Five-year anniversary in Rome: Honeymoon is over but the happiness and love remain

Photo by Marina Pascucci

Photo by Marina Pascucci


Shortly after I moved to Rome five years ago today, a fellow expat scoffed at the rockets and red glare that swirled around me as I talked about my love for this city. She said, “The honeymoon wears off after about five years.”

Today is my five-year anniversary since I arrived from Denver with a duffel bag, a roller bag, a computer bag and lots of dreams and fears. Well, guess what?

She was right.

Rome’s problems are beginning to mount. So are my headaches. Topping the list are public services that are right out of the Pony Express era. It took my Internet provider 48 days to switch over to my new apartment. I switched services recently and got my Internet knocked out for another week. I ordered a new debit card on Dec. 26, after a cash machine ate my other one, and it’s still gathering dust in Milan’s airport.

However, still, there is no place I’d rather live. After all, every city has its civic embarrassments. Rome’s public services are the worst in the western world, the city is the filthiest capital in Europe and the local government has been rife with corruption scandals.

And Denver has the Broncos. So it all evens out.

Besides, making up for a city’s flaws is a glorious new apartment, good health, better friends and a bright future with a beautiful, talented girlfriend who loves to travel as much as I do.

Tonight Marina and I will return to Taverna dei Fori Imperiali, a wonderful trattoria near the Colosseum where I dined the first night of my arrival with my kind expat mentors from across the alley, Gretchen and Peter Bloom. It’s a Jan. 11 ritual, one I plan on continuing the rest of my life.

But it would help if my debit card arrived.

Another Jan. 11 ritual is my blog listing all the reasons I love living in Rome. No honeymoon is perfect. No marriage is perfect. Any life in Rome is better than life right now in the United States. The U.S. has bigger problems than a lousy post office.

So, once again, here is all the things I love about this city. I don’t think I’ll ever run out of items to list:

Photo by Marina Pascucci

Photo by Marina Pascucci


I love how my barista at Romagnani Caffe across the street greets me with “Cappuccino bencaldo e cornetto cioccolato?” before I even give him my regular order of an extra hot cappuccino and a chocolate croissant.

I love how Romagnani Caffe’s cappuccino bencaldo is better than mine and always worth the extra 1.10 euro and the effort to get out the door.

I love Trevi Fountain before dawn, when all you hear is the splashing water.

I love never having a car with so few places in Rome and Italy you can’t go by tram, train, plane, bus or boat.

I love paying only 250 euros for a year public transportation pass, meaning my transportation in Rome costs less than $25 a month.

I love the slightly burnt outer crust on a wood-fire pizza.

I love how pizzeria waiters will always let you make up your own pizza off menu. My regular: gorgonzola and sausage.

I love strolling at night behind Il Vittoriano, the giant 1885 monument known as Mussolini’s Typewriter, and seeing the empty Ancient Forum glowing in perfect light and eerily quiet.

I love having coffee bars on opposite corners on my block, a cozy enoteca around the corner and a beer bar around the next corner.

I love how few bars have bouncers.

I love how the sun reflects off the lake 10 months a year up the street from me in Doria Pamphilj, Rome’s biggest and most underrated park.

I love the gorgonzola in pear sauce at Renato e Luisa, my favorite restaurant in Rome.

I love Lazio wines.

Photo by Marina Pascucci

Photo by Marina Pascucci


I love finding great wine bargains for under 10 euros in any enoteca.

I love the sexy terrace at the Radisson Blu hotel, the perfect place to see Rome’s most beautiful people from around the world at an Internations event.

I love how the nut lady at my Mercato Gianicolense pulls out her special stash of salted almonds from under her counter when she sees me approach.

I love how Birroteca Stappo, my new local bar, has my name on a card and I get a free beer when I reach a certain number of beers.

I love how Birroteca Stappo carries Italy’s growing list of delicious craft beers.

Photo by Marina Pascucci

Photo by Marina Pascucci


I love how Max, my fishmonger, knows to cut a smaller tuna fillet for Marina on the days I cook for her.

I love how AS Roma’s ultras fill Olympic Stadium’s Curva Sud every game, regardless if Roma is winning or losing, if they’re cheering or whistling.

I love watching Lazio lose.

I love Roma 3, Lazio 1, Sept. 29.

I love the white chocolate cornetto and pistachio cream cornetto at Sweet Paradise, the pasticceria near Marina’s.

I love the handmade Italian leather shoes Marina bought me for Christmas.

I love writing on my penthouse balcony on a Sunday morning, with a cappuccino at my side, with the birds chirping and church bells ringing up the street.

I love the No. 8 tram: Two blocks from my door and direct to Centro Storico in 10 minutes.

I love wine tastings every month without ever having to visit a winery.

I love my elevator. (Yes, elevators are near novelties in Rome. It’s a 3,000-year-old city. My previous three buildings had no elevator. It was sometimes a pain but no resident was fat.)

I love watching couples while away an entire afternoon with a cup of coffee at an outdoor cafe.

I love how outdoor cafes let couples while away an entire afternoon with a cup of coffee.

I love how the buildings along Via della Conciliazione perfectly frame St. Peter’s when I pass the long boulevard leading to the church on the No. 23 bus.

I love the white chocolate that goes over my black cherry gelato then solidifies at Brivido, my favorite gelateria, in my old Testaccio neighborhood.

I love fettuccine al salmone affumicato (smoked salmon fettuccine) anywhere, especially the way Marina makes it, with a glass of crisp white Frascati wine.

I love 3.50-euro beers in San Lorenzo, the university neighborhood.

I love free laser surgery.

I love the view from the Atlante Star Hotel in Prati near the Vatican with St. Peter’s to my right and Castel Sant’Angelo, Hadrian’s giant mausoleum, to my left.

I love the beautifully illuminated wall of beers at Open Baladin, which remains one of the top birrerias for Italian craft beer. The wall makes it look more like a museum than a beer bar.

I love red and yellow.

I love she-wolves nursing.

I love the ruins of the Ancient Roman warehouse around the corner from my old apartment and walking by it every day thinking Julius Caesar may have walked these same steps to check supplies.

I love 100-euro Italian suits during the twice-annual saldis (sales) at King Boutique.

I love the ivy strung all along Via Margutta, a narrow cobblestone street lined with antique and art galleries near Piazza del Popolo.

I love the pizza amatriciana at 72 Ore, my favorite pizzeria in Rome.

I love Sunday passeggiatas (strolls) down and around Centro Storico’s narrow, twisty alleys through the piazzas and past the shops, the pizzerias, the trattorias and the enotecas with nowhere to go and nothing to do.

I love the word francobollo (stamp). It’s the one word that makes me sound more Italian when I pronounce it.

I love Sensi di Vini, my local enoteca and maybe the coziest wine bar in Rome with only two tables.

I love photo exhibits with black and white photos of old Rome when the war was over and Italians were falling in love again.

I love Marina, the most beautiful woman in a city full of them.

Belfast emerging from the depths to become a Titanic travel destination

Built in 2012, the Titanic Museum is one of the many of Belfast's new draws. Photo by Marina Pascucci

Built in 2012, the Titanic Museum is one of the many of Belfast’s new draws. Photo by Marina Pascucci


(Second of two parts)

BELFAST, Northern Ireland — Rivers are underrated as romantic venues. The moonlight cruise of the Seine River in Paris remains one of the most romantic hours of my life — and I was alone. The Thames with the illuminated Tower of London and Big Ben hovering over it is always a beautiful sight. Even Rome’s filthy Tiber, at night, looks like the Seine in spring.

