Berlin Part II: Sachsenhausen

(Left: Crematorium ruins, Sachsenhausen Concentration Camp)

On my last day in Berlin and Europe, I took the S-Bahn (subway) to Oranienburg to see Sachsenhausen Concentration Camp. Sachsenhausen was at its core like any other concentration camp: it was the site of premeditated torture and murder on a mass scale.

I wandered the grounds for several hours by myself, and am grateful to have had the opportunity to see and reflect on the place on my own. There are times when it is good to have friends, be they close compatriots or new acquaintances, while you travel. Other times, it's best to be just be alone in your own thoughts. For me, Sachsenhausen was one of those times.

Sachsenhausen, though it was similarly the scene of unimaginable cruelty and misery, differed from most of the camps Americans are familiar with in several extremely important ways. It was located not on Germany's fringes but right in Berlin's suburbs; like myself and most current-day visitors, the earliest prisoners at Sachsenhausen walked there from the S-Bahn/railroad station in the middle of town. The Nazis made the marches into public spectacles, and the obliging local population was encouraged to line the streets and hurl insults, fruit, and stones as the prisoners walked past. Although the marches were eventually discontinued for logistical reasons, the site of ashes falling in Oranienburg was not unfamiliar in the war's later years. Many historical revisionists claim that the Germans had no idea what the S.S. was carrying out in the East. They may not have known the full extent of the horrors there, but Sachsenhausen, just 23 miles from Brandenburg Gate, strikes me as definitive proof that they had at least an idea.

It also was not part of the Final Solution, the seminal point of Nazi madness that was the orderly genocide of millions of Jews, Gypsies and Slavs, although many of those people did pass through on their way to their deaths (and many thousands of Russian POW's were executed there). Rather, Sachsenhausen was primarily a "work" camp for political prisoners and P.O.W.'s; if you lived in Berlin during the Third Reich and actively opposed or resisted the Nazi regime, there's a decent chance you would have ended up there. Most (not all, but most) of the people who came through its infamous doors freely chose to resist Nazi crimes rather than collaborate or ignore them for their own behalf, either by resisting German aggression (P.O.W.'s), actively fighting back against Nazi rule, or simply by refusing to fight for a morally defunct nation. Many hundreds or thousands of those in the latter group who died could have received their release - right up to the moment of their deaths in the case of many Jehovah's Witnesses - simply by signing their conscription papers and joining the Wermacht (the German army), but only a handful did.

It is difficult for me to recount the tales I heard there; the pain the prisoners suffered is in many ways impossible to convey first-hand, let alone second-hand in my words instead of theirs. But I will say that I did not leave Sachsenhausen or Berlin emotionally troubled. Instead, I felt renewed confidence in humanity. There are bad people in this world, there are many more who do very bad things, and untold more who refuse to speak up. But at Sachsenhausen, a small detachment of brainwashed murderers stood guard over tens of thousands of people who did speak up or fight back, usually against near-impossible odds. Each of the 200,000 people who passed through the gates before their liberation in 1945 was likely just one of many in a circle of friends or family that refused to buy into Nazi madness. If that ratio doesn't bode well for humanity, I don't know what does.

Sachsenhausen to me is not merely a symbol of the horrible things we are capable of doing to each other. It is a symbol of the sacrifice we are capable of making for each other. It is not just a memorial to the murdered peoples of Europe; it is an everlasting memorial to the hundreds of thousands who endured unimaginable torture and death rather than take part in those crimes or sit silently by. Sachsenhausen is not just a monument to hate. It is a testament to hope.

Berlin, Part I

Since I've been back, a lot of people have asked me what my favorite place on the trip was, and I've never hesitated. The answer is Ios, which is literally the most beautiful and enjoyable place I've ever been. Since Ios is basically fake life, though - it's a tourist-driven town on a beautiful secluded island full of 20-something English-speakers, and is apparently pretty miserable in the winter - I usually follow up that answer by saying Berlin was my favorite normal place.

Most people are somewhat taken aback by this. I'm half-Jewish and full American, and I picked a German city as the best I've seen in Europe?

Thing is, I'm also a nerd when it comes to history, and to know the story of 20th century Berlin is to understand the entire Western world during that time. The juxtaposition of different eras is everywhere in this city. On the way back to my hostel on my last day in Europe, on a subway line that runs from Oranienburg (site of Sachsenhausen concentration camp) to Wannsee (site of the Wannsee Conference, where the Final Solution was planned) and twice underneath where the Berlin Wall used to be, I sat across an elderly woman who I deemed to be in her mid to late 80's.

I remember sitting there marveling over all the different traumatic events that might have happened to her in her lifetime. Maybe she was a Nazi, or maybe she came from a family of resisters. Maybe her husband, father, or brother died fighting in World War II, or maybe in a concentration camp. Was she stuck in the city for the terrifying Allied air raids, or even worse during the Soviet invasion (in which untold thousands of German women were raped by vengeful Red Army soldiers)? Did she spend the Cold War in the West or the East? Did she know someone (perhaps her or her own children) who fled for freedom, or was she an informant for the Stasi? How did she celebrate the fall of the Wall (or did she mourn it)?

It's obviously impossible to know the answers to these questions. It's possible that all of the answers are yes, and it's just as possible that she immigrated from somewhere else along the way. But for someone like me, who has spent so many hours reading about these horrific events, being in the locale where they took place was remarkable.

