Trastevere, in Rome, would be a good place to live, I think.

The Roman colosseum was big. And old. And it's not getting any younger. But it was magnificant. Top pick from Roman TV: The Pink Panther (even better in Italian). Only be outdone by the Florence TV lineup: Magnum P.I., Fame, Life Goes On, Flipper. Freakin' outstanding.

Vatican City, more specifically Basilica Di San Pietro, was the most incredible sight yet. I was a little out of sorts at mass, but I stood and kneeled at the right times.

It felt like fall today in Florence. I think that means it's time to get home for some pigskin. Besides, I've got a lot of people to catch up with. Louie Malnati; the Gulliver's family over on Howard Avenue; Mrs. Leona on Sheridan by the lake. Good folks, and I miss them.

It's been a slice. And I'll do it again, I hope.

Signing out,

tfs (Ineptidude)

(AP) Brindisi, Italy--In a controversial move that he says was a display of American tenacity and fortitude, U.S. citizen Otto "Sleeper" Wilson choose to remain on the top deck as the overnight ferry Mary G sailed directly through the path of light showers while traveling from Greece to Italy Friday night.

"I thought about going inside, I really did," said Wilson. "But I had just organized my bags and stuff and gotten into my sleeping bag, and I really didn't feel like moving around again."

Wilson claims that a German couple had set up to camp out on the deck about ten yards to his left, but left for shelter when it began to rain.

"The guy, he was really tall, he said something like 'it might stop raining soon, yes, but I don't want to wake up to water on my head'," said Wilson, a 28 year-old Winona, Minn., resident. He says the couple had offered to share their wine with him earlier in the evening, but he'd refused, and claims he would have put more credence into the German's rational if they'd been "beer drinkers."

Wilson says another factor in his decision was that the green color of his sleeping bag matched that of the ship's deck so that his area "looked really cool."

Fellow passenger Joseph "Tony" Glennarelli, a personal trainer in Milan, says Wilson should be worried about more than looks.

"That boy has one sore tush coming to him, sleeping on a surface like that," said Glennarelli, 33. "No workouts for him this week. None."

Told of Glennarelli's comments, Wilson challenged him to a duel on the vessel's plank, only to be reminded that the ship had been docked for over a day and that ferries do not have "planks".

The rest of Mary G's passengers seemed to be divided over Wilson's stance.

Armond Gerardstein, 73, a jewelry reseller from Skokie, Ill., says he and many others on board weren't sure what Wilson was up to.

"He struck me as a big dumb ass out there," said Gerardstein, who volunteered that he guesses "a lot" on his appraisals these days because "he can't see the goods so clear anymore."

"I thought it was brave, what he did," said Stephanie Chanopolis, a passenger from Patras, Greece. "Those showers wanted to get somebody wet, and I'm just glad that it was him."

Reports have circulated that Wilson's European holiday was not only his first trip out of the U.S., but his first venture outside of Minnesota.

In a written statement of support, Wilson's family called his decision "courageous" and "important" and said it was a "sterling example of individuality for ship passengers throughout the Aegean region." The letter also said that Wilson, who rents the basement room in his parent's split-level Winona apartment, has been under immense pressure since he lost his snow plowing job in 1994.

"I don't really give a care what people think, I did't even get that wet," said Wilson, who admitted that he wasn't sure if the ferry was headed for Greece or Italy the night of the incident. "And hey, put in there that I'm single."

Today was the day I was attacked by a donkey.

I was walking down a set of steep, worn, winding steps that led from the top of a cliff to a port that lay about 1,000 feet below. One could walk down, or one could ride the back of a donkey. At the bottom of the path--I'll call it Donkey Shit Row--there was a backlog of mules waiting to carry people back up to the top. I couldn't get through to the port, and I wanted to, so I said, "hey, mister, move your ass." The recipient of my request, an old Greek shepard type, had no idea what I was saying, which is pretty much why I had laid it on him. I even donned a smile after I said it to throw him off a little more. But then, almost as if he'd understand what I'd said, old Donkey Boy feeds me with a swift rear hoof kick, judo style. The jackass is lucky he missed. I'm sure this crap only happens to me. It's for the best, though; how many folks actually know how to defend themselves versus the unprovoked wrath of a donkey?

Now on to a more serious matter: my swimming ability. I had taken a boat out to hot springs located just off the coast of a nearby volcanic island. For some ridiculous reason or another, the boat couldn't get any nearer than 30 meters to the actual springs, a shallow area where one could stand. Now apperantly, in Greece, 30 meters is considerably futher than 30 feet, the standard distance for 30 meters in America. This came to me too late; I was already in the water, doggy paddling away, in full spastic mode, wondering how my normally loyal eyes could so drastically misjudge a distance. The looks of concern from the old fart tourists swimming past me did me no good; we had received our warning on the boat and now--I could see them smirking--I was hopelessly on my own. I am still breathing heavily. Swimming is for losers.

