Soccer is unlike any other sport, not because of its rules or players but because of the fans. There is a devotion of heart and soul that I really think is unrivaled in any other sporting event.
Game day arrived, and I was quite excited. I knew that soccer is a major event most everywhere outside of the states, so I was a little disappointed not to see the whole city topsy-turvy for the Fiorentina- AC Milan showdown. As we neared the stadium, though, everything turned more and more viola-coloured –vespas, jackets, umbrellas, awnings, shoes, everything. The crowds thickened. We found our gate with a mob of people gathered around it. A line would be a very inaccurate description. Queues don't mean much to Italians to begin with, but at sporting events, they are entirely non-existent. We joined the back of the "line" like sweet, southern-belles would, keeping our distance from everyone and shuffling forward in our turn. I soon realized, however, that as we'd been standing there and moved forward only inches, many people had come in and moved forward meters. If we were ever to get in, we would have to join in the sea of violet squeezing through the narrow wrought-iron gates. Before we really had the chance to think about it, though, we were shoved into the mass of bodies and all issues regarding personal-space and decorum would have to be dealt with later. As eager men were elbowing their way closer to the entrance before their time, I realized the only way to ever escape was to do likewise. For every elbow, I elbowed right back and shoved back for every shove and so found my way rather quickly and painlessly through the entrance.
Although the tickets have your name and a seat number printed on them, this is only for added security and you sit where you can find seats. We sat in a section mildly reminiscent of the "student section" of Belhaven soccer games. There were even a number of men perched on the railings and leading the chants as Jerry, Eli, Craven and Jim are wont to do. The language, team colors, size and willingness of the crowd to join in the merriment was slightly different, however. I half-expected there to be some down-time in the chanting and maybe even a dull moment or two. Never again will I so underestimate football fans. The songs began about twenty minutes before kick-off until about the same after the end and were only paused occasionally for sighs of delight, anguish, suspense and relief. As the crowds sang,
"Oh, Fiorentina," we did our best to sing along with the two or three words we knew. We tried to pick up on all the songs. Some had familiar tunes, like the Addams family, others were easy enough to sing along if you added sufficient
la's and
lei's and
viola's.
When the Milan players were called out, the crowds were still singing. This song didn't sound quite so cheerful, of course, but it still had a beautifully Italian sound and was still sung by almost the entire stadium. I listened closely to decipher the meaning and was quite shocked to discover it. I will only say that cursing has never before sounded so pleasant, and it makes "Hotty Toddy" child's-play.
The man in front of us turned around a time or two, and soon realized that we were not cheering with the same vehemence as the rest of the crowd nor did we sing enough. After a time or two of noticing this, he started talking at us, pleasantly enough, and the man beside us did his best to translate. "English?" he asked us. "Yes, we only speak a very little Italian," was our reply. The man below us proceeded to do his best to insult David Beckham. We quickly remedied the situation by pointing out that we were English speaking but American– the first time this has worked in our favor. Still, they were wary of us, assuming we had come to see Milan play, which, I must admit, was the main factor in our being at that game rather than any other. Eager to assure them of our loyalty to Florence and to ensure our safety through the evening, we told them that we live in Florence and "Fiorentina è mia cuore." This last line and other exclamations of our love for Belle Firenze made the man next to us more disposed to like us. He introduced himself, showed us his season tickets, apologized for his friend below, and gave us a running commentary of the match, of which we caught very little. Whenever Fiorentina missed a goal, he would throw up his hands and I could imagine him saying "Mama Mia!" though I'm afraid his exclamations were not always so tame. Whenever Milan or Ronaldinho would do well, he would throw up gestures of both Italian and American origins which showed his displeasure. He, of course, was not alone in this, but accompanied by most everyone in the
stadio.
We slowly caught on to the songs and chants of Fiorentina, but they changed their song list on us after half-time, and we were once again lost.
