Win Some, Lose Some...

It has been far too long since my last update. I choose to blame writers block, although long nights with my good friend Chianti probably has more to do with it. In the past four days I have struggled to find a topic for this entry, as we have been in Florence for almost a week now and there is simply so much to describe I sincerely have nowhere to begin. I have been to the Palazzo Pitti, an old palace occupied at different times by the Medici and Napoleon but now reserved as an art museum. Two days ago we made our way to the Santa Maria Novella, at 13th century Dominican church with works by Giotto, Masaccio, Brunelleschi and others. Then there is the Ponte Vecchio, or Old Bride, originally a covered bride that used to serve as a private passage way for the Medici and now is simply the best place to buy gold jewelry on the planet. And of course we have the colorful and unique people of Florence, with their unique charms and oddities. Any one of these would certainly make for an interesting blog post (fear not cultural swines, I will do my best to make my artistically centered submissions as entertaining as my other posts), but today I will share with all of you my experience watching the extremely upsetting OSU-Tennacheat regional semi-final game last night. While I realize this isn't probably what most of you would expect, I am still depressed and need to write this for cathartic purposes as much as anything else. Hopefully we can morn together.

Yesterday began for me around 8am when I was sitting in the living room, staring at my laptop with the previously mentioned writers block. Albert waddled his way into the room to start his day. Before he even sat down to have his morning coffee he declared it to be a day of rest. Phenomenal. Now I only had 16 hours to kill before the basketball game! We needed our phone turned on so I grabbed the beast (the phone we rented is literally the same model I used in high school) and made my way to the WIND store which is on the complete opposite end of town. Normally having such an arduous journey in front of me would inspire a negative reaction (see train station, Bologna), but seeing as how I had literally nothing to do all day I was actually brainstorming ideas to make my adventure even more time consuming. One such endeavor was to stop at the English Pub in the adjoining Piazza Santa Maria Novella to see if they got American television channels, i.e. the game.

Walking into this place was like entering bazaaro world. 150 yards from a 13th century Italian church was an English Pub where hardly a word of Italian could be spoken. In less vulnerable moments perhaps I would have viewed this as polluting the cultural integrity of the late-Gothic neighborhood, however I am a man of priorities and mine were to find a way to watch the Ohio State game. If this guy could help me, all the better.

The bartender was behind the bar (imagine that?) to the right as you entered, speaking to an extremely friendly Danish man and an English bloke easily older than the church outside.

Me: Parla Inglese? (not sure why I felt the need to ask this question, but it has become habitual)

Bartender: (Clearly amused) Lahashr' mehan' an' avou! 

This man was speaking English, I think, but his dialect closest resembled Brad Pitt circa his 2000 role of Mickey in the movie Snatch.

Me: Do you get American television?

Mickey: Mana' devegli' alon! Walen? (which I took as "no! why?")

Me: Basketball game.

Mickey: Enoa tha' beez' unn' puub' biiiiee' ee' Saiin' Cokkee' da' 'ass 'yaat!

I started to make out a few more words, which actually made it even more confusing. I looked at the Danish guy with the same look Billy Maddison gave Ms. Lippy when he walked in on her Dance Dance Revolution Party during recess. Fortunately, the Danish guy's half broken English was closer to what I use than Mickey's.

Danish Guy: There is a bar...near the Santa Croce...that gets American TV.

Well this was certainly a sight to behold. A Danish guy, translating English between two ENGLISH SPEAKERS... in Italy. I'm telling you people, every day it's something different around here. Apparently the bar's name is The Lion's Fountain. Odd name, but what the Hell did I care? Thankful for this useful piece of information, I stuck around for a while and had a beer. This beer took ~45 minutes to consume, during which time I was privied to conversations which included, but were not limited to:

• The old English fart explaining how he lost his sight in one eye. For those interested, it happened in Thailand and it involved a prostitute.
• The World Cup. They favor Spain. Think Denmark will go 3-and-out and Methuselah doesn't "fancy theee' yanks' chaunces because the goal is to kick theeee' ball arrrrroun' theeeee' goal keeper but into theeee' net!" whatever that means.
• Mickey's apparent love interest emerging from the back room, clearly on some form of narcotics, weighing the relative merits of sun bathing with her top off. Thankfully, for the sake of us all, she chose discretion. 

