Home > News & Events

Andy Steves Blogs Europe

Note from Rick: One of the most gratifying things for me as both a dad and a travel teacher is to see our kids enjoying Europe sans parents. While our annual family vacations to Europe were often not the kids’ first choice (and I had no idea if they’d end up enjoying traveling), both Andy and Jackie have picked up the bug from their parents — a particularly virulent strain I might add. Join me and stow away with Andy Steves in Europe!

Last Tuesday, I was able to tag along on a class field trip with a friend. Their teacher, Monsignor Wells had some connections in the Vatican and was able to get permission to take three groups over a couple weeks down into the excavations, or scavi, under St. Peter's Basilica. I had heard about them but didn't realize their extent. During World War II, the pope ordered the excavations and they found ancient tomb after ancient tomb.

The monsignor explained that the small door we walked in was ancient, and told us to imagine the following: Back in 300 something A.D., Constantine wanted to build a cathedral over St. Peter's tomb. A huge one. So he had to rip off the roofs of the ancient mausoleums and fill them in with dirt to make the foundations of this mammoth structure. He gave families time to take out their dead. This was primarily a pagan burial ground and they wanted to take their ancestors out. At the same time, Christians took this opportunity to move their bodies closer to the grave of St, Peter. So they would have been passing each other through the same low door we went through.

We continued on deeper and farther. Each room had a space-age Star Trek-type door, that opened and closed without warning exactly as we approached and passed. Next, we found a street that was made by the rows upon rows of families' mausoleums. Each one had an ancient title plaque above the door explaining the family history. In this corridor, our priest explained the different brickwork, ancient vs. medieval vs. modern, and he explained how the ancient brickwork was the best, as it was still intact and had lasted this many centuries on soft ground without collapsing.

As the tour went on, it was an indescribable feeling as we walked closer and closer to the tomb of St. Peter. His grave first had a small temple over it, then a supporting wall was built to keep it from collapsing. Over the years, an altar had been placed around it. Then another. And a marble box was placed around that. Then St. Peter's Basilica was placed over that, with the modern altar being about 30 feet directly over the bones of St. Peter. Keep in mind, all that is all well below ground level today.

As excavators came upon St. Peter's tomb, they attempted to dig under it. That was unsuccessful, so they dug around to the other side, where they were able to get the smallest one of them to reach up into the tomb and he pulled out a bone. They continued to excavate, and a doctor friend of the pope verified these were truly the bones of one man from about the first century AD. The problem was, he was an eye doctor--and they turned out to be the bones of two men, a woman, and several animals. So, the question remained, where were the real bones of St. Peter? A woman, an expert in ancient languages and scripts, continued studying the markings on the wall for the next couple of years. Finally, she decoded the meaning, and discovered the bones in the supporting wall of the original temple, placed in a small compartment lined with expensive marble and “Petras is here” scrawled into the wall. They went through the identification process over the next several months, and professionals determined they were the bones of an older, well-built man, from the first century A.D. whose bones showed evidence of torture and crucifixion. These bones were replaced, and we could catch glimpses of them through the hole in the wall. We exited through the intimate chapel located directly under the huge altar, and came out into the crypts of the popes which the public can access.

Thinking back at the sight of those bones as I walked back to class, it occurred to me that faith isn't based on evidence, but it is always nice to have real-world hints.

Posted by Andy Steves on November 19, 2008
Comments (3)

On this Friday morning, I boxed up my bike again and headed to the station for what is sure to be an awesome weekend. I had to get up at the ungodly hour of 6:45. To me, there are times when I'm tired--and then there's being painfully tired. Well I'm the latter right now, as I type this up on the train. A bunch of my friends were going to Sorrento for the week, but I had been there already and wanted to stay on the real Costa d'Amalfi. I wrestled my bike box into the storage place on the train and had to use my packing tape to make sure it didn't fall out.

Enlarge photo

On the train, I listened to two young Italian girls singing rhymes in Italian, and tried to catch their meaning. At Naples, a small family got on and sat next to me. Their young son wanted to eat his panino, but apparently they had just eaten so I listened to the kid beg for twenty minutes until the parents gave in. The train finally arrived in Salerno at about 10:00 a.m. and I hopped off the train and started to orient myself. This place just felt like Southern Italy; dirty streets, clearly no one paying attention to emission laws, beautiful women, strolling grandmas, and so on. I asked at the TI where to buy tickets, and hopped on the bus to Amalfi town. Fifty minutes later, I grabbed my bike out of the belly of the bus and made my way to Atrani where my hostel was, bike box under my arm.

After I checked in, I threw my bike together and headed out on a ride. I turned around about 20 miles out, a little past Positano. On the way a car labeled “Amalfi Driving School” passed the other way. I had to laugh. If you learn to drive there in Amalfi, you can drive anywhere in the world. I wonder if they have "I-drove-off-the-cliff" insurance. The next day, I got back on my bike and headed all the way into Sorrento. This is where I stayed with my friend back in 2005. We thought we were on the Amalfi Coast, but really hadn't touched it, and had no idea that this magical coastline was just around the bend.

On Sunday, a friend and I rented a moped and toured the same craggy cliffs over the stunning blue waterscapes that I had biked the day before. From our vantage point, we could make out the smothering smog cloud over Naples. I would not want to live in that city. Before long, we had to make our way back to our Amalfi hometown in order to make the bus connection back to the Sorrento train station. There, we experienced the worst traffic ever, causing an hour delay, and putting us into town too late to catch the train. So we missed our train and had to wait for the next one. That was okay except for an obnoxious Italian who was never silent the entire two hours we waited. I can still hear his lispy accent, high voice, and endless stream of vulgar jokes. Here, I see truth in the saying “those who talk the most have the least to say.” Besides the crummy end of the trip, it was great to be immersed in the pure beauty of the Amalfi Coast.

Posted by Andy Steves on November 17, 2008
Comments (3)

Hey all, just wanted to thank everyone for keeping up with the blog. This is coming to you, realtime, November 15 from Notre Dame. A couple weeks ago, I made an entry on my new website and it's newly-launched status at www.andysteves.com. This site will serve college students with free travel tips and ideas. But primarily, it will be to provide supplementary itineraries to their travel plans, available for download. Well I just uploaded the first few itineraries along with a bunch of new photo albums. Check em out! Here's the . If there are any graphic designer out there, how does this read? And to the English teachers, any grammatical errors? Cartographers, let me know if I'm off in any spots. Thanks a ton, and we're only about half way through my semester, so keep checking back!

Posted by Andy Steves on November 15, 2008
Comments (6)

Enlarge photo

The end of our semester was approaching. My friends were saying “only a couple weeks more,” and things like that. To me that meant it was time to sell my bike. So I went down to Porta Portese to ask the bike dealers if they were interested. Porta Portese is the Sunday flea market where all the illegals sell their stolen goods won from the previous week. Besides the temporary market, there are a few more-legitimate pawn shops, bike shops, and motorino shops lining the street. I wanted to see if I could get an offer for my bike and just be done with it.

The problem was that my bike was nicer than anything else in these second-hand shops. So no shops were interested. I then put the bike up on Craigslist. The next day, on Ebay.it. That is a nerve-wracking experience--you have to make sure you read everything on each page and that the right boxes are checked. Otherwise, you could sell a €1000 bike accidentally for €20. It's scary enough when the site's in English. I made a bit of a mistake setting up the timing of the auction because it's ending right now as I'm writing this on a plane coming back to Rome from Dublin. Hope it's going well.

Right before I made the auction, I climbed up onto my roof to take some glamour shots. Imagine that, me coming out onto my little porch with the large frame of my dear bicycle over one shoulder. Clambering up onto the travertine railing I can see the street six floors below. I do a tightrope turn and slowly walk up the incline part to step over the ridge of the roof of the apartment. I make it up without any tragic accidents and am able to take my pictures with the shining dome of St. Peter's Basilica in the background. After my photo shoot, I sling the bike back over my shoulder and repeat the process in reverse order.

My first auction ended with the price at €300, so I contacted the buyer and told him I couldn't sell it for a price that low, and that my minimum is €500. I've explained my situation to a few Italians here in Rome, and they've all told me I wouldn't have trouble selling a bike up north in Milan, or Torino, but Rome and the South is a different story. It's strange to think that in the capital of the nation, they really don't have much expendable income. As Italians don't see any possibility of buying real estate due to the exorbitant prices, they wear their paycheck--they don't think twice about spending the equivalent of $200 on a pair of pants.

Enlarge photo

I decided to redo my auction so I took some more detailed pictures, expanded my description and ticked the “ship anywhere” option. This time my auction started at €475 with a buy-it-now at €750, and I set the length of the auction for seven days. Several days later, I received a message asking if I would sell it for €500. I responded yes. We talked over the phone a couple times and it became clear he was from where I was headed the next weekend, the Cinque Terre. He could meet me at the station and we'd make the transaction right there.

Posted by Andy Steves on November 14, 2008
Comments (1)

The day after landing in Ireland, I met up with Sean at his country house about an hour outside of Dublin. That was an experience. As he welcomed me inside he said “Be careful, this place isn't built to common human elevation.” It wasn't. He had built it on his father's property ten years ago as a project and learning experience. The ceilings were built to his stature and weren't any taller than 6'4”. That being said, I've never been in a cozier place. It was heated with a peat stove, and the house came with Mary, his mother, who was a classic pint-size grandmother. She peered out from her bright Irish eyes set deep in her weathered face. She was wearing a white-and-pink jumpsuit and sported it well for a 75-year-old. She carried herself like a teenager in the way she walked and interacted with the world around her. She never spoke above a whisper, and with her accent and the random subjects she discussed, I understood about maybe half of what she said. Her astounding hearing was matched by Sean's who would laugh at what sounded like mumbles to me. Her relationship with Sean was more like a beautiful friendship complete with teasing and bantering. Sean told me stories about how he would send her into the butcher's shop asking for hammers and nails.

Enlarge photo

Sean took me on a tour of the Wicklow Mountains, the region where his little house was with Mary. On this tour, I looked down on the Guinness' family's property with a lake where they imported white sand for their private beach. We continued up and over into the next valley where it was hailing and looked absolutely uninhabitable. Occasionally we would pull over and get out for a photo op. Asking Mary if she wanted to get out, she'd respond “I've seen these mountains my whole life” opting to stay inside the car. Each time, Sean would tell her, “Okay mom, keep quiet, and don't cause any trouble.”

