When I was leaving Rome, I happened to be checking in for my flight with a group of fifty Christian pilgrims from Louisiana. They totally surrounded me in line, and it was all I could do to push my way up so that I might get checked in with time to get one last cornetto.

I made it through, and past the guy who asks the questions like “where were your bags last night” and up to the yellow line, where I waited in the midst of all these pilgrims and their giant suitcases and piles and piles of shit (like I was any better, where the pile factor was concerned.)

So I am waiting, and there is this queenalicious priest next to me. He is one of the Christian leaders, but not from Louisiana. I don’t know where he was from, because his accent was Total Queen.

Anyhow he comes up to me, because I have somehow got to the front of the line, and says something to me in Totally Unsure Italian. He thought I was Italian! I had a feeling about him, so just to fuck with him, I replied to his Italian inquiry with a big, fat, “WHAT?”

So he says to me (after his “oh, you are American”) “um, they are checking in our group of fifty right now, so I don’t think they will check you in.”

I was like, “dude, you are fucking high, if you think I am going to wait for all fifty of you, plus your 18,000 bags to get checked in, before I get checked in.” Well not quite in those words but you get the gist of it.

He then said, all queeny, “I don’t think they’ll check you in!”

And I said, “Dude (I think I really used the word Dude this time) these people are not going to make me stand here while they check all of you in, I can assure you!”

He huffed off, I got checked in immediately (of course, what planet was that guy from?) but then I got the being-mean-to-priests affliction, food poisoning, on the plane.

But now I am home and also, recovered. It was even OK being sick, with the Santa Ana’s blowing wet, cool air through my window in the night. Fantastic.

My backyard. It’s the place for me, at the moment, I have no desire to leave.

and it doesn’t suck.

There is a time in the visiting of every town when that town all of a sudden becomes home to you, even if briefly. That time, for me and for Rome, was about 10 minutes ago. Walking on the Viale Trastevere with the trams going by, at night which is a different Viale Trastevere than it is during the day.

It was a pretty stellar day, too. Met Steph near Piazza Navona for coffee. Before, I had the most kick-ass whole wheat cornetto filled with honey, walking down the street trying not to trip while totally concentrating on the pastry. After coffee with Steph, I went to the San Luigi di Francese church to see the Caravaggios so that Colleen will not call me totally lazy when I get home. Went over to the Pantheon and then back over to Trastevere to eat a long, long lunch with Nancy.

I thought for sure it would be nap-time after this, but Tony Polzer called so I went back over the river to hook up with him. He took me to the most fantastic, cool wine bar called, of all things, Nick’s. Mi Dio! I had SUCH a great time in there… we had four different wines served by Lorenzo, totally cool tattooed bartender guy, plus snacks like the best mozzarella di bufala. I had a great time with Tony, Lorenzo, and the other guy working at the bar who kept doing impressions of the fish vendors at the Catania fish market for me. I am, for sure, going back there tomorrow. It was AWESOME.

Eventually I left to go eat pizza with Eric Lyman, a journalist who lives here who I was suppose to be hanging out with, but then the Pope died so now he is working all the time. He took me to a pizzeria that is like a 50’s diner, with guys wearing those paper triangles on their heads. Some interesting stories were exchanged, plus since he was getting phone calls from various fact-checkers about the funeral on Friday, I learned many things about the Pope, the funeral, and some other wacky stuff.

It was a really great day. Tomorrow will be my last. It always happens… you start to get into it, and then you have to go!

It is our last night to look out over Spinola Bay. Who knows if I will ever get to Malta again.

We lucked out, meeting John and Angella. Yesterday, John drove us around and took us to a bunch of places – it would have been impossible, on the bus. He drove us through the cities and the small towns and through twisty streets and on pockmarked roads. We saw the Mosta Dome, where a bomb fell during World War II and did not explode, we saw the temples that are the oldest freestanding structures in the world. We took a boat into the Blue Grotto, and the sea was kind of crazy and the boat was pitching all around. As we were going in, another boat came out, and all the people had life jackets. We didn’t have any life jackets, and there were some pretty big swells out there. We’d rock a little and the boat guy would just smile a toothless smile. We’d go into a cave, and he’d say “look to the left! See the colors!” But I was looking for something I might hang on to if we went down.

