the lone and level sands

With the one exception of New York, I had never – until this day – visited a single entity of a city, isolated and removed from its country and surroundings, and known it to be – without question – great. I have been charmed by some cities, tickled by others; shocked and disturbed by more than I care to mention. But few and far between are those that exude a colossal and effortless greatness, as vast and immutable as a snow peaked Everest.

Rome is, in my opinion, one such city.

Imagine, if you will, the cluttered, dyspeptic bowels of a metro line buried deep beneath the surface of the skin. You pass your way through the system, stop by gurgling stop, moving only by the pressure of buildup behind, until you start to question the health and beauty of a thing with such a septic inner working. And then – in a sudden, jerky upheaval of passengers – you are spat onto the city street.

And what do you see there sprawled out before you, in every direction, occupying every imaginable point on the horizon until your eyes, not knowing where to focus, move seemingly independent of each other in a sensory overload? There… there is history. Condensed, and undiluted.

And you drink it all in, thickly. And it is all so wonderfully overwhelming that you feel, at times, like a kid in a candy store. Everywhere the things you’ve read in books, the things you’ve seen in films – everything packaged so nicely, shelved and within reach: all you have to do is point and say “there.”

There on those steps Caesar stood and there he died; there Nero, there Romulus and Remus quarreled. There the gladiators fought to their deaths. There the Palatine and the Roman Forum, and there the Trevi Fountain.

And here, standing beside the Colosseum in all its magnificent, wilting glory – here am I made aware of the eternity of Time, watering her seeds with sand, and how we each – to some degree – grow Ozymandian in her garden.

If greatness is measured by how much remains above the sand as time goes by and by, then what greater city is there than this.

Rome soundtrack: Born Ruffians – Red, Yellow & Blue

it was a close call

army of one intent

Venice the morning after is sad, and reminiscent. Empty bottles and used plates line the streets like flower petals after a wedding, a sullen reminder of what once was. There are no more couples waltzing to live orchestras, no more drinking and eating in the alleys, no more laughter and cheer.

Instead, a dense fog has settled on the city – and from this fog rise the Tourists. Slowly. Eerily, like an army of the undead. And I – wielding my camera in hand like a sharpened blade, ready to strike – am one of the many, many footmen.

We storm the Basilica de San Marco, march with heavy foot through the square, swarm around the Palazzo Ducale, stampede over the Ponte Rialto. We are unstoppable, unconquerable and known the world over. What did Xerxes' army have that made it so feared? We have our Cannons – and Nikons, too; we have purse upon purse full of euro, we have an unquenchable thirst and legendary disregard for culture and etiquette. We have our folding maps. And our fanny packs.

Know us by our chatter – recognize our shrieks and fear our coming!

In the end, as with all things in our path, Venice is vanquished – just as Rome is ravished and Paris is plundered; as Barcelona burns. And we march on – as surely as the sun rises, as surely as the wide world turns.

Venezia, mi amore!

Venice, I am smitten. You could hurt me – lie to me, wreck me beyond all hope of repair or reconciliation, take everything I have and leave me stranded heart in hand – and I would still turn at your mention, blush at the sound of your name.


I fell for it all from the beginning – the canals, the narrow alleys winding and weaving to seemingly nowhere, the street musicians filling the air with the soundtrack to a fine romance. The fresh fruit and seafood markets. The decorated gondolas, the battling orchestras of Piazza San Marco. The water reflecting its soft-focus onto the Palazzo Ducale and the Ponte del Sospirl.


And your language – how beautiful and undulant, like a gentle ocean! Balanced on the tongue at times like a sigh of anticipation on the tip of the lungs; or a first kiss – held softly, delicately at the lips before lips part and the moment passes, and the eyes slowly open. When I hear your language spoken I close my eyes and hear Cabiria describing her nights – I hear Fellini behind the camera, working his art.

And I have to admit I walked your streets tonight hoping to get lost and never found – to get swept down some canal, or be pressed into some alley wall like a finger into soft dough – and so spend the rest of my days here, knowing what you know.