My stomach full and half buzzed (German beer, similar to Canadian beer, is like moonshine), I headed home with a small detour at the Lions Fountain to confirm the information I had received. 

The Lions Fountain was supposed to be near the Piazza Santa Croce, at the opposite end of the church. Of course, to my dismay, it was nowhere to be found. I tracked and retraced my way through every side street with no luck. Giving up, I began my stroll home in full Peanut strut (picture Linus walking home with his head down). Then.....like the North Star...guiding me to my Shangri' La...I saw it!

The single greatest influence in my life, which has always been there for me in good times and bad...

I mean sure we have had our up's and downs, but now wasn't the time to bring those up, now was a time for us to come together, again ...E...S...P...N!!!!!

ESPN!!!

ESPN!!!

I rushed inside to embrace the television, ran around in delirious circles not unlike this:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ysKAVyXi0J4

In a spat of good luck I had wondered past a restaurant named House of Sizzle, a name so ridiculous it could only have come from Italians with limited knowledge of English putting a phrase like Grill House into bablefish.com, but none of that mattered. There, in glorious high definition was....Sports Center! Fucking Sports Center! Never had the sight of Trey Wingo caused me to pitch a tent before. I looked to the left and they had a bracket on the wall, filled in and everything!! It was as if I had walked into any random bar in Columbus. I mean sure it was closer to a metrosexual Grandview bar than the Crown, but who was I to complain?? I mean as hot as Amanda and Chris are at the greatest bar known to man (The Crown for my readers who have never been), Contessa was a freaking dime! And a bitch! I was in love... (think Michael's first wife in Godfather 1)

The owner of this fine establishment, Francesco, spoke decent English. I asked him if he would have the Ohio State game on. 

"Certo!" or "of course!" he replied.

Me: How much is a beer around here? 

Francesco: "7 Euro" or essentially $10.

Whatever, it was worth it. I made plans to return around 11:30 pm. Went home, had dinner w/ the crew, took a nice nap till about 11 then headed back to HOUSE OF SIZZLE w/ Danielle in tow.

We arrived right on time and they had the pregame show on. We ordered a couple of drinks, only 14 Euro. Ugh... grabbed a menu and sat down. House of Sizzle, being located in the best region for food in the world naturally specializes in traditional Tuscan cuisine. By traditional Tuscan cuisine I mean cheeseburgers, hot dogs, chicken wings, onion rings and milk shakes. Danielle orders a BLT cheeseburger with french fries. I continue to pound 7E beers. We haven't been siting down for long when in comes a gaggle of douche bag frat boys, screaming at the top of their lungs and generally trying to draw as much attention to themselves as possible in a vain effort to compensate for their personal inadequacies for which I am sure they are all keenly aware of but they seem to believe they can disguise by pretending they are just SO FREAKING AWESOME they have to share their awesomeness with the rest of the world. Ugh...naturally they sit right next to me.

Game starts, one of them scream "O-H.."  clearly I was wrong, these are fine upstanding gentleman.

"...I-O baby!" I say enthusiastically.

"Fuck the Bucks!!!!" Douche bag number one says. Fuck him! Soon I discover that the one OSU "fan" was not an OSU fan at all, he was just the only person in the entire group who wasn't currently attending the University of Michigan. He was simply rooting for OSU to piss of his friends who were rooting for Tennacheat out of spite. Awesome, I travel half way around the world, find the only place in the city that has the Bucks game on and I have to watch it next to an Abercrombie and Fitch store of Michigan "fans" whose self worth has been so deterriorated by our domination the past DECADE that they can only regain a modicum of it by rooting against us. Fantastic. 

Douche number two chimes in: "We are 50-40 (btw, inaccurate) against you all time in football man, you gotta win every game for another decade to catch up!"

Awesome! Some fucking 20-year-old tool bag is talking trash to me about games played in leather helmets while he sips his peach Schnapps and tries to hide the fact that at party's he probably pores out his beer when nobody is looking and fills it up with waTer (that's for you Drew). As Cl. Jessup would say, "I have neither the time nor the inclination to defend myself..." It's game time!

