Roma, Italia
I think when people say, "I went to Rome," they really mean, "I saw the Vatican." It is a spectacular tribute to what two thousand years of power and money (and, yes, religion) can accomplish.


At the bottom of the stairs, we met a fun little bundle of trouble.

When travelling through Rome, I have some advice: don't talk to the men - they'll be rude; don't talk to the women - they'll be less than helpful; talk to the kids. The kids haven't learned, yet, to hate you because you are from North America. They don't feel disdain for you because you are different. No, the children are fascinated with the ridiculous clothes that you wear, your fundamental inability to speak Italian without sounding particularly retarded, the way you keep your money in a funny belt under your pants. The children also know everything that is going on, every nook that you want to see, unless you happen to have a penchant for bordellos or libraries.

The kid we met was named, and I shit you not, Giuseppe, Gi for short. He was about eight years old and was frightfully intelligent. His english was definitely far superior to our italian, and he had a tendency to attempt deliciously awful puns that made no sense. Of course, he had to tell us that they were puns. I'm not entirely sure he understood the concept.

Gi was so engaging that we went with him and his father for a trip through the city. His father (whose name I absolutely cannot recall) spoka almos' no da anglaish, which was okay, since his son was such a willing interpreter. "It's okay," Gi told us. "I keep everybody, in the loops." At this he went off in gales of laughter.

We went through the city in a roundabout fashion, enjoying Gi's colour commentary, and eventually ended up at the Colliseum. It's hard to describe the majesty of the big C - everyone sees pictures of it, and it looks huge, but it's really not all that big. The reason it's special is because it's so old. There's a feeling about the place, which reminds me of the elacticity and thinness in the skin of the elderly, if you know what I mean. It's like it's stretched and it's reaching the end of it's term here, but there's still a strength underlying the surface that comes from years of standing. It's like a blacksmith at age 80, but made out of stone.

Gi took us to the Colliseum and, well, screwed us pretty royally.

We were walking along with Gi and his father, laughing and chatting and enjoying Gi's "puns" ("The stone here is so old, it's like a white eggshell! Get it?") when Gi started chatting with 2 police officers. He seemed to be in good humour, and we thought nothing really of it - Gi had been chatty with many people in the course of our journey, including half a dozen other police officers - until the police officers slipped the cuffs around our wrists and started speaking to us in italian.

My italian is pretty bad, and my girlfriend's was worse, but I kind of got the gist; they were arresting us for thievery. They took my girlfriend's camera (which was a pretty decent SLR) and gave it to Gi, who grinned. "Sorry, mei amichi," he said. "I had to go very far to find police who didn't speak English." He waved as we were led away to the police car. "You're very nice peoples! Thank you for an afternoon as fun as the beach!"

The rest of the afternoon was mostly filled with paperwork and phone calls to the Canadian Embassy. The Italian police were all very polite (and somewhat apologetic after the situation was explained), but we never saw that camera (or Giuseppe) again.

I guess I was lucky that my digital was full and I'd been too lazy to move the pictures to my laptop...

And if you ever read this, Gi: siete il vincitore - voi piccolo bastardo.

The United Arab Emirates

During my early twenties, I spent a significant amount of time in the Middle East. My favourite place during this timespan was The United Arab Emirates, specifically the city of Dubai.

Dubai is an amazing place - it's a gorgeous mix of East and West. There's an interesting mixture of friendliness and contempt in all interactions with locals. It was interesting; they'd buy you a drink and laugh at your jokes, but if you, say, looked at their women, they would want to gut you like a fish. Or a lecherous American.

There are many gorgeous and breathtaking places in Dubai, but one of my favourites is the Al Shindagha Marketplace. The market is a hotbed of activity, and it was in this place that I met the woman who caused me an incongruous amount of trouble.

It's so very cliche, and I guess it might not be true - I took her word on this - but her name was Yasmina (Jasmine). She was... I cannot describe how beautiful she was. Well, I can and I will, actually, but it's not going to do her justice.

Beautiful... yes, definitely beautiful. It was not entirely her looks though; most of the beauty was in the way she moved, in the way that the soft folds of cloth would reveal just enough to entice but then take away the glimpse. It was the dark, smoky eyes and the promise of illicit love that they held. It was the intoxicating scent of her indigo midnight hair...

I was in the marketplace, dickering over something or other (the detail escapes me, but it might have been so quaint as to have been a lamp or arabian styled dagger) as she walked by. She caught my eye, and somehow I caught hers - perhaps it was my size or the red beard (quite long by this time) or the fact that I was the only Westerner in sight. Whatever it was, this was the first time I saw her, and I know that I ended up paying triple the value of whatever I bought and I probably lost it to boot.

I continued on through the bazarre and saw the sights and talked to people. I have almost no skills in any Middle Eastern languages, but that wasn't much of an issue - fluency in English is a good idea for people in the market. I continued on my way east, walking and talking, leaving the market, until I reached the Bastakia district.

