Rome

This is probably more than simply obvious, but this city is huge. Walking around is difficult, the metro system has just two lines, and the bus routes are like the Gordian knot. And it's all urban, so unless you eat somewhere that caters to tourists or wealthy folks, the restaurant you go has no problem selling you a Coke with your pizza.

I have been to the house of God. The Musei Vaticani was -- like most other historic museums -- not actually built with the museum crowd in mind. Very few people say, "Hey. Build me a castle. Make it good and defensible, but with a baroque architectural feel. Oh, and just in case they turn it into a museum in four hundred years, add some redundant hallways and make the rooms extra big. And more bathrooms." It was still fantastic. Especially the Museo Pio-Clementino, which is the largest collection of ancient sculpture in the world.

Yes, the Sistine Chapel was amazing, but it's really hard to appreciate it when you're elbow-to-elbow with two hundred people all staring in different directions. I do appreciate the fact that Michaelangelo pained his own flayed skin in the hands of Saint Bartholomew in "The Last Judgment," a wall piece in the chapel. He didn't really want to do all the work anyway, but it's hard to say no to a pope. Especially if he's a Medici (but I don't really know if he was).

I enjoyed the Castel Sant'Angelo, rededicated to the Archangel Michael after he appeared just before a plague ended in Rome. (It was originally Hadrian's mausoleum, then a fortress, then a prison.)

What I really liked were Augustus' Mausoleum and the Pantheon. The mausoleum was grassed over by centuries of time, and little more than a raised hill with a path around it. But there were still stones, and those stones were still old as can be, and I still knew an emperor was buried here. If he's lucky, he still remains. (I say that only because the Venetians stole Saint Mark's body from Constantinople... no kidding.) And the Pantheon was started by Augustus, finished by Hadrian, and to this day we have no idea how they made the damn dome. Staring up through the hole in the middle of it is like looking into the Eye of God. Add to that the fact that during certain celestial events, the sun will shine directly down through it, and the floor of the place was once used to chart astrological movements. Very, very cool. You just have to ignore the fact that now it's a kinda lame basilica. Just walk outside, a good ways away, turn around, and gape at the sheer size of the thing. Hadrian once boasted that he found Rome a city of brick and left it a city of marble. Looking at the Pantheon, it's hard to argue with him.

Just one more day in Rome. I know, it sucks, but this is an expensive place, and I think I might just be able to manage to get to the Colosseum, the Roman Forum, and the Palatine Hill tomorrow. Like I'm travelling back in time. Now when I see HBO's "Rome," I'll be able to say, "I've been there... except I remember a McDonald's in the background."

Venice

First things first: a congratulations to Valerio, who aced his exam after studying more diligently than was probably healthy. International Rights will never be the same. Well done, magus.

Venice is truly a bizarre city. No cars. The canals are the only semi-direct path anywhere. Everywhere else is a maze with the power to stretch time out to twice its length. Granted, this theoretically means I could live twice as long, but I'd spend all that time just looking for a place to actually eat while sitting down like a civilized human being should. The city itself isn't terribly big, but walking anywhere becomes a real test of navigation, endurance, and patience. I thank God that some weird impulse led me to take a compass on this quest: the maps would be almost useless without it.

Then night falls. Venice, by night, is a little quieter. The boat traffic is mostly reduced to the vaporettos (the boat busses), and the lights of pubs and restaurants and hotels dances off the canals. With less people on the street and less boats on the water, it really hits me... there is something truly otherworldly about a city built on the water. They have to constantly maintain city services, sustain them from the gradual sinking going on all over, and it's got to be expensive for Venice as a whole. But the place is just a step away from a city built entirely in the trees. Think long enough about a city with canals for streets, and you soon find yourself in a dreamscape, moonlit and a little quieter and populated by shadowy people who flock to the lights of pubs like moths go to the flame.

Weather permitting (because it seems like my luck's run out), I'll get a chance to see the little islands all around Venice. So far, I've seen the Accademia and Guggenheim galleries -- which really were fantastic -- and more than a few peaceful churches that are older than the recognizably English language.