Of course, simply being the site of some of humanity's worst atrocities would not make Berlin an amazing place. But I don't want all my posts to be novel-length, so I'm breaking this one up for all of our convenience. Especially mine.

A Word on Italians

In truth, this clip is not really representative of the Italian people; I didn't really come across any situation this dire during my total of eleven days in Rome, Sicily, Venice, and the Sardinian airport from hell. But it does do a good (or maybe just amusing) job of reflecting upon the cultural divide between Americans and Europeans, especially that between Americans and Italians.

Now, let it be known that although I am of thoroughly mixed ethnicities, I identify with my Italian-American heritage as much as anything else. I have an Italian last name (Grillerio was actually abbreviated to Griller at Ellis Island), grew up on Italian food and traditions, and am Roman Catholic. My great-grandfather, who immigrated alone at age 13, is a legendary figure in my family and he lived to be so old that I got to know him as a child. So I truly expected to love Italy and Italians.

In some ways, they didn't disappoint. They all spelled and pronounced my last name correctly (in fact, better than I do/can) and cooked delicious food. From what I could tell, their lives revolve around their families, their faith, and their food, an admirable lifestyle and one that seemed to encapsulate the older generations of my own family as well.

But I knew from the day I got there that there was something offsetting about Italian culture. It took me a while to admit it, but being stuck in airports for fourteen hours forced me to acknowledge the truth: many Italians are simply lazy, rude, or both.

Now, I'm sure I'm going to catch a lot of flak for this, and this is not to suggest that I didn't meet many Italians who were extremely nice and/or extremely hardworking, or that I myself (and many other Americans) am known to be anything other than lazy and rude. But in the Italy that I saw (with the exception of Venice, which revolves around tourism), values like hard work and common courtesy simply weren't prized.

It was in Olbia Airport that I came up with my Theory of the Italian Peoples. It's quite simple, really. Around 100 years ago, Italy - especially Southern Italy - really sucked. Most hardworking, decent Italians who had the means left for America. All the lazy, rude, and/or privileged ones stayed behind. Nowadays, their descendants reflect that divide, only magnified by 100 years of separation from each other.

You want proof? Look at the style of play of American teams coached by Joe Paterno, Joe Girardi, and Tom Izzo (to name just a few successful Italian-American coaches) vs. the Italian national soccer team. The Americans' teams reflect hard work, respect, and honor, values instilled in Italian-American culture (and American culture at large) by the immigrant experience. American athletes as a whole play through injuries, hesitate to make excuses, and value sportsmanship. When they don’t, the public vilifies them (see: Rodriguez, Alex, or James, LeBron). Cal Ripken, who never won a title after his rookie season, is nationally beloved for his grittiness and his sportsmanship, not because his teams won (they didn’t). The Italian national team flops and dives, fakes injuries and yells racial slurs at opponents, in order to win the referees' favor. They don't care how they win or who they dishonor along the way; all they care about is themselves. What's worse, Italians love them for it.

I had a great time in Italy and would go back again despite the way I was often – and I mean often – treated in my role as tourist or customer. But there is no doubt in my mind that our Italian cousins are just that: cousins. They definitely aren’t siblings; they grew up in a home with different values and different rules. We may have more in common than we have apart, and there are certainly aspects of their culture (especially their appreciation for relaxation and their care for the poor) that I and many others find preferable. Having been there, though, I for one am glad to have grown up in this country instead.

Venice

Venice is a lot like Orlando, FL (rustic charm and history vs. plastic tackiness aside). As far as I could tell, it was full of crowds and overpriced food and souvenirs, and not too many people actually live there (on most days there are more tourists than residents in the entire city). It feels a lot like one big theme park.

But if Orlando is the place you must see before turning ten, Venice is a place to see before turning dead. In other words, it's a perfect bucket-list destination, even if you can see most of its sites in a few days. It's definitely the most beautiful city I've ever seen; just getting lost in it (which is easy enough to do) is an attraction all in itself. A few things that stuck out to me:

1) Definitely the coolest attraction in the city is the Doge's Palace and St. Mark's Square. Once upon a time, the Venetian Navy dominated the Mediterranean world and the small city-state challenged the massive Ottoman Empire as a center of regional trade. Venice was a republic - albeit one with a complex system of government that would strike most Americans as quite foreign - and had a figurehead leader called the Doge who was elected for life. The palace was one of the most beautiful buildings I saw in all of Europe.

2) Although it seems like kind of a cushy job, being the Doge had many, many downsides. He was expected to be the lifelong servant of the Venetian people, not their leader or king, and he was reminded of this whenever he went outside to give a speech to his people (or indeed upon being inaugurated). Standing at the top of the Great Staircase, he'd be dwarfed by gigantic statues of Mars and Neptune, meant to symbolize for all the people his relative insignificance. What's more, from his angle (which I got to see) he was being mooned by both Gods (and it's hard to describe the extent of the mooning going on here; these are massive statues). I'm not sure if that was intentional or not, but I would have preferred a different greeting upon leaving my home.

