this week in the odyssey
5.17.99 -- 5.24.99
rome, italy

Gone To The Dogs

I bet you're like me. I bet you're exactly like me. And I don't mean that your bathing habits are somewhat suspect or that you tend to make insufferably bad puns. I don't even mean that your golf game is in the toilet, that you find the 'Riverdance' phenomenon disquieting, or that you're deeply dubious about the merits of yet another Eagles reunion. No, what I mean is that when you think of the Vatican (however infrequently), you probably think of the Sistine Chapel and its legendary frescoes by Michelangelo. You think of paintings by Raphael, sculptures by Bernini, and vast troves of treasured antiquities from the furthest reaches of the Holy Roman Empire. What you probably don't think of, though, is the really incredible dog art.

Well, neither did I. I had no idea. But there amidst the untold masses of bona fide cultural gems resides an unfathomably impressive collection of just that -- dog art. Canine culture. Though the velvet paintings of the poker-playing, cigar-chomping bulldogs were sadly missing, this puppy at right was definitely in the house. Half human, half dog, but all art, we had to have a picture. We hope you, the Office Odyssey audience, appreciate it.

Unfortunately, however, the dog art picture used up the last of our batteries for the digital camera while we were at the Vatican. But, hey, what the heck -- you've all seen pictures of the Sistine Chapel before. When have you seen the dog art?

Dog art and all, the Vatican completely lived up to its billing. Though teeming with huddled masses, the odd bit of wretched refuse from a teeming shore, and half the cast from Ben Hur, it was still worth every drop of perspiration we dripped on its marbled floors. Kristanne, as always, proved to be a formidable tour guide, hustling me through the high points in just under two hours (o, how well she knows her TV-addled husband's attention span). I'd learned my lessons from last week's culture binge and managed to pay attention for the entire time, not once remarking upon the really tasteful wallpaper in the lavatories nor the great job they did mowing the lawn in the public gardens (they really keep their lines straight). Still, it didn't hurt that there existed a credible threat of violence to act as a deterrent for any potential misdeeds on my part. Kristanne is a real Henry Kissinger of the art history world and knows how to enforce an uneasy detente. There you see her at left in the Vatican, brandishing her credible threat -- the wellworn Michelin guide whose spine my tender ears know all too well from our previous excursions. You can bet that I'll think twice before sending any tanks into Afghanistan.

If my hometown of Tacoma is the place where commerce and culture collide (and, o, how it is), then Rome is definitely the place where they sloppily kiss each other in public. Scattered amongst the ruins of the ancient Roman Empire (Pantheon, Forum, and Colosseum) are the totems and fetishes of the new world order (Versace, Prada, and Gucci). Since I basically inherited my fashion sense from old fishing magazines checked out of the public library (I even have dress waders), it is pretty much left to Miss Money Money to toe the couture line in this household.

Miss Money Money has so far actually been rather tame on this trip. The odd pair of sandals, a new blouse here and there, but nothing to raise an eyebrow at. Then came the news from on high -- Kristanne's program would be helping to defray the cost of shipping packages back to the states. Well, that did it. Giving Miss Money Money reduced shipping costs back to the states is the rough equivalent of giving a Republican congressman some time to talk about flag-burning -- they're both going to hit the ground running, full-tilt boogie. Her justification of "Well, if they're going to be nice enough to help ship it, we should definitely buy it" definitively overwhelmed my limp response of "But what if we don't need it?" and with a weak whimper from me, we were off to the shops. We had containers to fill, after all. But why, oh why, did we have to start at that store you see pictured there at left?

After a hard day of shopping, it's always nice to unwide in a pleasant streetside cafe with a glass of wine and some pleasant conversation with friends. Well, either that or burn up a scooter. To each his own.

Actually, what you see pictured there at right is not really the aftereffects of a long day of shopping. It's an ancient statue to which Romans have brought their grievances for thousands of years. Usually, these grievances take the form of political screeds attached to the statue for others to read. Occasionally, however, you get someone who's just a little more pissed off than the average joe who wants the public library to stay open later. That's when the scooters get burned.

Kristanne and I didn't have any major beefs with the Italian government, so we left the pyrotechnics to the more impassioned among us (though Kristanne did briefly consider lighting a match for the old man playing 'Freebird' on accordion to a visibly unimpressed throng of cafe patrons). Instead, we ordered up some antipasto (tartines with caviar...mmmm) and some wine and toasted our last days in Rome.

Too soon our stay here in Rome is ending. Every day, we find something new about this city, some new cafe, some new bookstore, some undiscovered painting in a forgotten church. Some days, we even find new places where people like to let their dogs poop. Rome has been a wonderful city and we've loved our time here. Still, we are both completely invigorated by the prospect of what lies ahead -- Naples, Pompeii, Sicily, Sardinia, and then who knows? We may even burn some scooters ourselves. Just to pass the time, though -- we still don't have any major grievances.

Before we leave, though, we wanted to share some observations about body hair, depilation, and the problems faced by the more hirsute among us. You know, the whiskered and woolly ones. The tufted. Italians, as people go, tend towards the shaggy end of the fur-bearing spectrum. That being the case, we were more than a little curious to see what they did about...well, problem hair. Like bikini line problems. Back hair. That kind of thing. Mr. Scucherini was particularly amazed at the genius displayed by the Italians in combating exactly these sorts of problems. As the picture below testifies, it appears that the Italians have outsourced their hair-removal business to a particularly industrious tribe of midget Parisians, the Kookai. Though you can't quite make out the beret on this Kookai's head, you can bet that he's wearing one and whistling the Marseillaise while he works. No word yet on how you can contract his services (or volunteer for work), but we'll keep you posted as events unfold.

Thanks for checking in on us! Be sure to check back next week as we head to Sicily! Until next time, don't burn any scooters and mind the bikini line.

Last Week's Front Page Picture

By the way, that picture there at the left is me in the Piazza de Popolo midway through a grueling day of shopping, minty-fresh as ever. That obelisk you see there dates back to the fourth century BC, which is almost as ancient as my hairstyle. Unlike my hairstyle however, the obelisk was brought from Egypt. Neither me nor my hair have ever been to Egypt, though I must hasten to point out that at this point I have no idea where the heck my hair all went to. It may even be in Egypt as we speak. If you happen to run into my hair during your own travels, please tell it to come home...all is forgiven.