The River Lagan in Belfast? Not so much.

Still, there we were, Marina and I, leaving Rome to ring in the new year in what for 30 years was Europe’s most violent city. We were sitting on the Lagan on a boat that shipped coal in from the Netherlands during the Troubles, Northern Ireland’s civil war from 1969-99. Cruising the Seine with Tchaikovsky on the loudspeaker it was not.

But it was close.

This boat no longer shipped coal. Instead it’s home to Holohan’s on the Barge, one of Belfast’s two Michelin-star restaurants. Built six years ago, Holohan’s made the United Kingdom’s Most Romantic Restaurant list for 2017.

Living in one of the most romantic cities in the world, Marina and I can give Holohan’s two hearts up. We sat in the corner at a small, polished-wood table, looking out at the water and the Queens Bridge and Queen Elizabeth Bridge. Bill Withers’ “Lean on Me” played over the soft loudspeaker. Locals chatted at the cozy, curved, wood, fully stocked bar.

We dined on smoked mackerel appetizers. We ate turkey and ham with sage, onion and apricot stuffing. We tried boxta, the traditional Irish potato pancake from County Mayo. It was as good as anything I’ve had in numerous trips to Great Britain — or one previous trip to Ireland. I wasn’t surprised.

After all, this is the new Belfast.

While under the surface some simmering tension remains from the Troubles (see Part I), this has become a peaceful city. It is a city that has put down its gun and picked up a pint of cold Guinness, the Guinness that tastes better on the Irish isle than any other place in the world. The battle fatigues are gone and the Brooks Brothers suits are in. Rubble and barbed wire are replaced by new hotels and renovated bars.

This is a city that is partying like its British and Irish cousins.

“It’s a world away from what it was before,” said Mark Neill, 48, a cab driver for 25 years who does tours of the Troubles spots called Black Taxi Tours (www.niblacttaxitours.com). “Kids in the city center are enjoying themselves. You can feel the positivity now. Ten years ago it was still a bit raw, but you saw the potential.”

Twenty years of peace, plus funding from the United Kingdom, has made Belfast boom. The number of overnight visitors has gone from 440,000 in 1995 to 980,000 in 2011 to 1.5 million in 2017. Six hotels opened last year bringing the total to 38 and rooms to 5,000, nearly doubling the number of 3,000 from 2006. That includes the $70 million, 23-story Grand Central hotel with an observatory tower on the top floor and the $33 million AC Hotel, the first in Belfast from the Marriott chain. The famed Muriel’s Cafe Bar is planning a $450,000-pound rooftop extension. A George Best Hotel, named for one of the greatest soccer players in history and the most famous athlete Northern Ireland ever produced, is planned to open near City Hall this year.

“If you’re a tourist and visiting here, this is one of the safest places you’ll ever be,” Neill said. “People are very friendly.”

Typical Irish breakfast at the Clayton Hotel.

Typical Irish breakfast at the Clayton Hotel.


The attractions here go beyond being able to sit in a pub without getting blown up. It’s off the beaten path. You don’t see the hordes you see in London and Dublin. I didn’t see a single American wearing a Yankees cap. Restaurants and wine bars offer upscale alternatives to the rough-and-tumble pubs that made Belfast famous. (Thai fish cakes with a Spanish Tempranillo at Harlem restaurant downtown anyone?) And, yes, indeed, the people are friendly. Locals painstakingly gave us directions. Old-timers described life during the Troubles in painful detail. Busy waiters gave us history of their restaurants.

Belfast isn’t as out of the way as you think. While you can fly into Belfast, we flew into Dublin and an Irish friend drove us the 90 minutes north. The line between Northern Ireland and the Republic of Ireland is so blurred, the border doesn’t even have a marking, let alone a checkpoint.

We lounged in style at the four-star Clayton Hotel, part of the British/Irish hotel chain, which featured a terrific spa and an outrageous, sprawling breakfast buffet that made us skip lunch a couple of days. Another huge draw for Belfast: It’s relatively cheap. For this four-star palace we paid only 351 euro (about $400) for three nights — over New Year’s Eve.

Cheeses and jams at St. George's Market.

Cheeses and jams at St. George’s Market.


The Clayton is right in the heart of the center, four short blocks from beautiful and gargantuan City Hall, built in 1906 and featuring four towers and a 173-foot copper dome. We were also just down the street from St. George’s Market. It’s Belfast’s weekend crafts and food market and the perfect place to start or end your trip. Wandering around the stalls in an enclosed space the size of a high school gym, you’ll drop the stereotype of bland Irish cuisine. We sampled curry sauce, bought aged Westcombe cheddar cheese, salivated over the crepes and smoothies. We talked to locals who hand-made costume jewelry and painted landscapes of an Irish countryside so green the paintings look made with one color.

A two-piece band played Stealers Wheel’s “Stuck in the Middle with You.” It was a good day. It wasn’t the welcome-to-Belfast moment I expected after yearning for so many years to visit a war zone.

Video of Titanic workers are on the carnival-like ride in Titanic Belfast. Photo by Marina Pascucci

Video of Titanic workers are on the carnival-like ride in Titanic Belfast. Photo by Marina Pascucci


Belfast’s biggest draw, however, is a paradox, a perfect symbol of its city. Titanic Belfast is as modern as what Belfast has become and as eerie as what it once was. Built in 2012 for 101 million pounds ($130 million), the museum consists of a series of angular wings. It’s intended to represent ships’ prows but cynical locals think it looks more like an iceberg, an unfortunate misstep considering this is next to the shipyard where they built the Titanic.

The 130,000-square-foot museum took us from the beginning to well after the end. It starts with a look at Belfast’s boom years in the 19th century for the city’s world-leading linen industry. Huge placards and photographs took us through the history step by step, including the first involvement of Harland and Wolff, the legendary shipbuilders whose cranes, still sporting the H&W logo, remain a Belfast landmark. Then it goes from the construction to the launch to the fit-out to the maiden voyage to the sinking and to the aftermath.

You probably know that the Titanic sank April 15, 1912, killing 1,517 on board. Some things you probably know about it:

* It took 15,000 workers 26 months to build.

* Eight people died during the construction, mostly by execution. But one 14-year-old boy (No, child labor laws weren’t in place then.) when he fell off the two planks that held workers aloft — without safety harnesses.

* The ship carried 75,000 pounds of meat, 40,000 eggs — and 8,000 cigars.

* A first-class cabin cost 26 pounds (about $33).

* After the experimental launch on May 31, 2011, it took a year to fit out the ship. It included a Turkish bath, smoking rooms in all three classes and 16 pianos.

The museum is extraordinarily user friendly. It has nine interactive galleries, but the highlight was Marina and I stepping into what looked like a roller coaster seat. A mechanical arm took us up through a makeshift, dimly lit shipbuilding yard where we saw weirdly realistic, 3D laborers building the ship, like two sweaty men hammering some of the 3 million rivets with hand tools. The ride was hellaciously noisy, purposely made to realistically show what caused many of the laborers later to go stone deaf.