We passed a burnt-out shell of an old English fort once built to control the people in these IRA-stronghold valleys. The rebels waited and watched while the fort was built. The night after it was completed and the garrison was installed, they came down and locked all the soldiers inside and burnt it to the ground with a couple of hundred British inside. Count one for the Irish. At the entrance of each valley was a large, car-sized stone on end with the area's predominant families' names and dates. We passed one with 1774 chiseled into the rock. The history of the island is engrossing. Throughout the day, Mary explained her family history, traditional Irish songs, and hatred for organized tours, her soft voice broken up with frequent napping. She would fall asleep mid-sentence, and wake up ten minutes later and either finish the thought or switch to a completely different topic. Her rambling style is the reason I don't remember much of what she said. I was concentrating more on following her in the moment.

We stopped at a pub for a burger and a pint. Sean had come into this particular pub years back dressed as a priest. To this day, the man behind the bar still greets him as “Father.” After our snack, Sean let me drive back down the country roads to his house. It messes with your head to drive on the left, shift with your left hand and look right first. But I made it without incident. Along the way we stopped at a small organic grocery store to pick up jelly for his mother. Inside, Sean saw some honey that was supposed to be especially good for you and asked why to the clerk. “Probably because it's organic” he responded. It's sad how you can find slices of Southern California across the globe these days.

Enlarge photo

The next day Sean and I went to Kilkenny. On the drive, he explained that the legal trouble he had referred to earlier had to do with his house. He had built it ignoring all rules and regulations. It was built to his standards and nobody else's. He didn't build it for money or an investment but for himself and his mother. Well, he was found out by the county council, and they were threatening to tear it down for numerous code violations and he was knee-deep in wading through the legal system. He had been talking to all his contacts in the area to try and get past the paperwork. The law in that part of Ireland states no one can build unless you were born there. Sean wasn't but built anyway on his own land. The other day, he had gone to the priest to explain his situation and see if he could do anything. The priest didn't like the council so immediately wrote up a page saying Sean was a native. From there, Sean may be able to keep the house. Sean laughed, “And I thought priests were good for nothing.” Through my travel I've come to learn it's really about whom you know. With contacts you can get into, around, or past anything whether it be nightclubs or county ordinances.

At Kilkenny, we wandered through the small streets and Sean said he knew nothing about the place. So we went into a pub and had a few pints, grabbed some chicken curry and got back in the car to return to Dublin.

On Sunday morning, Sean took me on a short tour of Howth, where I bought a €15 hamburger at a pub for lunch. Howth is the peninsula you fly over when coming into the Dublin airport. It would have been simpler and cheaper to just drink a few pints. We had good timing, showing up on the morning of the monthly market. There, they had all sorts of honey, meats, vegetables, and fresh fruits. They also had a creperie van there with “Probably the best crepes you've ever tasted” painted in bold letters across the top. Well, we waited in the line, and once we got to the front, they had run out of cheese and chicken. I had wanted a savory crepe for lunch, obviously, but they were missing half the ingredients I wanted. I swear, that region of Ireland was having a dairy shortage that day--the hamburger stand next door was out as well. That's when we tried to find some cheap (but not pub) grub. The next morning I caught my flight back to Rome in time for class that afternoon.

Posted by Andy Steves on November 12, 2008
Comments (1)

On Thursday, I sat fidgeting through my Italian class because I couldn't get my upcoming trip out of my head. I was returning to the Emerald Isle again this evening. After class, I bolted to catch the bus home and finish packing. My Ryanair flight only allowed 10 kilos for my carry-on so I did without a second pair of pants and my nice shoes. My flight was leaving out of Ciampino, Rome's secondary airport, so I took the metro to Termini and hopped on the connection bus that took me straight there. I was originally supposed to meet up with my Irish friend Sean until he told me he had to cancel a few minutes before my flight, and was coming back to Rome at the same time I was leaving.

A little bummed and confused as to what I was going to do for the weekend, my mind was busy with coming up with a new plan on the three-hour Rome-to-Dublin flight. The perpetually crying two-year-old English boy in the row behind me that already had a full vocabulary of swear words didn't help. Earlier in the terminal, he had been running around just having fun. I feel old when I say this, but when kids run around like that they're just bound to crash and hurt themselves.

Well, there I was reading a trashy English newspaper just relaxing and I see him out of the corner of my eye running on a course to just barely miss me. His foot catches mine and he goes sprawling, landing on elbow and knee. A moment before he started crying, I got the surprised and pain-filled look that just screamed “why did you do that to me” through his eyes. I felt terrible. Kind of. And said sorry to him and his mom and went back to reading my paper.

Turning on my cell phone is the first thing I do when my plane lands. Immediately it signaled a new text message, which was from Sean. It read “Legal trouble. Staying for the weekend. We'll meet up for a pint.”

Posted by Andy Steves on November 10, 2008
Comments (0)

Saturday I woke up and cooked myself an extra egg. I had a feeling I was going to go on a long bike ride that day. I picked a town in the interior of the island about two and a half inches away from Cefalu. Well that town turned out to be 38 miles away with about 30 being uphill, but I'm a very goal-oriented person so if I tell myself I'm going somewhere, I have to get there. I made a point to stop in each town along the way to pick up something to eat or drink.

Out of Cefalu, I headed towards Messina for a couple miles until I took a right and headed up hill. The next town I hit was Castelbuono, where I grabbed a banana and a blood orange and ate them outside a café. There an old man recognized me from the day before and asked me where I was headed. I asked him where I should go and where the best roads were. He proceeded to tell me everything about the roads in the surrounding area. This was interesting because back in my freshman theology seminar I wrote a research paper about the Sicilian Mafia and how it has crossed paths with the Vatican over the years. In my research I learned that from childhood, Sicilians were taught never to give directions to strangers for fear that the stranger may be a hit man searching for his victim. In Sicily, revenge would extend all the way to the direction-giver and his family. I asked him about the town I had previously picked out and he said the roads were good so that's where I headed.

I continued on for another 15 miles to Geraci, where I had a cheese-and-spicy-salami panino. The interior of Sicily is absolutely stunning. Its majestic mountains and dramatic landscapes seem to say “Don't mess with me, I'll hurt you,” reflecting the dark undertones of Sicilian culture. Continuing uphill, I rode past the first real-life shepherd I've ever seen in my life, with a cane and all dressed in wool. I've seen little eight-year-old ones at Christmas Mass every year, and I was probably even one once, but this was the first shepherd I've seen really doing his thing. A little later I saw huge chunks of dung and wondered if a goat could have done the job. On my way back I almost hit some cows hanging out in the middle of the road and then it made sense.

On long rides you have a lot of thinking time. Well, this time I got to thinking about how all these small hill towns that I was riding through got started. They're 20 miles away from anything else. Initially, I'm guessing all the towns in Sicily, and around the world in general tend to line the coast. Over time, they spread inwards and the founders of these towns would have had to carry all belongings on their backs and with mules. And today, nobody moves into these towns, which means everyone who lives there has family roots a long ways back, probably close to a thousand years. It's amazing to think about such continuous life, generation after generation in these small towns perched on the top of mountains: weddings and funerals, births and baptisms, schooling and working all there in these little towns, carried out in lifetime after lifetime. Along with that, each town, as close as six miles from the next, has a distinct dialect and people have to concentrate to understand another. It just goes to show how isolated these towns really have been throughout history.

Seven hours after I left, I made it back to Cefalu and struggled up the stairs with shaky knees to the apartment where I immediately put on some water to make pasta. It was a great day.

That night was Frank's 21st birthday party. Except it wasn't really much of a party. There were just six of us who went out to dinner, then only four wanted to go find the rumored discoteca that was only open on Saturdays. Again, one does not discuss the details of 21st birthdays, but Frank was having a good time. I decided to give him a unique gift. On the way over to the club, I gave him the gift of drunk driving. This is the only safe kind though: bumper cars. There was a small carnival park on the side of the road and I figured why not. It was a great time. We never made it to the disco. Instead, we just tucked Frank into bed and crashed ourselves.

On Sunday I went on a very short recovery ride and spent most of the afternoon cleaning up the apartment inside, which broke my heart because it was such a beautiful day. I packed up my bike and realized I had misplaced my train ticket to return back to Rome. In the end, it turned out to be nothing more than a headache and an extra €40. I said goodbye and thanks to Carlo and headed off to the station with my classmates that evening to catch my 7:30 train. It was a good spring break.

I thought I wasn't going to have anything more to say; just another night train and probably another awkward encounter with a middle-aged Italian. The train ride was relatively uneventful: I got my bike up on the baggage holders, we had some people peeking into our room, and I tried to fall asleep. I was having a hard time until about 2 or 3 in the morning, then the next thing I knew I was shaken awake by my friend. “Andy, we're here.” But we weren't here. It was broad daylight and there was no train station around. My friend and I and another Italian all had overslept the Roma Termini stop, and they had moved the train to the outskirts of Rome to the train depository. So here we were, at 8:30 in the morning, pretty much stranded in the middle of nowhere. Why hadn't anybody woken us up? Where was the conductor? He hadn't had a problem waking us up while we were sleeping to check our tickets for the second time. But I guess he was too lazy to do the same when it really mattered. It wouldn't have been as much of a pain except I was still carrying around my bike in a box and really didn't feel like carting it the three miles back to the station.

Eventually, we found somebody to ask for directions to the exit, and we caught a tram heading in the right direction. While the man was telling us how to get there, another person came up, and both told us to keep an eye on our wallets. That was the first time ever I've had Italians tell me to watch out. A bit daunting, but in the end, nothing happened on the tram. Once we saw the red metro “M,” we were home free. And that's where the story ends. It was a good spring break.

Posted by Andy Steves on November 07, 2008
Comments (1)

Friday was the day we decided to rent mopeds. It looked clear until the moment after we signed the paperwork and it started pouring. I almost passed on the day but then figured why not and went with it. I knew it was going to be a long day when my friend, right off the bat, rode his scooter into the wall. He wasn't hurt and the scooter still worked so we kept going. The place only had four scooters to rent, two 50cc's and two 125cc's, so one of the 125s always had two people on it and we set up a rotation. We headed to Castelbuono, where I had ridden to on Tuesday. On the way there, it was all uphill so there wasn't really much danger of sliding out. I was driving a 125 and my friend was clutching on and we were shivering like Lloyd and Harry from Dumb and Dumber on their way to Aspen.

