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Before anyone gets belly-up to their Trinitrons, trying to pick me
and my boys (that's what I call my luggage) out of the gruesome wreckage
in Germany, I'm not there.  I'm safe and sound in Italy.  Needless
to say, the crash has created quite a buzz on the backpacker circuit.
 When the news reached the hostel I was in, conversations dropped
to a low buzz.  "I met someone who was going to Munich this week!"
people would say.  When you're a backpacker in June in Europe, trains
are your domain.  It's a little freaky.

I left Spain a few days ago, shot like a cannonball from Madrid to
Nice in one day.  Nice is like Fort Lauderdale crossed with Hollywood,
CA, using strange money.  As usual, France is crippled by strikes.
 If there is one thing the French are routinely good at, besides
esoteric physical comedy, it's irritating people.  I had to take
four trains just to get to Nice.  (Nice...the city so nice they named
it after your sibling's daughter.)  Anyway, I treated myself to a
huge dinner, got woefully soused ("that drunk backpacker in the corner
makes me sad, Mommy!"), failed at shaving due to no hot water, and fell asleep.

When the train passed through Monte Carlo on the way out, everyone
got off.  I guess when a city's that small, you gotta commute.

Anyway, now it's Florence, under the shadow of the Duomo, in a city
I have always loved.  It's constipated with American backpackers,
though (the ugly ones, not like me at all) and 36 degrees.  That's
Celsius; you do the math.  All I know is I'm hot.

I went to a bullfight in Madrid!  I know, I know, animal lovers,
but there were 23,999 other people there so I feel pretty confident
that it wasn't my ticket that was keeping the gates open.  Bullfights
are not at all what I expected.  I already knew that to the Spanish,
their target audience, it's about the skill of the bullfighter and
not the misery of the bull.  I figured the matador would just come
out, kill the thing, and take a bow. Instead, bullfights are actually
a long, involved process--and the matador has little sequinned helpers.
 (All of them look like they have to do unseemly things to their
packages to get into their tights, though.  Maybe that's what puts
them into a mood to kill a whole bull for sport.)  All in all, though,
bullfighting seems mostly about who's the best at annoying the bull.

The matador's trainer (fat, also in sequins though) shoves a nail
with a blue ribbon tied to it into the bull's back.  This serves,
of course, to irritate the bull, so when he runs into the ring, he's
not in the mood to take any guff.  Then the matador and his caped
crusading friends taunt it and run behind panels when it becomes
convenient.  Pretty soon, the bull is spitting mad.  So then they
send out two guys on armored horses who jab the bull's back with
giant studded spears.  This REALLY makes the bull mad.  And bloody.
(In the fourth fight of my night, the horseman actually ripped off
a placemat-sized swath of skin.  The bull ran around with a huge
part of his muscles exposed, which had to smart, and the staff ran
over and flung the skin over the side of the ring, like a pizza.
 This made the Spainards mad.  For some reason, they thought this
gave the bull an unfair advantage.  A little TOO mad, I guess.) After
that, the matador's buddies take turns plunging wooden spikes into
the bull's back.  Before too long, the matador comes over and taunts
it for a while longer, then drives a sword into its back.  Pretty
soon, it it's not dead, they go over and stab it until it dies.

Some Americans--fat ones, if I had to tell you--sat behind me.  They
kept saying really obvious things like, "Ooh, honey, that's a black
bull," and "Aw, I don't think the bull liked THAT too much."  The
fat teenaged daughter ate candy bars.

Anyway.  Florence.  I'm in the mood for pasta.  

For those who wonder, my upcoming sked is: Brindisi, Italy either
tomorrow or Sunday, then the ferry to Corfu or Athens, Greece.  Greece
for a week (or until the tourists get to me--EUROPE CAN STINK AT
THIS TIME OF YEAR--then maybe Cyprus, Turkey, Poland.  Paris before
my birthday (12 July) and London right after.  South Africa late July.

By the way, I may never return.  Now that Phil Hartman is gone, why
bother returning?  (That might be a sick joke.  I don't get American
news here.  Are Sinatra jokes in yet?)

And now, the portion of the message devoted to specific questions,
since I don't have time to write 10 zillion of emails today:

FLAHERTY: Looks like we're gonna miss each other!  The thought of
going into the heart of Europe at this time of year makes me think
of Conrad, or Brando eating fresh pork.  Have fun.  I'll miss ya!

SCOTTI: Make sure you stay on the beach.  Yankee Clipper?  Something like that.  Have fun!

JESS: 305.296.6708 

DAVID: What up with the future of the show?  Fill me in!

BEN: I left Sevilla before I could visit her!  Bummer!  I woulda, too.  

JAMIE: I'm looking for the perfect wave.  I'll send it your way.  Wax your board.

ALICE: Sorry I missed you on the last dispatches!  Stacie has em
if you want em.  Dagnabbed computers!!

NAOMI: One kiddie-approved postcard, coming right up!!

I love all of you!  (Well, except one of you, but you know who you are.)

Always keep them guessing.

Love, Jase

Right now I'm in: Florence (Firenze), Italy