The last room is a terrific modern video of the discovery of the Titanic by Robert Ballard in 1985 who used a submarine to photograph it 2.4 miles down on the ocean floor. You hear the play-by-play commentator of what they see, from stylish dinner plates to heating mechanisms.

Marina and I like to get out into rural areas when we visit cities. The year before in Fez, Morocco, we spent New Year’s Eve day in Safou, a small town with a big medina, no tourists and a great local hole in the wall where we ate like royalty for pennies.

The Giant's Causeway. Photo by Marina Pascucci

The Giant’s Causeway. Photo by Marina Pascucci


This time we went to Northern Ireland’s greatest natural attraction. The Giant’s Causeway is 60 miles from Belfast on Northern Ireland’s northernmost tip. You don’t need a clear day to see Scotland 25 miles to the east. I had never heard of the Giant’s Causeway. It sounded like a mall.

Our Irish friend assured me it wasn’t. Patrick O’Byrne, 53, is a Belfast native who I got to know last year while he lived in Rome working with the European Union. He drove us out of Belfast through beautiful green meadows, green farmlands, rolling green hills. It was so green, even the sheep look green. I’m from Oregon. I know green.

Northern Ireland is greener than St. Patrick after a three-day binge.

“We say Ireland is a plain picture inside a beautiful frame,” O’Byrne said.

Marina and Patrick at Lilly's.

Marina and Patrick at Lilly’s.


We first stopped for lunch and found a place right out of central casting. In Bushmills, home of the famed 235-year-old whisky, we entered Lilly’s, a black-brick diner with a small menu on the wall. Dominating it is the fish ‘n chips which came out as a giant slab of deep-fried cod on a foot-long bed of French fries. It was big and greasy and oh, so good. Poor Marina may have gained back the two kilos she put on in the U.S. in August then lost in Rome.

Up a few miles the road comes to a stop at the North Atlantic Ocean. We parked in a packed parking lot and walked toward the sea. On a windy, 50-degree overcast day, the Atlantic looked cold and gray and foreboding, like you’d see in a shipwreck film. As we cleared a small hill, we saw it: 40,000 interlocking basalt columns, looking like little stone Legos, stacked on top of each other stretching for about 100 meters. Hugging the sea, some of the piles were nearly 40 feet high.

Trying to walk on them was like walking on icy sawed-off logs. I scrambled all over the place. I took little solace in knowing people have tripped along here since the Dawn of Man. The Giant’s Causeway was formed 50-60 million years ago after a volcanic eruption shot molten fluid up through chalk beds to form a lava plateau then contracted.

Bushmills is home to the famous Bushmills whisky. Photo by Marina Pascucci

Bushmills is home to the famous Bushmills whisky. Photo by Marina Pascucci


That’s the geological explanation.

The local fable is a giant from Irish mythology called Fionn mac Cumhaill (or Finn MacCool which sounds like an Irish rock star) took up a challenge from a Scottish giant named Benandonner. He told ol’ Fionn to build a causeway across the sea so they could meet. But when Fionn saw how big Benandonner was, his wife disguised him as a baby and hid him in a cradle. Benandonner saw the size of the baby and, figuring if that’s the size of the kid the dad must be a nightmare, ran back to Scotland and destroyed the causeway so Fionn couldn’t follow him.

The tale also lends credence to the Irish’s feeling of superiority over the Scots as Benandonner was, obviously, a complete and utter moron.

It’s a sobering story, one of the few sobering moments you could have in Belfast if you so choose. That’s one reason I chose Belfast for New Year’s Eve. I’ve never been there, what better place to spend New Year’s Eve than Belfast and I have a girlfriend who’s never been drunk.

With the O'Byrnes at the Crown New Year's Eve.

With the O’Byrnes at the Crown New Year’s Eve.


She and I took different paths to midnight. She shopped and rested while I prowled the old Protestant stronghold of Shankill Road doing interviews for my Part I blog on the Troubles. I started interviewing at 2:30 p.m. which, in Belfast, means I was bought a Guinness before I pulled out my pen. By the time I reached the O’Byrne family at 6, I already had five pints and thoroughly conflicted ideas on who the bad guys were in this conflict.

But I know who the good guys are now. They’re the Belfastians. The O’Byrnes met me at the Crown, Belfast’s most famous pub established in 1849. It’s not only a symbol of great victorian architecture but also of the Protestant-Catholic conundrum over the centuries. Story has it that Patrick Flanagan, the Catholic owner who refurbished it in 1885, argued with his Protestant wife what to name it. She won and it was named the Crown to honor the British monarchy. Flanagan, however, got the last laugh. He put the crown in mosaics in the entrance floor so every customer would tread their feet on it.

After a couple more rounds with an Irish family that never stopped laughing, I poured myself into Home Restaurant, where I met Marina, sober as Mother Teresa. The Home is one of the many all-natural farm-to-table restaurants that have popped up in Belfast the last 10 years. Built in 2011 near City Hall, it specializes in local produce and my herb-roasted chicken was a great chaser for a belly full of Guinness.

Marina and I at Brennans' as midight approached.

Marina and I at Brennans’ as midight approached.


Later, surprisingly, Belfast was relatively tame on New Year’s Eve. The O’Byrnes continued the local tradition of celebrating at home while we went across the alley from the Crown to Brennans’. It has transformed into a shiny two-story pub where the Guinness is cold and cheap and flowed all night.

So did we. Marina said later I actually danced. I told her I’d need video proof. But I don’t need proof that I loved the rest of Belfast.

Like the city, I welcomed 2019 in peace.

Belfast: The Troubles are over but a wary peace hangs over the most unique war zone on earth

Patrick O'Byrne and I in front of the Bobby Sands mural on Belfast's Falls Road. Photo by Marina Pascucci

Patrick O’Byrne and I in front of the Bobby Sands mural on Belfast’s Falls Road. Photo by Marina Pascucci


(First of two parts)

BELFAST, Northern Ireland — I’m not a big guided tours guy, but I’ve taken enough during my travels to know that not many include this line from the tour guide:

“This is the most bombed hotel in Europe.”

We were passing the Europa Hotel, a 12-story monolith in downtown Belfast. It looks like many other four-star hotels in the world. Huge facade. Lots of glass. Big signage. It didn’t appear to show any damage from — get this — 36 bomb attacks. For nearly 50 years, from its construction in 1971, the Europa has been a 170-foot symbol of the Troubles, Northern Ireland’s 30-year civil war.

Marina and I like to get out of Rome for New Year’s Eve and what better place to party that night than Belfast? New Year’s Eve in Belfast just sounds drunk, doesn’t it? It’s the perfect formula: a city at peace enjoying a tourism-infused economic renaissance (See Part II later this week) — and an Italian girlfriend who’d never been drunk in her life.

However, my goal of preventing her from nursing a Guinness for an entire weekend was overwhelmed by the mind-numbing sights of the Troubles and the people who lived through it.

Our tour guide was one of those people. Patrick O’Byrne is a friend. We met in Rome last year while he was working with the European Union and started dating one of my language scambio partners.