More importantly, I want to take a moment to thank you all. Seriously. Thank you for having filled my life with so much meaning and joy. I cannot thank you enough. I find myself narrating what I see, as if preparing to tell you all when I get back, or preparing to write it here in this blog. So you aren't far from my heart and my mind. Your names are carved into my bones.

I love you.

Florence

I'm pretty sure I've found the slowest computer in all of Florence.

As I said before, this is a truly fascinating city. I've seen just about every gallery, museum, and church there is to see, with only a few exceptions I intend to take care of soon.

I'll admit, standing in line for the Galleria della'Accademia, seeing all the folks ahead of me, thinking about the €9 it'll cost to get in, all just to see one statue... I had my doubts. And then I saw the David. It really is like being in the same room as a giant: you'll see him out of the corner of your eye, and something in your head says "Wait wait... that can't be right," so you stare at this titan as if -- any moment now -- he'll finally fit himself into your mindspace. But he doesn't. He's still a giant, and he's bigger than even your expectations. It was literally difficult to concentrate whenever I could just turn my head and see him. He is beautiful and powerful... and he looks like he knows it.

I've seen the works of the great Renaissance masters, but I really wish I knew more about art history so I could fully appreciate it all. I can tell they were geniuses, and well before their time, but hardcore analysis is a bit beyond me (especially while surrounded by a true throng of other tourists).

In the Basilica di Santa Croce are the monuments to some of the most influential men in all of Western history: Michaelangelo, Dante, Galileo, even Machiavelli. Dante's monument was especially awesome. He sits facing forward, grim as ever. To his right is a tall, powerful-looking woman with a starred crown and a long staff, gesturing back to him in pride... Italia herself. To Dante's left is a very sad, very beautiful woman, the upper part of her body bent over the sarcophagus with a laurel wreath in one hand... Beatrice? Are the laurels Virgil's? They are proud of this man, and they should be. Despite also being the name of a (rather awesome) pizzeria, Dante's name carries power in Florence. He loved this city so much, and suffered exile for political reasons.

And speaking of politics, the Medicis were arrogant, arrogant, powerful people. The Palazzo Vecchio, which was kinda their courtly headquarters, is jam packed with art on just about every surface possible. In the ballroom, each panel of the ceiling is a painting worthy of a museum. In another room, busts are above the doorways. I noticed one bust had a Roman look to it, and assumed it to be so, above the figure's head was the crest of the Medicis. Another bust, however, was of a man in liturgical robes, and where the crest would've been was instead the three-tiered crown of the pope, complete with the two keys of Rome. Then I saw the name on the bust... something like: "PIVS VII, JVLIAN MEDICI, FILII," and realized that -- yes -- this was one of the Medici popes. And the other Medici pope stood guard over another doorway. Seriously, these folks had everything but a painting of one man strangling the other: over the strangler's head would be a little scroll reading "US," and over the strangled man's head would be one that read "EVERYONE ELSE." But, well, we do kinda owe them for the Renaissance.

I think I'll be taking off soon, in the next few days. Valerio, Angelica, and Massimiliano -- not to mention all the other friends they've introduced me to -- have shown me wondrous levels of hospitality. Great, great people. And this whole while they've been incredibly encouraging about my quest.

Oh. And good news. I've found God again. And this time we're speaking the same language, like every good teacher should do with His student. A man named Michael helped, a friend of my Graces. After them, Michael, God, and all of Florence, I figure it's only a matter of time before I run into the Elves. I'll keep you posted.

Florence, Enriched

No kidding, three Florentines have taken me under their wing. Valerio, Angelica, and Massimiliano have not only shown me around the city -- and taken me to the *good* bars -- but they're also folks kinda along the same path as I am. Meeting up with them has been like the pilgrims gathering along the road to Canterbury (complete with funny and bizarre stories). And at present, I'm even staying at Valerio's house.

This city is completely amazing. It's really and truly ancient. You can see people walking to or from their jobs, and the sidewalk is older than America. I had a truly wonderful dinner at a country house in Tuscany that was over 400 years old; lots of homemade pizzas of various kinds.