Game tips off, all is well! OSU races out to a nice lead and looks to be the much better team. Tennacheat fights back, takes a lead but it is mostly on the back of perimeter jump shots or blown defensive assignments. I remain confident. Game goes back and forth till about 10 minutes remain in the first half when ESPN Internation decides to switch games to BAYLOR AGAINST ST. MARRY'S!! FREAKIN' BAYLOR??? ST. MARRY'S??? Baylor is in Waco, Texas which doesn't have much left to see after David Koresh burned half the people in the town up in 1993. I don't even know what state St. Marry's is in, and neither does anyone else. I mean half their team is Australian for God sake. Maybe that would be a good idea if we were playing rugby... or throwing boomerangs at kangaroo's. 

Fortunately, Baylor is good at basketball these days so the game got ugly quickly. At halftime they switched games and I remained confident. I was entertained by an informed Michigan fan (douche number 3) who attempted to explain to me why Evan Turner would not be a good NBA player. His argument: he turns the ball over too much to play point guard in the NBA. Fair enough, I mean the NBA hates 6-7 guys that can score from anywhere on the floor, play unselfishly, have vision in the full and half court, rebound on both ends and provide rangy defense against 4 positions. Yeah those guys suck in the NBA (Andre Igoudala and his $10m a year disagree). OSU regains the lead before half, I continue to remain confident.

Second half begins, I get another beer. What's another $10? OSU is not playing well but maintaining a lead quite frankly because Tennacheat isn't very good. Sean Pearl has a chance to get the Golden Sombrero, checking in with 0 points and 3 fouls with 15 minutes left in the second half (defined by Andy Eye the Golden Sombrero is awarded to any player which accomplishes 0 points and 5 fouls in one contest). Tennacheat retakes the lead, stupid deucher frat boys become more obnoxious (when does Michigan play again? Oh yeah, the Womens NIT plays on Monday nights) and I move to the floor below my table to escape the torture. Four minutes left, we trail by two baskets even though Evan Turner cannot be stopped. For the first time, I consider the possibility we may lose. Never a good sign.

Diebler can't make a shot to save his life. We continue to struggle, idiotic Michigan fans talk trash. One guy is classy enough to refrain, he is too busy talking about how many connections his girlfriend's father has in Hollywood and how he is going to write for Jimmy Kimmel when he graduates. Oh if only I had a Palestinean Sweater Vest right now I could make the world a better place....

We lose...we suck...good luck in the NBA Evan Turner...you are the best basketball player I have ever seen at OSU and, despite Thad Matta's best coaching effort ever, we lost to a terrible 6 seed who cannot make a perimeter jump shot because Kyle freaking Madson, formerly of Club Trillion fame, is one of two players post players in our rotation. Just sad...

Deucher 4, all 125 lbs. of him who had been staring me down the entire second half, walks up to me and unloads a rant on nonsequiters of which included: "Fuck Woody Hayes...Go Blue...Eddie George Sucks...I was at the basketball game at the Obama Center (Formerly known as the Chrysler center before He bought it) when we beat you this year!!!...etc..."

I kindly told him to go eat some curry with his Indian (dot, not feather) girlfriend, hire a real football coach and get the fuck out of my way. Seeing as how he was rolling 12 deep with 30+ ACT scores he got a big chest and decided it would be a good idea to push me. Those of you who have seen me melt down after traumatic OSU loses know this was an error in judgment on his part...

Deucher 4 got 190 lbs. of twisted steel and sex appeal in his grill. I'm not bigger than many people, but this bioengineering nerd is one person I am. Hand to the throat, driven into the wall...I was probably 30 seconds from staring in the next episode of Locked Up Abroad. Puffing my chest out like a peacock I made it clear to him that I was not entertained by the disrespect he showed towards THEE Ohio State University, informed him that I actually root for scUM in bowl games (when they make them, that is) and that if he didn't reciprocate my respect he best ought to keep it to himself. Astonishingly, the Bio-Chem 748 class he found at Abercrombie didn't feel compelled to interject.

As I left the bar the last thing I heard was Francesco, the owner of HOUSE OF SIZZLE, make a sincere attempt to console me by saying "maybe next year cowboy!"

Fuck him too! O mother fucking H!!!