O’Byrne, 53, was born and raised in Belfast and home for the holidays. He’s as Irish as a four-leaf clover on a leprechaun’s hurling stick. He refers to Northern Ireland as “the North of Ireland.” Londonderry, Northern Ireland’s second-biggest city, is “Derry.” Tattooed on his arm is the shamrock logo of Celtic FC, Glasgow’s Catholic-based soccer power in the Scottish League. He despises Rangers, Celtic’s Protestant cross-town rival. (“I’m a 90-minute bigot,” he says.) His name couldn’t be more Irish if you wrote it in green. Patrick O’Byrne sounds like a guy who could drink six pints of Guinness and sing “Molly Malone” on a St. Patrick’s Day float.

He lived through the Troubles and his memory hasn’t faded through 20 years of peace. A bomb blew out his family’s window. He suffered two broken noses in brawls with Protestants. He saw riots nearly every weekend. He knew guys who were kneecapped three times.

“It was just a dirty, dirty war,” he said.

From 1969-99 the Troubles claimed 3,500 lives. Belfast Child photo

From 1969-99 the Troubles claimed 3,500 lives. Belfast Child photo


Belfast, a city of about 500,000, was always on my bucket list. Like Albania, North Korea and Paraguay, Belfast was one of those places I wanted to visit because I never knew anyone who had. I just remember seeing black-and-white photos showing ratty-attired men hurling objects at other ratty-attired men and heavily armed soldiers hovering over fallen youths in hooded masks. In the background was always what looked like a tenement building. Rubble seemed everywhere. I read 300,000 military troops served in a city the size of Colorado Springs.

Tourism was not high on Belfast’s priority list. When your best hotel in town is bombed 36 times, Rick Steves isn’t showing up anytime soon.

The basis of this conflict goes back 800 years and putting it in one paragraph is like tweeting the evolution of man. Suffice it to say Northern Ireland, populated a great deal by Scots who had also lost independence, was kept by Great Britain when it granted Ireland independence in 1921. While Northern Ireland is part of Great Britain, nearly half the people are Catholics who view themselves as Irish. They claimed they suffered discrimination and wanted a united Ireland; the Protestants view themselves as British and wanted to maintain that connection.

Northern Ireland's unionists say they are British and not Irish. Photo by Marina Pascucci

Northern Ireland’s unionists say they are British and not Irish. Photo by Marina Pascucci


More than 3,500 murdered souls later, Northern Ireland is back where it started. The Catholics and Protestants have learned to maintain a relatively peaceful co-existence. Mixing is more common. Still, tension simmers beneath the surface. Tuesday’s Belfast Telegraph reported 71 victims of paramilitary-style assaults and shootings, including 20 deaths, in the 12 months leading to December. That’s more than one a week. The city’s problem is prosecution.

They can’t get survivors or witnesses to come forward.

The first thing I learned about the Troubles is to stop calling it Catholics vs. Protestants. This isn’t Notre Dame vs. Penn State. It has little to do with religion. It’s all about nationalism. It’s more accurate to call it nationalists or republicans (who consider themselves Irish) vs. loyalists or unionists (who consider themselves Brits).

During the Troubles, within those groups were:

The Irish Republican Army, the nationalists’ violent republican army.

The Ulster Defence Association, the loyalists’ paramilitary arm.

As we say in America, you can’t tell the players without a scorecard. In Belfast, you can’t tell the type of neighborhood without a really good map — or a good guide like O’Byrne. I’ve been to 100 countries. No city in the world is like Belfast. No city has party lines mapped out in such a quilt. You can be in a nationalists’ neighborhood, cross a street and be in a unionists’ ‘hood, go a couple more streets and you’ll be back among nationalists. During the Troubles it was like a white South Central L.A. Falls Road and Shankill Road made international headlines in the ‘70s, ‘80s and ‘90s as the nationalists’ and unionists’ strongholds, respectively.

They are less than a mile apart.

“That’s why sectarian murder was so easy,” O’Byrne said. “It was easy to pick off the opposition. If they were walking down a certain pavement, they were Catholic or Protestant. Sometimes they got it wrong.”

O’Byrne picked us up at our Clayton Hotel, one of the glittery high-rise hotels that have popped up in Belfast the last 10 years. It’s two blocks from the Europa, a good place for O’Byrne to tell his tale. He was born in a mixed neighborhood in North Belfast, the son of a bar manager and housewife. He went to sea and is semi-retired.

William of Orange, on Sandy Row, is considered a  symbol of unionists' fight against Catholics.

William of Orange, on Sandy Row, is considered a symbol of unionists’ fight against Catholics.


He took us by a building with a giant mural of a man in the kind of white wig you see on British courts. It was King William of Orange, the king of England and Scotland from 1689-1702 and who fought against the Catholic king of France, Louis XIV. This was Sandy Row, a small enclave and the most unionist part of downtown. Like all Northern Irish Catholic students during the Troubles, O’Byrne went to an all-Catholic school. But he went to a mixed college near here.

“I’ve drunk once on this road with a Protestant friend, a student,” he said. “He took me into a bar somewhere. I said, ‘Don’t call me ‘Patrick’ in here.’”

I noticed the lampposts sported red, white and blue striping. Near my hotel is a fenced-in construction area for the proposed George Best Hotel. Best is considered one of the best soccer players who ever lived and the most famous athlete Northern Ireland ever produced. He’s from East Belfast, near the docks. That’s 100 percent unionist territory.

Memorials are everywhere. One showed a fresh-faced young man smiling as if watching a soccer match.

“He’d been shot or blown up,” O’Byrne said. “He’s a local lad, probably from the street, who was killed by the IRA or UDA or shot by the British. The loyalists fought the British on occasion. The army and police were against both sides.”

We drove down Sandy Row and saw a man standing outside a pub. He looked like any other Belfast citizen. O’Byrne didn’t need to know what street he was on to know who he was.

“He’s got Northern Ireland shorts on and he just came out of a Sandy Row bar so he’s definitely a loyalist,” he said. “If you see a Northern Ireland shirt, it’s a loyalist. If you see a Republic of Ireland, it’s 100 percent Catholic.”

We continued around downtown and passed a bar called Lavery’s.

“One of my favorite bars as a kid,” O’Byrne said. “It’s right here by Sandy Row but it was a Catholic bar. A few times we got raided by these boys who’d come in and start fights. It’s a student bar. But these guys on Sandy Row took all students to be Catholics.”

I asked how he got along with the unionist students after growing up in segregated public schools.

“It took us a while,” he said. “We were standoffish then we said, ‘Fuck it. Let’s just go to the student union and get drunk.’”

We left downtown heading west and I noticed something. The signs on buildings and walls were bilingual: English and Gaelic, the Irish language taught in Republic of Ireland schools and Catholic schools in the North. We were on Falls Road, as synonymous with Belfast during the Troubles as hunger strikes and pub bombs.

Falls Road. Photos by Marina Pascucci

The mural wall on Falls Road. Photos by Marina Pascucci

Falls Road isn’t very long. It goes straight for about a mile then curves south. But it’s impossible to miss. In one section, only five minutes from downtown, murals stretch an entire block and around a corner for another block. They all honor the nationalists’ cause or others’ around the world. There was Nelson Mandela, Palestinian flags, Fidel Castro, Che Guevara, Kurdish leader Abdullah Ocalan. One map showed the dwindling Palestine homeland on the West Bank. They were beautifully done and very professional.

Gaelic was the second language on the walls. O’Byrne is far from fluent but knew this translation: “Tiochfaiah Ar’ La’” (“Our Day Will Come”). Another in English read, “You can kill a revolutionary, but you can never kill the revolution.”