Enlarge photo

We got to Castelbuono and sloshed into a café where we had some of the thickest hot chocolate ever, and tried to dry ourselves out. After that, we asked where we could get some pasta, and the woman there sent us over to her friend's around the corner. Once we sat down and took off our jackets, the owner rolled in a space heater and turned it on to help with the drying process. I was so glad I put on my thin, wool long underwear that morning so I could lose my cotton T-shirt. It's kind of sad though, having to wear long underwear on a spring break trip in the Mediterranean. We ate well and apprehensively put back on our semi-dried jackets and helmets and returned back to our motorinos.

We decided we had had enough and started back to Cefalu to return our scooters. Now it was time to head downhill and it was still raining hard. The four of us would spread out along about 200 meters of road so we'd lose sight of each other around every turn of the windy road. And around one of these I came upon Mark getting up off the ground and picking up his moped. He had slid out around a turn, but because the roads were as wet as they were, he wasn't hurt and his ride only picked up a small scratch or two. We continued along until we found a turn out and scoped out the damage. We didn't see anything so we kept going, and pulled over to wait for everyone at the very bottom of the hill. We were missing Frank this time. We waited for a few minutes then sent Mark back up the hill. He came back a minute later with Frank who had gotten too close to the wall and fell into it on the right side, hurting both his pinky and right side of the moped. All our hands were numb from the cold rain and he couldn't tell if his pinky was broken or not. So he got on the back with Mark on the 125 and I switched to Frank's 50cc that now had a newly broken mirror and stiffer steering. That accident would end up costing Frank €172.

Now we were going along flatter ground along the coastline, and we could see Cefalu in the distance. I was careful never to let myself get too comfortable with my motorino skills but I think others weren't as careful. A quarter mile after we turned off on the Cefalu exit, we pulled over again to wait for everyone to catch up. This time Joe was missing. We waited some more, then I doubled back to find him. I came across him at the turnoff wincing in pain. He had slid out on the main road at about 40 kph and slid into the other lane. Luckily there was no oncoming traffic, but he said three or four cars had pulled over ready to take him to the hospital. Again, because the roads were wet he wasn't seriously hurt, so he passed on that, but he had skinned his wrist, ankle, knee, and thigh as well as grinding away his mirror and the right side fairing. That accident would cost him €145. He didn't feel like driving anymore so Frank got back on my ride, and I switched to the 125cc that Joe had been driving.

Once we were back in town, we picked up some groceries, then headed to the gas pump to fill up before we returned the mopeds. Once we got back, the owner did the routine check on all the mopeds: We had crashed three of the four he had rented to us and he knew it. A fork was shot, two mirrors were broken, and there was some serious cosmetic damage. He wasn't too happy. He went back inside and wrote up the bill for Frank and Joe who had to pay immediately. It would have been awesome any other day with better weather--and cheaper. I'd definitely recommend renting, just don't do it on a rainy day. Or you can be like me and just not crash at all. That night we compared bruises, abrasions and stories over beer pong late into the night.

Posted by Andy Steves on November 05, 2008
Comments (3)

On Tuesday I decided to ride inland and uphill to Castelbuono. It was a beautiful day, and the views were amazing. People have asked me if I saw evidence of Mafia activity during the time I've spent in Sicily. The Mafia is careful not to attract any attention to itself so as an outsider, it is very hard to notice anything. That day though, as I was tooling around through this little hill town, a brand new Mercedes passed me and turned around the next corner. I thought it was strange because all other cars were the kinds you'd expect in a poor rural town with not much of an economy except agriculture. I didn't really think anything of it until I caught up to the silver Mercedes in the narrow back alleys of the town. At each storefront, the car would stop, and shop owners came out and passed an envelope to the driver. They'd then chat for a bit asking about each other's family and friends. The shopkeeper would then thank the driver profusely and return back inside and the car would continue on. Of course I don't know exactly what was going on, but one could make an educated guess.

That night we had dinner at the girls' apartment on the other side of town. As far as cuisine goes, Italy is definitely the place to study abroad. Each of my friends have picked up a different recipe to add to their repertoire, and it feels like every night is a feast. That night we had Chicken Marsala and a simple, spiced whole-wheat pasta.

On Wednesday, I picked a town called Geraci to ride to. On a map, when the road gets squiggly, it means the road is steep. I kind of knew that from before, but now I have a true sense. Distance-wise, I didn't go very far, about 15 or 16 miles. But in that time I climbed over 3,000 feet, most of them near the end. I bought a €3 panino in the local and only grocery store of this mountain town and ate in the town's only piazza. I sat next to a couple old men who were shooting the breeze like they always do and I tried to listen in on their conversation, but I could only pick out maybe 10 percent of what they said. They were speaking in such a strong dialect that it seemed like another language to me. After a while I interrupted them and began a conversation in Florentine Italian about life in Sicily and how they've liked their life in the town. Only several hundred live there now and it was fun hearing them talk like they knew the life stories of each inhabitant. I bet they did too.

Nothing really worth noting happened on Thursday except for that evening's dinner and post-dinner activities. That afternoon, we invited Carlo over for dinner. He brought a raw artichoke salad and a pack of sardines. Neither was very good, but it was great having him there. He was born in Sicily but was raised in Milan. His wife is Milanese and they've spent most of their life up there until now. He's retired and involves himself in the marine equivalent of Italian boy scouts. I didn't really catch it all, but he told me about it, and showed me pictures of teaching kids how to sail. After dinner, we roped him in for a game of beer pong. His wind up and toss, I could tell, were derived from a lifetime of bocce ball. His team was way behind until Carlo found his groove and sunk three in a row to win the game. With all of us standing stunned, Carlo said one game was enough for him and went to bed.

Posted by Andy Steves on November 03, 2008
Comments (1)

We got into Cefalu at about 8:30 in the morning. The day after a night train is always horrible. You're painfully tired and your eyes ache all day. It's kind of like jet lag all over again. On top of that, it was drizzling, and Carlo, the landlord gave me a funny-looking phone number that I wasn't sure would work. Well I called it a few times and finally he picked up and gave me some directions. There's one street that goes from the train station and continues all the way through the small town until it makes a "T" just before the water. We had to get to that T and that's where he would be waiting. So the eight of us started our hike in that direction, me with a huge bike box. Of course, Sicilian eyes are expert stare-ers and they were performing just fine that morning. In the early morning, there were already dozens doing their work—staring at the new arrivals in town.

We got there and that's when we first met Carlo. Carlo was a smiley, short, balding, white-haired man with a small potbelly who liked to talk through his rotten teeth. His breath reeked of something indescribable that morning. That afternoon, I would find out why.

Enlarge photo

We followed him down the street to the left and up into our apartment. It was a beautiful place with a view of the water, and plenty of room for eight dudes. After my friends moved in, they all laid down to take a nap. I was going to do the same, but then the sun came out and I couldn't wait any longer. I decided to take my bike out of the box, assemble and head out on a ride.

I took the direction to Palermo and enjoyed the new pavement, which was "partly financed by the EU." It wasn't an especially warm day, but my layers were adequate and I felt like I was riding through a cyclist's paradise. I made it about 20 miles out before the rain clouds came up on me and started dumping. That's where I turned around and began the second half of my ride.

On the way back I was heading down the same two-lane highway where I came upon two cars turning left. The first one pulled out a little bit in front of me but wouldn't have been a problem. But the second misjudged my speed and followed the first. The driver saw me coming and instead of doing anything, failed to make a decision and just stopped, blocking my entire lane. I had already clutched my brakes and was sliding at an angle on course to hit him. Somehow I made a flying leap out of my clipless pedals and managed to stay on my feet while my bike hit the deck hard. I put my street Italian to use and the driver sheepishly climbed out of his car as I looked over my bike. There was no serious damage except for my bent handlebars that I could fix with a multitool. I went through the regular hand gestures while fixing my bike and kept going. I made it back to the apartments and showered off, thankful my bike and I were both still in one piece.

Posted by Andy Steves on October 31, 2008
Comments (3)

Enlarge photo

Back in January, we knew we needed a place to go for spring break. We were considering Greece, Tunisia, Sardinia, and Sicily. So we shopped around online looking for apartments to rent for a week in any of these places. We found a nice one in Cefalu, Sicily, where I had studied two summers before, and quickly got in contact with the landlord. There were two adjacent apartments available with four beds each, so we committed and booked them. For the next month and a half we didn't really think about it much. We had places to go and things to do.

Posted by Andy Steves on October 29, 2008
Comments (1)

I was supposed to fly back to Rome at 2 in the afternoon on Monday but on Saturday I asked myself how many times do I have the opportunity to be in Dublin for St. Padd'y day and bumped my flight back to Wednesday for €35. Not bad.

Enlarge photo

At noon, the parade started promptly with the Irish military marching by me. The rest of the parade didn't come so fast, and I waited around for 20 or 30 minutes before I saw the next floats. I have never seen such an eclectic random mix of anything in my life: dancing pieces of grass, prancing ants, giant Harleys, flag throwers, mambo dancers, really scary-looking monsters, and mad scientists with boiling pots of unknown liquids. I left an hour later without seeing a truly Irish participant. Stephen told me the parades in New York and Boston are more Irish than the one you'll see in Dublin.

I was really anticipating the Irish activities to follow later that night so I wasn't too bummed. But first, I wanted to check out an advertised party on the other side of town. I was going to head over with some friends from Notre Dame studying in Dublin for the semester who I met up with randomly while watching the parade but quickly lost in the crowds. Never saw them again. After an hour en route, I came across this huge block party on the other side of St. Stephen's Green where cultural music was blasting in Gaelic.

At first there was plenty of room, then by the time I left, it was packed. There were moshing teenagers up close to the stage and little girls farther back putting their Irish step-dancing skills on display. It's the cutest thing ever to watch two of them go around in circles with their heads bobbing in syncopated rhythms, laughing and spinning up a storm. I was standing up on a raised area with small trees just enjoying the scene and pack after pack of freebie chewy candy. When I had my fill of both I made my way back to the hotel to rest up for what was sure to be a long night ahead of me.