Unrelated: I think I could make a mint by introducing shower curtains to the European market. What's the deal? It's an absolute free-for-all on this continent everytime one steps into a hotel bathroom for a little rinse. I'm stumped.

Santorini, Greece: The island of the volcano, where the sand was black, the sky was yellow, and the sun was blue.

It is just after midnight. The temperature hovers around 70 degrees. I am on the balcony of the apartment I have rented, situated on the second floor of a whitewashed home on the island of Naxos. The apartment, 30 skins a night, is fantastic; air conditioning, stove, bath and shower, tube, king-sized bed, and a refridgerator, which I've stocked with bananas, juice, water, beer and...animal crackers. They have animal crackers here.

I sit in a blue lounge chair. I am overlooking the Aegean sea. In front of me is my favorite meal: green pepper pizza and a can of Amstel Light beer. There has been much competition, but it is hands down the best pizza I have had in Europe (and is from, coincidentally, Montreal Pizza).

The only sounds are of cricketts, waves slapping to the shore, and, in the distance, faintly, mopeds humming about. My tension and angst from earlier today are for the moment--like the extra large pizza I just hammered down--gone.

The white sand beaches here are as delightful as the pizza. I never joke about pizza. The Aegean is warm, relaxing, like a bath set to the perfect degree. Windsurfers dart to and fro on the horizon, moving so quickly that one is tempted to wonder if engines trail behind them. A wind comes by often enough, but softly enough, to temper the rays from the sun, the only visible object in the royal blue sky.

I cannot believe that people live in this place, and I am not one of them. Today I happened upon a nudey beach-- not the standard topless number, the full monty. I saw more limp peckers and sagging bottoms than I care to remember. Naturally, I immediately departed for another beach. Nude.

Milling about, I can only smile at the way in which things seem in perfect order here. There is even a bookstore that sells American books. I will buy one. Tomorrow I will rent a hog-cycle (or, probably, a moped) to explore the island's interior.

A peaceful spot.

Reporting live from the lone computer behind the cash register of the gift shop at the Athens Hard Rock Cafe, this is me.

I'm pretty sure this is the only internet connection in Athens, and so i am here. I'm not quite sure what my role is, though. I think the store is open. The merchandise looks ready. Am i working the register? There goes the phone; Kaðnéúa (hello)? (That isn't "exactly" hello, but sort of close; I couldn't find all the proper Greek keys.)

Crossing a street in Athens is an artform, a precious skill gained only from experience, like finding an address in Boston. Outside of the Acropolis, there's not much doing here. I know this for a fact because i have been told as much by others who have traveled here before, and am resolute enough, disciplined enough (lazy), not to go forcing things by seeing for myself. But ah, the Acropolis. Magnificant. Ancient. Strong. A fine place to think. And there were old Greek men, perched upon their stations throughout the grounds, blowing whistles at visitors who were apparently violating the rules, scoldings not unlike those distributed by lifeguard underlings at a municipal pool to children running on the deck. Whistles. At the Acropolis. Not exactly the integrity i envisioned for a structure thousands of years old, but it was humorous and is, i suppose, part of what makes the place what it is.

I am heading to the island of Naxos on a ferry tonight; a bittersweet trip at a time like this. But my friend Laura had a baby yesterday, a beautiful little girl, prooving, again, that the wheel turns round, that the miracle of life aways wins in the end. What joyous timing.

Of course my prayers are with eveyone at home.

And now, I have a customer.

What the hell is going on here? I'm walking the streets of Patras, Greece, and people are milling about, cruising along on their mopeds, chowing on gyros, growing dark beards, as if everything is right in the world. My country is being attacked! Not attacking, not defending poor souls in distant corners of the globe. We are being attacked. On our own turf. This is a serious and threatening time, and these people are not acting serious or threatened. These events are a rarity, an atrocity of terrorism; they constitute a global crisis, and an entire population passes their day totally oblivious, window shopping and chain smoking their afternoon away. As if to add insult to me, my country, my need to express, to be informed, I am denied access to a terminal at the cyber cafe. Full, you wait, they say. Wait? My country is being attacked! Not yours, mine. Do you not know I am from the U.S., the USA, America!? How could there be any confusion? I wear blond hair, a Grateful Dead t-shirt, flip flops; I walk fast, I am angry, I am donning a scowl that says "my capitol is being evacuated and I'd like to know why, not after seista, but now!" How could they mistake such an expression?

My patriotic juices are pumping, my heart racing, and they listen to Frank Sinatra--the American Frank Sinatra--drink ouzo, and play video games all around me. Do they not need revenge, the promise of pain and destruction to be returned ten-fold; do they not want justice more than olives and souvlaki? I I want to discover the root of this apathy, to make them feel what I feel, the fear, horror, the disgust, the anger, what all reasonable people feel today.