3) In fact, the Doge couldn't really leave home, and he had to get special permission if he ever wanted to leave Venice (keep in mind that this is a lifelong job). The palace map room is known as one of its most beautiful, but it struck me as an extremely sad place. I imagine the Doges of Venice looking upon a vast world they'd never get to see, wondering what adventures lay outside the city borders, their huge palace a prison where they were always watched. It seems to me a very lonely existence.

The Blog is Still Alive!

You probably thought this blog was as dead as the corpses in the Palermo Catacombs. Maybe you found some other amateur blogger to fill your days with laughter, tug at your heart, and bring you brief moments of joy and enlightenment. As you read this, you're probably filled with the same sense of shock, awe, and ecstasy as Pam had when she found her dead ex-husband in the shower in place of the man she'd married the night before.

I'm not going to go down the Dallas route and pretend that all of Season 7 (i.e. the last two weeks of no new posts) was a dream, although it may have seemed like a nightmare for my devoted readers. Let's just say I lost my way in a sea of Weeds and Dexter episodes, but I'm back where I belong now. I hope we're never apart again.

P.S. Obviously this all means I've been extremely lazy the last couple of weeks. My bad.

A Long Day and a Cold Beer

There's a famous scene, in Lawrence of Arabia, when Lawrence emerges from the desert and orders a glass of lemonade at the officers' parlor. On the worst day of my travels, when I lost all motivation to keep going on, I thought about that scene. I thought that if I finally got to my hostel, at the end of the day, I'd order a single, cold beer and just sit back and relax with it.

My miserable day, of course, is far too long to describe in a blog, and there are of course parts of it that aren't worth going into detail. Some memories, like the check-in clerk who ignored me and two other Americans for 35 minutes before ushering five Italians through the gate just before the day's last flight to Venice took off, are simply too recent and bitter to relive. Others, like the question of where my bag was or how I could get it, the small plane that crashed on the sole runway just as we were ready to leave Sardinia behind (nobody was hurt), or the extended journey from Verona airport to my hostel in Venice (only took 3.5 hours!), are just too outright traumatic. Just know that during a single 24 hour period, I was treated like dirt by the baggage handlers, check-in clerks, customer service reps, claims officers, and pilots of Alitalia, all on separate occasions. My journey, which originially should have been no more than 4 hours door-to-door, ended up taking 16, most of which was spent in one of Italy's smallest airports.

So, did I handle myself with restraint during this time period? It depends on how you look at it. Click on the video above and you can see my general behavior toward pretty much every Italian at that moment. I think, actually, that my failure to kill anyone was indicative of remarkable restraint.

In any case, when I finally did get to my hostel at 12:45 AM and ordered that beer, I enjoyed it to the fullest. Mentally and physically exhausted, my anger had run out. A whole day in Europe had been wasted by incompetency at every level of Italy's social pyramid (more on that in a future post). But at that moment, as I felt the coldness against my fingers and in my throat, and realized there were no more connections to run to save for the inviting bed to sleep in, life was good. And that's how the worst non-tragic day of my life ended on a high note.

Sicily

When I told people the itinerary for my trip (Dublin-Amsterdam-Istanbul-Greek Islands-Rome-Madrid-Sicily-Venice-Berlin), one of the most common remarks I received was "Why Sicily?"

I wanted to see Sicily for three reasons.

1. Adventure: to travel alone in a place like that, a little bit off the beaten track, would offer a different experience than major city after major city
   
2. Heritage: my great-grandma left Palermo as a little girl with her family more than 100 years ago. 1/8 of my heritage came through that island and that city, and I wanted to see it first-hand
3. Food: I love to eat. My dad learned how to cook in large part from the aforementioned great-grandma, and I grew up in suburban New York where Sicilian cuisine has left a large imprint on our delis, restaurants and holidays. I wanted to get to the source of it.

So, keeping those things in mind, here is my time in Sicily, in a nutshell:

• The Sicilian countryside is the most beautiful I've seen. Unfortunately, I only passed through it on trains and buses. But it looked really nice.
• The beaches, too, looked beautiful. But the day I had penciled in for the beach was cool and windy, so I skipped it. This is one of the bigger regrets from my trip.
• Palermo is the dirtiest city I've ever been to. By a lot. This statement includes Guatemala City, Sarajevo, and the Mods at Boston College. There is garbage strewn throughout the city, and when you think about that fact it's important to remember that, since Palermo lacks modern toilets and sewage systems, that garbage is full of dirty toilet paper.
  
• There are also buildings throughout Palermo, some in large clusters, that have not been fixed or demolished since they were bombed during the Allied Invasion of Sicily. For those who aren't history buffs or math wizards, that was in 1943, or 67 years ago. Small parts of the city look more devastated by war than most parts of Sarajevo did when I was there three years ago, just twelve years after the longest siege in modern history. I found out after my trip that the locals refer to the postwar period as the Sack of Palermo because of its mafia-fueled deterioration. In any case, it's pretty gross/depressing, especially since they could make lots of €€€ off of tourism.
  
