It was, of course, insanely crowded. 1.3 million people, I was told later. It was impossible to reach the actual Brandenburg Gate; no matter. The entire wide throughfare was jammed with people, concession stands, beer tents, and massive television screens, high above the crowd.

Every tribe that had participated in the World Cup was there, for one final match, one final chance to party for their country. The majority wore German hats, jerseys, scarves, facepaint, flowers, or other regalia. Gijs and I decided to amuse ourselves by finding jerseys from all 32 World Cup participants in the crowd, and it was easy … Brazil, Ukraine, Spain, Ghana, Sweden, Serbia, Korea…by the time the match started, we were only missing Togo. We did see a Togo jersey after the match though.

Behind me I heard some chanting, and their was a bunch of red flags bobbing up and down a dozen meters behind me, so I walked over. It was a dozen or so Polish fans, chanting ‘Polski, Polski!’ They all had huge beer-grins, and their enthusiasm proved infectious.   Soon a large group of Brazilians joined them, and they began dancing madly in circles. They changed their chant to what I guessed was the Polish anthem (but it could have been some football song, what do I know) and the Brazilians instantly started mimicing them, bawling the syllables at the top of their lungs. Other fans started joining in, cameras started clicking everywhere, it was downright giddy fun. It started to fall apart when the Poles tried to raise a large banner, though; too large without any other support, it was like trying to hold up an oversize bedsheet; they became confused in the impossibility, and the crowd started to disperse. Several of the Poles, realizing that it was disippating, did a hilarious TA-DA! move in tandem; we all laughed, and took pictures.

It was my turn to buy the first beer, so I joined the line at one of the beer tents on the side, where I could have a clear view of the game. The real action, though, was in the feverish pace of the two men and one woman working the beer tent; they were obviously short-staffed and working at a frantic pace. Two of them pulled beer, filling plastic cups with the foamy elixir, and the other, a guy about 20 years old, seemingly randomly took money from people pressing up to the counter and gave them beer. He served pretty girls first, unpretty girls second, and only intermittently and randomly serving the men; subesquently creating a clamoring mob waving their money, trying to get his attention.

Cute, but frustrating; I was still standing in line when Zidane scored the opening goal for France, on another dubious penalty. Dang. The French supporters went wild, the Italian flags seemed to wilt a little. All of the Germans - and they were a multitude - cheered for France. (Later, when Italy scored, I noticed the all the many Brazilian fans cheered for Italy. It made sense - Germany fans were disappointed when Italy knocked their team out, so could not cheer the Italian side; and so the Brazilians could not cheer for France.)

Meanwhile, back at the beer tent, a young barechested German had had enough. He leapt over the counter at one of the corners, poured himself two beer from an unused tap, slapped 10�?� on the table, and said what I translated as ‘and keep the change!’ He handed the beers to his buddy in the crowd, once again leaped over the counter, and disappeared into the crowd. Our bartenders just looked at each other and shrugged; and went back to work. Our bartender was trying to do things orderly, starting at one end of the crowd and seemingly working towards the other, but he always lost the plot when a pretty girl pointed her chest at him. This was friggin ridiculous. A young fan in an England jersey, wearing a Canadian button, was beside me; we talked for a moment and then came with a plan. We started chanting at the waiter.

‘We! Want! Four! Beer! We! Want! Four! Beer!’ loudly, over and over again. Finally one of the bartenders looked at me and said, alright we hear you! and a moment later, young romeo had delivered us our beer. Meanwhile another group of fans at the counter picked up on our strategy, and began their own chant, ‘Drei Beer! Drei Beer!’ When I went back at half-time, there were now 6 attendants; things were running smooth.

Italy scored; and we cheered and yelled, while the French flags seemed to wilt a little. All was right in the world, the match would not be decided on a dubious penalty. And the match was clearly going in Italy’s favor - the Azzuri defense were remarkably assured, giving the French short shrift; I felt confident Italy was going to win the big game.

Half time was party time; many of the men and some of the women ran into the light forest to pee; the unmistakable smell of hashish was in the air. This wasn’t the first time I had smelled it about; the air of Circo Massimo had been downright redolent, Nice and Koln undeniably high as well. Everywhere spontaneous celebrations erupted, like the Polish and Brazilians earlier: Swedes and Brits danced together hilarious in their clumsiness; a group of Mexicans formed a pyramid, and were feted with cries of ‘Viva Mexico!’ from all directions; and the Germans sang, and sang, and sang. Italians walked through the crowd high-fiving each other, ‘Forze Italiano!’, and an occasional cry of ‘Allez France!’ served to remind us the game was still in doubt. Wonderful.

