I arrived in Italy sick as a pig. Every time I sat down or stood up or went to sleep or woke up or exerted myself or relaxed too long I felt like someone was using my head as the clanger in the church bells that ring every hour in every square in every community in this country. Clang! And yes, I know it’s not called a clanger but it’s after midnight and I can’t remember what you call that part of a bell. Sue me.

I was out of Advil by day two.

Funny thing about Italy, but you can’t buy Advil (or aspirin or Tylenol) anywhere but at the pharmacy. And the pharmacy is closed on Sunday. Don’t these people get sick? I’m not sure I like the idea of one guy in town controlling the fate of my headache.

Ever tried to rock climb with headache so bad you lose your balance? Needless to say, it put a bit of a damper on my climbing plans. Of course, it has rained for two of the five days I’ve been here, and tomorrow looks grim. Gary and I have had really bad luck with these things. This will be our third of five rock trips that has been rained out.

Still, Arco was an amazing little town with cobblestone streets and set inside a little valley surrounded by huge limestone cliffs, several topped with medieval castles. The town hosts the world climbing championships so the community is just crawling with climbers, so to speak, and it caters well to all their needs with at least a half dozen climbing shops within the town square. And the best gelato I have had so far.

A creamy, lemony, scoop of heaven, right on a cone. I also had a berry scoop of heaven, a vanilla scoop of heaven, and a minty, chocolately, chippy scoop (or three) to go with it. I’m not sure if my gluttony for good gelato is going to send me to hell, but they sell the stuff right next to the church so I’m pretty sure I’m OK.

We spent a good afternoon outside on an amazing yellow limestone wall, watching significantly stronger climbers clamber up sharp edged pockets of stone, gracefully pulling through the relentlessly steep routes and lowering off to do them again. Even Gary who is an exceptionally talented climber by anyone’s standards was getting sandbagged by the routes in Arco. I suffered my way up three or four climbs there. It was all I could reasonably deal with considering the state of my health, and as the routes seemed to be significantly harder for the grade than their American counterparts, even healthy I would have been suffering.

We motored out of Arco at the sight of rain and passed through some dramatic mountain villages. Giant limestone cliffs that rival Yosemite, lush green mountainsides. We bought a crate of sour green apples from a street vendor and have been eating a good half dozen to a dozen a day. This worked out well for me as for a couple days this was all I could reasonably eat anyhow. We couldn’t escape the rain and motored across to Venice and spent several hours just figuring out the circular logic of parking the car and finding the damn ferry. Saw San Marco, had a ridiculously overpriced meal, and motored on out to find a hotel. All the hotels in Venice will cost your kidney at best, your soul at worst, and on a weekend night in September, they were all sold out. We drove all the way back to Vicenze only to find out that every hotel in the city was sold out due to a week-long street fair and finally had to drive back again to Padova before finding a Sheraton with availability. By this time at night, after endless circling the Autostrade, neither of us were going to argue with the $170 Euros for the room. I was having fever chills, my head had progressed from clanging to screeching, and I was just about ready to prostitute myself if it meant I was going to find a bed.

Somewhere that night the fever broke, and although my climbing in the cliffs around Vicenze the next day was still hampered by headaches and fatigue, I had finally turned the corner.

The Sheraton, besides renting the bed that broke the fever, gave me a good idea. The following day, I called Starwood and used 12000 of my 34000 points to book us a room inside Venice.

Gary should be thankful. I used half of my hard-earned Starwood points, points collected after years of having to stay at one of the best hotels in San Francisco, week after week, eating at nice restaurants and racking up frequent flier miles, all on an expense account, just so he and I could save a few bucks on a hotel.

Well, maybe more than a “few” bucks. Try $470 euros. Incredible property. And like most things in Venice, totally impossible to find. Took well over an hour and probably two miles of walking in circles before we found the place, despite the fact that we had a map AND the address AND a general understanding of the area around San Marco.

We spent all of today in Venice.