**I would like to take this opportunity to apologize to my mother for this corse language. In future additions I will censor myself better assuming I don't have to watch OSU lose another tournament game with Michigan frat boys again**

Next post I will get back to Italy. Until then, please continue to post your comments. I love them all. Go Bucks!

You're Full of Bologna!

Most people take 2 types of vacations. The first I call SPRING BREAK 07!!!! i.e. your going somewhere with great weather to drink and party your ass off if your single or if your married to relax by the beach for a few days while your kids swim in shark infested water. In these cases your typically going somewhere with as much cultural relevance as a 3rd grade art contest. Yes, I know you had a bitchin' time at Myrtle Beach but has anyone ever returned from SOUTH CAROLINA with a new perspective on life? Well maybe black people. The second is the ole' Clark Griswold Family Vacation Special. You pack your 2.5 kids in a hot car and take them around the country to see as many "sights" as possible. If these sights are the Washington Monument, the Grand Canyon. etc.. this trip could potentially not suck. If they include the Longaberger factory (believe me, I've been there) or the worlds largest ball of string than it's going to get ugly. Especially since the conditions in the back seat are not in compliance with the Genvea Convention. In either one of these cases you would not visit my first city, Bologna.

Bologna has no ocean. It has no lake. It has a few old churches and a pretty cool statue of Neptune, but honestly what city in this country couldn't say that? In fact as best I can tell, Bologna has only two things going for it. 1) Their airport is $200 cheaper to fly into then Florence, thus explaining our presence here and 2) Food. Like really, really good food. Bologna is known as the Breadbasket of Italy and I was intent on adding to my breadbasket before I left, even if it was only two days.

My first entry ended with our raged group of vagabonds making our way to the (correct) hotel. We arrived at 11 am, unfortunately according to the guy behind the counter giving me a "Mi Scusi" vibe (if you've seen Euro Trip you will get that, if not just picture a creepy Italian guy overly willing to take his pants off), our room wouldn't be ready for another hour. This being a Latin country, that meant anywhere between 15 minutes and 2 hours so I had some time to kill. Unfortunately the bellhop took our bags (and my other shoes) so I got to limp around the city like Barbaro. Great first impression.

We finally go to the room and settled in (btw, 1 hour in fact meant an hour and a half). It felt great to get off our feet for a while. There were three beds in the room thank God. Again, love my family but sleeping ass-to-ass with Unlce Albert or Danielle would not have been ideal. I laid down on my bed, hands crossed over my stomach staring at the ceiling and contemplated the magnitude of my journey. 16 hours ago when I rushed out of my Aunt's house seemed like a lifetime ago and half the world away. One of those was in fact true. It's amazing sometimes to ponder the realities of modern life. In the same amount of time Beverly at the Waffle House works a double shift, we traveled from Lewis Center, Ohio to Bologna, Italy. 150-200 years ago, which is not very long in the timeline of human history, a similar trip would have taken months or years. Neat stuff! Another reality of modern life is that electronics and house hold appliances in Italy don't work the same as they do in our country.

I consider myself a fairly intellectually capable young man. I've scored well on admission's tests, graduated for THEE Ohio State University (due as much to perseverance than anything else) and most recently entertained all of you with my mastery of the English Language. That established, I have had an ongoing feud with coffee machines my entire life. It began when I was in High School working at a local coffee shop where I caused several disasters, most notably when I forgot to put a filter in the coffee pot which if you are unaware, causes the pot to overflow onto whatever lies below, in this case my unfortunate bosses bare foot (stupid sandal wearing hippy). A couple years later a similar episode occurred while I was working at Max and Erma's. The entire second floor was closed for an hour while I cleaned up the mess. Still, none of these experiences prepared me for the duel I was about to have with the coffee machine in our room.

Before I go on, I need to explain this contraption to you so you can understand what I was dealing with. When you look at the room there was literally a bar to the right (go Melissa!), behind which had what appeared to be a plastic trey with a plastic coffee pot and a smaller trey for sugar and cream on top. The catch was this trey was plugged into the wall! Using my powers of deduction (87th percentile LSAT deductive reasoning portion. I'm just sayin') I concluded you fill the coffee pot up with watter to the line on the side which was about half way to the top, add the coffee grinds and the trey heats the coffee up. All of this was correct, and pretty cool too I might add. So I did like so, closed the top and looked for the button.

