The Creator made Italy from the designs by Michaelangelo

The Alligators regular season ended a couple weeks ago. We are in third place with a 19-9 record which is incredible given how much of a roller coaster the season has been. Every day there is new drama with the board, our centerfielder nearly broke his ankle striding out for first, our catcher dislocated his thumb twice, one pitcher thought his throwing hand could punch through a brick wall and another turned into Rick Ankiel in 2000 NLDS three weeks in a row.  It doesn’t feel like we should be in the top four, but here we are.

This playoff format is completely new to me. The top four teams make it to the first round of playoffs. Then, to determine the two teams that will represent the north division in the semifinals, each team plays the other three playoff teams four times – two home games and two away games. After those twelve games, the playoff win-loss record is combined with the regular season record and the new top two teams advance. For now we are winding down a three week break.

The long break was perfect for getting back to traveling. My European travel wish list consists of England, Greece, France, Croatia, Spain, Portugal, Czech Republic, Iceland, Sweden, Switzerland and Italy but this time around I was only able to check off one from that list. With perfect timing my friend from Linfield, Molly, who has been teaching in Barcelona for the past year texted me about meeting up. When her teaching ended, one of her high school friends was coming over to do a three week European backpacking trip. They were starting in Iceland, moving down to Amsterdam, spending a week in Italy and then finishing the trip back in Barcelona. Their three days in Rome worked perfectly with my schedule.

I wanted to see more than just Rome so I booked my flight a day early to Venice. Once we got below the clouds, all I could see was the Adriatic see out the window. Then out of nowhere, like the whole city was set up on pontoons, Venice just sat there on the water, unmistakable with its colorful architecture, canals, bridges and gondola operators. As I got off the plane, all the awe that had hit me twenty minutes early turned into mild apprehension as I realized I had no idea how to get to my hostel. I sat down outside and pondered my options. A taxi could get me there quickly, presumably without hiccups, but that would put a serious dent in my budget for the rest of the week. Confusion looks the same in every language. The couple sitting next to me was speaking frantic French, like they needed to get into the city before some impending catastrophe foiled their only opportunity to see Venice. I thought it was a safe assumption that anyone trying to find their way out was probably going where I needed to be, so when the guy threw his hands up in exasperation, with the classic “screw-it, let’s just hope for the best” look on his face and headed for the first bus to pull up, I decided I may as well follow. If it took me the wrong way, so be it. It was an adventure. Luckily, this bus took me to the main hub which was just two minutes from the hostel. After checking in, I hopped back on to make my way into Venice. There was a long stretch of road, running maybe three quarters of a mile, with train tracks, lanes for cars and buses, and pedestrian walkways, that connects the island of Venice to the main land. Along-side the bridge, the Venetians maneuvered their small motor boats through the buoys that line the waterway to the island. The day itself was leisurely; a measly 25,000 steps got me into each of the six “neighborhoods” of Venice. I walked over the famous Rio Alto Bridge and took in the view of the Grand Canal, pondering the tourists that seemed giddy to hand over an arm and a leg for a fifteen minute gondola ride. As the clouds rolled in, I tried to made my way out.

Within minutes those clouds were dumping the heavens on everyone. The next hour made me appreciate my Seattle roots. I’ve heard not all who wander are lost, but my wandering of the small residential side streets had turned me around faster than a dog chasing its tail (a wet dog at that).  Poncho people appeared everywhere surrounded by armies of umbrellas as I calmly hunted for a café, taking note that my once royal blue shirt was now a dark navy. Thirty minutes later, I was creating puddles under some Venetian café chair as I drank a beer and filled my belly the Italian way – with pizza and tiramisu. The next day, I made my way to Rome. I got in an hour before Molly and Ali but luckily had no trouble finding them in the massive train station. We dropped our bags at the hostel and hurried to our first attraction: the Colosseum. When we exited the subway, I had my “wow we are actually in Rome” moment. The Colosseum was right there. The broken walls and arches were actually there in front of us and I quickly realized the pictures don’t do it any justice. The rest of the day consisted of taking pictures at the Trevi fountain and Spanish steps, and marveling at the thorough work put in to make a horse sculptures balls and sphincter look so realistic (Molly and Ali’s decision, of course, but I too was impressed).