Later, we went to eat with Angella, and a woman who I met in the bathroom (she commented on my hair) came to our table and presented me with a Jesus booklet. She was a missionary, and I am clearly a heathen. In the back of the booklet, there is a form you can fill out that says I, ________________ on this day of ______ the year _______, have accepted Jesus as my lord and savior. Now all my sins are forgiven and I will definitely go to heaven. Witnessed by _____________.

That just seems a little too easy to me, to get all your sins forgiven and be able to go to heaven just like that. I left the booklet on the table – it kind of freaked me out. But now I wish I had kept it.

Abortion is illegal in Malta. Divorce is not common. People drive like maniacs here. Today it was 75 degrees. Tomorrow I am leaving.

Happy Easter, may all your eggs be See’s Bordeaux.

You can use the internet in many places in Malta, for only One Maltese Lira for seventy-five minutes!

Plus right now I am doing this in a bar where “Purple Rain” is playing. Sweet.

Before I got here someone said to me, “a whole week in Malta, isn’t that too much?” I basically answered that no, that is just the way I do things. Now, after only two days I know that a month may not be enough. And this is an island only seventeen by nine miles around. I’d figure the math out on that one if I could, but you probably get the idea.

The island of Malta is beige and smoke and hazy light. Pea green on the inside of the pastry shell, turquoise where the ocean meets the beige city wall. Pink where the sun sets. Malta is third-world, Arabic, from another planet. Malta is bombed out and filled with life. I am totally enraptured with it, and can’t figure it out.

We have a really nice three-bedroom apartment on the third floor of a building with only one apartment per floor. But when you walk around to the bay, and look up at our building from the back side, the two floors below are shells. There is no back wall, just empty space. And alot of Malta is like this – buildings with varying degrees of misuse, inhabitance, and repair. Laundry racks on balconies with unbelievable views.

The housing prices are high here though – I have already checked it out.

Today we went to Valletta. Went to the pub where Oliver Reed died after drinking eight beers, 12 shots of Rum, and half a bottle of Whiskey. Valletta is full of skeletons, not ghosts. Skeletons on the church floors. There were crazy wars fought here with heads chopped off and shot out of cannonballs. I’ve never been anyplace like this before, never.

I never want to stop traveling. I want to keep going, forever. There is so much to see!

We’ve got quite a few more days here, and internet just steps away from the apartment, so I’ll be posting often.

Ciao,
XXannon

Here we are in Malta. It is pretty fabulous, let me tell you.

Before I get into the fabulousness of Malta, let me tell a little about the journey here. Yesterday the Signora practically kicked us out of the villa right at 10:00 A.M. and so we had many, many hours to kill before our 7:00 P.M. flight to Malta. With a car full of luggage, we couldn’t leave the car alone, so we decided to drive the road that goes around Etna.

This was like several hours of playing chicken with various BMWs, Audis, and even Fiat Pandas. It was totally pazzo. The road is not wide and you’ll be going up a hill and around the corner will fly someone who is PASSING someone. Lisa, now known as “Balls of Steel” Wisniewski, drove. I was very impressed. Thankfully I was sitting in the back seat so when things got too hairy, I could stare at the back of the front seat instead of the road.

At one point, in a small town called Adrano, there was a Mercedes illegally parked on one side of the tiny street, and another, smaller car illegally parked on the other, and cars going each way just centimeters from getting extremely personal with one another. Then down the street comes a fucking semi-truck. Just as we are about to meet with the illegally parked car on our side. We had to get through the space between the truck and the car, and about halfway through all of us simutaneously let out this loud “AAAIIIIIIIHHHHHHHHH.”

But we made it. At one point Lisa yelled, “that guy was passing a COP! I just don’t get it.” There is nothing like getting out of a car after driving the small towns of Sicily for a while.

Eventually we went to a gas station and pounded some savory pastries Colleen had picked up, and thankfully I had a bottle of Etna Blanc and my Riedel O glasses in the back seat, with which to calm my frazzled nerves. I can’t believe I actually drove in Sicily alone once.