Florence has not been playing so well of late, so I fully expected a routing by Milan, but Fiorentina was well-supported and would not give up so easily on home turf. They scored the first goal early on to resounding applause and a chorus of song. In fact, they dominated most of the 90 minutes. Mid-way through the second half, though, Milan met Fiorentina's goal. This game is still very winnable, I thought, quite shocked. Firenze continued to play very well, and it looked as if it would go to overtime or even end in a draw. But in the very last seconds of the game Milan put in another goal. The tiny section of Milan fans, which was entirely blocked off with plexiglass from the rest of the seating, went wild while the rest of the stadium threw their arms up in despair and prayed for some way for that goal to be called back. "It's over," informed the man beside us, "They're thieves". Some grief-stricken fans began filtering out, while the rest waited to cheer up their
ragazzi who had played so well and to let the Milan team know exactly what Florence thought of them. Beckham, in typical fashion removed his shirt to parade in front of the crowd his newest tattoos, though he didn't play a second in the game. The Florentines let him know what they thought of that. Ronaldinho they reproached more vehemently, though, with gestures and, of course, song.
As we walked towards the nearest pizzaria that didn't have a two-hour line outside the door, we passed a coffee bar. Inside was a man wearing a purple sweater, bent over his cup of espresso, looking entirely devastated. Had it not been insensitive, I'd have stopped for a picture of this scene. The barista seemed to be attempting to comfort the man with soothing words and coffee. He looked as if his grandmother had died or his house had been taken away. No, his devastation was certainly that Fiorentina had lost to AC Milan once again.
After each city someone asks us, "What's your favorite?" And after each city our favorite changes. We've developed a way around choosing favorites, though. Rome is a favorite for history, Florence for art, Venice for beauty (man-made), Cinque Terre for beauty (natural), and Lucca for families.
Parlare con il mi'amore sul la Via dell'Amore
There were plenty of goods for sale, also. I stopped at the first booth to buy some kitchen towels. There was such a variety of little booths, though: the stand with artificial flowers; a hippie stand, too, with clothing and such; a little man selling cd's out of the back of his van; the Native Americans selling, well, Native American things; and the cheap make-up booth. There were a few that were not quite so out of place like the woodworker, but for the most part, it was a strange combination of a carnival, a renaissance re-enactment and a flea market, with some Native Americans thrown in on the side.
right into the church. We, naturally, followed them inside. The nave was now bursting with colors and feathers, but there was a steady stream of people heading further into the church. We followed, once again, expecting a further continuance of the renaissance-clad procession. Instead, we found that we were intruding on mass, and not wishing to be disrespectful, retreated back to the nave. The sea of colors was still waiting right there. We snapped a few more pictures and returned to the carnival outside. A few minutes later, the drums and trumpets started up again and the procession left in the same manner as they had arrived.
My favorite, though, was the long, thin, glossy black gondola. 
And what could make such an ideal little boat better but a gondolier in a striped shirt and straw hat (complete with ribbon) who sings to you? Meet Fabio. He's Venetian, born and raised and has
been working as a gondolier for 23 years with 5 years of training before that. As we punt (that is the correct term, is it not?) through the little canals marked for gondola-traffic only, he explains little facts and tidbits of Venice to us, breaking his speech up periodically to act as the paparazzi for us. Under each bridge, he lets out a few lines of a song about Venice or gondolas or Italy which would reverberate perfectly off the stone then off the water again. Each passing gondolier greets Fabio with such joviality that I'm sure we've selected the best gondolier in Venice to be our guide. The gondolas come at a steep cost to their owners (around 20,000 euro) so they take very good care of them so as not to bump the walls or the other boats in the very narrow canals. Fabio seems quite used to maneuvering these streets, as he should be after twenty-eight years; he balances on one foot and kicks off the walls, all the while singing and smiling. He knows that he has one of the best occupations in the world--to tour daily one's favorite city and show others its beauty.
One even had a grand piano rolled out for the entertainment of its patrons. The waiters stood there with their bowties... they were less inclined to convince people to join them for lunch than other sidewalk cafes. Usually, you see, the host accosts you and pleads with you and does his utmost to convince you either by way of flattery or other that you should stop and have lunch at his cafe. These on the other hand, act as if their livelihoods did not depend upon the tourists that flock to that square. It was rather pleasant to be able to walk by at a leisurely pace, though, which is impossible with the aforementioned type of host by whom you have to sprint in order to make it safely to the other side.