And walking around, trying to find the next museum or just some place to sit down and write, I'll look up and see the Duomo towering over the whole street: like God's own palace, with white walls and green trim, dozens of statues on its facade, and truly massive in size. The history here will jump out at you and shake you by the shoulders.

The only problem is that I'm seeing and doing so much that I haven't had too much time to reflect. I didn't get to write about the Tuscany dinner until two days later. Granted, that keeps me pretty active, but it means the little, tiny revelations I have need to stick around with me until I can set them down and actually think about them. (On the good side, this kinda separates the wheat from the chaff: the ideas that stick with me should mean a little more, I'm just worried I might miss something important).

Dad, Angelica says hello, and she would like to meet you. I've given her the two-hour explanation of our family, and the poor girl has now used perfectly good brainpower to actually memorize our names.

I love and miss you all. I'm regaining a long-lost love of poetry and song, all rekindled by Florence and the people here.

(By the way, a latté here is just milk. Milk. No coffee. I wondered why the barrista was so confused when I asked for one. Here, our latté is a macchiato, pepperoni are just peppers, and Groundskeeper Willy from The Simpsons speaks with a Sardinian accent.)

(Ah. Joe, Danny, guys... feel free to laugh. My Florentines are roleplayers.)

(Yeah yeah. Yuck it up.)

Madrid to Florence

Seriously, Madrid was a bit of a letdown. Construction everywhere, a wind that damn near blew me over more than once; and if you combine the two, I got grit in my eyes every few minutes.

The Museo Thyssen, one of the largest private collections of art in the world, was alright. I need to rest more when I visit museums... just sit down and chill awhile instead of tiring myself out. But the Museo del Prado was really great stuff: the proto-anime style of "El Greco", the trippy surrealism of Heronymous Bosch, and the religious tryptichs (portable altarpieces in three sections) of the Flemish, jam-packed with meaning in every single square inch of the work, like Hindu temples that leave no blank stone.

But it's just a little unfortunate when I look in the guide book and its main reference to a city is its night life. And while I've had a fun/bizarre time with a drunk Spaniard, that isn't what I came here for. I want to meet people, yes, but I'm pretty sure I've got better things to do than stand around in a bar and drink.

(By-the-way, if there are any lingering typos in these posts, I'm blaming them on foreign keyboards, which have most of the symbols out of place.)

I caught a flight to Florence, because just about everything the book had to say about Barcelona referred to the club scene. The plane ticket, unfortunately, was way more expensive than I'd imagined, and I probably should have just hung out a bit in Madrid until the price went back down. This is the down side of no-fringe airlines: the cost, usually cheap to compete with the train system, tends to fluxuate wildly depending on the number of takers and frequency of the flight.

I feel better in that I've landed at a totally awesome hostel, and I like Florence already. A beautiful day, and perfect weather. The Instituto Gould -- where I'm staying -- is a palace turned religious place turned hostel, and it feels like a university. All of Florence seems friendly, and -- also important -- English-friendly. The downside is *why* it's English-friendly: I've seen lots and lots of Americans. And while I had a really great conversation with an older American couple, that does kinda spoil the experience of journeying out into the world. But I can't complain because I don't know any Italian.

So what do you think? If good men always waited until they thought they were worthy of a blessing, what would the world have already missed out on? But how many good men got ruined by blessings they didn't deserve? Both are paths of magic, yeah, but one's significantly more immediate. (I say that, but I have to realize that I haven't yet put myself into a strenuous enough situation to really warrant that kind of blessing. I don't deserve it yet, and I'm too scared to really throw myself into the teeth of the wild to seek it.)

That's worth talking about. As occasionally scary as it's been to meander about and wish I was home, to walk around with my whole life strapped to me in a backpack, it's still not as if I've walked into a rainforest and hoped my guardian angels would help keep me safe. I'm still in the civilized world, and I can't help but doubt that this isn't the reality-bending Quest I've been reading about.

But we'll see. I've only just arrived in Florence, and the apocalypse could happen anytime.

Paris, enriched

This is my last day in Paris, and my train to Madrid doesn't take off until 7pm. That's an aweful lot of time to kill with a massive backpack the size of another human being strapped to your back. And I only get thirty minutes of computer access.

