—perfect planning here—that we worked up a formidable appetite and decided to head to Enoteca Italiana for lunch.

Nick and I read about Enoteca Italiana online and began heading north to the enoteca (wine bar/store). Perhaps thirty minutes later we joyously arrived at Enoteca Italiana and entered. Considering the time was just a bit past noon we were not surprised to see so many locals enjoying a sandwich and a glass of wine. We approached the counter and order our sandwiches first—pancetta and balsamic vinegar—as prescribed by our online guide, WikiTravel. The gentleman, owning a serious white, curvy mustache, produced a roll of bread, cut it in one stroke and held it under the meat slicer. He sliced fresh pancetta (bacon), not in strips but in slices like you would see at a delicatessen in America, directly onto the bread. Then, after drizzling just a bit of balsamic on top, he replaced the bread’s top and carefully smushed the two halves together, creating a perfect, symphony of crunch. We had our sandwiches and asked for a glass of wine that would complement our sandwiches. Without hesitating, the mustached gentleman grabbed a bottle behind him and filled two glasses. Moments later, as Nick and I stood enjoying our sandwiches and wine, our eyes met as we silently agreed that not only were these perhaps the most delicious sandwiches we ever tasted, but also the best wine. After finishing my glass, I asked the gentleman for a bottle of this wine, Gutturnio. Nick followed suit. I told the gentleman my thoughts of this wine and he just laughed—or scoffed. He grabbed another bottle of wine and poured me a fresh glass of wine (on the house), which I shared with Nick. “Questo il megliore bicchiere di vino in Italia!” (This is the best glass of wine in Italia!) I exclaimed. Again, he laughed and cut me a piece of cheese. “Mangi questo,” (Eat this) he instructed. I ate the cheese and drank of sip of wine. Enthralled in the ecstasy of taste, I could only shake my head and ask in English, “What are you trying to do to me?” The cheese was pecorino and it hailed from Sardinia (considered the best pecorino cheese in the world). I was thoroughly impressed and happy to pay seven euro for our meal and eight euro for my souvenir bottle of Gutturnio. On our way out, Nick reminded me that Bologna is widely considered the food capitol of Emiglia Romanga (the region we were in). Just imagine: a food capitol within Italia!

After one of my life’s most treasured lunches, we decided to find University of Bologna t-shirts. For this, we figured, we must find the new (new as in less than 500 years old) university campus. Within minutes we found the campus swarming with thousands of students and dozens of cafés. None of them, however, were helpful in finding an abbigliamento (clothing store). We even asked a group of girls who turned out to be French and spoke no Italian. As we zoomed out from these girls, we noticed they were two of a large group of blonde, French students, none of whom spoke Italian. International students, I supposed. After at least an hour of searching through this street and that street, passing by the Bologna Opera House, we found an abbigliamento. The problem now: it was pausa pranzo, lunchtime, and the abbigliamento would not open for another hour. Not wanting to lose track of our prize, we ducked into the café next door and enjoyed espressos and pretzels until the store opened. I asked the girl working there for the colors of the university (wouldn’t want to buy a blue and white Maryland shirt, you know?). She told me that it differed depending on which school within the university one attended. After asking her for the Universita della Giurisprudenza (law school, which I later visited) colors, I discovered they were out of my size in dark blue, the law school’s colors. I settled for a black one, while Nick eased into a medium blue t-shirt (I wear a large, in case you want to buy me a t-shirt).

By now the Basilica di San Petronio was open and we headed back to look around inside and admire the beautiful memorials and shrines. Nick lit a candle and knelt to pray for a bit. After maybe thirty minutes we exited the basilica and crossed the piazza to eat some gelato. In Italia, ordering gelato generally involves choosing two scoops—oh yeah—and we both chose chocolate and tiramisu. Until I eventually visited Firenze, this was the best gelato (or ice cream cone) I had ever eaten.

It was now 5:00 PM and we wanted to head back to our hotel to relax for a bit before going back out. Unfortunately, we hopped back on the exact same bus that took us downtown and found ourselves at the furthest point possible from our hotel before the driver instructed us to exit and wait for the next bus heading our way. While we waited, I noticed this old man on a bicycle and embraced the understanding that anyone who does not wish (or cannot afford) una macchina (a car), rides a bicycle, regardless of age. Also, we noticed the names of two adjacent streets, Via Carlo Marx (Karl Marx Street) and Via Abramo Lincoln. There is also a Piazza FDR in downtown Bologna. The Karl Marx reference quickly jolted my memory and reminded me that Bologna and the university were centers of western European communism for many years. A while after boarding the bus we passed a demonstration, but could not understand the demonstration’s purpose.

We returned to our hotel, dropped off all of our souvenirs. and dressed for a night out on the town. We asked the concierge for a dinner recommendation, reminding her that we wanted to get some authentic Bolognese sauce. Her recommendation proved fruitless when we returned downtown to a deserted neighborhood. We walked for a bit before settling on a restaurant. Though the food was seriously overpriced, we both ordered pasta with Bolognese sauce and enjoyed it.