Thoughts jumping through my head on a scary day.

How Not to Get Your Start in a New City

10pm: train arrives two hours late into barcelona, spain; 11pm: have already been coldly negged from six hostals--all booked; 11:15pm: Swindled out of muy deniro on cab ride to another hostal, drop off point is no where close to said hostal, hostal is booked, i left my map in the taxi; Midnight: five more hostals have ordered me--in a foreign, cruel tongue--to buzz off; 12;15 am: i board a bus to head to the port district, home of many hostals. bus goes nowhere near said port district, and each stop is more and more scary looking to my now blurry eyes; 2:15 am: exit bus at point at which i had boarded, grateful for the two hours of shelter, and even happier to be back in barcelona, from which the bus had driven rather far from; 2:30 am: contemplate mad dash into the Ritz, can´t... muster...strength; 2:50 am: Defeated, i check into a hotel, paying far more than i should, and mericfully drift to sleep.

But. This is not just bitchfest 2001.

The next day, i wake up, wander around, go into a McDonalds, only to be informed they don´t have breakfast sandwiches (communism, back in Spain?). i thought, ut-óh, here we go again. but then, walking aimlessly, as is my way, i came across a magazine stand, and then a magazine...printed in english! gold. and more, it (the economist) ridicules Dubb-ya to no end. silver.

My good fortune returned, i felt like the Luckiest American in Spain.

so i´m heading back into my hostal in sevilla, spain, late this evening, ready to bath (my face) in the finest sink they had to offer, and as i`m entering my room, the night desk clerk shouts to me, "perdone, senor! have you eaten?" as i had, coincidentally, just polished off a mushroom pizza, i said, yes, i have eaten. "oh," she said sadly in her very crippled english (the ignorance). "well, then do you want to go email?"

momentarily confused (go email?), but reminding myself that i am here to meet people (or at least a person in each country), i said sure, let`s type. so as we`re walking to the cyber cafe, she explains to me that she met a tourist traveling through sevilla a few months back, and that she would like to email him, but needs my help with her english. (by now it`s clear to meet that the `did you eat?` opener was but a empty ruse, and that i am wanted only for my english capabilities, again).

then she lays it on me: "I want you to tell him that i love him!" i`m like whoa, sure. but i need some background, so i ask, where`s he from. "new york." ok, probably a scumbag, but whatever. "and what does he do for work?" i ask. "he`s a police officer, and much older than me." (she looked 21, 22). "and," she continued casually, "he´s married. but that does not matter! he has no children, and i love him!"

of course, i couldn´t contain my laughter at this point. she`s smitten with a new york city copper, who rolled through sevilla with his wife, somehow met this young girl, exchanged email addresses, and now she wants me to write him a smoldering love letter ("tell him what you would want a girl to say to you," she ordered). and they didn´t even suck face when they met (i asked), so i don`t know where this lust is coming from. she kept saying, "tell him i want to kiss him! tell him i want to kiss him!" and i`m thinking, i´ve got a 13-hour train ride to barcelona in about 6 hours, and i´m about to pen a red hot love lettter to a married man in uniform.

so i did. and it was, if i may so myself, a winner. and as soon as i`d finished, she thanked me and split, leaving me sitting there, in sevilla, spain, bewildered, humored, wondering what i`d just done, and to whom...

post completed. on the sly, i submitted a short, "test" post (the first three weren´t sufficient), because, when i´d published a small novel last week from paris, it all went south on me. alas, my domination of technology continues even in europe.

paris was basically a mirror of the paris casino in vegas, only more expensive and with fewer french people.and the ceiling, ur, sky, wasn´t as cool. (wait, that was The Venician.) i confess to putting only 7 francs in the donation box at the notre dame cathedral, when the sign clearly requested 10. i figure 70 percent of the the people i prayed for will still be saved, or blessed, as the case may be, which is better than none, no? i kept asking (pertinent) people, ´parle vous francias?´ instead of the intended, ´parle vous english?´ when i then started babbling in english, most were rather confused. and then i left france.

upon arriving in san sebastion, i immediately hit the Pizza Queen, because everyone knows you go to the north of spain for the pizza. the next night, i did a mexican joint. looking back, my choices were inexplicably retarded, uncalled for. that is me. this place, san sebastion, is permenantly a member of my top three beach towns list. that list, mind you, is as revered as my top ten places to meet women online list.

sevilla: affectionately called the frying pan of spain. it is true.

and now lagos, portugal, where it is nearly as hot, but there is a beach, many beaches, really, to drench away the steamy days. if i knew what time it was, i probably would...not do a thing differently.

I have been in Lagos, Portugal, for four days, and just this morning i realized, or rather someone imposed the information on me, that this town is in a different time zone than Spain, from where i´m coming. Time is overrated. That isn´t to say that i´m not on a very tight schedule this week, clearly.

Squished Frog rocks; www.squishedfrog.com