• Catania, on the eastern side of the island, is much, much nicer than Palermo. In the shadow of Mt. Etna (Europe's largest active volcano), it seems like a golden paradise compared to the regional capital
• In terms of my heritage: it was very cool to see familiar last names (Catano, Siracusa, Leonardi, etc.) around the island, and...
• I am so grateful to my ancestors for leaving there. Putting aside the fact that I wouldn't exist if they hadn't, I was repeatedly blown away by the realization that almost none of the gifts and opportunities afforded to me in life would have been there if I was raised in Sicily (unless, and only maybe unless, I was one of the richest people there)
• The food in Sicily is as good as advertised and is dirt cheap. You can eat like a king for €15 a day. I had the best calamari, eggplant, and cannolis of my life there. I also highly recommend trying horse, which they seem to take great pride in but oddly enough isn't found at the Italian deli near my house.
  

Sicily was definitely the least enjoyable part of my trip, but I expected that going in. I wanted to have an adventure and get in touch with my heritage while eating very well, and I did that. As a traveler, I'm much more seasoned for having experienced it.

(Thanks to Boots in the Oven for the photo)

The Boss, R.I.P.

I hate to interrupt my travel stories again for another sports commentary, but I can't help myself. The fact is, no stranger brought me more direct joy in my life than George Steinbrenner.

I never met the man, and I do not mourn his death as I would that of a friend or loved one. He was in many ways a bad person: he illegally funneled cash to Richard Nixon's reelection campaign, once paid a lowlife to dig up dirt on his star outfielder in an attempt to embarrass him, and treated the vast majority of his employees like dogs (from his managers and GM's right down to his secretaries). His meddling with the Yankees probably cost them a handful of more championships. He rapidly priced working-class and middle-class families out of Yankee Stadium after the mid-1990's, threatened to move the team out of the Bronx for decades, and then plowed over a neighborhood park - a beloved piece of greenery in the South Bronx - in order to build the new stadium for his billion-dollar franchise. His obsession with winning was as much motivated by personal shortcomings as by his devotion to Yankee fans.

But he did win. 7 championships and 11 pennants since 1976, for a franchise that was in its Dark Ages when he took over three years earlier. He poured the teams profits right back into it. For him, the Yankees weren't a cool toy or a status symbol or a business; they were his passion. Ticket prices may have been raised over time, but much more of that money went to payroll and his charities than to lining his own pockets, even after his shipping business went under and the team became his only source of revenue. He seemed to sense the happiness and unity the team could bring to the many people who called New York home, from the Wall Street executive to the South Bronx bus driver to the 8 year old little leaguer on Long Island, and he did everything in his power to chase it. He may have been a ferocious, angry, and arrogant man, but he also had a soft spot for children and working people and the disadvantaged.

More than anything else, though, I think he just wanted to be loved. By all accounts his father was a good but tough man. Some say he bought the Yankees because they offered him celebrity he would have never had in Cleveland. At the end of his life, when his years of tumultuous ownership were forgiven by his legions of fans and they gave him standing ovations upon his increasingly rare stadium appearances, he was often moved to tears by the outpouring of affection for him.

At the end of the day, he was a flawed man, by moral, financial, and baseball standards. But he cared more about the happiness of his fans than about the size of his bank account, and whatever his motivations were that is a fact worth acknowledging. These days, few athletes and owners care about anything else. A man of many contradictions, that is an environment Steinbrenner himself helped to create and foster. The truth is, though, that any fan-base in sports would kill for an owner like him.

As a Yankee fan, I had him. For me, his death isn't worth mourning. But his colorful, controversial, contradictory life? Definitely worth celebrating.

(Thanks to Talk of New York Sports for the photo)

Where Dead Mean Lie

So, those pictures above are pretty much exactly what they look like: a bunch of human corpses. These are from the Palermo Catacombs: by far the strangest, creepiest place I saw on my trip (or in my life, for that matter). According to Wikipedia, the catacombs were made for monks in the 16th century when their cemetery grew overcrowded, but mummification and burial there eventually became a status symbol for the people of Palermo.

The middle picture above is of first monk to be buried there, in the 1500's. The child is Rosalia Lombardo, who died of influenza at age 7 in 1920 but still looks ready for a game of ring-around-the-rosie. Of the roughly 8,000 mummies that line the walls, most fall somewhere in between in appearance. Perhaps because of their condition, taking photos there is prohibited. I owe a great deal of thanks to Kimberly King's website, which has a bunch of pictures and is definitely worth checking out if you want to get a feel for the place.

Walking the corridors there, I was struck by the realization that one of my own distant ancestors or relatives could be among the dead who were thoroughly creeping me out. Seeing that many mummies and corpses really forced me to reflect on the meaning of life and death and the role our bodies play in both, and after wondering through the catacombs I've reached an important decision: I definitely want to be cremated.

The King of Wishful Thinking

I'm gonna break for a moment from catching up on my travel stories to comment on the spectacle we witnessed last night. LeBron James - the King of Cleveland, the most popular player in the game, and the heir apparent to Jordan's throne - laid all of his titles (and many millions of dollars) aside in the hopes of winning now, later, and often.

My football team went 3-14 my last two years of high school, and my wrestling career began with 23 consecutive losses. To lose like that is awful. It's humiliating, frustrating, and excruciating. But it's also part of life. At some point, you need to learn how to lose with dignity and grace.

