Secondi piatti: the divine comedy.

Italy is a paradox, worthy of Da Vinci's laborious designs.

The country is in no hurry. Locals meander the streets as if crawling on their feet and dinners last hours, and yet people shove one another to pack in to subway cars so as not to have to wait for the next one, the sound of horns on some, if not most, streets in Rome literally never ends, and people will cut in front of everyone else in line at every possible opportunity. It manages to be everything, all at once.

But its duality should not have surprised me. The same national womb gave us both Michelangelo and Machiavelli. One nation managed to inspire and foster the Renaissance as well as elect Silvio Berlusconi. Twice. And he doesn't even keep the trains running on time.

I left Rome 2 days ago, and the best way that I can describe it is that it's the greatest city in the world that I would never want to go back to. I tend to prefer cities over villages, and it holds an embarrassment of riches, historical and religious on an unparalleled scale, and some astonishing pieces of art. Whereas my favorite city I visited during my two and a half weeks in Italy, the miniscule Siena, has almost nothing of any cultural or historical significance whatsoever, and yet I feel compelled to walk within its brown walls once again. Which is to say, spend time in Italy, and you fall victim to the paradox as well.

Its enigmatic duality stretches to the point that at times I thought I was in a different Italy than everyone else had been to. Milan, a major city that I was told by several people to not even bother visiting, held two of the absolute highlights of my time in the country. Its Duomo is the most gorgeous cathedral exterior I have ever seen (and considering my itinerary of the last two months, that is a serious statement), and Da Vinci's Last Supper, a work I considered utilitarian at best a few weeks ago, managed to knock me on my ass with awe in person. And in terms of food, that fun fact you've probably heard, that no one in Italy actually eats pizza, that it's an American dish.... jaw-droppingly wrong. It's everywhere, it's amazing, and maybe ten percent of the orders I overheard in the many pizzerias I went to were in something other than fluent Italian. So hit the next person that tries to tell you that.

And just quickly, while we're on the subject of idiocy.... if you ever get the opportunity to visit Italy, and make it out to Pisa, please do NOT take a picture where you're holding up the Leaning Tower. It's not just that it's unspeakably lame and unfunny, it's what the vast majority of tourists who visit do (saw at least 75 people do it in the span of less than an hour), so you're not being remotely original. So come on, people. You're better than that. (Well, I already know YOU guys are... you're my friends, you'd have to be).

Paradoxes? Duality? That's what we were on? .... Look at the Roman Empire in general. Their entire reputation was built on their romantic paganism, their persecution of Christians. And then they hit the year 380 and make it the official religion. I'm not going to go in to the Vatican issue, but if you ever visit, please keep in mind the whole "Lenders in the Temple" episode as you pass by the gift shops with awkward souvenirs for sale on the actual church grounds. In their defense much fewer than the rest of Rome, but still. Doesn't sit right.

All of this contradiction forces one to submit to the glorious lunacy of Italy. It just can't be taken seriously, and maybe that's what makes your time there so enjoyable. The only way to deal with it all is to laugh it off, and do as the Romans do, preferably with a glass of the house red in hand.


Rome:
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2106778&id=35804394&l=70df7e6543

Primi piatti: un chien napolitano.

If you ask anyone that's been to Italy, I wasn't supposed to go to Naples. That it's the birthplace of pizza and neighbor to the ruins of Pompeii are distant seconds to its rampant crime, or its status as the stronghold of the still existent mafia. But my other options were a lot of beautiful places that don't make sense for a guy to visit on his own, especially in the gloom of October, and I have an over-arching tendency not to follow directions.

I often confuse people, particularly locals, by what I stop to photograph. They pass with furrowed brows, jaws ajar, looking from me to what I'm shooting, and usually repeat this a few more times with increasing curiosity. Even more entertaining, which happens pretty frequently, they'll stop to take a photo as well, then stare at the screen of their digital camera, their confusion heightened by a frustrated failure to understand, before walking off in defeat.

Something like this happened as I walked around the Portici district of Naples, as four children of about 10 outside a dingy church I was taking pictures of saw me and instantly broke in to hurried conversation. They quickly rode their bicycles over to where I stood, surrounding me, and asked in Italian who exactly I was and where I was from. I answered, and just as I thought they were about to City-of-God me, the main boy asked excitedly if I could tell him what his name, Alessandro, would translate to in English. I did the same for Francisco, Giuseppe, and Paolo, and left them with huge smiles as they took turns introducing themselves to one another with their new identities in exaggerated American accents.

Wandering downtown in my everyday backpacking uniform of a white v-neck and jeans, I was caught in one of the most torrential rainstorms of my life. After one block, my shirt was essentially transparent, weighed about 4 pounds from all the infused rain, and (along with my scraggly beard and unkempt hair) gave me a visage closer to that of one of Italy's mangy stray dogs than its fashionable, bundled-up citizens. Not really to dry me off, but to at least cauterize the faucet running off my face and shoulders, I was kindly offered pocket tissues in a church, butcher paper in a market, and finally stumbled in to one of Naples' most heralded pizzerias: a hole in the wall with 4 tables and cooks that slide the pies into the ovens while smoking out of the side of their mouths. After taking my order, the waiter gave me the look of fatherly empathy I'd grown accustomed to over the past hour and a half before disappearing upstairs for a few minutes. He re-emerged with one of his own used t-shirts for me to change in to. Something I'll keep forever that encapsulates so much more than any cheesy souvenir ever would, or that any photograph could convey. I'm thousands of miles from anyone that knew I existed before 2 months ago, let alone cared about my well-being. But looking at that shirt, or remembering the outstretched arms of the woman in the church, the grocer with his thin sheets of yellow paper.... that fact is easily forgotten.

I walked back out in to the cramped alleyway, rainwater spread atop the black stone of the street like icing. The revenant sun was bouncing off of it... a welcome warmth, a reflective shine so bright that nobody could see a thing, and the rainstorm a memory only present because my shoes were still soaked. But Naples reminded me in one afternoon everything I need to know to survive.

If you can weather the storm, the sunlight will positively blind you.




Naples, Pompeii, and Florence:
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2106379&id=35804394&l=908d5dfd66