After dinner, Nick and I walked to the nearest bar, sat down, and mapped out our subsequent bar crawl. The rules: we walk towards the university, and we have only one drink at each bar and move on unless we find a reason to stay. “We’re right here,” I said, pointing to a star on the map.” “No,” Nick countered, “That’s the towers.” I looked around me for a moment before realizing that we were both right. One bar, two bars, three bars later and we were mildly enjoying ourselves. Surprisingly, major Italian cities have an affinity for Irish pubs. This neighborhood had at least four. In our second Irish bar—and thus our second round of Guinness Draft—we found it to be most exquisitely decorated with old posters. By old, I mean hundreds of years old. I left Nick downstairs to find a restroom and when I returned, this proud Jersey boy was rocking out to Bruce Springsteen. “Let’s go,” I said, to which Nick replied, “We have to wait for Bruce.” As Dancing in the Dark came to an end I motioned for us to go, but Nick—with his eyes closed—refused to move until the song ended. But then Born to Run came on and we were stuck there for another seven minutes. Then came Thunder Road and another five minutes. When Born in the U.S.A. came on I was ready to wring Nick’s neck and pushed him out of the bar.

On we went taking turns buying rounds for each other. Conveniently, every round Nick bought cost 8 euro and each round I bought cost 12 euro. Bad luck for me, I suppose. A few bars later and we were toasted and chatting it up with the ragazze. Finally we found three girls that showed interest in talking. “American boys!” was almost all they could say in English, but our Italian was actually good enough to maintain a relatively simple conversation. One girl, Anna, was incredibly hyperactive and eager to write new words in my little black notebook, particularly fossette (dimples). One of the girls was named Caterina and she was interested in Nick. She was born in Chile and adopted by Italian parents. The third girl was named Piera and Anna kept fussing that there were only two of us and three of them. The girls took us to a discoteca. Perhaps thinking we were still in the U.S.A., Nick kept trying to bump and grind with Caterina. I’ve been to a few European discotecas before and learned the hard way that physical contact while dancing must be initiated by the girl. The tradeoff of learning this in past experiences is that it’s forced me to pretend that I have rhythm. Plus, after a few rounds you begin enjoying the ridiculous techno music and thinking you are the world’s most outstanding dancer. We left the discoteca after a while and began stumbling through the city without a clue of where we were being led. Perhaps an hour later we realized they walked us to a taxi stand. Nick and I kissed the girls on both cheeks, got their names for Facebook and headed back to our hostel around 6:00 AM.

We woke up the next morning, ate our complimentary breakfast again, checked out, and headed downtown to catch a train to Parma.

Parmesan in Parma

We bought our tickets and as soon as we walked onto the binario (platform), the train heading to Milan was boarding and the ticket taker was rounding people aboard. “Parma?” I asked. “Si si,” he responded pushing me into the train. Nick and I were the first people he asked for tickets and we presented them. “No, questi e non buono.” (No, these are no good) What?!? We just bought these tickets. He punched some buttons on his trenitalia PDA and demanded we pay him an additional 15 euro each. I promptly refused. What we couldn’t understand at that moment was that we purchased tickets for the Regional train and boarded the Express train. Okay, our mistake, but the biglietteria (ticket counter) and this gentleman made no attempt to inform us of this and we were standing anyway because the train was overcrowded. Back to the action though; he was visibly agitated by my refusal to pay him and started yelling. Fortunately for me, Nick was standing closer and had to smell his apparently disgusting breath. He began writing us fines (for 100 euro each) and demanded to see our papers (Documento!) After handing him a copy of my passport I said, “Vai. Io non paghero. Questo e cazzate.” (Go ahead, I won’t pay, this is bull) Besides how angry he was to hear this, he demanded to see a real passport. I replied that I didn’t have a passport with me. He ingeniously replied, “Dammi il tuo documento!” (Give me your passport). I told him we would depart at the next stop and wait for the regional train and this would be our only option. He backed off and left us alone.

We waited about half an hour before the next train and continued on our way. About an hour later we exited the train and arrived in Parma. Unfortunately, we arrived during pausa pranzo and it seemed like we made a mistake in coming to Parma. I think we just missed the Saturday morning market and all of the trash covered the streets near the train station. Nothing was open. We couldn’t find the tourist office. It looked like a ghost town. After at least an hour we entered a curious looking building and I asked, “Dove’ il ufficio turistico?” (Where is the tourist office?) The lady informed us there were two tourist offices; one on the other side of town and one right here. “Oh,” I said, “Siamo qui!” (We’re here), meaning to Nick that we found it and to the lady that her tourists had arrived.

Our goals for the day were simple: eat some prosciutto and buy some authentic parmesan cheese. She steered us toward a nearby piazza and told us, as we already discovered, that there are plenty of places to buy cheese. As we exited the ufficio turistico, Parma was reborn. We then realized it had been pausa pranzo and the streets now swarmed with people. Down one street, through the opera house piazza, and a beautiful grass park littered with children, elderly couples, and dotted with adolescent couples laying on the ground making out (another familiar sight in Italia), we found Piazza Garibaldi.