Wasn't on the side...

Not on the back....

Not on the pot...

Where is this effen' thing?

Five minutes of searching concluded in a call to the front desk where Mi Scusi guy and myself had a bazaar conversation in broken Italian which the exact dialog I am still unsure of, but he did promise to send a "colleague" up to assist us. The sum total effort of his "colleague" was to flip the switch at the bottom of the handle, turning the coffee pot on. Danielle's response was to laugh. All I could conjure up was, "Sono stupido" in an attempt at self-deprecation. Now armed with the knowledge of how to turn the damn thing on, I was pretty excited about this cool European coffee maker. I discussed the merits of this ingenious piece of equipment with Albert for several minutes until I felt the familiar sensation of scalding hot water on bare skin. Turning around I was greeted with the sight of boiling hot coffee shooting out the top of the coffee pot with the force and accuracy of a Super Soaker 3000. Fortunately I used my cat like agility (my friends don't call me Whiskers for nothing you know) to evade the incoming fire and remove the pot form the trey. Apparently this coffee machine does not turn itself off. Clearly not going on the Christmas list.

The next day was not uneventful, but not anything you would care to read about. We essentially ate really good food and looked at really old buildings. The highlight was probably La Basilica di San Petronio, a half finished church which is probably all you need to know about Bologna. It's main attraction has been left unfinished for 400 years. Although I will say I think my tagliatelle bolognese was probably better than the noodles in meet sauce I was offered on the plane. Score one for the good guys!

The next day was Sunday, the day we were to check in at our apartment in Florence. The plan was to board the train in Bologna at 8:45 so we arrived at the station around 8. I use the word plan because as you will see, on this trip very few things end up as they were intended. I spent the first few minutes discovering that although my ticket says I am going to Florence, I need to take the train to Rome. Why? Because Florence is on the way to Rome. How am I supposed to know this? I have no idea. I ask the attendant, a well groomed and fairly attractive girl in her mid-20's who spoke flawless English which track the train to Rome (Florence) would come in on. Her response: "Usually #7"

"Usually #7? Usually?" I responded.

She smiled, as if expecting my response. "Yes, usually."

"Well what day of the week is usually? Today is Sunday, which track will it be on today?" I said more than a little sarcastically.

"Today, 7!" She answered with pride I still do not know the source of. I thanked her and we headed to track #7. Only problem being getting to track #7 required going down a flight of stairs, through a tunnel and then back up the stairs. No problem, just find the elevator!

Finding the elevator did not prove to be a problem, but unfortunately it was locked. I found the customer service desk and explained out situation to the attendant who then explained to me that their elevator was closed until 9 am. Closed! Like the elevator requires a person to be open? What in the Hell causes a mechanical device to be closed? He did offer to show me where it is so I may use it at 9:00, 15 minutes after our train left (theoretically). We headed to the tunnel and began to strategize.

The logistical problem was such. We had an 82-year old man with little / no mobility, his wheel chair (useless), three checked pieces of luggage totaling 115lbs. (two of which can roll) and three carry-ons all of which are at least 20 lbs. but can go over a shoulder. We have to get the luggage and Albert through the tunnel to track #7. The luggage can not be left unattended ever and Albert can only be left alone if he is sitting down. Albert needs at least one person to help him down the steps, preferably me but the luggage can never not be with me because someone could easily steal it from Danielle (Jason your drawing this up into an LSAT logic game right now, aren't you? Be honest). So, pop quiz hot shot! What do you do?

The answer was Danielle took Albert across and sat him down while I stayed with the luggage and the wheel chair, making mean and nasty faces at strangers while flexing my upper-body in a sad attempt to look as intimidating as possible.  When Danielle returned we carried the luggage down and across. We got to track #7 with about 10 minutes to spare. Success! We made benches out of suitcases and talked about nothing waiting for our train to arrive. We waited...and waited....and waited. I guess Mussolini doesn't run the show around here anymore (for the neophytes who don't get this joke see here: http://answers.yahoo.com/question/index?qid=20090319183903AAWFsdX ).  