“Nationalists were second-class citizens for the first 50 years of the Northern Irish state,” he said. “Violence erupted in 1969 because of the suppression of the civil rights movement. That suppression led to the resurgence of the IRA and the Troubles.”

At the end of the block is a huge iron gate, swung open for cars to pass. During the Troubles it was often locked.

Further down the road, near a Sinn Fein office, is a giant mural of the face of the revolution. Covering the entire side of a building is a bright color mural of Bobby Sands. If you didn’t know his name, you’d look at his long, flowing hair parted in the middle and his huge smile and think he was a fifth Beatle. He wasn’t. He was the republicans’ leader who died in prison in 1981 during a hunger strike in which he didn’t eat for 66 days. He was 27. He inspired other hunger strikes that cost the lives of nine other nationalists.

Bobby Sands' funeral in 1981. Global Rights photo

Bobby Sands’ funeral in 1981. Global Rights photo


While O’Byrne said, in retrospect, the hunger strikes didn’t work, he said, “At the time I supported them. As a 16-year-old I absolutely supported them.”

We got back in the car and drove past Royal Victoria Hospital, the biggest hospital in the city and home to what O’Byrne says are “the best knee surgeons in the world.” Why here? They were needed. The IRA distributed punishment for petty crimes.

“If you were seen talking to the police, you were viewed as an informer and were shot,” O’Byrne said. “Back of the knee.”

We headed north through his old neighborhood and east where the shipyards made the biggest ships in the world, including the Titanic in 1911. The shipyards provide 100 years of bitter memories for Catholics who were never hired. It’s not funny but some of the jokes that emerged from the discrimination were.

“The dock workers were 100 percent Protestant workers,” O’Byrne said. “What were they doing in West Belfast when the Protestants were in East Belfast building the Titanic?

“They were building an iceberg.”

The Bayardo pub memorial on Shankill Road. Photo by Marina Pascucci.

The Bayardo pub memorial on Shankill Road. Photo by Marina Pascucci.


Time, however, has somewhat softened O’Byrne. Jokes aside, he no longer waves the IRA flag. He knows the destruction it once wrought. He drove us down Shankill Road, the unionists’ epicenter. One corner is an open-air memorial to Bayardo, a pub the IRA blew up in 1975. On the memorial arch are the words, “5 INNOCENT PROTESTANTS MURDERED” with their pictures above. Behind it are gruesome photos of the carnage IRA bombs left in London and Paris among other cities. Under one reads: “IRA — Sinn Fein — ISIS no difference.”

I ask O’Byrne what would you say to a loyalist who said, “You were shit and terrorized the community”?

“I’d say, ‘We did,’” he said. “But you did the same to us.’ No community suffered more than the other.”

Every tale has two sides, however. In Belfast you don’t have to go very far to get it. It’s not much farther than going to a visiting team’s locker room. One Saturday morning all I had to do was walk three blocks from my hotel to City Hall. Belfast’s City Hall is one of the most magnificent buildings in Great Britain (or Ireland). Built in 1906, it covers 1 ½ acres and features four towers and a 173-foot copper dome. It dominates Belfast’s modest landscape like a castle over a vineyard.

Unionist Billy Dickson, in front of City Hall, says a united Ireland would cost Protestants their Britishness. Photo by Marina Pascucci

Unionist Billy Dickson, in front of City Hall, says a united Ireland would cost Protestants their Britishness. Photo by Marina Pascucci


Standing in front of it were a small group of people carrying the UK’s Union Jack flag. I asked one of them, Billy Dickson, 71, a Belfast native, what the peaceful demonstration was about. In 2012, the Belfast City Council ruled that the flag that had flown over City Hall would only be flown on statutory days such as the Queen’s birthday and national holidays.

It’s no coincidence that Sinn Fein is now in Parliament and Belfast last year elected a Sinn Fein mayor, Deirdre Hargey.

“They alleged that some people found it offensive to have the flag of our country to be flying,” he said. “It’ll fly about 15 days a year, 20 at most.”

For the last seven years, a group of unionists have come here every Saturday, from 1-2 p.m., to wave the Union Jack. It isn’t organized. It has no group name. It’s just random people from around Northern Ireland.

“Imagine in the U.S.,” he said. “The stars and stripes have been flying over their town hall for 100 years and the town council decides to take the stars and stripes down and only fly it during statutory days. Now I can just imagine what would happen in America.”

To Dickson, the unionists feel very British despite deep Irish brogues that are no different than their nationalists’ counterparts. The Northern Irish Protestants fought in World War II and while many Northern Irish Catholics also did, the Republic of Ireland remained neutral.

They say the nationalists’ desire for a united Ireland is a shot at the unionists’ Britishness.

“The cultural war against the unionist people has continued, and it has continued up to this day,” Dickson said. “I think most people just want to get along with their lives. There’s always a minority who keep things going. Like Sinn Fein want to continue this cultural war. It’s why they’re using the Irish language. There’s nothing wrong with the Irish language but they’re using the Irish language as a weapon and beat the unionists.

“The vast majority of people here aren’t worrying about who’s a Catholic and who’s a Protestant. They go into the shops and go into the cafes and when the flag was flying there, I don’t think the vast majority of people noticed there was a flag there. So they made an issue of the flag when there wasn’t an issue.”

I asked what what would happen to Northern Ireland if it became part of Ireland.

“The greatest fear if there was a united Ireland tomorrow, we’d cease to be British,” he said. “We’d be British in our hearts still but constitutionally no. There are too many minorities in the world. We only have to be beaten once. We don’t intend to be beaten again.

“We’re the Ulster Scots. We’re the people who made the United States of America. We’re the frontiersmen of the United States of America. If it wasn’t for the Ulster Scots, you’d be singing ‘God Save the Queen.’”

This soccer pub has been a unionist stronghold. Photo by Marina Pascucci

This soccer pub has been a unionist stronghold. Photo by Marina Pascucci


I started my New Year’s Eve early. I made a beeline that afternoon to Shankill Road, which had no establishment O’Byrne felt safe to enter. He even lowered his voice as he talked near the Bayardo memorial.

It brought up a question I’ve had all my life about Belfast: How does one tell Catholics from Protestants? They look the same. They talk the same. They have the same blood.

It’s all about the pub and what street it’s on.

“The bars are regular bars,” O’Byrne said. “If you walk in and you’re not one of them, they’ll spot you like that. They’ll just start talking to you: What are you doing here, lad?”

Then came the key questions: What school do you go to? With Belfast’s educational segregation, you might as well hand over a birth certificate. What’s your name? Patrick? James? Conor? Catholic. William? Harry? Jack? Protestant.

As John, I could pass for both. I’m also a quarter Irish, a quarter English, a quarter Scottish and a quarter Swiss. I’m 100 percent WASP. I’m as ethnically boring as Wonder bread. I was raised Presbyterian in Eugene, Oregon, and went to Sunday school until my father bristled at it eating away at NFL games on TV. I’ve never been back.

So I had no fear walking into The Stadium Bar, a dive bar on Shankill featuring a pool table, two poker machines and cheap pints of Guinness at 3.50 pounds (about $4.35). I sat on a barstool and ordered a Guinness. My accent, as American as a Chevrolet commercial, made the question about where I’m from superfluous.

“Oregon but I live in Rome now,” I said.

“What brings you here?” said the friendly female bartender.

