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Andy Steves Blogs Europe

Hitch an online ride with Andy this summer as he travels Europe!

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At the start of the semester, it seemed it would last forever. Today it occurred to me that I wouldn't be making my long walk to school many more times. I walked listening to Scarborough Fair by Simon & Garfunkel. My route originates near the Cipro metro stop and I followed the wall of the Vatican City, cut through the Piazza di San Pietro, and continued through some back streets and south along the Tiber River the rest of the way to school.

It was Sunday, and I was heading to a final at 3 o'clock in the afternoon. I had put on my chill playlist to calm the pre-final nerves, and a Sunday Mass had just gotten out and I was walking through what felt like humanity itself. I was walking upstream through nationalities from the six continents, each person consumed in his own conversation, and immediate and individual reality. It's a surreal experience when you take away your sense of hearing. You then rely solely on your vision to interpret expressions, gestures, and body language. Add the particular song I was listening to and it's an enthralling experience.

To celebrate our semester, all the students in our program got together and organized a progressive dinner. We were supposed to pool some money and go in on the entire dinner together, but its tough scrounging together some cash from 30 stingy college students looking forward to the days of free meals at home just a week away. So people ended up getting together by apartment and pooling money for each course that way. This worked fine except for me. I was the designated antipasti course, seeing as I had only two burners for a stove and no oven. I ended up throwing together a Caprese salad, one for each person with tomatoes, mozzarella, basil, olive oil, and balsamic vinegar. Mine went off great with everybody enjoying their small appetizers on my small deck and access to the roof in our best Sunday clothes.

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Now was the time to reflect on our semester. We had come in as strangers. I still remember the first awkward orientation meetings when we went around in circles doing the customary “Hi, my name is _____ and I'm from _____.” But we quickly got beyond that--and the rest is history. I made 30 new friendships with kids from all over the US, and we've cooked and ate together, went to school together, got denied into bars and kicked out of clubs together. All in all I had a growing experience that I'll never forget. And when I go back to campus this fall, the Notre Dame campus will be dotted with friends from our semester in Rome. That's what I'm looking forward to.

Posted by Andy Steves on November 26, 2008
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With a deep breath and a last glance at my old bike being carried away, I went to catch up with my friends who were buying regional train tickets to Riomaggiore. The place was absolutely packed. I had never seen it this crowded before. This weekend, I guess, was the Italian equivalent of the 4th of July. Over the next three days, we ate foccaccia and pesto, and hiked, cliff-jumped, and just lived the good--if rustic--Italian Riviera life.

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On Saturday afternoon, after some delicious granitas at the Sicilian bar in Vernazza, a few friends and I returned to a spot we had scoped out the day before. We wanted to cliff-jump, but there was no way to get down to the good spot.

I was with Clif, the same friend who had climbed the Duomo with me. I told him “Man, we did the Duomo, why can't we do this? We really don't have a choice. It's not up to us, we have to do it.” I had climbed over the railing, but then didn't trust my rappelling skills so much so had climbed back over. We went farther down the paved path to hang out and catch some sun. We had all but given up when we saw a loose rope used for kayak rentals. It was about eight or ten yards long and looked like it could support a dude's weight. So we “borrowed” it and went back to the spot. Clif tied the rope to the railing and I climbed over and tried to get down. No go for me. One mistake here and you would bounce off the sharp rocks all the way down 15 yards to the water. I could see myself losing my nerves and letting go of the rope to reach out for a grip on the rocks which would be the wrong move. Clif took the rope and made it down just fine and jumped. After swimming out and back, he coached me down and I got up the nerve to jump. In the end, more than anything else, I jumped because I was tired of being scared. After us, four or five more friends jumped. Each of us drew crowds of hikers stopping to watch the show or the possible carnage. Every time we heard “pazzi americani” (crazy Americans) muttered under the breath of the Italians.

That night we cooked dinner in one of the apartments and made our way to the only bar in town. I wanted to take it easy, but we ended up staying until closing time and then even later-- heading down to the beach to avoid any noise complaints and police calls. In the bar I met a group of five Milanese, two guys and three girls. One had a video camera and as soon as I said “forza obama, non mi piace Bush,” we were immediate friends. It means “go Obama, down with Bush.” We talked about everything again, politics, the Mafia, the University of Milano, accents, Italian fashion, the Cinque Terre, and why Italian girls don't talk to me.

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On Sunday I got a little impatient, and decided to try to catch the four o'clock train back to Rome instead of the six o'clock. Well, I got to La Spezia and they said the train was full so they put me on an intercity train all the way back to Rome with a layover in Pisa. In the end, I left two hours early to get home about 30 minutes earlier than otherwise. Boo. Looking back, it was a great trip, but I think the crowds got to me. It's sad seeing a gem of culture worn down and trampled by tourism. I guess I can blame my dad for that, but it's just the way it is. I think traveling is most enjoyable when it's a unique experience that is hard to duplicate by anyone else, or by yourself for that matter. Well, this weekend, there were thousands upon thousands on these little trails lacing those dreamy seaside villages together. No body else went cliff jumping that weekend at our spot though. Everybody else is probably smarter.