That night, after a couple cheap drinks at a gay bar across from the Colosseum, we made our way back to the hostel where a group of Deutsch students were waiting on travelers to drink and talk with. I walked around the block to the 24 hour market in search of Italy’s cheapest bottle of wine. A man popped out of a crawl space behind a refrigerator. “This is it”, I said, showing him a twist off sauvignon Blanc. Either his English wasn’t good or his store wasn’t getting enough business, either way he kept pushing a second bottle on me. “You buy two”, he said, “I give you good deal. Two bottle, seventeen euro.” The bottles were eight-fifty each. “No dude that’s not even a good deal.” “Two for sixteen.” “I only have twenty euro man, I need to eat tomorrow.” “Two for fifteen.” “Dude, I’ll do two for the price of one,” I said jokingly. I was intrigued to see how low he would go. He shook his head, but still went lower, “two for fourteen.” “No. I’ll give you two for eleven.” “No, no, no. Eleven too low.” He sat down and started the till for fourteen. At this point I felt forced into buying it so I was a little angry, but I knew he really needed to sell it so I called his bluff. “I’m not buying two for fourteen. Two for eleven is my final. Or I’m just buying one.” He glared at me but started to put both bottles into a plastic bag. “Gratzi”, I said with pride and nine Euros left in my hand.

Being able to barter isn’t something we Andrews do well (Mom’s cringing because she knows what’s coming). Last December, Dec, Dad, Mom and I had gone to Bali for a week with Jafar and Rini. One day we went into the town of Ubud to experience some Balinese culture and try our luck at bartering in the crowded tourist trap stores. A scarf hanging on the wall caught Mom’s attention. In the bat of an eye one of the ladies working in this shop was next to her, showing her how she looked wearing it and all the different designs she could choose from. The Balinese woman set her price at 200,000 Rupiah (this might seem crazy but really that’s only about $14 USD). Rini and Jaf had given us the rundown about shopping in Bali – barter for everything and no matter how high the seller starts, you start low. Mom didn’t quite have the hang of it. She started at 150,000 and immediately the women agreed. Rini nearly fainted when she heard mom had spent an outrageous $11 on this scarf and scurried back over to the worker to bargain mom into a better deal. Even with Rini speaking Balinese, the sale was final. The four boys poked jokes her way for the rest of the trip and obviously she hasn’t lived it down yet.

I must admit I don’t have a proud history in bartering either. On the last day of our trip, I tested my skills for a bow and arrow while on a beach in Kuta. The guy selling it started at 300,000. After a few back and forth offers, I ended up paying two-thirds of his original asking price. I thought I had done well. As we left the beach though, another guy selling the same bow approached me and after I said no a couple times his price dropped all the way down to 30,000. I was left hearing the same jokes that I had been throwing mom’s way earlier that week but if you’re going to dish it out, you have to be able to take it.

Gelato, The Vatican, gelato, The Forum, gelato, The Pantheon, gelato, gelato, gelato, is a good way to describe the last two days of our trip. I think the three of us concluded that mango was the best flavor. Had it been allowed, we would have brought gelato into The Vatican but there were strict rules against it, almost like the place has some historical/social importance. The three of us went through our gelato withdrawals together as we packed our things and headed to the airport. We said our goodbyes as they headed back to Barcelona. They were so easy to travel with, always looking for adventure, and made the three days as fun as it possibly could have been. I have to agree with Mark Twain that “The Creator made Italy from the designs by Michaelangelo”.

These last two weeks has been crazy. Go, go, go. Traveling, more traveling; weddings, more weddings. Right now I am in the middle of the more traveling phase on my way back to the states for Riley’s wedding. I am sitting in the Las Vegas airport’s Carl’s Jr. dining area, with the aroma of Western Bacon Cheeseburgers accompanying the rings, tings and dings of airport slot machines. My skinny wallet is playing the angel on my right shoulder, saying “you’re too poor to gamble right now” while also trying to convince me I have the touch that could turn five Euros into 10X my monthly pay from the Alligators. I’m writing, so at the moment the angel is winning this battle. There’s still three hours left in this layover though and I don’t know how much longer my jet lagged zombie mind can say no to those colorful machines.