So, then to the airport way early where I bought us all some really bad white wines and some cheese puffs to make the wine taste better. They loaded our Air Malta flight really early. Lisa asked if it was indeed, our flight, and the guy said it was. So Lisa asked why they were boarding ahead. “When all the passengers are on, we will leave.” OK then! Make sure not to lag, next time you fly to Malta.

Then, off the flight, we had another hairy ride to the apartment. They drive on the left here, and it’s a “with your front bumper” philosophy in Malta just like it is in Italy. But for some reason we were extra sensitive last night. We were in a van, and after the fourth near-miss with a car or a bus, Lisa said “I am NOT driving here.” No problemo, homegirl.

Finally we made it to our apartment which is totally awesome. It is in an area called St. Julian’s, where there are all kinds of restaurants and bars and a lovely, working port. From our apartment we look out onto the bay and the port and there are two balconies and a nice living room from which to do so. Once again, my apartment rental radar worked out well. I was hoping for Maltese MTV, but I guess there is no such thing, but we do have Italian MTV and already Lisa and Colleen seem to be sort of hooked. Also late last night, I watched that skateboarding show “Extreme.” In of all places, Malta? Hmmm….

Today we walked along the promenade that goes along the sea until you get to a place where, across a bay, you can see the fortified city of Valletta. Along the ocean there is almost uninterrupted crappy architecture. It is so bad, it is kind of riveting. The sea is beautiful and there are many outdoor cafes along the promenade (I am typing this in one, now). All the shops are closed and the bars and restaurants open and busy. I’ve already tried one of the Malta specialties, a little pastry with smashed peas in it. I also ate a Steak and Onion Pie. The Maltese wine… so far, it really needs to have food as an accompanying feature. But it is not too bad. I forced Lisa and Colleen both to haul two bottles of wine over from Sicily. They are going to thank me for this, in the future.

We had some great Greek food last night. In our neighborhood (THE gastronomic center of Malta – who knew?) there is Chinese, Malaysian, Italian, French… even an Indian takeout place. Plus a million pubs. One little problem is the Maltese Lire. One Maltese Lire equals about three dollars. So everything looks really good, like 5 Lire for a bottle of wine. Till you triple it! So I have decided to forget about the dollar and pretend it is all the same. It worked for me with the Euro last week. Sometimes it is good to be a fantasist.

In the Maltese language two Xs makes the sh sound. So, for this week my name XXannon. In fact I may just keep it that way forever.

Love,
XXannon

There is a thread over on the Fodors message board, a guy asking for advice on his week long trip to Rome (first trip to Italy…)

Day one: arrive at FCO, rent car, drive to apartment, check in, look around Rome.

Day two: Drive to fucking Florence! See many things in Florence, go have dinner (7:30), drive BACK to Rome.

Day three: I think there is a Pope thing happening.

Day four: go to Capri, and then to a shrine near Napoli or something.

Day five: Drive BACK to Rome.

Day six, seven. Hang out, see some more of the Pope (maybe.) Return car. Leave.

Am I high, or is this plan just a little psychotic?

Thank god for laziness. MY laziness. Ambition while traveling can be deadly. Not to mention overestimating yourself.

Five days, till my own lazy Blast Off.

This morning, for some bizarre reason, I turned on the MTV show “Newlyweds.” I have never, ever watched this show before (though once I did see the scene where Jessica Simpson doesn’t know what tuna is – I think everyone has seen that, right?)

So, it is Jessica and Nick’s second anniversary, and they go to the Napa Valley! (This is announced at dinner the night before, at a fancy restaurant. Jessica: “What’s Pphhheasant?”) No wonder I turned it on – it’s the Nick and Jessica Wine Episode. First they go to Domaine Chandon where, in honor of their anniversary, there is a Champagne Sabreing. This is a ritual where you open a bottle of Champagne with a big sabre. You cut the whole top off the bottle, cage and all – it is pretty cool, let me tell you. This was kind of wasted on Nick and Jessica, but I am sure it will raise the awareness of Champagne Sabres, which is good for me, since I sell Champagne Sabres. I reckon every 16 year old girl is going to want a Champagne Sabreing for her 2nd anniversary, whenever it should come, just like Jessica.