Around 9:05 I heard over the announcement: "Il treno da bologna a Roma arriverà  alla ** indistinguishable** numera tre invece numero sette." MOTHER OF GOD! They moved our train!

Me: "Danielle, our train was moved! We have to go! Track 3!"

Danielle: "What? No? They can't do that! That's not fair!"

Me: Mimicking my father, "Life isn't about fair. They can and the just did"

Danielle: "No! I'm not moving him until we know for sure."

Conveniently, they then made the same announcement in English: "The train from Bologna to Rome will arrive at track number three instead of number seven." Now convinced, she packed Albert up and we began the fire drill all over again.

We reached the other side and the train was still there! I ran up to the train employee and explained our situation. All he did was shake his finger at me, smile and close the door. I am glad to report to all of you I handled the situation with great aplomb! I simply put the five pieces of luggage I had just sprinted through a tunnel between two flights of stairs on the ground and calmly smacked the train...screamed "Bastardo Pazzo!!!"...threw one piece of luggage towards the train (now moving)... kicked another in the opposite direction ...and generally just made a complete fool of myself.

Fortunately I did manage to make one friend, as another train station employee was apparently so entertained by the incident he signed our ticket and allowed us to catch the next train to Rome. Third train being a charm, we boarded our luggage and with some difficulty got Albert up the steps and in a seat. Off to Florence!

Thanks to all of you who posted comments or read my first blog entry. It's fun to stay in touch with all of you and I hope you continue to do so. My goal is to make an entry every two days, so people like Nick can calm down. This won't be like one of Travis' ODW blogs that are like seeing a unicorn these days. My next entry will be about our first few days here inf Florence. Thanx again, please comment if you are so inclined!

Planes, Trains and Automobiles...

Random thoughts from my travels from Aunt Debbie's house in Lewis Center, Ohio (1:30 PM Thursday) to Hotel Grand Elite in Bologna (11 AM Friday):

- Man, it's too bad we didn't get to the airport 3 hours before our flight left like everyone suggested. Then we could have had 2.5 hours to kill in the terminal instead of the 30 minutes we ended up with. Just imagine how many more overpriced hot dogs and beverages we could have consumed then! Oh well, live and learn I guess.

- Everyone's worst fears were almost realized when it appeared Danielle was lost and sold into the sex trade at CMH 15 minutes after we got to the airport. Fortunately, she just went to the bathroom.

- The effeminate Dom "Woogy" Wogerstein (Chris Elliot, There's Something About Marry 20th Century Fox, 1998) look alike at the gate was not impressed with my organization of passports and paperwork. It's okay, I wasn't impressed with his hairline. Lesson learned.

- I'm typically not a fan of planes which seat less than 15 people or choose two propellers (you know, like on the Red Barron Pizza Boxes ) over jet engines. Lou Brown's 1989 Cleveland Indians wouldn't have gotten on this plane...I think JFK Jr's Cessna was more safe than this puddle jumper...and finally, Cedar Point's newest roller coaster will be named Air Canada Flight 9403 Columbus to Toronto...okay I'm finished now

- Reason number 1,473,256 to hate Canadians: At Toronto Pearson Airport's International Terminal they charge 7% more for anything from chap stick to a chicken wrap if you use US dollars. Oh, here's a fun fact: OUR MONEY IS WORTH MORE THAN THEIRS! My theory: Canadians are well known Europhiles and thus get Penis envy of the Euro.

- If anyone ever flies internationally I highly recommend Air Canada's Sky Bus (Air Canada Internationally > Air Canada Regionally). For the purpose of organization I will break down my 7 hour flight from Toronto to Frankfurt into it's own sub category of random thoughts conveniently marked with *'s instead of -'s:

* Japanese looking lady sitting two isles over from me seemed interested. I got 7 hours, maybe the mile high club is a possibility. How to start a conversation?? Hmm...I'll bet she plays the violin extremely well... (this thought never amounted to more than what you just read)

* Can I tell you how happy I am the 12 member 7th grade German Club from random Canadian middle school is seated immediately behind me for a 7 hour flight? Did you know that 14 year-old-girls DON'T HAVE AN INSIDE VOICE? I know now.

* Threw divine intervention our flight was at least half empty. There are fewer moments in life more exciting than when you realize instead of spending 7 hours next to an 82-year-old man with a laissez faire approach to hygiene you get an entire middle row of 4 seats to yourself.