Stephen told me to meet him and Vicki across town for dinner, but I slept through it in my nap and did without a meal that night. Not to worry, Guinness is like a loaf of rye bread. To the poor student, drinking in Dublin is not a particularly affordable activity as you may have guessed by my thievery the previous day. So I bought a small bottle of vodka at a convenience store before the real party started that night. And I brought it into the dance bar where the party was. After a legitimately paid-for pint, I got a cranberry with ice and headed to the dude's bathroom with the vodka in my jacket. I returned with a suspicious-looking pink drink in my Guinness pint glass and got back to the business of socializing. Twenty minutes later I saw some interesting flailing of arms and swirling of colors so I headed towards it. I met a group of French girls teaching French to Ryanair flight attendants. So I started dancing with them, green beanie with white foam horns and all. I ended up crashing on their couch at their house 20 minutes outside of Dublin later that night. I don't really know why but that's just what happened.

When I woke up, three French girls had already gone to work, and another just told me what bus to take to get back to the center of town. I went back to the hotel where I was staying with Stephen and Vicki. Unfortunately, they had already left for Derry when I showed up. So I took a nap, showered, then checked out of the hotel to wander Dublin for the rest of the day. I went to a really interesting “History of the Irish Military: Domestic and Foreign Service” exhibit at the National Museum. I had a lunch of salami and cheese on a baguette, and then went over to St. Stephen's Green to take a nap. I called the French girls after five and took the bus back out for some dinner. We compared musical tastes over dinner sharing iPods and I tried to teach them the Soulja Boy dance. I'll be the first to tell you I'm terrible at it. But seeing these girls made me feel a bit better. We had a simple salad and pasta dinner. I was planning to detox that night until one of them busted out a bottle of anise and I couldn't say no. I just love how it turns from clear to cloudy once you drop some ice into it. Some chemist needs to explain that to me some day. Once it got late, and I was tired, I dismissed myself, cleared off my plate, and went back to the couch. Meeting these girls was clutch because once I got home to Rome the next day, I had €16 in my pocket and I had slept for the last two night for free at their place, and with Stephen the previous four. I don't know how I could have worked it any other way.

Posted by Andy Steves on October 27, 2008
Comments (3)

We made our way down to Dublin on Saturday. On the way we took a detour through Belfast. Stephen wanted to show me where the real Troubles happened. In that city, it looked like there was another Berlin Wall running right down the middle separating the two parts of the population. Protestant churches had cages round the windows and even the doors, making them look more like fortresses than religious buildings. Along each side of the wall was a small No Man's Land. On the Protestant side was a wide road, but on the Catholic side, the houses went right up close to the wall. Each of the houses had ground-to-roof metal cages around the patios. This was to protect against bricks and bottles lobbed over the wall from the other side. This was so they could relax if they wanted to have a coffee or a smoke outside without worrying about being beaned by a stray brick.

Driving through this city felt like driving through an Irish version of South Central L.A. I think of Belfast as the physical example of human stubbornness. While I definitely side with one, I can see both sides to the story- but I feel like I would eventually get tired of the struggle. The Protestants were planted there by the British to Anglicanize the Irish. Today though, Belfast is all they have known, and it's where they've lived and grown up for many generations. And the Catholics had always been there but had their homes and rights taken away when the British showed up.

On Sunday afternoon we made it to the Guinness brewery. I had been there two years ago with my family at 10 a.m. and it just wasn't that cool. This time we showed up at 2 p.m. and didn't leave again until about 7 p.m. With your admission ticket, you get a free pint up at the Gravity Bar. The entire museum is shaped like a giant pint glass of Guinness, and you pass through seven floors of history before you enjoy your pint at the top. Usually. This time, Stephen, Vicki, and I went straight to the top where we used up our first ticket. It was then when I began practicing my pint-swiping skills. It sounded like Stephen was intending to stay a while, and I was thirsty, so there was no other option. When a pint of Guinness is poured at the bar, it is poured about three quarters of the way up and then it sits until it settles enough to fill it to the top. Well the bar tenders would put these mostly full pints out on the bar for the settling or for the taking. And so I took and took and took again. By 6 p.m., I thought I had it down to a science, smoother after each drink. I thought I was smooth, but I'm sure I was much less so in reality.

We left without ever being caught and enjoyed a delicious dinner at Luigi Malone's, an Italian restaurant just off Temple Bar. An Italian who works at Stephen's hostel up in Derry joined us and sighed “you're so American,” after I ordered a grilled chicken sandwich. When she ordered a plate of lasagna, I chose not to say anything.

Check it out! My album from Dublin Town

Posted by Andy Steves on October 24, 2008
Comments (2)

This year for St. Paddy's day, I figured that since I was in Europe, why not go to Dublin. So I blew off school the Thursday beforehand to catch a Ryanair flight at noon. On the plane, I realized I forgot my ATM card back in my apartment and would have to subsist on the €220 cash I brought with me in my backpack. I knew I could make it. Once I arrived, I was supposed to meet up with Stephen McPhilemy, a guide who does tours in the summer in Ireland for my dad's company. He's from Derry, but was in Dublin doing some business with his partner, who runs his own tour company called Paddy Wagon Tours and a hostel in Dublin. This weekend, both the tours and the hostel were packed with a couple hundred Australians, a handful of South Africans, and a couple Canadians. When I met up with Stephen at the bus stop, he said “You now Andy, you're gonna kill me, but we're gonna head back to the airport after I run some errands and catch a flight back up to Derry for a couple days.” He explained that the government believes Irish citizens have a right to fly between cities, so flights are subsidized, making them cost the same as a bus ticket. Unfortunately, Stephen remembered a couple of minutes later that his passport was back at his house in Derry. So, we ended up taking a three-hour bus ride to Northern Ireland.

Enlarge photo

That night we met up with Vicki, his French-Canadian fiancée, for dinner at a grill restaurant under their apartment. After dinner, I dropped off my bag upstairs and we went out for a pint. I learned this weekend that “a pint” is never just a pint. Instead, at a minimum it's three pints and a nightcap of a shot of Jamesons. The first night was pretty chilly. We met some strange kids from Indiana studying in Derry for the semester. Derry's a cool town, but I wouldn't want to spend several months there. The girls there thought they could Irish dance as well, which was just embarrassing enough to watch.

On Friday morning, I walked around with Vicki, going into the museum and taking a tour of where “Bloody Sunday” actually happened. It was disgusting to hear about the British occupation and the Trouble years that have only recently ended. I had heard about the segregation of Northern Irish cities but it never really hit me until I saw it with my own eyes. The British lived inside the Derry castle walls on the top of the hill looking down at their Catholic counterparts. For years, young Catholics would have skirmishes with the stationed British military. People were killed with plastic bullets the size of saltshakers. One Sunday, inspired by the civil rights movement going on in the US, the Catholics were having their own march. The peaceful demonstration turned into a massacre of 14 Irish civilians--most of them teenagers.

While Vicki and I were touring, Stephen was supposed to catch a flight to London to meet up with a tour group and bring them across the water on a ferry to Dublin for the weekend. Well, he ended up missing his flight and on the way home picked up some Domino's Pizza, my first American-style pizza in months. This was a pretty American-style night. After that, we headed down to the movie theater and caught a showing of In Bruges, a movie with two Irish actors where they just rag on the cute Belgian city for two hours.

After that we met up with a friend of Stephen's at the pub. His name was Roighry, the Gaelic spelling for Rory, and he was the first Irish person I've ever met who doesn't drink (he sipped on a nonalcoholic Beck's). That night, Roighry was headed to a small BYOB house party and offered to take me along. After a few, Stephen handed me a key to his hostel, told me a few rooms were vacant, and said I could crash there after the party and he went back with Vicki.

Before we left the pub, I met a man with intense eyes, and a strong jaw. We started chatting as Rory left to get another “beer.” Somehow, Cuba came up and we discussed Che, and other Cuban exports like rum and cigars. At that moment, he got really excited and started rubbing his thigh vigorously. When I finished what I was saying, he was like “Aye, aye Cuban cigars, rubbed on the thighs of fine young maidens.” Switching gears, I mentioned how I had visited the memorial and the museum, and had seen the murals of Derry. Immediately, excitement returned to his eyes, which then turned into a look of hatred as he made it clear he despised the “feckin' British.” He told me how he had carried the dead body of his friend in his arms, who had been shot in the head by a British bullet. Back in 1973, he was 23, his friend, 20. He continued to tell stories of that day until Rory came back. Just before I left, I shook his hand and whispered “F the British” into his ear, and the crazy look came back into his eyes again.

Once we got to the party a few blocks up the road, I found the fridge and deposited my beer contribution, keeping one to consume then. I tried hide the other cans among the fruit and vegetables and yoghurt, but in my gut, I knew that was a bad idea. When you're a poor student and someone takes your beer, it can ruin an evening. Well, the three beers I left in the fridge did get taken. Anyways, I got over it and started socializing. There were Germans, French, Japanese, Italians, and a Pole there--I think I was the only American. European house parties are different. They seem more intellectual, more mature. It's the kind of partying I want to be doing in 15 years. Not yet though, not yet.

Posted by Andy Steves on October 22, 2008
Comments (6)

Alright, so about half way through my semester I noticed something was missing from the study abroad experience. Every weekend, almost everybody would take off in groups ranging from 2 kids all the way up to 30 in every direction. In each group, there was usually somebody who went ahead and made the reservations for hostels, who did the research on flight or train information and basically went through the headache of taking care of all the logistics for going somewhere. For most people, it was their first time in Europe, and yeah they had guidebooks but they weren't geared specifically to them. Most had my dad's, and it's great for art history and orientation walking tours, let's admit it, he lacks a little on the nightlife and hostel listings in his book. Others had Let's Go which tends to be out of date and is packed with hostel and club listings that have shut down years ago.

Enlarge photo

That's when it occurred to me, there's nothing out there that is targeted specifically to this market, the college student abroad who has exactly from Thursday afternoon when classes get out, till Monday morning when classes resume. We all want to make the most of this once-in-a-lifetime experience and to do so, we take advantage of the student discounts for trains and the budget airlines to go to as many different parts of the continent as possible every weekend. So I thought, why don't I start a one-stop all-encompassing free online resource for college students abroad. In it you'll find travel tips for transportation, trip planning, an online forum, itinerary ideas, my personal travel philosophy and my travel blog from the last 4 summers, exciting travel links and more. This site will be packed with the kind of tips and advice we need and can use.