One day I will return to Venice – with my girlfriend or my wife – and we will fall in love for the first, or second time – wrapped so in your charms.

Venice soundtrack: anything played on an accordion

for those about to rock we salute you

In my life, all things – it seems – return to music. Waiting at the Innsbruck station for our 13.26 to Venice, I met a gentleman from Murona known, in circles, as DJ Tuzlo. He works the Murona club scene with five other dj’s, mixing hip-hop with classic American songs and Italian ballads, keeping the beat alive. He would like to visit New York City someday. He told me how most people in Italy have stereotyped club disc jockeys as drug abusing ingrates who listen to obnoxious music and stay out too late – and that his mother was not too supportive of his life aspiration. But he pursued his dreams anyway, and assured me that he does no drugs – just beer. And he’s been mixing and scratching since he was this tall (the level of his knees), and has always loved his music.

He was a nice guy, and he left me with two pieces of advice: one – never go to the Balkans; and two – get married in Venice.

I sit here now on the train, listening to my punk rock, my indie darlings, my blues, my mixes and remixes. And I sit across from a nun whom I am convinced is clairvoyant, for when I feel myself identifying with the darker lyrics – or when I intentionally think of something inappropriate – she closes her eyes and looks away. And I am happy to have met someone who lives music as I do – someone who tries to defy stereotype and counter convention as I can only subtly, and gracefully, hope to.

And looking out, and seeing the hillside layered and fortified with vineyards and the mountains smoking as if fresh baked, and feeling my heart beat ever faster – I know I am in Italy.

I wish you the best of luck, DJ Tuzlo – I’ll keep an ear out for you stateside.

out of fog and time

We climbed the stairs to platform seven, lumbering under the weight of our packs like two of Hannibal’s less fit, slightly asthmatic elephants. And then – at the peak of our ascent, broken and panting – we gazed suddenly upon a thing of such wonder and grace that our packs grew instantly weightless, and our spirits lifted and revived. There, uncoiled and stretched before us like a gilded serpent, was the Orient Express.

Her deep and royal blue, though muted and restrained, was shocking in contrast to the constant red and white of the standard OBB. Her golden emblems and lettering reflected the sun – even hidden as it was behind dense cloud. Her attendants in smart, well-fit livery bowed and smiled. And through window frames of wood and plated gold I looked on scenes of painted elegance, royal delegates and heads of state dining in pressed evening attire, seated in lavishly decorated dinner cars lit for intimate conversation and the sharing of secrets.

It was an unreported stop – not listed on any schedule – and she arrived out of a thick and swirling fog without sound, her wheels cushioned from the grating metal track by a thin layer of grace. And it seemed as if this train had – for this one brief instant – crossed over, as if someone had flipped a switch on that anachronistic track of time it traveled parallel to our own and brought this seldom seen figment of our imagination into unexpected realization.

And this Brigadoon of trains – this Laputa, this great pink sea snail – vanished from sight as mysteriously as it arrived, timed to the precise moment when all bystanders simultaneously – and coincidentally – blinked.

We drab we burdened few rubbed our eyes, looked at each other, and shrugged – not sure if what we saw was real.

But I managed to snap a picture.

stuck in the middle with you

Innsbruck was a necessary stop for us – so as to split a potential ten hour train ride to Venice into two manageable halves. It was wedged between two exciting destinations, bookended if you will by two things of almost legendary beauty. Hallstatt was the opening novel, Venice the closing volume – and like any middle book in a trilogy, Innsbruck seemed in many ways a piece in transition, unfinished and unsatisfying.

But it was a somewhat amusing transition – a busy Alpine town, still basking in the golden years of its two winter Olympics. And a town very much built on the combined beauty of a Hallstatt and the modern conveniences of a Vienna. Innsbruck sits at the base of the elephantine Alps, seemingly at risk of being trampled underfoot, the mountains being so close and dominant of the skyline. The streets are lined with restaurants and high end stores. There is a mall, and a couple of movie theaters. And a handful of tourist attractions.


But in all truth my mind – reeling from Hallstatt and foaming in anticipation of Venice – had little room, in thought, for Innsbruck.