* Interesting fact of the day: Air Canada provides unlimited alcoholic beverages to passengers on transatlantic flights. Who wants to party? I do! Essentially it's an $800 cover charge for an open bar. I bet not many of you have drank a 12 pack of Molson Canadian on a plane before!

* Also willing to bet I am the only person here who has ever been cut off on a plane lol "Sir, one beer in the air is like having 3 on the ground. You have already had 10 or 12 beers by my count (so actually 30-36), I'm just looking out for your best interest. Trust me, you will appreciate this tomorrow." Sounds like a Tuesday night at Sloopy's to me. Sorry I had to be Hard Core! Apparently Ohio State students don't fly Air Canada frequently.

* Two in-flight movies: Couples Retreat. How could anything with Vince Vaughn, Jon Favreau, Jason Baetman and hot women suck? Well it did. Still not as big of a waste of time as The Blind Side. I know this isn't a popular opinion, but this movie is just simply not very good. In fact, I almost walked out...think about it...think about it...there it is! Yes, I'm still on a plane...

* For dinner we were offered chicken in rice or pasta with meat sauce. Considering the amount of "pasta and meat sauce" (whatever that is exactly) I will consume over the next 40 days I am satisfied with my choice of chicken in rice.

* I think Ken Hitchcock was on my flight, and he has a new job is as an airline steward (is their a word for the male version of stewardess?), and he enjoys talking to me about his diabetic medicine for 20 minutes because he thinks the fact my uncle is diabetic means I care, and while I know it probably wasn't ole' Coach Hitch he did look a lot like him and it makes me smile thinking about Hitch trying to wedge his ass between the seats asking people if they want ice with their tomato juice. And so concludes my favorite flight ever...

- Frankfurt's airport was incredible. Huge planes from America, Argentina, China, UAE, etc.. oh and the terminal was like a high end shopping mall, Chanel Tramps and all.

- Because Albert is in a wheel chair we get better service than The Divine Obama. Airport employees rush us through the air port, cut everyone in line to have our passports stamped, provide our own security check point line with no wait and because they have to load him through a fork lift looking thing which they do from the tarmac we got to hang out in the Lufthansa Super Important Persons Who Get Free Orange Juice and Crackers Club before the flight. Very Nice! Only down side were the Mohamed Atta-looking guys driving us around on the giant fork lift / elevator. They didn't drive the fork lift / elevator into a gas truck though so we're cool.

- Finally became a member of the mile high club on the 45 minute flight form Frankfurt to Bologna with a beautiful, tall, blonde German woman named Velma. Then I woke up and we were on the ground. Slept the whole way!

- The airport in Bologna was one of my favorites. Similar to CMH, small with very few lines and easy to get in and out of (that's what she said). Only problem was the customs officials using their authority to provide themselves with an opportunity to introduce themselves to my very young, very female cousin Danielle. No harm done though.

- The taxi driver was not exactly thrilled with the prospect of driving us essentially around the block with all of our luggage and a wheel chair. He suggested we take two cabs, one for Albert, Danielle and the luggage with another for myself and the wheel chair. I've seen several action films begin this way (most recently Taken) and they all end with the male action star rescuing his family from the terrorist, pedophiles or extortionist. Seeing as how I am not a NAVY SEAL I told the guy one cab for everyone. He was resentful but capitulated (remember, as much as I love the Italians, this is a country with a losing record against the French).

-Taxi driver did exact his revenge when he took us to Grand Hotel Suite instead of Grand Hotel Elite. Asshole. Good news was that our hotel was only 100 yards down the street. Bad news was my sandal broke in the lobby so I got to limp the entire distance looking like a pack mule about to be put out to pasture for a broken leg.

Ragged and tired we stumbled into Hotel Grand Elite which to everyones astonishment was in fact grand, elite and a hotel!

Tomorrow my post will cover our stay in Bologna (where I did not eat any baloney but did match wits with a coffee machine) and our eventful trip to Florence (where the trains come into play). Please comment on my posts. I am much more willing to spend hours concocting these narratives filled with Sophmoric humor and caustic wit if I know people actually read them. Arrivederci tutti!