Never mind General Patton, who famously said that "America loves a winner and will not tolerate a loser." The fact is, we're almost all losers. There's a hell of a lot more alumni of losing football teams than of state champions. Literally all of our ancestors were on the losing end: slaves, defeated tribes, refugees, or at best those with no hope for a better life back home. Our unemployment rate is growing every day, and in Cleveland it's only worse. We root for underdogs not because we hate the favorites but because we identify with those who aren't supposed to succeed, who aren't supposed to make noise or inspire, but who hang onto their one sliver of hope, believe in themselves and the impossible, and persevere until victory is in sight. We love when our teams win precisely because it's rare (even the Yankees lose more years than they win). And we hate cheaters and those who win without class because they steal victory from those who ply their trade honestly, because they represent the unfair world we live in and because most of us don't cheat at school or work.

Losing so often in high school didn't make me happy with defeat. But it did inspire me to train harder and to treasure every moment I spent with my teammates, representing my school and town in competition. It's why, when my high school's team eventually did make it to the state championship game three years after my graduation, they inspired happiness in every alumni to ever don the uniform. Their victory was a credit to every garbage time player who worked their ass off on losing teams and every all-section player that stayed in town to play with and for their friends instead of taking their talents elsewhere.

James wouldn't know anything about that. He meant everything to northeast Ohio; he was their sliver of hope, their consolation prize for decades of decline, their message to the world that Cleveland will rise triumphantly from its ashes. Players leave their teams all the time for money, and occasionally for a shot at a crown. We grudgingly tolerate the former; it is a business, after all. And we usually tolerate the latter; few people knock Ray Bourque or Karl Malone for seeking rings in the final years of their careers. But never before has a player of James's stature left everything in their prime - the hometown loyalty, the money, the boyhood favorite team (Bulls), and the glitz of the big stage (NY/NJ) - in pursuit of victory on a mercenary team.

Leaving adoration and money on the table in pursuit of victory doesn't make LeBron James a bad person or a coward, despite what many are writing. He was right to say that he doesn't owe anything to the Cavs, and one could argue that he doesn't owe anything to Ohioans. But he did owe something to himself. Last night, we finally saw the results of what happens when even the most talented athlete in the country is doted on and worshiped from age 15. He's immature, and he doesn't grasp what victory really is; he seems to think it's as simple a concept as playing alongside the best players in the game.

John Candy may have said it best in Cool Runnings. "A gold medal is a wonderful thing. But if you're not enough without it, you'll never be enough with it."

The Joy of Traveling

The following post was handwritten into my journal while I was traveling through Sicily on June 26, less that 24 hours after my arrival there.

Three thoughts as I wait for my next train to arrive:

1) I had a blast jetting from major city to major city with my friends, but there is something to be said about the experience of simply traveling, and it can't be done by plane. After a while, for all their differences, big cities are big cities (even Istanbul), and large airports are all the same. Traveling alone by train through the Sicilian countryside and coast (or via ferry to Ios, an 8 hour ride through the Aegean and the islands) is an entirely different experience. It loans itself to self-reflection and an appreciation of true beauty. Right now, the main highlight of my day is not where I'm going. It's simply going.

2) Sicilians don't speak much English, but they do speak very, very fast Italian, Trapani is the most Catholic place I've ever been (even more than Rome), people can be sort of rude, and food is highly valued. I can definitely see its imprints on New York culture; I feel strangely at home here in a distinctly foreign land.

3) There are three certainties in life: death, taxes, and finding a Chinese restaurant at any corner of the globe. I've seen Chinese restaurants in rural Guatemala, Sicily and Bosnia; I sometimes wonder if Chinese food sustained Shackleton and his men during their long trip home.

Sicilian Hospitality

Some of you might notice that I'm behind on my posts, as I'm currently back in the glorious USA. Well, it wasn't always easy to blog in Europe; there had to be a perfect convergence of affordability, availability and free time for me to write. With internet rates that sometimes exceeded €5/hour and distorted, foreign-language keyboards, the opportunities were quite rare. In any case, I will spend the next few days posting some delayed entries that were handwritten into my journal. The following was a reflection on my first day in Sicily.

When I was a young griller, my dad and I used to make annual car trips from New York to the my grandpa's place in the Florida Keys. Among the many highlights and lowlights of our adventures - such as throwing up all over my dad's new leased Cadillac following an overly ambitious breakfast buffet at Bob's Big Boy - there is one that stands out in my memory above all: the Stardust Motel.

The first time my mom and sisters made the trip with us, we grew somewhat road weary in southern Georgia and had to stop for the night at the Stardust, the only affordable motel we could find. To this day, the name Stardust is synonymous in my family with griminess and parsimony. I never thought I would find an equal in my life, even as I embarked on a month of backpacking. I was young, naiive, and innocent.

I got into Trapani late last night. Trapani is a small port town on a peninsula in Western Sicily. It's the sort of place I'd have never visited or even heard of, but it's where Ryan Air flies into on the island (they use a small former military airport). The bus into town dropped me off at the harbor, which thrives during the day (and where ferries can take you to Tunisia, i.e. Africa). Late at night, though, it was dark, deserted and desolate. Walking alone with my backpack, I felt extremely vulnerable.

I eventually found my Bed and Breakfast - the Casa Malvarosa - on a side street so narrow that only bikes can fit through. I picked the Malvarosa because of its affordability; much to my horror after booking a late flight into Trapani, I discovered that the town has no hostels. At €25 a night, the Malvarosa was appealing despite its horrendous reviews.