“What better place to spend New Year’s Eve than Belfast?” I said. “Plus I’ve never been here before.”

Next to me was a diminutive old man who talked to me for 10 minutes in a brogue so thick I didn’t understand a single word he said. I may as well have been in a bar in Bhutan. Next to him sat a much younger man who’d only give his name as Jim and wasn’t shy when I said I write a travel blog and pulled out my tape recorder. He told me about the riots he’d been in, about growing up hating people the same as himself.

I asked what’s the worst thing he ever saw. He thought for a moment. The man on the other side of him said, “His mother was blown up.”

Jim interjected, “No, my ma’s still living. My grandfather was blown up. In the Four Stop Inn. He was one of the first in the Troubles in 1971. I was 8.”

“Your grandfather was blown up?” I said. “You had to think about that as the worst? You’re not bitter?”

“I wasn’t bitter,” he said. “I just couldn’t understand what was going on. You live with it. Then you hate each other because you’re told by other people, This is the way you have to be. You were just brought up like that your whole life.”

Jim bought me a beer and I asked, “But how do you get over your bitterness? I’d still like to see some ex-bosses under a bus.”

“Because they’re the same as us,” he said. “They lost people the same way we lost people.”

Me and Mark Neill inside the Northern Ireland Supporters Club.

Me and Mark Neill inside the Northern Ireland Supporters Club.


I went next door to a pub O’Byrne warned me about. The Northern Ireland Supporters Club is a watering hole base for fans of the Northern Ireland soccer team. The Union Jack as well as the flags of Scotland and Northern Ireland fly over the front door. Inside are framed jerseys of a Northern Ireland side that has made the World Cup three times, the last in 1986. It even made the quarterfinals in 1958.

It’s a beautiful bar, polished and clean. Despite being built in 1980, it looks new. I ordered a Guinness and took a seat next to a table of five. I was introduced to Mark Neill, 48, a Belfast cab driver for 25 years who now runs a taxi tour of the Troubles areas called Black Taxi Tours (www.niblacktaxitours.com). Like the tour O’Byrne gave me, Neill’s is neutral. He said he shows both sides. But it’s clear on what side he sits.

“There was a lot of negativity in the Protestant community as if the Catholic community was always being downtrodden,” he said. “It was never the case. They view themselves as second-class citizens and Protestants as first class. But when you look back to history, we’ll see ourselves always as third-class citizens. We’re all third class, Protestants and Catholics.

“But politicians made the divide, that one was better than the other. That was never the case.”

Like all Northern Irish, he’s seen his share of horror. He’s seen people shot, seen them take their last breaths just a few streets away from where we sat.

“If you listen to the IRA over the years, they tried to justify it as a war,” he said. “The British Army didn’t hide behind planting bombs. The British Army was right there in uniform. The IRA was raising a terror campaign. They were a counter offensive. A lot of the Protestant counter measures were because of attacks on their homes.”

I asked the million-dollar question: How do you feel about the Catholics here feeling Britain took over Ireland and they want their country back?

“Protestants came here 400 years ago as this part of Ireland was sparsely populated,” he said. “We came and made it our home. We started building roads. We started building towns. This became the more developed part of Ireland. They feel they came and built it. They populated it. They made it their home. They’re not going back.”

Despite all he’s seen, all he’s read, Neill said he’d have no problem if my friend walked in — as long as he didn’t promote the IRA. It has been 20 years since the Troubles ended. Northern Ireland is more prosperous economically. Visitors, like me and Marina, are discovering it.

I asked him through all this if he’s still bitter.

“No,” he said. “Before, growing up in these areas I wouldn’t have any interaction with anyone on the other side of the wall. Now I work with Catholics. I wouldn’t feel safe on Falls Road but we work together and it stays at work.

“I just see people for what they are. Those people are just like me. I realize we’re all the same. We’ve all had the same social problems. We all live on the same streets. We all work together. One man’s loss is no worse than mine; my loss is no worse than his.”

I later joined O’Byrne and his family for an early New Year’s Eve celebration. We laughed. We drank. We toasted. We drank some more. I went into 2019 thinking that Northern Ireland could teach a lot to the world, including me. I remain bitter at people for a lot less. No one ever blew up my grandfather. I was never denied employment because of my roots. Still, I have two ex-bosses I’ll never speak to again. I could never share a beer with a Trump supporter. No way.

I wish I came here during the Troubles, to feel and see true hatred from people who live across the streets from each other. But better late than never and Northern Ireland has become a safe haven with a haunting history. The people are sharing equality, jobs, lives and pints of Guinness, if not pubs and schools.

Maybe they all realize what I always have: Spilling Guinness is better than spilling blood.

Next: Belfast is a new tourist hotbed.

Italy off the beaten path 2019: Day trips from Rome and an Amalfi jewel

The Amalfi Coast is one of the most popular destinations in Italy but I found the village of Praiano the perfect place to get away.

The Amalfi Coast is one of the most popular destinations in Italy but I found the village of Praiano the perfect place to get away.


I never make New Year’s resolutions. Why make one on Jan. 1 when you can make it on July 1? Or March 15? You’re going to wait until the new year to stop drinking boxed wine? It’s a cop out.

If you’re going to resolve to do something in 2019, do this: Travel to Italy. Yeah, my adopted country is starting to lean right. The guy running the country has a Donald Trump bobblehead doll on his Fiat’s dashboard. But deputy prime minister Matteo Salvini has no effect on Italy’s great beaches, delicious food or priceless museums.

What will have a lasting effect in Italy is where you go. Fifty million tourists come to Italy every year. Those of you who have done the American tourist triangle of Venice-Florence-Rome should look farther afield. Find a unique, truly Italian experience that is away from the mass hordes you saw the first time around yet has much of the beauty you crave when you come here.

This is where I come in.

I’ve been to 18 of Italy’s 21 regions (missing only Calabria, Molise and Valle d’Aosta) and they all have little towns full of charm and medium-sized cities viewed only as a place to go somewhere else. My girlfriend, the able-bodied photographer, Marina Pascucci, and I stumbled onto a few more places this year.

So when you pull out your 2019 calendar and plan your vacation, add my annual Italy Off-the-Beaten-Path to last year’s inaugural list . Clip it and press it on your refrigerator with a Chianti bottle fridge magnet. It’ll remind you to stop buying wine in hardware stores.