Paris has really been amazing. If anything, the language barrier enhanced the whole experience. I could sit at a cafe and just let the sound of speech wash over me, without any interrupting, distracting desire to comprehend what's being said.

Notre Dame was beatiful, but touristy. The Louvre would have been fantastic... were it not for all the people. The Eiffel Tower is a big damn tower; imagine that.

The real prize of my time here was the Pantheon. Burial basilica of King Clovis, then of Saint Genevieve (patron saint of France), then the site of her monastic order, then re-appropriated as a resting place for all of France's honored dead. Grand and open architecture (even in the crypts below), awe-inspiring sculptures that make you actually believe in abstract concepts like Memory and Glory and Justice, and in the crypts I could really feel that I was in the presence of great men: Voltaire, Victor Hugo, Braille, and numerous others entombed there. The whole building is the perfect mix of holy place, mausoleum, and national monument.

And largely due to the Pantheon and my time sitting outside Notre Dame, I've had some pretty compelling revelations. Unfortunately, none of them have really been accompanied by a lightning-bolt that left me irreversibly changed from that time on. Either it's unrealistic for me to expect to see The Moment when it comes, or it just hasn't happened yet. Still, I've done a lot of thinking and a lot of writing. I'm getting a clearer picture of who I want to be... even if that person isn't near as interesting or world-changing as I had originally imagined.

A lot of this has been enlightening in a humbling way. Unless something hardcore and drastic happens, it has occurred to me that I'm not yet ready for the cosmic gifts I set out to find. They'd be more of a hindrance than a blessing. And I think it's best I just accept that and try to find my place in the world rather than undergo a massive overhaul of my personality, my mind, and my heart. Frankly, I like who I am. And this may just be youth talking, but I'm not yet ready to give that up.

But I still have a lot of growing to do, even if none of it involves the magic I so badly wanted a taste of. I seriously think nothing but bad would happen if I tried to sieze that power when I'm not ready for it.

The irony of it all? My first big hurdle between me and epic, mythic power?

Morality.

And of course, morality can't simply be thought and understood, like a set of rules as dead and anachronistic as the Ten Commandments. Morality must be internalized if it's to be any good.

So I probably won't come back with a train of angels at my heels, on a chariot coursed by the wheels of Knowledge and Mystery, pulled by my will alone, a cloak of stars dragging behind me in an ethereal breeze. But I should have a better understanding of the man I want to be.

(Between you all and me, I'm hoping for more drastic revelations, for the epic quest to truly play itself out. But, then, I've always been a sucker for a good story.)

I love you all.

London to Paris

Still alive. Still searching.

London was pretty fascinating. Especially the Tower. The Beefeaters and their families live there, so out back -- painted candy-bright -- is a set of playground equipment. I mean, that's redemption. Dark pasts become informative history and a place where people live and maintain that history.

I'd have stayed longer, but London is expensive, and had totally run out room at the hostels.

I got off the train in Paris, looked around, and thought, "Oh shit. Everything's written in French." In spite of the occasional fine-print English interpretations, the language barrier is going to be interesting.

Oh. In London, I went to Westminster Abbey, but thought better of paying the 10-Pound entry fee for the tour. But right there, in the same square, was St. Margarite's, open to the public. I walked in, looked at all the burial plaques, and then their choir started rehearsing. That, my friends, was an amazing find. I sat down in one of the old wooden pews and just drank in the music.

With any luck, my trip to Notre Dame will be just as refreshing. With a little help from higher powers, I'll find what I'm looking for, and hopefully be able to bring it back to you.

I love you all.

Birmingham, England

I have met the most helpful bartenders in the whole world; all in a pub called The Irish Club, where I finally got a chance to collect myself, ask a few questions, and come in from the cold. There's an evil, evil wind here that damn near blew me over. Makes the "Demon Wind" of Wittenberg look like an idle belch.

I won't lie. I'm scared. Let's leave it at that. I promised I wouldn't sabotage myself, and doubt is an insidious thing.

The bartenders were inspiring. I mentioned I wanted to get to London, and they've given me some great advice. So we'll see where that takes me.

Be well, dear friends. I just might survive this after all.