It wasn't a huge shock (having slept in the Stardust, I should have known), but sometimes you really do get what you pay for. The outer door of the courtyard was locked and the buzzers - of which there were several - only had last names; none was labeled as that of the Malvarosa. The first I rang prompted the emergence of an aggravated (but clearly accustomed to the annoyance) Sicilian man, who told me who to ring. I was delighted to find that the owner, a woman who lived in the upstairs of the apartment, didn't speak a word of English. The courtyard and apartment were filled with statues and paintings of the Madonna and other saints, but they didn't seem to be interceding on behalf of the Malvarosa or its guests.

On the inside, the B&B is essentially an old, run-down apartment. The plaster on the walls was peeling, mold dominated the bathroom - where the toilet seat was cracked in half - and there was a general griminess to the bedroom floor that deterred me from walking barefoot. The sheets were dirty - telltale orange-red stains indicated the potential presence of bedbugs - and the room was windowless. But...it was late, I was exhausted from three weeks of traveling, and it was a room for myself. I read for a little while before falling into a deep and restful sleep.

There's a couple of lessons to be learned here. First, sometimes Ryan Air flies you into the middle of nowhere; if you then stay at the cheapest place you can, you will really, really be getting what you pay for. Second, when you're tired, you can sleep anywhere. And third, I'm picking up foreign languages quickly. "Malvarosa," for instance, is Italian for "Stardust."

Thanks to Saul Young's KnoxNews Blog for the photo. Unlike the room it pictures, though, the Malvarosa lacked carpeting, air conditioning, and abundant lighting).\

Torro!

I try, when visiting other countries, to immerse myself in the culture as much as possible. In Ireland, it meant drinking copious amounts of Guinness. In Amsterdam, it meant mocking sex tourists with my friends as we watched them look over their shoulders on the way into brothels. In Istanbul, it meant eating way too much schwarma and in Greece, gyros. In Rome, it was drinking wine on the Spanish steps after a pizza/pasta dinner and watching the assembly of different nationalities basking in the world's most historic city (I guess Roman culture is touristy).

In Madrid, we knew there was one thing we had to do, irrespective of our beliefs on the issue: we had to watch grown men dress up like 19th century flamboyant clowns and then torture innocent bovines with a slow, bloody death. No trip to Spain would be complete without seeing a bullfight (or at least Hemingway always made it seem that way).

Needless to say, we were rooting for the bulls, a couple of which actually put up a good fight. The fact is, though, that the fights are more fixed than Commodus's gladiatorial escapades in Rome. It was sad to watch, but at the same time mesmerizing; as fixed as it is, the bulls still have a chance to gore the matadors. One just barely missed as he threw his torturer high in the air, and the entrance to the stadium contains a memorial for a bullfighter who died there in the 1980s. It was worth seeing, but hearing one bull cry for his life as blood pours out his mouth is probably enough for me in this lifetime.

Other Madrid highlights: the Prado Museum, which we zipped through on the way to the fight; it wasn't quite the Vatican museums, but...wow. Also, a dinner with my friend James's host mom from his time abroad in Madrid. She spoke no English, but invited us in, cooked for us, and talked up a storm. A homecooked meal in a foreign country: what more could I ask for?

My crew departed back for the states and real life the next morning, and I turned my sights on Sicily.

The Packing Dilemma

(A nod to The Yuppie Dilemma for the creative inspiration)

There is one great challenge that every backpacker faces, far exceeding that of pickpockets, missed flights, or language barriers. I'm referring, of course, to the packing dilemma.

If you're a typical leet griller backpacking through Europe immediately after your college graduation, you usually leave your hostels within ten minutes of a far-too early wakeup, either to check out or catch a flight/boat/train, and you are rarely in a fully clearheaded state of mind. There is a natural but tragic consequence to this fact: things get lost.

Since the start of this trip on June 1, I have lost: my adaptor (€26 to replace), one of the two pairs of shorts I brought to Europe with me, my rain jacket, and my favorite sweatshirt. (I have, surprisingly, retained my dignity, even in Amsterdam). All told, the total replacement value is probably around $100. I've learned a lesson from this experience: I could have packed more lightly; I'm doing fine with just one hoodie and one pair of shorts.

Beyond that, though, I'm struck by the realization that, with each passing day, college slips further and further into my past. My hoodie and rain jacket were both BC Bookstore products, purchased way back in 2006 when the bookstore was still independent. They were staples of my wardrobe during my four years at BC (and I dare say I looked stunning in them). I wore them to display my school pride (and to accentuate the color in my eyes) at football games, parties, classes, and long walks through the rain. Now they are gone, and I am fully aware that the day will come when my BC wardrobe will have dwindled down to nothing. Sure, I can always purchase more BC gear, but it will be the wardrobe of an alumnus and not a student.

I can only pray that I look as good and feel as comfortable in alumni clothing as I did in my dear departed sweatshirt.

Ryan Air Part II

Flew Ryan Air for the second time this past Saturday, from Rome to Madrid. Three of us sat in the very back row, myself on the aisle, and I was lucky enough to evesdrop on most of the conversation between the flight attendants. (Actually, evesdrop probably isn't such a great description, since they were yelling across the back aisle to each other to be heard over the sound of the engines). So, if any of you have ever wondered what goes through the head of Ryan Air stewardesses (bearing in mind that the airline prides itself on its efficient professionalism), it's my pleasure to offer you a quick synopsis of the major conversation topics:

1) The woes of English soccer; one described her frustration as such: "Kick the ball in the fucking net if it's wide fucking open. I mean come on!"