Heretofore are 10 places you likely have never heard of and can add to your next itinerary, in alphabetical order. (Caveat: Do NOT come in July or August, unless otherwise noted. It is stifling hot and the height of tourist season everywhere):

Bolsena

Bolsena


Bolsena (pop. 4,000): Italy has some famous lakes — Como, Guarda, Albano — and Lago di Bolsena often gets overlooked. So does its town. Located about 80 miles north of Rome, Bolsena makes for a memorable day trip from the city’s chaos. The 44-square-mile lake is one of the largest volcanic lakes in Europe and is a fabulous place to swim and sunbathe. The town is oh, so charming. It’s situated on a hill where narrow, cobblestone alleys lead up to a medieval center and the 13th century Castello Rocca Monaldeschi. Have a Prosecco in Piazza Matteotti and poke your head in shops specializing in local foods.
Bolzano. Climates to Travel photo

Bolzano. Climates to Travel photo


Bolzano (pop. 107,000): It’s the gateway to the Dolomites. Many come here as a base for their trekking, camping and skiing but stick around town for a couple of days. Few places in Italy are like it. It’s only 20 miles from the Austrian border and consequently is bilingual. You’re just as likely to hear “Guten tag!” as “Buongiorno!” Consequently, it has a German touch. Tyrolean buildings, some looking like Disneyland castles, share space with pastel-colored buildings on narrow cobblestone streets. Throughout history it bounced from Bavarian rule to Austrian to Napoleon back to Austrian then finally Italian in 1918. It’s only 30 minutes to great hiking and close to 29 ski resorts. Bolzano is a good place to stay cool in July and August. Be sure to dine at Hopfen & Co., for local cuisine such as the leg of pork and the best sauerkraut you’ll ever have.
Cesanatico. Marina Pascucci photo

Cesanatico. Marina Pascucci photo


Cesanatico (pop. 26,000). It’s a quiet respite from the crazy cheek-to-cheek beach in Rimini 30 miles to the south. Cesanatico feels like Venice with its long canal, bridges and marine museum but is a quiet Adriatic port town. Lots of hotel accommodations to provide for the excellent beach that is pleasant and comfortable except for the two crazy summer months. Have a glass of wine on pink antique couches in the kitschy cafe called La Saraghina Ubrica then fine dine at Ca’ Nostra (“Our house” in the Emilian dialect) where you try Emilia-Romagna’s scrumptious antipasti. But don’t miss the region’s signature sauce, ragu, on strozzapreti, the short, twisty pasta named for the shape of rope that can strangle priests.
Frascati. Cultura della Relazione photo

Frascati. Cultura della Relazione photo


Frascati (pop. 22,000). Like picnics? There are few better places to have one than here. It’s only 12 miles southeast of Rome in the Alban Hills. Here is where they make the famed Frascati white wine, a fresh, light wine perfect for picnics, especially with the porchetta (sizzling, suckling pig) sandwiches they serve in the small main piazza. Frascati is famous for its 16th century villas. Popes, rich cardinals and Roman aristocracy built them and they remain today. You can’t miss Villa Aldobrandini, a hulking structure with beautiful Baroque gardens open to the public. Take a picnic and a bottle of wine and walk up the hill to the statue park and dine amongst the marble gods, or find a spot in the grassy park near Aldobrandini. For history buffs, Frascati was Germany’s Mediterranean headquarters until 1943 when Allied forces bombed half the buildings, killing 1,000 Italians and 150 Germans.
Marina and I in Itri

Marina and I in Itri


Itri (pop. 11,000). Marina and I discovered this little town while we stayed in the beautiful Casa Cerqua Landi B&B, complete with swimming pool, in the hills above Sperlonga, maybe the best beach in Lazio. Itri is an ideal place to stay for an Italian beach vacation. It’s only eight miles inland from the Tyrrhenian Sea and 90 miles south of Rome. It is real Old Italy where the elderly gossip in the quiet town piazza and the gelateria is the town social center. Located on the old Appian Way, Ancient Rome’s road to the sea, it is famous for its Gaeta olives, which have their own festival the first Sunday of every August, and its sauteed wild game like boar, rabbit and pheasant. Even in July it was void of tourists. And it’s cheap. The two best Neapolitan-style pizzas we’ve ever had, a beer and a glass of wine were only 20 euros at La Tavernetta.
Sunset in Praiano

Sunset in Praiano


Praiano (pop. 2,000). The Amalfi Coast is a magnet for romantics and those visiting Italy for the second time. If you want to avoid the crowds in the towns of Positano and Amalfi, try this little village in between. Praiano sits atop a rocky cliff with spectacular views of the royal blue Tyrrhenian below. I had a beautiful AirBnB overlooking the sea with just a short hike up to the village. The excellent SITA Sud bus system runs regularly, connecting Praiano with the other coastal towns. If you’re adventurous, you can hike the seven-mile trail named appropriately Santiero degli Dei (Path of the Gods). It begins in Praiano and goes along the Lattari mountains with gorgeous views of the ocean. It’s about three to four hours to Positano. But stay in Praiano and get some local cheese, bread and wine, sit in the piazza and look at the fantastic sunsets every day. For a dining option away from the crowds of Positano, try Trattoria San Gennaio and have the tagliatelle with clams.
Radda in Chianti. Private Driver Service photo

Radda in Chianti. Private Driver Service photo


Radda in Chianti (pop. 1,600). If you come to Italy for wine, particularly Chianti, Radda is the perfect base. It’s the capital of Tuscany’s Chianti country. Located nine miles north of Siena and 22 southeast of Florence, it’s a medieval walled city and nearby about two dozen wineries. Its cobblestone alleys make for the perfect stroll and it’s not big enough to attract crowds. Get a winery map and take off. If you only have time for one, I suggest Castello di Volpaia, voted No. 3 on Wine Spectator’s Top 100 list for 2018. One caveat to Radda in Chianti: You’ll need a car. Rent one in Florence.
Santa Marguerita

Santa Marguerita


Santa Margherita (pop. 10,000). Go ahead and join the parade of moving flesh hiking along the Cinque Terre. Stay here. Santa Margherita is a quiet fishing village turned retirement town just 40 miles along the coast north of Monterosso, the most northern of the five Cinque Terre towns. Santa Margherita is right out of a Italian fairy tale: 18th century lanterns illuminating palm trees lining a beautiful promenade along the harbor where million-dollar yachts dock. I stayed at the Hotel Continental, overlooking a swimming pool and a private beach on the Gulf of Genoa. Eat at Da Michele, the best seafood place in town, and try the fresh grilled orata. Everything is about two-thirds the price of stuffy Portofino, three miles to the south.
Spello. YouTube photo

Spello. YouTube photo


Spello (pop. 8,500). This medieval walled city is in Umbria which is the only one of 21 Italian regions that does not border a sea or another country. Umbria may have fewer outside influences than any other region and Spello is in the heart of Umbria. Inside its three huge gates is a city made of stone with overflowing flower baskets lining narrow alleys and small piazzas. It features the Chiesa Santa Maria Maggiore, a 12th century confection of white architectural splendor, and the 13th century town hall. Stop by La Bottega di Teresa where Teresa sells some of the best olive oil in Italy and local honeys, cheeses and salamis. Spello is the perfect off-the-beaten-path town to stay in while visiting St. Francis’ old home in Assisi seven miles to the north.
Trapani. Photo by Marina Pascucci

Trapani. Photo by Marina Pascucci


Trapani (pop. 70,000). The Sicilian island of Favignana is one of our favorite weekend getaways. We don’t fight the necessity of spending our last night in Trapani to catch the 70-minute early morning flight back to Rome. Located on the far western tip of Sicily 65 miles west of Palermo, Trapani is best known as the gateway to the Egadi Islands (Favignana, Levanzo, Marettimo). We like Trapani for its wide walking mall in its town center, excellent Sicilian cuisine (our favorite cuisine in Italy) and the long promenades on the water. Despite its relatively large population, Trapani remains more of a fishing port than a tourist destination except on Good Friday when it hosts the longest religious festival in Italy. It’s an all-day affair consisting of 20 floats depicting scenes from Jesus’ final days. It has played in Trapani every Good Friday since 1612.