Nick and I chose a café wi

th outside tables facing the sun and we both sat facing the piazza, which was now packed with people. For only 14 euro we each ordered a fixed menu special. I ordered the parmesan crepe and

Nick ordered a tuna salad, followed by a sample plate of local meats and parmesan cheese. My crepe was absolutely outstanding. Completely covered in melted parmesan cheese, the prosciutto inside the crepe was perfectly tender and juicy, complemented exquisitely by all the cheese. Our seco

ndi (second course) arrived and we couldn’t help but laugh at these large plates covered with meat: fresh salami, two types of prosciutto, and two small blocks of parmesan cheese. The meats and cheese were all delicious, but most notable were the two different types of prosciutto. The first kind was closer to what you would expect (though made perfectly), but the second type was sliced so thin that I had to twirl it around my fork like spaghetti. After putting it in my mouth, the prosciutto seemed to just melt in my mouth. This meal was definitely a unique treat.

After our late lunch, we walked back in the direction of the train station where we previously saw the perfect looking store (which was closed for pausa pranzo). As we walked through the suddenly rejuvenated city we considered staying for a bit longer, but both of us were tired from last night and travelling today. We passed by a few funny stores including a Sushi King, a ReMax real estate office, and a store called Ass-Mond.

We entered the cheese store and immediately began chuckling. In addition to the dozens of pig legs hanging everywhere there were over thirty giant wheels of parmesan cheese stacked up in the back, while a lady sat cutting one particular block into small wedges. Nick and I briefly contemplated buying a whole wheel, but dismissed it when we did the math and realized one wheel might cost over 400 euro. We each settled for one of the lady’s freshly cut wedges and the cheese man vacuum sealed our selections.

Nick and I walked back to the train station and asked for two tickets to Viterbo. We were ready to go home. He informed us that the next train to Viterbo would not be available until tomorrow morning. Before I proceed, let me warn readers of an important lesson before coming to Italia: do your homework. Look online and plan your trains and backup plans. The people behind the ticket counter are rarely helpful or creative. We learned later that evening that we could have made it home, but everyone was trying to send us to Roma first (on the other side of Viterbo), even though Nick and I knew we could go through Firenze and Attigliano. However, we listened to the man and decided to at least get back to Bologna, a major city, where there would be more options.

Our train stopped at every single stop on the way and, consequently, we took three hours to return to Bologna. Contemplating our options, we realized we just missed the last train to Viterbo. The man at the ticket counter told us it would be 53 euro each to go to Viterbo the next morning, though had we spoken up and reminded him we didn’t need to go through Roma it would have been the 30 euro that we knew it should have been. We spent a few minutes surveying the train schedule. Because it was Saturday night, our hostel costs would have doubled to 30 euro each. I spotted a EuroStar train heading to Roma for 50 euro and convinced Nick we would save some money if we took it. Hostels are much cheaper in Roma and we never pay for our return train to Viterbo anyway because no one ever checks (who would want to leave Roma?).

Nick hesitatingly obliged and we hopped onto our relatively luxurious train. EuroStar is the top of the line train system in Italia and it only stops in major cities. Our train began in Milan (far north), stopped in Bologna, Firenze, and Roma. In comfortable chairs Nick and I sped to Roma. We found a hostel for only 17 euro each and though the toilet didn’t flush (!!!) it sufficed for the night.

As it was only 11:00 PM, we headed out to Campo di Fiori for a few drinks. After boarding a bus nearby, we heard a loud shrill outside that we only knew too well as six drunk, loud, American girls boarded the bus. When I stopped laughing at them, I was a bit embarrassed at how obviously American they were as the entire bus stared at them. We departed near the Campo and headed in its direction.

We continued where we left off the previous night, taking turns buying rounds for each other. Also continuing was the tradition of all my rounds costing 4 euro more than Nick’s. At our second bar, Nick and I sat at a table of American girls. They were all Jersey girls it turned out, making Nick very happy. I cracked one Jersey joke and they all—Nick included—turned on me. This only made it all the more awesome what happened at the next bar. We sat down next to a group of local guys and introduced ourselves. “Di dove’ sei?” (Where are you from?) they asked. “I am from Baltimore and Nick is from New Jersey,” I replied, prompting the biggest guy among them to chuckle and chant, “Dirty Jersey! Dirty Jersey!” Priceless. They also taught me that tarzanello means doody ball.

After perhaps three or four bars, we decided to return to our hostel. Unfortunately, my sense of direction was off and we found to the Tiber River (not where we wanted to be). We unsuccessfully tried to catch a bus and instead walked quite a long distance back to our pee-scented hostel. We grabbed some pizza and another beer before retiring to watch Superbad. In the morning we stopped at the English book section in Termini and I bought The Hunchback of Notre Dame for 3.60 euro (not entirely enjoying it so far). About two hours later our train rolled back into Viterbo. This was one of my favorite weekends thus far, and Bologna remains my personal favorite city in Italia.

--Thursday, March 26, 2009--7:56 PM