2) The high quality of the sex (or, as the British call them, "bedroom") scenes in True Blood. One told the other, "you've got to check it out, it's seriously unbelievable. It's my favorite thing about television these days."

3) The value of having a...(What's the right term for a family-friendly blog like this?)...male friend with physical benefits and no attachments. One snapshot of their dialogue on the matter:

Attendant 1: "I see him every couple of weeks. He was starting to talk serious and I was like, 'Alex, No!'"

Attendant 2: "Good for you. You need that. I'm not too, too loose so it's good to have that option."

Somewhere, I thought, poor Alex was waking up alone, wondering why he couldn't get this girl to like him. 30,000 feet above the Mediterranean, I had the answer in hand.

Rome

Of all the cities I ever wanted to visit, Rome was the top choice. I love history, I love Italian food, I loved the TV show and I have an Italian last name. It just seemed logical.

Just like Ios, Rome met and exceeded my expectations. Some quick highlights of the trip:

-The food, from the first dinner of Spaghetti al Pesto to the last slice of pizza

-The Spanish Steps, where we joined an international ensemble of people on our first night to drink wine and soak in the summer air

-The Roman Colosseum, the place I most wanted to see before I died. Simply mindblowing to walk around, and full of interesting facts. Like this one: Emperor Commodus, the basis of Joaquin Phoenix´s character in Gladiator, killed more than 12,000 men in the colosseum, plus hundreds of bears and lions, to earn himself the title of greatest gladiator in history. Of course, the animals were drugged and both arms of every man were broken, but it's still pretty impressive. No mention on the tour of whether or not he was really in love with his sister.

-Palatine Hill, the ancient seat of power in Rome, which we walked around for literally 30 minutes while looking for an entrance before realizing we had seen the entire things already from the road that overlooked it.

-Museum of the Reunification, where I was struck by two things. One, there is a semi-decent possibility that a great-great-(great?) grandpa of mine fought in the wars to reunify the country. And two, that most of the heroic paintings of Italian soldiers in WWI, being dated from the 1920s and 1930s, were probably commissioned by the fascists. Apparently they have a longer staying power than I thought.

-The Vatican Museum, best museum I've ever seen. It's not just the size or the skill of the artwork, but the diversity of it (greek sculpture to modern art and entire wings of everything in between) that makes it so incredible.

-The Sistine Chapel, where I finally appreciated Good Will Hunting to its fullest extent but was disappointed (though not surprised) to find myself unable to move due to crowds. I imagine that if I go to heaven upon my death, I'll be greeted in a recreation of the chapel with a private picnic.

-St. Peter´s Basilica, which took 120 years to build and is the very heart of the Roman Catholic world. One of the most beautiful buildings I have ever seen, its combination of size and splendor blows away both the Hagia Sophia and the Blue Mosque (indeed, it was so expensive to build that it was financed in part through a surge in the sale of indulgences, helping to spark the Reformation). Besides the church itself, one can descend into the crypts below where St. Peter and dozens of popes and saints are interred (as well as members of the exiled Stuart dynasty from England, who were referred to as kings by the Vatican). We also made the decision to ascend to the cupola, which offers views of all of Rome. It didn't seem so high up at first, and for some reason the roughly 550 steps didn't deter us. Only later did we find out that we climbed almost half the height of the Empire State Building. Most of the steps were in circular staircases, which meant that as we climbed for what must have been 15 minutes or more we were simultaneously walking in tight circles with little room to breathe. Needless to say, I probably won't ever go up there again (though that being said, it was well worth it).

-The Pantheon, which is in very good condition due to its medieval conversion into a Catholic Church. There were many signs asking for silence and respect, but most of the hundreds of tourists didn't seem too worried. Rafael is buried there, though I didn't see Michelangelo, Leonardo or Donatello.

-Sant'Ignazio Church: I admit I'm a little biased; I love the Jesuits, was educated by Jesuits, and am Catholic today because of the Jesuits. Moreover, I hate being in a crowd when visiting something extraordinary. In any case, I found this church, dedicated to St. Ignatius and the central church of the Jesuit order, to be every bit as impressive as the Sistine Chapel and St. Peter´s. The frescoes are mindblowing in their grandiosity and beauty, the walls are lined with chapels dedicated to Jesuit saints interred under the altars, and the crowds are almost non-existent. So far on my trip, this church is THE HIDDEN GEM of all of Europe.

I wish I could have had more time in Rome, but I'm confident I'll return one day. As of now, it's quite possible my favorite place in Europe (minus Ios, which is barely real life).

Turkey Followup

Tom Friedman wrote a couple of reflections this week on the cultural and political situation in Turkey that are worth checking out in light of my earlier post. They basically contain a lot of substantial information that (unfortunately) seem to be in line with the observations I made on the street ten days ago.

Paradise Found

When I was four, I went to sleep on Christmas Eve anxious for what the morning would bring. I fully expected a treasure of presents that would bring unbounded joy.

