Rome: history, history, homosexuality


It began at 2:13 P.M. Again, it’s probably much later by now.


Rome is magnificent. The buildings look fake. They’re so old and historic and have such architectural detail. We arrive and make our way to our next hostel. On the walk, I immediately notice the style that Italians emanate. Every single person looks like they could’ve stepped out of a magazine centerfold. Everyone also smokes. Thank God. And although everyone smokes, it’s surprisingly hard to find cigarettes. Follow the booze, I learned. They sell ‘em in bars. Our hostel is beautiful. Just us three in a room – bathroom, TV, fabulous view – I realize I’m getting spoiled. We eat the most amazing meal, drink the most amazing wine, I get fat, and call it a night.

The next day we go to the Colosseum, see some Roman ruins, Caesar’s Forum, and the Trevi Fountain. The city, in itself, is a historical site. There are ancient ruins next to trendy cafés, and it’s nearly impossible to imagine where I stood thousands of years ago. It really is beautiful. The Colosseum is quite a sight of a site. I couldn’t wrap my mind around the happenings of that place. But really, B.C. B-fucking-C. Wow. It makes American history look incredibly insignificant. We eat paninis. Nicole eats three. I establish my addiction. That night we go to a gay bar. We research one that looks promising and take a taxi. Turns out to be a “men’s club,” but the guy at the door is American, and superbly sweet, and tells us of one where the girlies reside.

Coming Out. We make the ten-minute walk and my heart warms at the sight of rainbow flags. We get a few drinks and get comfy at a table. No dance floor, which sucked; but girl-loving girls, which didn’t. I drink gin & tonic, play “Never Have I Ever” with my friends, and people-watch. A cute dyke on a bike makes googley-eyes at me ‘til I finally approach her an hour later. She speaks Italian. I speak English. She calls her friend over to interpret and we exchange e-mail addresses. She still speaks Italian. I still speak English. I realize it’s a lost cause. We go home.


We go to Vatican City. Again, I struggle to keep my flesh attached to my bones. St. Peter’s Basilica is something else. There were, literally, dead Popes out for viewing pleasure. Nicole informs me that in the Catholic faith, it is determined whether or not one is a saint depending on if the flesh decays post-mortem. There were many-a shriveled grey dude, but no skeletons. I conclude that they’ve been pumped with massive amounts of chemicals and formaldehyde, and have brilliant make-up jobs. I further conclude that it’s a conspiracy to keep the Church in power, and the common-person down. I take pictures anyway.


Wow. There are no words to describe. I looked up for what seemed like days. It’s beautiful, yet even when you’re looking directly at it, you feel like you’re not. I stared at the ceiling tile of  “God” touching Adam for a good twenty minutes. Beauty and bullshit in one. My soul was in a juxta-position. Nothing that alcohol couldn’t fix. The Pub Crawl awaits…


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