Jessica gets hammered on Domaine Chandon, lets out a huge burb, and can’t speak very clearly in the limo on the way back to the hotel.

The next day they go to another winery, where they cut grapes off the vines and then press them with their feet in a tiny cask. Nick digs it, but you can tell Jessica ain’t too hep on the purple feet thing. She says, “shouldn’t you clean your feet first?” Nick takes a big slug of the juice.

Later they go to Beringer Vineyards, where the chef has prepared a special three-course lunch for them. All through the lunch, Jessica makes faces like she is eating various steaming piles of shit. Dessert comes, she takes a bite of ice cream, she makes a face like she is eating a six-month old chicken liver. “It tastes like a LEAF,” she says. “It’s HORRIBLE!” Then the chef comes out, says hello, and leaves. “I feel SO bad!” Jessica moans.

Not exactly the best PR for Beringer, but I guess it’s better than V. Sattui’s Rat Sandwich.

I would have watched the next episode of “Newlyweds,” but I didn’t feel like watching Jessica at the dentist. Though I won’t be so dismissive of this show anymore, at least if I am at a motel in Bakerfield and there is nothing else on.

I woke up thinking about trains. Well, not really trains but some of the people I have seen, or met, on trains.

I never remember people on airplanes. Some guy posted a comment on the Chow Bella Books website that he met me on a plane on the way to Venice. But I don’t remember meeting a guy on a plane on the way to Venice, at least recently.

So why is it that I have so many memories of train people? Is it because you are facing them for so long? In Austria and Germany it seemed every single person got a sandwich for the ride and ate it in front of me, getting crumbs and pieces of cheese and meat all over themselves. Then they’d get off at the next stop and the next sandwich-eating Austrian would get on.

Then there was the nun who let me sit next to her on a crowded Intercity train from Milan to Venice, in a seat reserved for someone else. I was so exhausted (I had just flown in) that I kept nodding off on her shoulder. Finally I passed out with my head on my suitcase. I bet all the people in that tiny car, remember me.

So I think I started thinking about all the train people because I woke up thinking about packing. I want to pack light, and I started thinking about this wacky couple I met on the Eurostar from Venice to Rome once. They had just got married, and they were on their honeymoon. She was a rich girl from Manhattan and she really stuck herself in my head because she said some really weird things, like how she never made her own coffee, but instead called a coffee shop and had it delivered. I sort of quizzed her down on this one – “you mean you call, and they bring a to-go cup of coffee to your front door EVERY DAY?” To me this just seems totally bizarre. For one thing, it is almost as easy to make a cup of coffee as it is to call someone on the phone and order it.

Another weird thing this girl told me is, she grew up in Manhattan but had never ridden on the subway or even taken a cab. She only went around in “private cars.” Hmmm. Why would you admit that to someone? If the end of the world comes, people like this are gonna be the first ones to go down.

Mostly though I remember this couple for their insane amount of luggage. And their itinerary. They had each chosen three cities they wanted to visit. So they had been to Paris, had just left Venice (the husband complained about the price of the breakfast at the Danieli hotel – I looked at him, looked at her, and thought homie, just get ready for more of the same) and were on the way to Rome. But from Rome, they were going to Athens, then SHANGHAI. I forget the other city – St. Petersburg? Copenhagen? Buenos Aires? Something like that.

They had trunks. They actually had TRUNKS. I thought trunks went out in the 1930’s. They had two or three trunks, and a few suitcases, and who knows what else. The husband had to keep getting up to go and “check on the trunks.”

I can’t even imagine carrying around that much stuff through Termini station, much less from Athens to Shanghai. But I guess if you can call and have your coffee delivered every day, you aren’t going to be the one doing the moving and lifting. That poor guy, he might have married into money but she’s going to make him work for it.

As for me, I’m packing light. Though I think I might bring a boom-box on this trip.