To this day, walking down the stairs the next day to see a train chugging along a circular track around the tree is one of the best memories of my life. The feeling you get when you have way too high expectations and then get them exceeded by the actual thing is quite possibly the rarest known to man.

Since December 25, 1992, I have not known that feeling. I've had many joys in life, but that one? It was fleeting.

Until this week. Ios, in the Greek Islands, was alternatively described to me as a cross between Cancun, college, Hawaii, and Greece. I was told there would be an abundance of beautiful women, beaches, water, buildings, mountains, and footpaths, not to mention wild bars and clubs.

That was exactly what it ended up being. It was paradise on Earth, no doubt about it, and I was sorry to leave it behind; I actually wanted to change my plane ticket and just work there for the rest of the summer. There isn't much else to say about the island. What can you say about heaven to someone who's never seen it? Those who have don't need words to describe what it's like.

We were only in Athens for a few hours; on the way to and from Ios, we got into town very late and then had to leave in the morning. If you've heard about the unrest there, I have only this to say: it's very real. We left our hostel with little time to spare on the way to the airport and found the subway locked shut; the workers were on strike. We had to rush into taxis, and our drivers were freaking out because a massive march was about to shut down all the major roads in the city center. Things are not good there.

But at least things are cheap and the people are beautiful. And because of the unrest, we had the island largely to ourselves.

A Word on Turkish Islam

Most of my posts on this blog tend to be light-hearted; this one is not. I was extremely disappointed in the supposedly progressive Turkish culture that stands apart from much of the Islamic world.

I volunteered in (Muslim parts of) Bosnia three years ago and experienced a strain of Islamic culture that was very much married to modernity and the West; people wore American-style (if a bit ragged), watched American and British TV, listened avidly to musicians from across North America and Europe, devoured the internet, and saw no contradiction between their identity as Muslims and their place in the modern world.

For many Turks, especially (and most notably) those of my own generation, this did not seem to be the case. To highlight just a handful of examples from my brief time in Istanbul:

-The midday call to prayer sounded while we were in the Grand Bazaar: Having spent time in Bosnia, it was not unusual for me to see dozens of people rushing about to be at a mosque in time. When we were initially fenced into a corner of the bazaar by faithful who converted the alleyways into prayer spots, I was not particularly taken aback and was actually quite impressed to hear the hustle and bustle of the bazaar shut down almost instantly. But after a handful of minutes I noticed a few things: 1) it was all men praying, and 2) most of the older people in the bazaar were still minding their shops and ignoring the whole process; it was the younger ones, people my age, who made up the bulk those facing toward Mecca. After I finally found a way around them, I noticed one woman shopping for candy with her children while wearing a full burqa, with all of her daughters in hijabs. I wondered if she was required to leave her home by her husband with one on, but away from his glare was not so faithful as many of the men were.

-Walking along the Bosporus later that day, we stumbled upon what we lightheartedly labeled "Istanbul Beach": on the large boulders that made up the shore all the way around the Old City, people were sunbathing, fishing, and jumping into the water. It was not unlike what one might find in any city on a hot day. Except that as we continued walking, we noticed that of the literally hundreds of people sunbathing, not a single one was a woman. It was clear that it was not yet socially acceptable for women to shed their clothes by the water on a hot day.

-Indeed, of the many, many people who sought our business, in front of restaurants, shops, and stands, not a single one was a woman. Not one woman was inviting customers in, waiting tables, involved in the transaction of money, or anything else you might expect in a modern cosmopolitan city like Istanbul.

-Perhaps most shocking of all, though: when I tried to link to Youtube in one of the posts I wrote while in Istanbul, I was shocked to discover that the website is blocked by the Turkish government.

None of this meshes with the brand of Islam I saw in Bosnia and that I was led to believe predominates in Turkey. I found there a culture where women are not just second-class citizens but are often an entirely separate underclass. I found a place where religious extremism seems to be stronger among the younger generation instead of weaker. I found a place where the government controls what information their people read, and where propaganda reigns supreme (I didn't need to know Turkish to know, looking at signs or observing TV, that the reaction against Israel's recent raid on the aid armada is fierce and furious and that the Israeli side of the story wasn't often being presented).

It's worth pointing out that many Turks would fit right into Sarajevo culture, and New York for that matter (and many do upon their emigration); most of them enjoy nightlife, drinking, and conversation. Most women do not wear burqas, and many do not wear hijabs. Some are bikini models, and many are flirtateous. (Moreover, many women choose to wear burqas or hijabs on their own; it is their faith and it is important to respect that).

But the Istanbul I was led to expect was progressive, a shining star in the Islamic world. It is hard to know for certain after just 48 hours, but if such an Istanbul ever did exist it does not now. The city I visited seemed to be in constant clash between secular modernity, religious fundamentalism, and a middle ground that seems to be increasingly silenced. I can only imagine what rural Turkey is like.

In any case, the European Union's continued denial of Turkish applications for membership is not just based on discrimination; there is a very real and (I now know) wellfounded concern over human rights. Turkey has the potential to lead the Islamic world into the modern age, especially as prosperity in the country increases over the coming century. But it also has the potential to slip backwards (and perhaps pull the rest of the Islamic world back with it), and that fact is well worth the attention of power brokers in the international community. Something is stirring there, and it is not necessarily good.u