The Bastaki district is really quite interesting. The district is full of beautiful old houses, often marked by Wind Towers. A Wind Tower is kind of like an air conditioner - it rises above the level of the houses and catches wind and brings it down into the house to cool it. They're really quite amazing feats of engineering. The thing which most obviously draws the eye, however, is the Mosque.

I cannot go in the Mosque (I'm not sure about the rules, but I cannot bring myself to enter, for I feel it would be sacrilege, since it is not something I believe in), so I was standing outside gazing towards the Mosque, when a hand touched my shoulder. I turned and it was her.

She salaamed, and asked me my name. I knew this to be extremely forward in Dubai, but thought nothing of it at the time. I gave her my name and told her where I was from and she invited me to the nearest gahwa shop to sit and chat for a while. She led me through many twists and turns until we reached a place in a darkish alley. We sat down together in a booth in the back; it was early afternoon.

Ah, not only beautiful, she was enticingly intelligent. She told stories, made me laugh, made me cry. Not only did she entertain me, but I'm quite sure that the way she asked her questions made me seem so much more witty than I otherwise would have been (keeping in mind that I was then barely out of my teenage years). We laughed, we drank coffee laced with some sort of fermented milk, and I steadily became drunk.

When I stumbled out of the place, Dubai was dark, and the area that we were in was deserted. She asked where I was staying and I mumbled something about my hotel (which I was not close to). She offered to accompany me to my hotel, to make sure that I arrived safely. She led the way through the darkness.

An interminable amount of time passed before we reached our destination. I say "interminable" because I was ridiculously drunk. It may have been minutes or hours, but all I know was that it was still dark when we got there.

Yasmina walked in with me, and took me to my room. I am quite certain that you are all expecting some sort of lustful advances on my part, and I wish I could claim some, but as the realists will rush to point out, I was far too drunk. Lechery, sir, was provoked and unprovoked;
provoked the desire, but took away the performance.

I fell asleep.

I woke in the morning aware of three things. First, fermented milk is the devil. My mouth tasted like something had crawled inside, died, spawned a whole bunch of other evil things, which had in turn also died, and then invited some kind of carrion eaters, which had also, after some time, died. In short, it was horrifying. Second, Yasmina sat in the corner, wearing much less clothing than she had the night before (which is to say, I could see her face and arms), and was crying. Third, someone seemed to be trying to break down the door to my hotel room.

I got up and looked around. Yasmina watched as I did so, but said nothing. I shrugged, and went to the washroom, where I found a small slice of heaven - my toothbrush and toothpaste. Thanking God for small pleasures, I expunged the very essence of evil from my cavernous maw. I urinated for about a thousand years or so and then washed my face for a slightly shorter period of time. I looked at the shower longingly, but whomever had decided that my door offended him was still beating the piss out of my entryway. I put on a clean t-shirt and the same ripped jeans from yesterday and walked out.

"Any idea who this is?" I asked her.

She nodded and sniffled quietly. "My husband."

I nodded and then thought seriously about just going out the window. If I been somewhat below the fourth floor and not scared of heights, it might have happened. As it was, I just shrugged.

"So," I began. I say 'began' but that's a lie, because I didn't really have anything to say. I shrugged again and then started packing.

Mr. Yasmina continued to bang on the door. I wondered why the hotel security didn't do anything. I almost, almost asked her, but then decided against it. I figured I was probably better off not knowing.

I finished the packing in silence, and looked at her. She looked at me and then asked for help. She explained the whole situation (I'm sure you've figured most of it out - her husband didn't love her and she didn't love him, he was rich, but she wanted to move to North America and be free, yadda yadda yadda, she wanted my help).

Long story short, I told her I'd help her. I got her to dress, and snuck up to the door. I listened to Mr. Yasmina bang on the door, and was able to time my opening so that he stumbled in. As he was off balance, I thrust the door forward again and it connected pretty solidly with his head. He was completely taken by surprise and I was able to manhandle him into the washroom. I felt a little bit guilty, since he was about 55, rather potbellied and out of shape, and was obviously crying. I felt less guilty when I saw the big knife in his hand.

I put him in the bathroom and we wedged the door shut. We left; I checked out and told them that the room would need cleaning.

Okay, this wasn't as dramatic really as it could have been. It wasn't earth-shattering trouble, really. There's one last thing to mention - Yasmina and I stole her husband's car. It was a beautiful BMW 7-series. I'm moderately sure it was bulletproof. It was in this car that the picture above was taken, driving madly down Sheid Zayed Road trying to leave town.

It's kind of hard to leave Dubai - we ended up needing to fly out. I feel a little bit guilty about having to sell his car to make the money, but in the end, Yasmina got most of the money.

And I joined the Mile High club.