Here it is, my home in Rome. I am totally stoked. This place is a stellar deal compared to renting a hotel room in Rome. And there is a STEREO.

I love waking up whenever I want to in Italy and making my own coffee. That alone is reason enough to rent an apartment instead of a hotel.

During my first trip to Italy, I went to a restaurant in Trastevere where you you walked up this long staircase lit by candles to the dining room, and there it was that I had my very first Italian pizza. It was like eating in a castle and it was like eating a revelation. Then I ate some profiteroles (another revelation.) I will never, ever forget that meal and I want to go back and find that restaurant. In fact, I think I might not even leave Trastevere on this trip, since I have never really explored it.

On a domestic note, today I saw a woman in the supermarket with huge fake tits and a tight black T-Shirt that said, in rhinestones, BOTOX. I kid you not.

I’ve been spending a lot of time at The Vine. If one more person says “it’s like Your ‘Cheers’ ” I am gonna smack ’em. (Kidding.) Last night I was in there way too long and it was a fun, also interesting, evening. One of the other uber-regulars is the guy who owns the hair salon next door, and for some reason we had never spoken, even though I know he’s been wanting to talk hair in the past, as I had seen him looking at mine on several occasions.

Last night we hooked it up. He doesn’t like my hair, doesn’t work with my skin tone, I was all ready to hate him but I couldn’t, because he was pretty funny. Here’s a little example – he said to Sky, the bartender, “if you were snorting cocaine, wouldn’t you like to do it off her breasts?” I guess some women might get offended, but I thought it was pretty effing funny. Poor Sky, he really gets to witness some pretty bizarre behavior (some of it mine, I think.)

So anyway this salon guy (who may or may not be gay) has a new plan for my hair. All night he kept repeating the following mantra:

Dark Blue. Green. VIOLET VIOLET VIOLET!

Some of the Violets were accentuated by fist-on-the-bar-poundage.

So essentially, streaks of these colors with some reds thrown in. I must admit, I am tempted. For one thing, I have always wanted to do the streaks of green thing, but I’ve never had the cajones to do it. We shall see.

It was a rough morning, and I got nothing done. Oh well, there is always tomorrow. Until then:

Dark Blue. Green. VIOLET VIOLET VIOLET!

Argh. I just wrote a Really Long Entry and it is all gone. Somehow, some way, some Hamptons Inn Business Center Void. All gone. FUCK.

Anyway I am halfway into my trip and I won’t go all lyrical this time except to say I have been listing to OK Computer over and over, and a little Sonic Youth and plenty of Wilco, also the Arcade Fire. I have to on these long trips and I think of CDs I might make for a current crush, while vineyards and the ocean pass by in a blur.

I am tired and refreshed at the same time. Can’t really figure that one out.

Yesterday I was in my hometown and went to the bar in the harbor where I once spent some time as a Harbor Rat. This is what you call kids who live on boats. I lived on a three masted schooner and I hated it, though I do have lots of interesting, also beautiful, memories of that time. Behind the bar was a guy I played with as a young Harbor Rat. Odd, to see him hassling his employees for being late at the age of 39, thirty-odd years later. He was like, don’t you remember how great it was growing up in the harbor? I was like, fuck no. I was at the age where I needed my own room, also a shower. Also, I remember totally torturing that guy. There are these giant hooks on the pier, that swing over the water to pull the crates of fish off the fishing boats. We (me, my brothers, and the other Evil Harbor Rats) would be like, hey, grab onto this hook! And that guy would always do it. We would then swing him over the water and let him dangle there for awhile. I can’t really understand why my old harbor friend, now tending bar at his family place, doesn’t remember all those times hanging on a hook. Instead he remembers the good times, like trying to hook seagulls with your fishing pole. A different kind of torture.

I sometimes think about moving back to my hometown. The streets and smells and people are all ingrained in me. And my current home is sort of like my childhood home, without the fog, with added palm trees. It’s kind of cool to go to a bar where the bartender is someone you tortured as a child and the waitress is your best friend from the fourth grade. And that when you talk to them you remember things that happened a long time ago, when you don’t normally remember what happened yesterday.

And now I am going to save this, in case it slips away.