Friday, November 26, 2010

12:22 PM
Venice, Italy
Marco Polo Airport; Gate 20

I am writing now from the end of my journey. I am sitting aboard a British Airways plane preparing for my inevitably bumpy flight to Heathrow Airport in London which I will fly from to JFK in New York, New York.
I won’t be able to write for much longer as I will have to shut this off for the airplane, but it felt necessary to write an entry now, while still on the ground, on the continent of Europe.
I wanted to write and say that I am satisfied. That I am prepared to return home. That I have accomplished all that I set out to do, see, experience. I have achieved the personal solidarity of mind that I hoped would come with this intense experience abroad. I am ready for the next steps along the path which I wend along.


3:13 PM
London, England
Heathrow Airport, Terminal 5, Gate B45

So where were we? Oh, right—CERN. I’m not going to go into the details of the obscene difficulties encountered on attempting to get to CERN and find a place to stay. It turned out that there were very few hostels and they were very expensive and far away from where I needed to be. For only a few more euros I booked myself a room at a hotel, near the airport. When I arrived at the airport and looked at my map, I quickly discovered that the hotel was exactly at the furthest point from me, literally diagonally across the entire airport tarmac and all. The map was hard to read, but I took a gamble, and at around 11:00 PM, I started walking along a road that ran along the outside of the airport, by the runway. My intuition was right, and there was a tunnel that went underneath and pretty much right up to the door of my hotel. After a few more mishaps I finally settled in and went to sleep.
The next morning I was off for the bus and was jittery with excitement. When the bus said we were arriving at CERN I had to double check with the driver because I couldn’t believe that was it. There was virtually nothing there. The world’s foremost physics research center was denoted by little more than a large, wooden globe. Across the street was the visitor office, where I went, checked in, and began to tour their museum exhibition, Microcosm, familiarizing myself even further with the finer details of CERN before I took my tour. Before I knew it I was in a small auditorium watching a video on the history of CERN and then being guided by a physicist with a very thick French accent (he had no concept of the letter “r”). We would be visiting ATLAS, one of four observations points along the LHC. Lucky too, because this one was right across the street and was currently running experiments on lead ion collisions. The control room was just like something out of a movie. The display screens were…well, sexy. They had these excellent 3-D rendered images of the detector that showed exactly where the particles which were ejected from the collision had been detected. There were at least a dozen people working at various computer workstations, moving between each other and chatting. I wish I could have heard them. I really would have liked to have engaged more, spoken with the tour guide, but I was sick at the time. My stomach was being wracked with paralyzing pain every five or so minutes, and my ability to concentrate was significantly diminished, to the point where I couldn’t do much critical thinking beyond going, “Ooooo.”
The next day I decided it was time to head back into Italy (I was sick of the cold again; little did I know that Italy was just as cold by now). I had to switch trains at Lyon where, as I was reserving a ticket, I saw police officers flood the station, crying, “Evacuee!” That was unsettling. The ticket attendant tried to explain it to me. All I got was that a gas or poison or something had been released in the station. Honestly, I still have no idea what happened. In just a half hour everything was cleared up and I was on a train to Milan—with no idea where I would sleep that night.
I got to Milan and started looking for hostels, but I didn’t see any. I saw a lot of one star hotels, so that looked promising. I stopped off for some pizza where a nice, VERY Italian guy helped me find cheap place to stay, cuz, you know, he’s got friends, cuz he’s Italian. After I got settled into my room I rejoined him at the pizza place where I somehow ended up at some Turkish girl’s birthday party. Apparently I have a natural aptitude for pronouncing Turkish. Are we surprised? Marrhabah!
I didn’t waste any time in Milan. I had been told it was a commercial dump and it looked like one. I jumped a train back to Rome where, once again, I had no idea where I would sleep; but, I knew there were plenty of hostels.
I ended up staying at the 2 Ducks, where they took me from the main office to an apartment in a completely different building. It was fairly private and comfortable, and near the train station. It was a hassle getting back to the office for internet, but whatever. The next day I saw some new sights (namely the Pantheon), took in a few old ones, and walked along the Via Appia Antica—the Appian Way, the great Roman highway!
I walked for easily three miles or more along this ancient path, in perpetual use, lined with ruins. It was easily one of my top ten experiences this trip, if not a top five. Granted, on the way back it began to rain. At first lightly—but then I made a joke in speaking aloud to Jove. That’s when the lightning began. I jokingly spoke aloud to Jove again, and like a movie (or as if Jove truly is the god of the sky), the heavens opened. It was a downpour. I figured it would clear soon. After about five minutes of walking and no clearing up, I said one more joking “prayer.” Bad idea. If I thought it was raining before, well, I had no idea what it meant to rain. It was like being in a shower. Not a normal shower. One of those showers with the special head that you turn and it becomes a super high powered jet stream of solid water. I sweat I could’ve swam if I tried.
I felt my clothes, and at least the back of my pants were dry, and beneath my jacket I was still dry. That’s when a car drove by and splashed me. Instant bath. Well, soon enough someone took pity on me (St. Christopher battling Jupiter?) and offered me a ride back to Roma Termini, the train station right near where I was staying. I swear, a hot shower has rarely felt so good.
The next day I tried for Ostia Antica, and, after forty minutes on two trains, and ten minutes of walking, I arrived to discover that it was closed. By the time I got back to Rome proper, it was too late to do anything else. So I went to the hostel office and whiled away some time on my computer.
The next day I went to Naples (stayed at the Welcome Inn, and absolutely brilliant place with the most friendly and giving people I’d met in a long time). After dropping my stuff off and eating a little of what was left of breakfast I set off for Pompei.