While there's still many broken links and no uploaded itineraries, you should check it out. Let me know what you think along with any suggestions and pass the word along to any one currently abroad or considering it. I just launched it and guess what it's called? I got creative and went with AndySteves.com

Posted by Andy Steves on October 21, 2008
Comments (5)

On Saturday morning we shook off our hangovers and tried to do some tourist stuff before our date at San Siro, the soccer stadium for an Inter Milan vs. Fiorentina game. We first went to wander around the fancy shopping district. In two minutes we saw four Ferraris and as many Porsches. If I ever have too much money, this would be where I'd spend an afternoon shopping.

Next we went into the Duomo. That thing is absolutely massive. I know it's smaller than St. Peter's in Rome, but its Gothic style makes it feel bigger and look taller. We checked out the skinned statue by a student of da Vinci, and wondered through the sequoia-like pillars vaulting the ceiling.

Enlarge photo

After a bit of admiring, we went back outside to climb up the stairs to the roof of the Duomo. After several hundred, we reached the vista. The skyline of Milan isn't all that impressive, so we set about entertaining ourselves. If you walk down the spine of the roof and continue on up the stairs to your left, you come upon a couple spiral staircases built into some flying buttresses. They looked like they would be fun to walk up and look out from. Unfortunately, they've been blocked off for a while now with plexiglass and pointy spikes. Only for a short section though, and the Gothic decorations looked like perfect grips and footholds just begging to be utilized. So after a few minutes of personal turmoil and waiting for the other tourists to disperse a bit, my friend Clif and I sacked up and climbed the outside of one of the towers and jumped over the spiral railing. We stayed low as we climbed a couple flights of these steep stairs and looked out to our other two friends waiting to take some pictures of us. We poked our heads out from the top and smiled down while our friends took pictures along with some pointing Japanese schoolgirls. Not wanting to test our luck and linger, we descended back down and jumped out of the opening where we climbed in. We almost didn't do it because we were scared of being detained and not released until after the game later that afternoon. Looking back, so glad we did it. There are times in life when you have to skirt boundaries and go around blocked-off opportunities in pursuit of adventure. As Nike says, "Just do it."

When we were back on the ground trying to find a place to eat, we watched a crippled man juggle a soccer ball with his head, and his two crutches. In half an hour, we never saw him drop the ball. We gave him a few euros for his skills and went off to find our lunch place. Right around the corner we found a delicious fried calzone eatery, as tasty as it was unhealthy. From there we went towards the castle of Milan and walked around in the courtyard. I didn't spend any time reading about the castle, so I don't know much about it. I just remember Milan and Florence were often at odds throughout the Middle Ages and the Renaissance. So I bet the castle was from about that time. While walking around in there we met and immediately got into an argument with a Kenyan immigrant selling vibrating rocks and sunglasses. He was a fan of the rival Milan team, AC Milan, and made it known immediately when he saw our Inter Milan scarves we had bought earlier outside the Duomo. We spent half an hour walking around in the giant walls and we left with the Kenyan yelling “F**k Inter!!” from across the courtyard.

It was then time to hustle back to the hostel to drop off the Armani posters we picked up and a catalogue of expensive watches. We quickly finished our second fifth of Bombay, making the tonic stretch, before we headed out to San Siro. We headed out and took a left from the hostel parking lot. I felt like we were going the wrong way from the start. In the past, the only time I ever get lost is when I don't trust my directional instincts. I don't know what it is, but if I second-guess myself, that's when I get turned around and lost. Luckily it was like playing the warm-cold game. I knew we were getting warmer by the number of Inter Milan memorabilia we saw. Eventually we found a commuter parking lot and caught a bus that took us directly to the stadium. In a situation like this, just go with the crowd. No need for maps.

Enlarge photo

I have never seen something as big as San Siro, the Milan soccer stadium. It looks like an absolutely massive parked space ship. The spiraling access ramps look like the landing pods. I can't imagine the sheer number of loads of concrete that would have been used to build the place and the logistics of its creation. This place attests to the genius of man--and his love of soccer. After a while, we finally found the entrance to our section of the stadium. Due to the violence over the years related to the sport, security is always tight and each name and passport number is registered every time a ticket is bought. To get through the first and second gates we had to present our IDs and tickets.

To me, a soccer game is a soccer game. It was fun to watch but I just can't get emotionally invested in the sport. Everyone else in Italy can though, I've noticed. By chance, we landed tickets for the 100-year anniversary game and there was a huge ceremony on the field that all the fans stayed for. It felt like a tacky Olympic Opening Games ceremony with a small budget, but we stayed for a while until we couldn't handle the deep booming voices of the announcers and the emotionally charged serenading taking place.

Italian police cars

Posted by Andy Steves on October 20, 2008
Comments (2)

On the train back into downtown, I gave my friends a call and told them to meet me back at the Duomo 30 minutes later. I showed up five minutes early and caught a showing of the azzurro Lambo Polizia car. A few years ago Lamborghini gave the Italian police force a pair of Gallardos. They've since been painted the Polizia light blue and decked it out with lights. It's quite a crime deterrent and draws a crowd. After about 10 minutes, the Carabinieri ducked back inside and the machine growled to life like an angry bear out of hibernation, except sexier. It slowly rolled out of the piazza followed by every eye and camera lens there. I then found my friends on the other side of the piazza and we found some dinner at a delicious choose-your-own-pasta restaurant. On the menu, you choose first the type of pasta, then the quantity, and then the sauce. Not a bad system.

Over dinner I heard the first description of the hostel I had reserved for us. There aren't many hostels in Milan and the one we found was a bit outside the city but on the main metro line. It was a dorm-like institutional place packed with a mix of international travelers. Later that night, I met a French soccer team populated with girls from all over: Russians, Germans, French, Italian, etc. I talked to them and told them to come out with us to the clubs that night but apparently they had a game the next day. We continued to chat in French until their coach, a big tough-looking guy with tattoos, got a bit weary and told me to “F off” from the next room in French, not knowing I spoke the language. Instead of responding I just relayed to the soccer players there were Bombay G&T's down the hall if anyone was interested.

That night we went to a club called Club Magenta after pre-gaming with gin and tonics and lime and no ice. While the name is a bit curious, the actual club beat all the ones in Rome. This place cost €20 to get in to and included a drink. A tip on value: when drinks are included, go for a Long Island Iced Tea. You can chill for a few hours sipping on a single drink. And that's exactly what we did that night. Italian clubs always have a way of making you want to spend more money. There's the VIP line when you're outside. Then once you're inside, there's the coat check. And in the club you can buy a €150 bottle of vodka to sit at a table. In the nicer clubs that price can reach €250. Or you can really high-roll it and buy several to get into the roped off and raised platform where there's a 2:1 ratio of model-looking young ladies to 45-year-old men. When all's said and done though, I always try to remind myself we're all listening to the same music and drinking the same drinks.

At 3:30 a.m., we decided our eardrums had been abused enough and climbed back out of the place. Through a stupor we walked down the street, took a right, then another right, and ended up where we were. It must have been a triangle shape block. In the end we got into a taxi after being steered away from an illegal one. I've never gotten in one but I have heard bad things. On the way home, I got a picture of someone riding a bike with a life-size blowup doll strapped to the rack on the back, which just looked hilarious. Random experiences come out of nowhere when you travel and usually that's half the fun.

Posted by Andy Steves on October 17, 2008
Comments (1)

At 8 o'clock this Friday morning my friends and I got on a train to Milan. I had a full schedule that day. Beyond visiting the tourist sites, I wanted to take care of a few other things. First I've been seeking a design internship in Milan and wanted to meet with one opportunity. I also wanted to check out a school I was looking at for this summer. And third, visit the Politecnico di Milano and see about their master's program in design.

Our train rolled into the station 25 minutes late and I told my friends I'd call them later as I bolted to my first appointment, which was luckily only a 15-minute walk from the station. This place ran a language school and also could set up internships with local businesses. There, I came upon an oasis of Italian language learning. All these obviously foreign students, mostly Asian, were struggling through their newly-learned Italian. It had a buzz to it. Two years ago I found a language school in Cefalu, Sicily where I studied for a short stint during the summer. There, students awkwardly communicated with each other, and quickly resorted to English. After a meeting with a particularly attractive representative (I swear she must have been chosen based on her pretty face) I got the sense that as far as design goes, it was considered just a branch of architecture.

After that I headed to my next appointment. I hopped on the metro and ended up on the other side of town. The Domus Academy is a graduate school of design: industrial, graphic, fashion, interior, etc. I had found a summer school for product design that spends two weeks in London, then finishes with two weeks in Milan at the Domus Academy, so I wanted to check it out. I practiced my Italian with a professor, and we discussed the curriculum of the summer program, which looks very attractive. That is probably where I'll be this summer. It will be the first summer out of 3 where I'm not an assistant guide on tours for my dad. When I mentioned I was heading over to the Politecnico di Milano next, the professor said “Domus Accademy e fra le migliori scuole di disegno del mondo,” meaning that place was among the best design schools in the world and they threw a handful of brochures at me. With some new information and a few business cards, I took off and headed across town.

My third stop in the afternoon took me to the northern suburbs of Milan, döner kebab in hand, where the design school of the Politecnico di Milano is located. After graduation at Notre Dame, I want to pursue a master's degree in design and I figure Milan is the capital of the design world so why not study there? It would let me work on my Italian as well as pick up some contacts in the Italian industry. At the Politecnico, they have all sorts of masters available--I would pursue either transportation or yacht design. The yacht design campus is out on the coast in La Spezia, which is essentially the sixth town of the Cinque Terre. Paradise, in other words. After a short tour of the massive studios and workshops I left really liking the place. If you want to find me in a few years, that's where I'll be.

Posted by Andy Steves on October 15, 2008
Comments (2)

Back at Notre Dame, I race on the cycling team. Initially, I considered studying abroad during the fall semester in order to not miss the racing season, but then I would have missed the football games. This year I also made the Irish Guard, which marches during the half-time shows of the Fighting Irish football team. In the end, I figured I could always ride after I'm out of college, but that's not the case with the Guard. So while I'm here in Rome, my cycling teammates are back representing the Irish in the Midwest Collegiate Cycling Conference and their season is in full swing.

