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.