2:20 PM (Eastern Standard)
Over the Atlantic; ~2100 miles from NYC; Altitude: 36,000 ft.

We are chasing the sun. This may be the longest sunset of my life. For over two hours I have watched a horizon-wide rainbow slowly slim. We are losing, and while it is surely bright at home, from where I sit, it shall soon be too dark to see the wings outside.
Pompei was a mix of being more and less than what I expected. It’s a city, preserved in a wonderful way for over two-thousand years. Some, though very rare, buildings still have their original roofs attached. he same cobbled streets which held up panicked feet at the eruption of Vesuvius held my calm stroll. I preferred to think of Pompei when its citizens walked as I did—calmly, no doubt going to the store, or to visit a friend, or seal a deal. I visited the home of the senator who laid the first strike against Julius Caesar, sat where ancient scholars sat, and ran my fingers along Latin inscriptions when perhaps some Roman child, waiting with his mother in the Forum, idly ran his fingers. I saw drawings scratched into the walls, political messages scrawled along the streets. There were perfectly preserved paintings inside some houses—beautiful paintings, of a form that would not be rediscovered for a thousand years.
It is true that Pompei is not cared for properly. Many priceless images on the buildings, once covered by glass panes to protect them, are now exposed, their covers being broken. Something like that should be fixed within an hour of its being damaged. Many entrances to restricted areas were guarded by only flimsy wooden gates which were closes with a simple bolt. Some of these gates were broken down anyway. Where some buildings were covered over with metal roofing, most were not. For one of the greatest cultural treasures of the world, is it too much to provide proper shelter for its treasures? Just two weeks earlier the Hall of the Gladiators collapsed in the early morning, presumably from rainwater inundation in the cement. And yet when I had arrived no measures seemed to be taken to protect the other structures. You would think that someone would have scrambled to patch things up as quickly as possible. Even if we disregard the historical richness of the site, let us consider if the Hall had collapsed just three hours later, when the area opens to tourists? What if an entire building of stone collapsed on some poor cruise-goers on a day trip? It’s not like they expected the Hall to collapse. Any other structure is just as likely to fall.
Well, Pompei is the one place that I do wish I had my good camera, as there were so many things that I simply couldn’t get my head around. I also wish I had arrived earlier, just to be better able to put myself in the Pompeian mindset, to reconstruct the life there in my head (using my extraordinary research in Roman life owing to a thorough viewing of HBO’s Rome) and to become in some sense a part of it for that brief moment of daydreaming hallucination I am so keenly capable of.
Que sera. I ended up getting lost in the city as it got darker and darker, and was utterly creeped out. I didn’t find my way out until forty minutes after it had closed. Christ, you could make a home there and no one would be the wiser.
Anyway, on my way back to the hostel it began to rain and I knew for certain that I couldn’t stay any longer abroad. I was too tired of being cold and wet and not knowing where I was going to sleep. I was tired of cities and tired of towns. Tired of people and being alone. Tired of seeing just how damn similar we all are—tired of that overwhelming understanding of one species, all made of the same starstuff (as Sagan would have it), unified in riding spaceship Earth (as Asimov would have it). And tired of bad customer service.
But while I weighed the pros and cons of not seeing Greece and Morocco, I knew that I had to see Venice before I left. To return before such a visit would be deeply lamentable, and no matter how exhausted I felt, no matter how much I wanted to grab my bag and head straight for the airport, I organized myself to arrive in Venice the next day and to stay for two nights.