My beautiful azzurro-and-white Italian-made bicycle. I fell in love at first sight.
Enlarge photo

I considered buying a bike before coming over, and after a month without riding I knew I had to. I was tired of running on Roman streets inhaling nothing but diesel exhaust and having smirking Italians step out in front of me on the sidewalk. So, in February, I picked up a mid-level Pinarello. I did some shopping around on the internet, and found a shop on the other side of Rome. I made my way over there one afternoon to the father-son run store. On their website are pictures of the shop all the way back to when it was full with WWII-era bikes 60 years ago. I explained what I wanted: a cheaper but nice bike to ride about 50-60 miles at a time. My size, 60, is somewhat unusual for cycling and they had a 2007 model left over at a substantial discount. It was still in the box and I asked to see it. Simone took me into the back of the shop and picked out a box, opened it up and showed me a beautiful azzurro-and-white Italian-made bicycle. I fell in love at first sight, but knew I should think about it. I took what I learned home and mulled it over for a week.

The next Thursday I called back and asked them to get it ready. I made my way over that afternoon to pick it up between classes. I had to take the metro, then a bus several stops to just outside the ancient city walls. I walked out a proud owner of a new Pinarello. I took my bike on a maiden voyage. I didn't really have a plan worked out so I just wandered around the suburbs of Rome on my bike, which wasn't the safest thing. That was ok with me though because this was the first time I could really lay into it and see how it responded. After I got tired of inhaling exhaust and almost getting killed in intersections, I turned back and made it to my apartment sweaty but alive.

Riding on Roman streets is a rush. In the city, a road bike is faster than cars, much faster than buses, but not as fast as the hordes of motorinos (scooters). Add rough cobblestones, unfamiliar streets, and pedestrians to the mix and you've got the Roman system. I am a foreign object on these streets and I am treated as such. No Italian cyclists are ever seen in downtown Rome and now I know that's for a good reason. I survived though, and it was fun. I carried my bike up the steps into the hallway of my last class of the day, Theology, where instead of taking notes I just admired my new ride through the open door way.

I figured I could find a club or team and really get to know some Italians with the same interest as me. Realistically, that has not been the case. I'm usually out of town on the weekends, when the organized rides from the bike store run, and anytime I'm not, it is rare to be in riding form at 8:30 on Sunday mornings. Regardless, I've gone on a few rides and found a favorite route. I head north out of Rome to a lake about 25 miles out called Lago Bracciano. While Italian roads are smaller, I've noticed Italian drivers give me more space when passing, going far into the other lane. I've had a great time so far, and you'll read more about my rides soon.

Posted by Andy Steves on October 13, 2008
Comments (4)

The early morning travel was worth it to visit the Ferrari museum.
Enlarge photo

It's hard for me n imagine a sexier body than that found on a Ducati.
Enlarge photo

I used to wonder how a motorcycle could cost $20,000 but now I know.
Enlarge photo

I got to touch many millions of dollars of worth of cars at the Ferrari museum.
Enlarge photo

This morning my alarm went off at 5:45. My first reaction, a mix of anger and confusion for such an early awakening, immediately faded when I remembered why I was getting up so early. Today I was catching a 6:35 train for Bologna to visit the Ferrari museum, and the factory and museum of Ducati. Both brands to me mean speed itself in four and two-wheeled forms respectively. I arrived at Rome's Termini Station after a short metro ride still painfully tired. I called the trip organizer to find out which car we were on and settled into my reserved seat. As 6:34 rolled around we were still missing a member of the group and the organizer was on the phone trying to calmly talk to the missing student. The poor guy ended up missing this opportunity of a lifetime. I thanked my piece of technology that was an alarm clock one more time as the train jerked out of the station.

At the main Bologna train station, we were picked up by a small, chartered bus for the 45-minute drive out to the Ducati factory. Ducati motorcycles are known for their revolutionary speed and design. It's hard for me in imagine a sexier body than that found on a Ducati. And as we got nearer and nearer, I got more and more excited. Finally, I spotted the huge hangar-like building, discreet in everything but its huge red letters.

Touring the factory, we saw how each part of these motorcycles is hand-assembled and painstakingly tested. I used to wonder how a motorcycle could cost $20,000 but now I know. We walked through the engine assembly line, then the longer bike assembly line. It was amazing to walk down the line with a bike and watch it go from painted metal frame to speed machine. The rear suspension was the first to be added, then the engine, then the wheels and brake systems, and then the fairings and headlights. Slowly it would literally come to life when the technicians fired up the engines for the first time for performance testing. One guy's job was to plug the bikes into a dyno and test the horsepower. Our guide pointed out a row of bikes costing €68,000 each. Michael Jordan and Brad Pitt were among the customers for these monster bikes called the DesmoSeidici. Each detail was fine-tuned all the way down to the red, white, and green pin stripes on the tires. I left the place wondering how I could be so physically attracted to metal, rubber, and plastic. Ducati does it for me.

We then went back to Bologna to catch some lunch. The most interesting thing in Bologna was the fountain in the main square out in front of the Duomo, which had statues of women gripping their breasts with water spurting out of their nipples. I didn't have a guidebook so I didn't know if there was any symbolism or meaning attached, but they were plenty entertaining without any context. We found some lunch, then got back on the bus to head to the Ferrari museum.

I love Ferraris, but I find all their stores tend to be soulless and uninteresting. The museum was similar in style, but much better--probably because I got to touch many millions of dollars of worth of cars in a 45-minute tour. This tour took us from the humble beginnings of the company all the way through to the grandeur of Ferrari's reputation today. F1s were on display and I got to see each of the three street-legal F cars. These are among the most difficult cars to get your hands on in the world. Our guide explained in order to qualify to buy the second one in the series, you had to own the first one. And in order to own the latest, the Enzo, one must already own the second, the F50. In other words, you gotta be loaded.

tour was over, I began asking around to find a person with whom I could leave my resume and portfolio. It would be my dream to design for Ferrari in an internship. They sent me around in circles all the way to the gate into the real factory and there was where I met a challenge. I had my portfolio and resume in-hand but the guy wouldn't even take it. Instead he handed me a standardized application form. So I gave up. I think I just have to start up the long ladder, and maybe some day I'll get to the top.

My photo album of the two museums: Bologna

Posted by Andy Steves on October 10, 2008
Comments (2)

About a month into my study-abroad experience, my family came to visit me. For a college student, seeing your parents has many benefits: one, it's great to be back with family again, but also it means a break from budget eating. I was about to have some of the finest dining experiences of my life that week night after night.

Enlarge photo

On Monday after class I met up with my family (mom, dad, and sister Jackie) at Campo dei Fiori to have dinner with them and a local tour guide and a hotel owner listed in my dad's guidebook. For what Sean, an elfish 29-year-old Irish owner of a tour company in Rome, lacks in stature, he more than makes up for in his gift of gab and personality. He is never without a hilarious story to tell, or a fascinating insider's tale of the movie industry. At 19, he started doing odd jobs with films in Africa, at first behind the scenes, then as an extra. And now, he's been all over the world working in short films or documentaries and loves to recount his experiences. That night we tried a variety of cheeses with honey and a fine red wine as an appetizer. I used to hate that sort of thing, but I think the “old-people taste” that I dreaded as a child is sneaking up on me. After that, we barely had room for some simple but really good pastas before we headed out for a night walk.

The next night, we met up with a group of my friends at a classy mozzarella bar called Obika. There, they take the science of Mozzarella di Buffala seriously. Their cheeses are brought in daily from the buffalo farms around the region, explained our waiter, as he pointed out each town on the map that was our tablemat. We started out with three huge hunks of the stuff on a bed of ruccola, cherry tomatoes, and a pesto sauce. One cheese was regular, the other smoked, and another aged. I was a fan of the first--I tend to like whatever I'm consuming the least altered as possible, whether mozzarella, espresso or Jameson. The next course was pasta with a bit of mozz incorporated in there somehow, I forget. The desert was a delicious mix of chocolate cakes and puddings. So good.

Enlarge photo

The next night, on Wednesday, I was planning to meet up with my parents in the historic center. I was just walking out of class when I got a call from my dad telling me to invite a few friends. By the time I stepped out of the school's gate, we were a posse of 10 heading towards the Pantheon. We reached my parents' hotel and hung out in the lobby as my sister finished her hair. When the "princess" was ready, we made our way to a place called Sacro e Profano, a pizzeria near the Trevi Fountain. In this place, they make the pizzas in a wood-burning oven right in front of you. The name means the sacred and the profane which references how the place used to be a church turned brothel. If diners look closely, they'll notice the semi-appropriate (both sacred and profane) paintings on the walls. With 14 of us at the table and 14 pizzas on their menu, we just ordered one of each and asked them to come one at a time with 14 slices. It was a fun, 14-course pizza meal as we literally ate our way through their menu and washed everything down with good wine. It seemed like my dad relished the chance to keep us all drinking that wine. I don't think any of us will forget the evening.

Posted by Andy Steves on October 08, 2008
Comments (1)

Enlarge photo

Through my school in Rome, John Cabot “University,” students have the opportunity to take advantage of various day trips. I signed up for two--an organized trip out to the designer outlets near Florence, and a trip to the Tuscany region where we tasted wine, visited a hill town and had an afternoon feast made with local ingredients.

I thought the designer trip would be a good opportunity to pick myself up my first suit ever and some Dolce & Gabbana skivvies. I did both. The week before the trip, I spent some time shopping around the Spanish Steps in Rome to see what was out there. In January and February the Saldis (sales) are still going on, and if you're lucky, you can find discounts of up to 60 or 70%. I tried on some Zegna, D&G, Versaci, Gucci, and others. I learned two things while shopping. First, to get any attention at all in these nice stores, you have to dress up a bit. And second, as soon as you say you're interested in a suit, they pull out all the stops. One store I went in to brought out juice, bottled water, and peanuts and crackers as I tried on different makes. I knew once I found the suit I would know for sure. Well in my preliminary searching I never found one.

Fast forward to this designer outlet trip. I tried on some Prada and Gucci but still nothing. Finally I stepped in to Ungaro and tried on a dark blue suit with very subtle pinstripes. It fit perfectly. I thought it over for an hour and had some lady friends come check it out. When at least four girls approve of anything related to fashion, I usually say it's a safe bet. They concurred so I got it. The next stop was the Dolce & Gabbana outlet. After looking through their suit selection, I was happy with my previous decision. Then I rifled through their underwear pile. I found two pairs that would fit: one camouflage and one navy with the Italian flag on the front. I snagged both.