As Venice is a port city, it saw many of the returning crusaders, who in turn, brought back ideas of art and architecture from the near east. San Marco is dripping with middle eastern influence, which really sets it apart from other cathedrals such as Florence's Duomo. The inside is covered from floor to dome(s) in tiny gold mosaics. On the terrace, there are four horses, which were brought over from Constantinople. 
These horses seem the height of Renaissance accomplishment, but they are not. They are, in fact, much older. Historians surmise they date back at least to the 2nd century AD but possibly to the 4th century BC. The method of casting these bronze statues was lost for centuries, as was the method of building a free standing dome (like the Pantheon) and the methods of concrete. Today, it seems, with all the added technology, we have lost more than just the methods but also the love of such things. In an age of creating things in the fastest and cheapest way possible, we have lost much of the beauty and grandeur that comes with doing them as they did of old.
coffee shop and relating stories of how they survive each time the waters of Venice flood into their little establishment. On the left is the bar where they have the coffee cups all set out already in preparation for the deluge of visitors who will soon set in. On the wall behind the bar, they have their different roasts on display, they have tea leaves in little jars and spices, all of which you can purchase by l'etto (100 grams). I had Venetian style coffee that morning: cafe (that is, espresso shot), cacao, e schiuma di latte (foam). Mmmmm.
the Trevi fountain and had gelato, which is the only way to truly enjoy such a monument if you hadn't noticed, at least the only way that is allowable. Dancing in the fountain La Dolce Vita style if frowned upon these days. We threw the coins in over our shoulder so that we' be sure to come back to Rome again.
It is marble from top to bottom; a beautiful dome with little baby domes all alongside the nave; angels and other sculptures on every surface... Michelangelo’s Pieta is also there, but I’ll let Katie tell you about that. The Swiss guard wear funny clothes. I’m not really sure what the perks are to their job besides location. There were hardly any people there, but I can’t even imagine what it will be like on Easter Sunday!
still have any hair. I looked up some pictures of short hairstyles, translated ten inches into centimeters and triple-checked the length requirements for donation. I went armed with all this information into the salon. The lady cutting my hair didn’t speak English, and I was far too nervous to think up anything at all in Italian. I showed her my pictures, and Katie and Beka did most of the talking for me. When we told her the length the ponytail had to be she did a double-take at my hair, further making me question my decision. Vente-cinque? Si. She rummaged through her little toolbox and found a measuring tape. Measured my hair. Lengthened the tape. Measured again. She let me give one last look at my hair then began cutting. Then she handed me my ponytail. That is a weird sensation, I must say. She asked if it was okay if my hair wasn’t as short as the picture I had showed her. She figured it would be alright, though, as I almost cried when the ponytail came off. I didn’t really almost cry. Really. But I guess I looked it. Oh well. “All off.”
I live at Teatro di Marcello due... We had lunch a stone's throw away from where Julius Caesar was murdered. And when I say, "a stone's throw," I don't mean if we'd rounded a corner or two and stood on our tip-toes, I mean that if I'd picked up a pebble a couple thousand years ago, I could have tossed it onto the platform from which he spoke, "Et tu, Brute?"
the one from when Rome first conquered Jerusalem in 70 AD), the temple of Hercules, and other famous things ancient and not so ancient on our way to La Bocca della Verità. Legend has it that if you're a liar, the mouth will eat your hand off. This is where Joe Bradley pulled a Red Skelton on Princess Ann.
Walk a little ways up to Palatine Hill and there's a house. This is where Augustus Caesar's wife, Livia'a house has been excavated. We've been told, though we're not entirely positive on its accuracy, that frescoes, once painted, stay the same color. If this is indeed the case, then the walls inside this house we were seeing looked the exact same as they did for Livia and Augustus. Well, maybe not the exact same. I'm sure the walls were complete at that time rather than excavated ruins, but you get the picture. It just blows my mind. The view from the top of Palatine Hill was just wonderful, too.