I fell asleep on the train and awoke in Venice. When I stepped out of the carriage and into the terminal I realized that it looked like every other terminal in the Western world. This being my first thought I immediately guarded myself against my consuming jadedness, and forced myself to renew a spirit of adventure.
The thing is, I knew right away that I needed to go home. Walking through Venice to my hostel, all I could feel were two things: one, that Venice was…well, nifty if the only way I can think to put it; and two, that I was bloody irritated that the layout was so complicated I was having a hard time finding my lodging.
I dropped my stuff off at an old Doge’s palace (i.e. my hostel, which was, admittedly, awesome) and since I couldn’t pay yet since it was too early, I went for a characteristic wander about the city.
Now, truly, Venice is like no other place in the world. Composed of over a hundred small islands all separated by only a few meters of water, it is remarkable. But it’s not particularly beautiful. I know it wasn’t the weather, since it was dry, sunny, and only slightly chilly. The atmosphere was alive and well, with the gondoliers out and people dressed up in Venetian costume to advertise concerts and operas. I got food (again, not surprised) and spent a long time staring through the window of a paper shop where they sold the most beautiful old pen and ink sets I’ve seen, with some beautiful handmade journals. I wandered the Rialto, and walked to San Marco Piazza, which was completely flooded. I walked the planks and visited the church. I went back to the hostel. I sat on my computer making plans for my return home the day after Thanksgiving.
That night dinner was served at the hostel, and I ate briefly before rushing off to San Marco for a Vivaldi concert.
The next day I tried to buy tickets for a showing of La Traviata, but it was cancelled that evening. So I boarded a train to Verona—which was as much of an extraordinary disappointment as I expected (and not the good, fun disappointment like the Mona Lisa—just plain, sad, how-can-a-city-that-embodies-the-deepest-beauty-and-tradgedy-of-romance-be-such-a-dull-spot kind of disappointment). So I did the only next logical thing: I jumped on another train to see the one last thing I truly wanted to see before returning home: Bologna. Or, more specifically (because Bologna, too, is a dump) the University of Bologna, founded in the eleventh century and now the oldest continually run university in the world. I got an Il Pecorino from McDonalds (f-ing BRILLIANT sandwich, by the way) and set out in search. I found the school of mineralogy, the school of ecology (yes! I was in the science area), and finally the school of mathematics, which I entered. I slipped past the guard station and began to explore, snapping photos of a bust of Leibnitz, sitting in what looked to be an antique bench, and reading scientific journals in the halls. Then it was time to head back to Venice for dinner.
I enjoyed my dinner, and had some god conversation with a really nice Aussie (made me nostalgic for Oz; kinda want to go back again) and some others. Then I hit the sack and prepared for my journey home the next day—today.
When I awoke I realized immediately that the good weather had broken and it was cold inside the hostel and I could see through the windows that it was wet outside. I knew then that any doubts I had about returning home were out the window. As I walked in the rain, with each slippery step further soaking my feet in cold Adriatic through my boots, I knew that I could not wait to get home. I imagined walking not to the bus to the airport, but rather to the train to Athens, and I knew that I would have been grieving such a decision.
Soon I was at the airport and bought a meal, checked in, passed through security without incident (they didn’t even take my toothpaste away!), and bought three kinds of proscuitto. I waited for the plane. I began this day’s entry. I flew to Heathrow. I watched Annie Hall. I ate prosciutto. At Heathrow I encountered minor difficulties with securities, but still managed to retain my toothpaste. Score one against the terrorists. I bought all the candy that I had not yet tried in England. I waited. I boarded. I just watched Die Another Day, possibly the single most unintentionally funny Bond film ever, and ate my British candy. Now I’m typing.
But I think I’ll save the reflections, the wrap-up, the epilogue, for home.