If there's one thing I don't like in this world it is spending money for an opportunity to spend more money but then not spending more money. You take the time and spend the money to go somewhere thinking “OK to make this trip worth it, I have to spend money. But I have a budget too and each time I spend money it hurts the budget…and I don't want to do that too much either.” You get the point. For me it was worth it, I had friends though that didn't get anything and just spent the whole time listening to the whiny voices of East coast girls running around with daddy's credit card just looking for more ways to blow money.

The next day was another early morning. This time I had bought a ticket for a day trip called “Under the Tuscan sun,” which involved going to a hill town called Pienza, doing a wine-tasting in Montepulciano, and eating a three-course feast out at an agriturismo. Pienza would have been cool if we hadn't gone with the same 50 loud East Coasters from the day before. The wine tasting was at a pretty interesting place, but I wasn't a fan of the wine. I think it was Brunello, which apparently has won awards, so I'm an idiot, but it's my taste. And the feast was pretty good. It just felt like my experience was stamped out of a cookie cutter, and I was doing the exact same thing as too many other people had in the past. It was a good trip, just not a unique one, the kind that really is memorable.

Check out my shots from this weekend! Tuscany

Posted by Andy Steves on October 07, 2008
Comments (3)

That night we had a pasta dish with chicken. I'm not sure if it was the altitude...but it was really delicious. We hurried to finish our dinner to meet up with Olle for a “nice evening hike” at about 8pm. There were about 12 of us, all with sleds eager to find out what this hike might be.

Last summer (when I was here helping guide one of my Dad's “family tours”), Olle offered to take some tour members of mine on a “nice hike” which turned out to be eight hours long, so I had a feeling this was going to be an experience. We rode the gondola back up to Murren, where the ski shop and pool were located. Olle took a left out of the station, and we started up the same slopes we had been skiing down for the last two days. As I looked up to the distant lights of the snowcats grooming the distant slopes, I knew it was going to be a long night. We hiked straight up for the next two hours. Once we got up past the small town, I looked up to the stars and heard absolute silence. It was then when I realized how different of a place I was in from Rome. In Europe, you can change your location with a night train to a completely different culture, language, climate and country. This just isn't possible in the US. Once we got to our turn-around point, we looked out into the valley, the town of Murren far far below us. We could pick out the ice rink of the community center and the gondola station. Here, Olle distributed his two “lamps” (as he called his flashlights), and said “Ok then, here we go.” Now we got to reap the rewards of our efforts, and sled down the mountain. It was just us on this newly groomed, pitch black mountainside in the Swiss Alps.

Olle, a seasoned “sledger” had been sledging all his life. He pushed off and disappeared into the darkness and so began our hour-long odyssey back to Gimmelwald. I was the designated back-man with one of the lamps. Everybody else hurriedly pushed off and chased our Swiss friend down the mountainside. Since I was a bigger guy than the rest of the group, I tended to reach a higher cruising speed, and would pass my friends, leaving them in the dark to fend for themselves. Until, of course, I bit it. I quickly noticed a pattern to this chaos. I would slowly build my speed up over time until the track from the snowcat took a turn and I crashed, my sled going one way, and me going another. I still hadn't learned how to steer this thing. As I was pulling together my senses and tracking down the sled, my friends would pass me and I would begin my slow acceleration all over again. We were 12 unskilled drivers of these steel and wooden vessels carrying us at dangerous speeds through the dark and frozen night. I could hear crashes, screams, and laughs ahead of me, but couldn't see anything until it was too late and I ended up in the tangle of limbs, rope, and sleds. As I approached, my lamp revealed more of a cloud of snow than anything else.

About 30 minutes into our descent, the slopes turned steeper, and the turns got a bit tighter. My friend Joe was feeling skillful in negotiating the turns. I heard an “Oh no! Joe! TURN!” ahead of me. Ten seconds later, I came upon the place where the ski path took an abrupt left, and found only his tracks leading off a drop. I turned my lamp down the hill and saw him in a tangle of orange warning tape 30 feet down in powder next to a tree. He was laughing. It was more of an "I-just-escaped-death laugh," which is the best kind. He tossed his sled back up to where we were and struggled up the waist-deep snowbank for the next five minutes. When he got up and brushed himself off he said, “Alright, let's go,” and we continued on our journey.

Finally we arrived to Murren, which was a welcome sight, and passed right through it on our way down to Gimmewald. Usually people would take the gondola at this time of night, but we had these nice rides to do the job. We continued on with my little light. Call me selfish, but I wanted to go fast so I ended up leaving my friends again in the dark. We finally descended into Gimmewald, our final destination and slumped off our low sleds and laughed in the snow. I heard my friend say “For the last 45 minutes, I felt like I was eight again!”

We slept well that night and got up early to get full-day ski passes. It was another glorious day. I took more pictures and ate more bread and Swiss cheese like I'd been doing for the past few days for lunch. In the late afternoon, my friend hit a jump too hard and hurt his knee so he retired early and we followed shortly after.

Back at the hostel, we packed our bags and sadly said goodbye to our hosts. It was one of the best weekends of my life and I had such a great time. We capped it with eating a bacon cheeseburger at the Hooters down in Interlaken while we waited for our night train back to Rome and Monday morning classes. Good weekend.

Here's my album from this weekend: Gimmelwald

Posted by Andy Steves on September 29, 2008
Comments (7)

Swiss Alpine peaks on a sunny day is an incredible sight.
Enlarge photo

We decided to throw on our snow clothes and head up the mountain to rent gear and buy a half-day ski pass.
Enlarge photo

Fresh powder six inches deep and not a cloud in the sky.
Enlarge photo

Finally, we arrived in the Swiss Alp village of our dreams, Gimmelwald. It was beautiful, but we were absolutely exhausted so we took a nap in my friend Olle's house until 1 in the afternoon. We looked outside and were greeted by the massive face of a mountain. Turning around, you could see another and another--360 degrees of Swiss Alpine peaks on a sunny day is an incredible sight. We decided to throw on our snow clothes and head up the mountain to rent gear and buy a half-day ski pass. That whole afternoon I felt like I was in a ski-simulator video game with these epic mountain ranges following me the whole run.

My whole life I've skied at Steven's Pass two hours outside Seattle. Until now, that's all I've ever known, but now I know Steven's Pass is a sorry excuse for a ski resort. That day the slopes were a bit icey and they got slushy later but it was still the best skiing I've ever done. We caught our last run at about 5 and turned in our gear. We were staying at the Pension Gimmelwald with breakfast and dinner included in our room price. We requested cheese fondue for that night to get the cliché Swiss mountain-man meal experience. Delicious. That night we took it easy and massaged our sore muscles and had a few beers at the bar. Unfortunately the hostel in the town closes for the winter.

A storm was predicted for that night and we were worried that it would interfere with our plans for a big day of skiing the next day. Thankfully it cleared up by about 10 a.m., leaving us time to get up and get ready for another half-day of skiing through true beauty. These conditions were better than the day before. Fresh powder six inches deep and not a cloud in the sky. We were feeling a bit braver this day, so we took the lift all the way to the top of the mountain, the Schilthorn. Up there we had our lunch of bread and cheese and a bit of chocolate, the whole time thinking this could be our last meal. We had seen the slope of the Schilthorn from way down the mountainside on our previous runs. It looked like the embodiment of intimidation itself. When we finished eating and watching the 007 movie clips (from the James Bond thriller filmed on this peak in the 1970s) we clomped down the stairs and went out into the fresh and biting Swiss air. It is a bit nerve-wracking when you can't see where the run goes from the top, not because of clouds but because it is that steep. This was my first double diamond, or diamond for that matter. As far as I knew, the run looked like a cliff edge. We had a friend staying behind take a last picture of our smiling faces and we turned our tips downhill.

I felt like Warren Miller who comes out with those crazy extreme-skiing videos every year. I knew one wrong move had the potential to put me in a hospital bed at best and something much sadder at worst. But all of us made it down who attempted the feat. That memory and all the attached emotions like fear, elation, gratefulness, and finally triumph are still vividly in my head. We finished out our day of skiing and turned our gear in again at the ski shop but this time headed up to the sports center in Murren where we jumped into the hot tub. The Swiss really have things worked out. They have a fully equipped community center half way up the mountainside with an ice rink, pool, weight room, cardio room, and meeting rooms. We relaxed in the pool until it was time to catch the gondola back to Gimmelwald for dinner.

Posted by Andy Steves on September 26, 2008
Comments (8)

On night trains, you tend to meet characters; strange and interesting characters.
Enlarge photo

This weekend we left Rome for the Swiss Alps, and I had one of the most fun weekends of my life. On Thursday, we took a night train to Interlaken, the extreme sport capital of the world. On night trains, you tend to meet characters. Strange characters, characters with interesting stories, creepy characters, beautiful characteresses, etc. All this just flavors your experience, but it is convenient being a 21-year-old 6'2” male, so I don't have to worry about personal safety for the most part.

On this train we shared a room with a Korean who spoke four or five words of English. His words: Sake, baseball, beer, military. And he got particularly excited when we mentioned Godzilla. With that, we asked him to watch our things and we joined our friends in a nearby compartment. On our way we met two old men, one a Turk, and the other a Sicilian. One of the things I enjoy most in life is communicating with people in a language different from English. (I can manage in French and Italian.) It shows them that no, you don't think America is the only country on the planet and yes, you are willing to invest your time and energy in learning the language and culture of countries in another part of the globe. This hits people a minute or two into a conversation and I can see it in their eyes as they cock their head to the side and realize, “Here's an American speaking someone else's language.” I like to do my part in breaking down this sadly true-ish perception of Americans. If you can't spend the time to learn a new language, just look up “I don't like Bush,” and you'll have a café-full, bar-full, train-full or wherever-you-are-full of new European friends. From my experience, it works every time…everywhere. In Italian it is “Bush mi fa schifo.” It's a stronger version, but that's OK, don't worry about it.

Anyways, the Turk was a successful fur trader and was on his way to Bern for some kind of business deal or convention. He was a bit shady and liked to talk about expensive prostitutes. The Sicilian was a smiley old man on his way to visit family in Germany. Due to his fear of flying, he was in his 18th hour of train travel out of 30. I could tell he was struggling to translate his dialect into common Italian, as Sicilian is practically its own language. Inevitably the conversation turned towards politics and we started discussing the 2008 presidential campaign. I told them I liked Obama and asked them which they would go for. The Turk would go for Hilary Clinton, but the Sicilian said he liked neither Democrat because one was black which was accompanied by a back-handed rubbing of his jaw line, and the other, a woman accompanied by a different gesture. He would go for McCain. Traditions run deep in Sicily, and new customs aren't easily introduced. We tried to get him to talk about “La Cosa Nostra” or the Mafia, but as most Sicilians will say, they don't know about it. Of course it is still around but good luck trying to get them to discuss it with a foreigner. And by foreigner I mean anyone not a native of their corner of Sicily, let alone the island.