Venice? It’s old and beautiful and decaying and famous and confusing as hell and amazing in its mere existence and smelly and Marco Polo lived there and outrageously expensive and there is no chance you will figure anything out while you are there so don’t try and a pigeon shit on my head. And it is teeming, broiling, fully infested with tourists. Tourists of every race and creed and culture. All wandering around, spending too much for cappuccino and pizza and gaudy pieces of glass and getting all smoochy in $70 gondola rides while other tourists take their pictures because they want pictures of gondolas.

It’s Disneyland with history. A sight worth seeing.

Once.

It was pouring on my by the time I made it back to the car. Gary had had his fill of the place way earlier and had apparently left to read in a parking lot by two.

The rain didn’t push me out until six.

I’m back in Padova now. Posting this from the hallway of my hotel as they have no wireless in my room. Go figure. If the rain stops, more rocks tomorrow, if not, who knows?

Eventually it’s off to Rome and then Naples. Maybe Florence first if I can find the time.

Until then, a few other little observations about Italy. Speed limits are merely suggestions. Traffic on the Autostrade routinely moves at 50 or 60 Km faster than the posted limit. I have not once seen a traffic cop or a speed trap. Motorcycles abound, and not just the ubiquitous scooters. Full-blown, leathered-up asphalt eaters on snarling Ducatis or Japanese race bikes or fat BMWs are regularly blasting past you, in and out of multiple lanes and making the lane splitting we do in LA’s own asphalt jungle look like kids play, much the same way their Formula One drivers make NASCAR look like a bunch of guys making left turns.

Italy is positively teeming with beautiful blue-eyed girls with dark hair. I’m a sucker for the pretty ones with the light eyes. Not surprisingly, these pretty girls with the light eyes are usually escorted by dauntingly attractive men with dark skin and tousled hair and jeans that are probably too tight for their reproductive well being. And they sound way more charming when they say “ciao bella” than when I do. Maybe I should stick with “hey baby.” Maybe it’s cute when a foreigner says it.

Italian hotels have alarms in the showers. “Help! I’ve run out of conditioner and I’m starting to frizz!” This makes sense to me. Ever seen an Italian girl on a bad hair day? Sceeerey.

European light switches turn down to activate. Just see how long it takes you to unlearn a lifetime of physical conditioning. Though my fumbling for a light in a dark hotel room is nowhere near as entertaining as watching Gary every time our rented Fiat barks at him for not wearing the safety belt thirty seconds after starting the car. Gary isn’t used to wearing a belt all the time and never has owned a vehicle that has been so adamant about enforcing that law. I would think that for someone so irritated by the incessant ringing, he would have received enough negative reinforcement to keep that damn belt across his lap. But no. Bing! Bing! Bing! Bing! Chimps get conditioned faster. I’m curious if now every time Gary hears a bell he will instinctively reach for a seat belt. Could be lots of fun at parties!

Mussolini may have gotten the trains to run on time, but he sure didn’t help street signage. An Italian freeway sign posts the numbers so small fighter pilots would have trouble seeing them, and an exit seems to happen before the sign, or at least before comprehension of the sign. Yeah, we are dealing with translation issues for sure, but it would help if the signs were printed in a font a little larger than the text you are reading on the screen now.

And about the stoplights. In America, we learned that the driver can see them if you place them AHEAD of the intersection. Not behind it. I suppose it shouldn’t surprise me. I hear in Rome, traffic laws are more like traffic ideas, and the uninitiated should steer well clear off those intersections.

Atkins wouldn’t like it here. Fuck it. He’s dead. I however, do. Wish I had been healthy enough to enjoy it those first couple days. My first night wolfing down an entire pizza (they only serve you the pie) while still with questionable digestive capabilities left me tasting salt and mozzarella for six long hours and waking up with strange dreams involving Alfonso, the infamous Tucson pizza murderer (allegedly) and Wolfgang Puck. And Tassy. But like that’s a surprise to anyone.

Hasta.

Hey, just cause I’m in Italy doesn’t mean I’m gonna start typing “ciao.”