Christmas gifts for 2018: The list to all those naughty and truly evil


Italians don’t give many Christmas gifts. They have this weird concept of celebrating the true meaning of Christmas, of family, religion and a lot of food thrown in. A lot of food. They don’t need Santas parading through pizzerias or Christmas lights on the Colosseum.

However, I’m still an American. Even living in Rome I still love American generosity, if not commercialism, of showering people with presents, of enjoying shopping malls and public markets. I Christmas shop all year, even when I travel. I bought my family gifts from four different countries. Italy doesn’t make a car big enough to haul all my presents to Marina’s Monday.

And being the generous capitalist that I am, I now give gifts to newsmakers around the world, both near and far. I’m a little different than Santa. I give gifts mostly to those who’ve been bad instead of good. It’s why my biggest box is headed to Washington, to the Dehydrated Orange Peel denigrating the world every day from the White House. Not that the box will get there on time. That’s another gift I’m giving in Rome.

So look at this annual edition of Dog-Eared Passport not as a blog but as a satirical, tongue-in-cheek gift bag to the evil and incompetent. Which leads us to the first gift I’m delivering …

Business Insider photo

Business Insider photo


To the Cowardly Lyin’. A cage. It only seems fair. If Donald Trump put immigrant children in cages, shouldn’t we give a cage to the most petulant child who ever served as president?

To Italian TV. HBO. The only country in the world with more boring TV is maybe — maybe — North Korea. Italian television is made up of panel discussions with people screaming at each other in studio, bad American TV shows such as the new “Hawaii Five-O” and old Italian films not made by Federico Fellini. Even if I was fluent this would be torture.

To Monteverde — A song. So many great songs have been written about places in Italy. Someone should write one about my new neighborhood. It’s the one on the hill, the one with trees always providing shade in the summer and corner cafes providing warmth in the winter. This is a special place in a special city. I have found a new home within a home.

Daily Express photo

Daily Express photo


To Atac. Fire extinguishers. Not that Rome’s buses are old, but they are developing a nasty habit of suddenly bursting into flames. At least the ones who actually show up do.

To Scandinavia — Beer loans. After visiting Norway, Sweden and Iceland over the past two years, I spent more money on beer than maybe on rent. Every bar up there should have a banker at the door offering attractive terms on 13-euro beers, including the “special” $37 craft beer I saw in the Scotsman pub in Oslo.

To Moneydiaper McStupid — A cellmate named Honey Buns. After Robert Mueller finishes with him, Trump will face so many charges ranging from illegal payments during a campaign to treason, he’ll land in jail before he’ll ever pick up another sand wedge.

To Eusebio Di Francesco — A timeshare on the Amalfi. The embattled coach of my beloved AS Roma has been about one loss away from losing his job the entire month. The papers say the owner wants him out; the sporting director wants him to stay. Roma is in seventh place, not high enough to even qualify for any continental tournament next season. Roma plays tonight at Juventus which seemingly hasn’t lost a league game in four years. The decision seems inevitable. Here’s hoping the man who led us to the Champions League semifinals and third place in Serie A last season has a soft landing.

To Bar Marcucci. A Michelin star. I have developed an unhealthy addiction to its homemade conchiglias. That’s “seashell” in Italian and the seashell-shaped pastry filled with chocolate and dusted with hard sugar, along with its killer cappuccino bencaldo (extra hot) is the perfect way to start a day in Italy.

To Willie Taggart — A bowl game against Oregon. After he ditched my Ducks after one year, he led Florida State to its worst football season in 43 years. Under first-year coach Mario Cristobal, Oregon went 8-4 and has the fifth-ranked recruiting class in America. Bring blindfolds, Seminole fans.

To PosteItaliane — A stamp showing a post office employee shrugging. That’s exactly the response I get every time I ask why a package wasn’t delivered. This year’s problem occurred when I mailed my box of Christmas presents to California on Nov. 20. On Dec. 4 I received a notice saying they couldn’t deliver it because I wrote “Regali (Gifts)” on the customs form instead of itemizing each present. I asked the drone why did they wait two weeks to notify me? He shrugged. Too bad I couldn’t translate into Italian, “Shrug this.”

ASRoma.com photo

ASRoma.com photo


To AS Roma fans — A deep Champions League run. I’m inspired by the passion of my fellow Romanisti in the face of a disappointing season. They still fill Olympic Stadium’s Curva Sud — except in an organized protest — and travel passionately to away games. They now show their frustration through whistles, not empty seats, the way it should be.

To Brett Kavanaugh. Impotence. He made himself out to be a victim during a sexual assault hearing while the woman who accused him had to quit her job and has been on the run from redneck Trump supporters ever since. A man with 83 ethics complaints against him is now serving on the highest court in the U.S.

Observer photo

Observer photo


To Ama. Cats. Lots of them. You’ll need them for the army of rats that will soon be crawling around the piles of garbage gathering on Rome streets. Lunar eclipses come around more than Ama, Rome’s sanitation service, picks up garbage. Part of the street in front of my building looks like an alley in rural India.

Matteo Salvini. A Donald Trump statue. Why not? He’s following in his racist footsteps over immigration. Italy’s deputy prime minister backed a program in the Northern Italian city of Lodi, ordered by mayor and fellow League party member Sara Casanova, in which immigrant parents must show proof of financial hardship from their native countries in order for their children to eat in the school lunch program. Otherwise they pay 5 euros, not to mention 210 for the school bus every quarter. Salvini, however, to his credit, heard the cries of 300 children and dropped his support.

To Juventus. A match-fixing scandal. It seems that’s the only thing that has ever stopped it from winning the Serie A title. It’s a record seven straight scudettos and counting and it has already almost lapped the field. It has 15 wins, 1 draw, 0 defeats. It’s eight points up on Napoli, 14 on Inter Milan. Italian soccer has gotten as boring as the Scottish League.

To the Man of Steal. Mandarin lessons. Trump needs to communicate with the Chinese, not threaten them. His mangling of the trade talks with China has been a huge contributor to the market losing 15 percent this year, mostly in the last 2 ½ months. It’s why I’m wondering if my fifth floor apartment balcony is high enough to do the job if it gets much worse.

Crux Now photo

Crux Now photo


Genoa. A bridge. In fact, Mayor Marco Bucci promised a new bridge by Christmas 2019 after the Morandi bridge collapsed in August, killing 43 people and injuring dozens.

Italian public transportation. Engineers. That way they won’t build bridges that collapse, killing 43 people and injuring dozens.

To Silvio Berlusconi. A seat in the European Parliament. Yes, he’s thinking about running for office again, at age 82. Why not? Compared to Salvini and Fuckface von Clownstick, Berlusconi looks like Caesar Augustus.

To the National Rifle Association. A scoreboard. That way, it can keep a yearly tally of all the people in America who die in mass shootings. The 2018 tally, according to the Gun Violence Archive, is 334 mass shootings (defined by four people shot or killed in the same incident) with 14,080 dead and 27,119 wounded. That’s one mass shooting nearly every day. Take a bow, NRA.

To Marina Pascucci. Vatican sainthood. For having the Job-like patience with my lousy comprehension of her crazy language, for her understanding of the oft-difficult life of the American expat, for her putting up with my anti-Trump rages. May I fly to every corner of the earth with you. May I share every bottle of wine with you. May you continue to bend my passport. Ti amo, dea.

Buon natale, everyone. Try not to get shot, torched or go broke.