After a while we took a picture and said goodbye to our new friends to join our American classmates in the next compartment. We packed ten in that one: eight sitting on the two lower beds, and two laying in the top ones. It was our friend's birthday that night. It's a sad thing to spend your 21st birthday on a night train but we made sure she had a good time. After several toasts, I returned to our compartmentt with the Korean and passed out.

In the morning, we had to transfer onto a commuter train to Interlaken. From Interlaken, we took a tram to Lauterbrunnen. From Lauterbrunnen, a bus to Schtechelberg. From Schtechelberg, a gondola up to Gimmelwald. Finally we reached our home for the next two nights and began what one of called “the best weekend ever.”

Posted by Andy Steves on September 25, 2008
Comments (9)

In St. Mark's Square there were all sorts of characters. Again, this is an example of people taking a hobby a bit too seriously. Costumes were intricately detailed and in every color, shape, and form. There was a family decked out in red lipstick down to the husband, and red velvet all the way down to the stroller for the dog. The good costumes would attract such a crowd they couldn't move--but I think that's what they wanted. There were medieval-looking parades with huge throbbing drums you could hear a mile away. These parades were composed of matching costumes with colors that must have represented something or some neighborhood. You could tell these were somewhat independent and were just wandering through the crowd. After they passed, we killed some more time, and some more Italian youngsters.

Then all the sudden a huge parade, it must have been the main one, came out of nowhere. It was a giant procession that reminded me of a waltzing scene from Amadeus: men walking their women down the middle of the square to where there was a stage opposite St. Mark's Basilica. After that there was something like a procession of each Venetian neighborhoods' most beautiful women. There must have been a beauty pageant, and the winners were sitting in beautiful dresses on planks being carried on the shoulders of six young men. I claimed my spot in the crowd in front of a professional photographer. So I like to think I got some pretty good shots. There were beautiful costumes, strange ones, scary ones and weird ones. The most funky one was a guy dressed fully in a potato sack holding up his own noose with red paint splashed over him. There was no context or anything for this so I just stared along with the rest of the crowd. I also noticed there was a hierarchy of costumes. There were people dressed as knights, as a king or two, as nobles then as peasants. I remember thinking “come on, if you had a chance to be anybody, why the hell would you choose to be common folk?” The hobbies people have. Maybe it's like Civil War reenactments.

We spent the rest of the day chilling on St. Mark's eating out of the grocery store to save some money. Once it got dark, there was a semi-interesting acrobatics show/play on the stage with the actors bouncing off springy boards and climbing a pole to do some tricks. Once it was time, we bid adieu to the piazza and headed back to the station to catch our ride out.

On the night train back to Rome from Venice we skimped and went for shared seat compartments instead of beds. In the station we met three Slovaks headed back to their place outside Venice. Slovaks are interesting people. They are the only people I've met whose eyes light up when you say you're American. And the fact that they still need to ask what nationality an American is attests to how far east they really are. All other Europeans, whether they're French, Italian, or whatever can tell an American a mile off from their blue jeans and white sneakers and roll their eyes probably due possibly to their negative past experiences with American tourists or how offensive our sense of style may be. Slovaks want to learn more about us, and I guess consider us intriguing. We talked until we reached their stop outside of Venice and said goodbye.

Now was the time to “spread out, turn off the lights, take off your shirts and look as creepy as possible” I told my friends. It worked. Because nobody came into our compartment, we stretched out on all six seats all the way back to Rome and had a fine free night's sleep.

Here's my second album from the weekend: Venezia 2

Posted by Andy Steves on September 22, 2008
Comments (2)

Enjoying Venice during Carnivale.
Enlarge photo

We caught the next train with no other problems and arrived, bleary eyed, in Venice at 8:00 that morning. Our group of four split off to find our “budget hotel.” After a while, we decided we were lost. The streets in Venice change names randomly, and the numbers don't follow any order at all. I then asked wearily for directions. My whole life Venetians have given me wrong directions. Young, old, male or female…it doesn't matter. I don't like them. In Venice you probably won't get violently mugged or kidnapped, but you'll get told the wrong way to a grocery store by a smiling grandma. The canals smell, are green with stagnant water and have shit floating in them. I know the wife will drag me back some day, but until then I'd be happy if I never go back. Anyways, I asked two middle-aged women in Italian where a street was, and they pointed the only direction that I knew it was not. We walked down that street a few meters just to make sure until we knew it was wrong. I then found the nicest lady I've ever met in Venice. She was Venetian but grew up in England and spoke perfect British English. She took me back to her place around the corner and brought down a 150-page map of Venice. We then found the exact block our hotel was on. I said “grazie e ciao” and went back to find my waiting friends and we found the place which was in opposite direction of our previous tip by the other Venetians who were still chatting on the corner.

We dropped off our bags in our loft-like room and went off to explore the city. Immediately we found a pizzeria just down the street where we would end up eating four of the next five meals. That afternoon we wandered the streets. Everything seemed a little quiet, so we asked around and found out two dockworkers had died earlier that week in an accident so the city cancelled the first day of Carnivale, which was essentially half our weekend. In the end, I was a bit disappointed by the lack of a party scene on the island. I always go to Venice optimistically thinking “maybe I'll find something this time,” but usually never do.

On the other hand, this was the first time since I've been in Italy where the party happened in the daylight. On Saturday we did what you do in Venice: wander. Because the festival activities were cancelled, we just walked around all day. Street vendors were selling silly string and confetti. Having nothing else to do, my friends and I grabbed a few bottles and picked fights with young Venetians. We developed a baiting strategy to render our young opponent “dead” beyond a shadow of doubt. One of us would go out into the square and find some kids with the silly string in hand. He would sneak up behind and wait for an opportune time, then say “Raggazzi!!” and unleash the fury of the green and pink foam. The rest of us would wait on the steps of St. Mark's Square and watch. With victims baited, he would then run back to us where we had our ammunition ready, safety switch off. Once the kids realized they were trapped, outmanned and outgunned, it was already too late. Just check out the pictures.

On Sunday morning we went out to catch a Gregorian Mass out on the island of St. Giorgio Maggiore. We had to get up early, walk across the entire island, and then catch a ferry from St. Mark's. We followed the signs downstairs and into a backroom chapel where we found 20 Italians and a few priests. The one playing piano would fall asleep on it until the one next to him poked him when he was supposed to play. This was the first Italian Mass I'd been to. I could catch most of it, but I was definitely lost when it was the congregation's turn to say the creed and other things. The Gregorian part was pretty cool. I think that just means they sing everything? I don't know but that's what it seemed like. We left the Mass and paid a few euros to go up the bell tower where we had a panoramic view of the entire lagoon. From there, we could see that St. Mark's Square was absolutely packed, so after a few minutes we went back down to catch the boat to the party.

Click here to see my online photo album from Venice venice album

Posted by Andy Steves on September 19, 2008
Comments (9)

This is Carnivale. And we're in Venice.
Enlarge photo

Behind masks, moral restrictions vanish and seem as distant as the Italian mainland is from this miraculously preserved medieval city.
Enlarge photo

As I don my mask, crossing the Rio Grande on the Rialto, I instantly become a different person. To my right, my friend looks like a cheap Italian imitation of Batman with glowing red eyes. To my left, another friend has sprouted green and blue feathers out of her porcelain forehead, and has a face covered in matching sequins and sparkling glitter that catches the reflected light of the canals. Behind our masks, moral restrictions vanish and seem as distant (in my mind anyway) as the Italian mainland is from this miraculously preserved medieval city. I can't help thinking my friends and everyone else must feel the same way. This is Carnivale. And we're in Venice.

The previous Thursday night, we boarded a night train. The whole trip was in peril for a few moments when we realized our train didn't leave from Termini, Rome's main station, but rather from Tiburtina, Rome's secondary station. We were planning to take the metro to the one, and could have taken it to the other station, but it was closed by 10:45 when we showed up at the Cipro metro stop. So here we were, nine semi-sober, American college kids who needed to get clear across to the other side of the city within 40 minutes in order to catch our night train to the party in Venice. There's the "Oh shit" feeling, then there's the drunk "Oh shit" feeling which is more like a tingling, tickling sensation instead of the stomach-dropping one that you should experience in moments like these. Our €80 tickets, already bought and in-hand, were worthless unless we could make the train. So we started walking down the road to find a taxi or two. In five minutes, one stopped next to us, but wouldn't let us in because he was reserved for someone else. We waved another one down a couple minutes later, but he would only take us in the direction of his house as he was on his way home. The seconds stretched into eternity and I felt the opportunity for a great weekend of fun and "cultural experience" slipping through my fingers. Finally, two empty taxis showed up. We didn't wait to discuss fare or destination before starting to load our luggage in the back. We caught our train with six minutes to spare.

Our transfer at Bologna was at 5:08 in the morning and the train car's conductor usually makes the wake up call. While we were deep in slumber, the conductor burst into our cabin. "Rapido Rapido. Scendete subito! Siamo a Bologna. Veloce!" I had subconsciously felt the train stop in my sleep and immediately jumped out of my bunk fully alert. I landed on a friend of mine who had left her headphones in and was still asleep, and she thrashed like a writhing eel monster that was just rudely awoken. In the frenzy that ensued in our cramped compartment, I threw on my shoes and started tossing my things out the window onto the platform. I told my friends to do the same, and I'd catch their bags on the other side. As I ran out of the train, I caught a smirk in the corner of the conductor's smile. My friends tossed all their things and joined me on the platform. What a ragged group we must have looked like. I had on brown leather shoes, a pair of basketball shorts and an undershirt that was still around my neck.

We expected to see the train take off immediately once we got off. But it waited. And waited some more. It didn't move for another 20 minutes with the smiling conductor waving goodbye from his cabin window. He had done this on purpose. I guess that would be kind of funny to see six "Oh shit" faces in each cabin you had to wake up. It's not funny, however, to be on the receiving end. It was OK though because the party, we thought, would start later that day.

Posted by Andy Steves on September 17, 2008