Waiting for the last metro back to my apartment under the train station I watched the two Caribinieri standing near me. I had to laugh to myself because the way they strut around with their hands held behind their backs reminds me of the way horny pigeons puff out their necks to attract a mate. Both had their caps on, and one tipped forward so low you could barely make out his eyes from under the bill and it was past 10 o'clock at night. They know they're being checked out by all around them, and they like it. It's just another example of Italian style. They are sexy uniforms though.

Photo Album!

Posted by Andy Steves on November 24, 2008
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Back in February, I sent out a short message to the other kids in my program saying I knew a guy who could get us rooms in the Cinque Terre if anyone was interested. Initially I expected eight or ten or twelve positive responses. Well, that turned into 16, then 19, then 24, and finally 27. So this weekend I unwittingly organized a trip for a group bigger than the ones my dad puts together.

When I travel, I kind of make it up as I go and if I make a mistake, no biggie. When there's that many people following you, each mistake of mine is multiplied by 27, and that comes with some pressure. My friends could have done it on their own, but for convenience I went ahead and reserved the rooms.

On Thursday night, we weren't feeling like staying out very late. I hadn't gotten much sleep the previous week, and we had an early train to catch. I had heard about an ice bar somewhere in Rome, and figured this would be an opportune time to check it out. If nothing else, I couldn't afford multiple drinks there, so making it an early night fit the situation. So a few friends and I made our way over to near the Cavour metro stop. There, we first stopped in for a pint at the Irish bar across the street to wait for another friend. When she arrived, we tried to burn the warmth of a normal bar into our memories and headed to the blue door of Ice Club Roma. I have been to the Absolut Ice Bars in Stockholm and Copenhagen, but this one is privately owned. You hand over your €15 entrance fee, and they give you a drink ticket, a jacket, and a pair of gloves. Then they lead you into the middle chamber that keeps the cold in, where they shut the door behind you. Then, with a click of a button on the wall, you step into sub-zero temperatures, space-age trance techno and a morphing rainbow of lights matching the tempo of the throbbing music.

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Inside, we enjoyed a variety of cocktails and drank them out of a martini-shaped glass made out of ice which by the end of a drink, molds to your mouth. It was a quieter night so my three friends and I just chatted with the owner for the next hour. We talked about politics, electricity bills, Italian bureaucracy, other ice bars around Europe, and the history of his business.

Originally he intended to open another Absolut Ice Bar in Rome, a franchise, but when looking into it, he became fed up by the strict brand regulations. The shape of the Absolut bottle has to be everywhere all over, and he wanted more freedom to do exactly what he wanted in his winter wonderland. At times, he brings in ice carvers from around Europe and has them do various sculptures and competitions. We ordered vodka and amaretto, vodka and blueberry, some kind of red fruit and vodka, a coffee liquor and vodka, and a licorice vodka. All with inspiring names, all escaping me now, and all were delicious, but by the end of your second drink, it's tough to hold up your glass and take a sip because you're shivering so bad. When the shivering got bad enough, we downed the last of our drinks and said goodnight to Matteo, the owner.

Taking the bus home, I had a decision to make, wait for the connection night bus, or crash at my friend's apartment and set my alarm early enough to make it back and finish packing for my trip the next morning. Well I was feeling lazy and made probably the worse of two choices and decided to occupy my friend's couch for the night. I set my alarm before I fell asleep for 6:00. The next thing I knew, my friend was shaking me awake telling me it was 6:50. I had slept through my alarm and had a total of 45 minutes to throw my shirt and shoes back on, sprint back to my apartment, finish packing in a total of four minutes and grab my now-sold bike, run down to the metro stop, catch it to Termini, run up the three flights of stairs through the morning crowds of the main train station to the platform and finally jump through the closing doors of my train at 7:35. I made it. But I could smell the vodka in my sweat, as I stood there, hunched and heaving over my bike box looking at the Roma Termini station slowly fading into the distance.

Missing the train with two dozen friends expecting me to be their tour guide would have been horrible. I found my friends in car 9 and collapsed into a seat after I shoved my bike box up into the ceiling racks. Four hours later, I called the dude who bought my bike. I told him we'd be twenty minutes late, and he said he'd be there. “Saro con scatalone,” I said, “I'll be the one with the big box.”

We rolled into the La Spezia station and I met Christian at the top of the stairs. He was a nervous and a bit awkward guy in his late twenties. I think anybody would be though, in this situation. I asked him if he had been involved in the sport before, and he said no. I opened up the box, showed him the bike—reviewed all the parts--and he handed over the €550. With a handshake and a pat on the back, I was done with my blue-and-white 2007 Pinarello. All over Italy, it had served me very well.

Posted by Andy Steves on November 21, 2008
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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
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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.

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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.

Here's the photo album

Posted by Andy Steves on November 17, 2008
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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
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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.

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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
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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.

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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.

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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
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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
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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
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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.

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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
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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
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