I liked Florence. Florence reminded me of Berkeley contrasted by Rome’s San Francisco. It was yellow and warm and even the sky seemed inviting. No wonder Florence has inspired so much artistic output. The landscape frequently seems painted by the hand of God. I spent two days roaming around Florence. Getting lost in ancient cobblestone streets, admiring the river and the architecture and the sky which all seemed painted in the same shade of yellow at dusk and dawn.

Florence will make you love sunflowers.

I took the E-star train to Rome several days ago, and arrived to mostly what I expected. Chaotic and crazy, plastered and polluted, a strangely familiar cacophony of squeals and sirens and scooters. A tangled maze of alleys and boulevards peppered with piazzas and churches and basilicas all older than our constitution. I arrived on the “white night,” a Saturday night of celebration in which every store and every vendor is open through the night and the streets are filled with quite literally hundreds of thousands of people. Think Vegas on New Years. Only the marble and the statues and the palaces are not fake. Neither are the boobies, but maybe that’s an observation for another time.

Of course, I arrived to find out that my hotel had never received my reservation confirmation.

I learned a long time ago, never trust anyone who approaches you in a terminal, be it bus, train, or airport, precious little good can come of this. Within ten seconds of my reaching for a pay phone to confirm my hotel reservation (something I should have done hours, ok, DAYS, earlier), a seedy looking gentleman approached me wearing a “Hotel Services” badge. How these fuckers can smell it, I will never know. I knew I was pretty much screwed as a result of the celebration, but figured I could find a hotel through my travel agent. He offered me a number of different hotel options, none of which seemed particularly appealing, as I couldn’t verify the location or quality of any of these establishments, and as payment was due up front, my thumb was hovering dangerously above my “go fuck yourself” button. One of the places he mentioned, however, did receive a good review in my trusty, rusty Lonely Planet, and as the price quoted seemed to correspond with their reviewed rates, I figured I would give this huckster a shot. Of course, that hotel was full for the night, so I had to stay in a better ‘four star” hotel first, followed by my “three star” for the rest of my stay.

A little about these precious stars. Seriously people. The average freshman dormitory is more elegant, better furnished, and almost certainly larger than your average European four-star hotel room. And what’s this they are using for beds? Military surplus? Has terry cloth made it across the pond yet? Must my hand towels more closely resemble table napkins? I appreciate the alarms in the shower should I happen to fall and can’t get up, but if I could wash my face with something just a little softer than a dishtowel, I would greatly appreciate it.

So really. Just how do they distribute those famous stars? A roof equals one star? Indoor plumbing gets a second and electricity a third? Lord knows I should have sprung for that elusive five star hotel. I might even have had room service.

My three-star in Arco had beds that were roughly as soft as particleboard and linens that were about as comfortable. My Westin in Venice was obviously better appointed, but at nearly $500 a night, I was expecting complimentary hookers. The collection of random rooms in the Veneto could all easily be compared with your average truck-stop Motel 6, only they served breakfast. Yet the two-star I stayed in while in Florence was easily the most generously appointed and tasteful establishment of the bunch. And the cheapest.

Now Rome, Rome, has put me in two rooms that are each just slightly smaller than my parent’s master bedroom closet, and kids, that’s so not an exaggeration. The four-star room literally had me sleeping on a squeaky military style cot, and the three-star is a mere stone’s throw from the central train station. And honestly, from what I can tell, these are on the upper end of the establishments around here. I have slept in better hostels.

And next time I come to Europe, I think maybe I will.

So back to my story. They had me playing musical motels, as I was supposed to visit the Hotel Iberia to pay for the stay, at which point I would be transferred to the Hotel Genio for one night, then on to the Hotel Palladium Palace. My guide put me in a “cab.” And by cab I mean a friend’s car. Which I didn’t notice until AFTER I was in the car. The stupid Fiat had an elevated dashboard display that I mistook as a meter and didn’t realize until after we were on our way I was in a private car. We reached the hotel in about three minutes, and he asked me for thirty Euros – a “fair price” for a “private car and driver.”

Jimbo furiously begins pressing the “go fuck yourself button.”

In the end, it was nearly eleven, I was damn tired, and I just wanted a room. Cardboard sheets or otherwise. I didn’t have the patience to continue arguing with this asshole, so I negotiated him down to a point that I figured was a fair price for getting him out of my sight before I belted him with my camera bag. I know I paid too much, but I figure it’s the price of convenience. It was convenient that I didn’t have to look at this asshole anymore or listen to him try to bullshit me that all the cabs were “on strike.”

Funny how that taxi strike miraculously ended when I switched hotels, walked outside and found a cab waiting for me.

The more time I spend in Italy, the more I see evidence of what I perceive to be an ugly, universal attempt the fleece the traveler. Whether it’s the four dollar Gatorades at the Vatican, the tourist menus with gratuities included, the price of ANYTHING in Venice, or the “authentic Murano glass” that seems to be available at every corner souvenir stand, it’s almost enough to make even the gelato taste bad.

I said ALMOST.

You know, I like to get laid when I go on vacation. But I really don’t like to get screwed.