Gijs and I wandered through the crowd, finding another place to position ourselves. The second half started; and it seemed the teams were tentative, even timid; the game was less thrilling, more workmanlike. I became distracted by a pretty young Irish girl, a few feet away, flirting with a tall muscular young German; ‘what’s Italian for have a nice day?’ she was trilling, enjoying 110% of his attention. It was a few moments before I noticed their was an entire group of Irish girls, 6 in all, about the same age - 17 or 18 - and they were each a center of attention. Each one of them had obviously flirted with two or three German boys, and the German boys were snorting and pawing the ground, look at each other coldly, either trying to get one of the girl’s attention or working hard to keep it. It became quite hilarious.

The tension I had witnessed in big crowds in early matches was not really here. Too many of the crowd were non-partisan; or, if they had a favorite, it wasn’t a life and death matter. Only the minority Italians and French truly hung on every kick of the ball, every nuance of play; the rest are there to party, and the party is a corker.
At the break I see an Australian. ‘Aussie Aussie oy oy oy!’ I holler, the Australian greeting I have been hearing all over Europe. ‘Oyah Oyah’, he says back, his accent wierd. Turns out that Gunther is German, but lived in Australian for 10 years and loves the country. A German speaking Australian English is one thing, but Gunther was also hilarious - a real comic.
Overtime. The beer flows constantly, no chance of any shortages here. The tension of extra time was nothing, though, compared to the shocking red card taken by Zidane, who deliberately headbutted an Italian player. A Brazilian fan in front of me pulled out his own red card, and jumped up and down with it, yelling Zizou Zizou! The french fans near me looked mortified.

It didn’t matter in the end result, though; the Italian squad had lost their zest; both teams seemed to be using the rope-a-dope approach. This World Cup would be decided by penalty kicks. With a large group of Italians, I did the voodoo-fingers thing, putting the hex on the French kickers as they approached the ball; I swear we were partly responsible when the deciding French kick hit the crossbar.

Italy wins! Forze Italia! ith my Italian flag as a cape, I was greeted by every Azzuri fan walking through the crowd. I was hugged, spun around and kissed suddenly, by a woman who then blushed and walked away; I danced in circles holding tightly to four or five other men, who seemed to know what they were doing, me secretly praying not to fumble-footedly cause us to tumble; we all screamed like madmen.

Viva Italia! I take some photos of the fans, then the battery dies in my camera. I have forgotten the replacement in Alphen, dang. Gijs and I spent an ecstatic 20 minutes dancing beside an African drum circle, Gijs yelling, ‘this is what it’s going to be in 2010!’ I have never seen this side of Gijs, he jiggles and sways, hips and shoulders fluid, he is one with the music. He empties his pockets when they send around a tin for money; ten minutes later he gets all my change to do it again. It is wonderful, another reminder that this weekend I will be at the Vancouver Folk Festival, dancing with the children and the elders and the hippies and.. you know, the folk. After the hours of standing it limbers us up, giving us more energy.

We then walk the length of the Berlin Fan Fest toward the Brandenburg Tor, hundreds of thousands of celebrants. Everybody is celebrating everybody, it is amazing. I join others in yelling ‘Viva Ecuador’, ‘viva France’, viva-ing everyone and everything. I go harsh returning screams of greeting and joy every time I pass an Italian group. Meanwhile the tech crews are tearing things down; stands being dismantled, cable rolled; there is a small army at work here, restoring the neighborhood to its usual condition.

When we finally pass the row of policemen guarding the rear entrance I yell ‘Viva Germania’ at them; several smile, and my cry is taken up by others: ‘Viva Germania!’ Everyone grins, even the police; a captain says ‘Viva Italia!’ pointing to my flag.

Gijs is tired, but I want to continue, so we decide we will get a cab and make one more stop; the driver is confused by our original request - ‘Take us somewhere where there are Italians having a party’ - but after consulting with his dispatcher, he drives us to a large nightclub with a massive Italian flag in front.

We go in, but it is not our type of crowd. The music is electro, and the crowd are all really, really wasted; even sitting in groups, they are all ignoring each other, staring into space. Gijs thinks it is hilarious to try to liven up the crowd, and, still hearing the African drums in his head, tries to start a dance. He is totally ignored. We laugh, and leave. The streets of Germany on the way back to Andreas’ are subdued, with the occasional riotous Italian to wake things up. But it is obvious the World cup is over, and tomorrow is another working day; Germany needs its rest.

Tonight, here in Berlin, Winners and losers joined arms, danced, kissed, saluted, sang. What started out as a tribal competition ended as global party. The Italians will deservedly enjoy the glory; the rest of us joined in the fun. I came here from Canada searching for the World Cup spirit, and tonight it had kissed me, hugged me, and threw me around in circles.

Ain’t life grand.

Not me.  It has been six years since my last visit to Berlin, and I am itching to walk around the East side and see the changes.  I have been to Berlin quite a few times, first before the fall of the Berlin Wall, and a memorable pair of visits in the early 1990’s, when I was asked to speak at the Berlin Independent Days Conference, which was located in the newly-opened East Sector.  Six years ago the dominant element of the skyline were construction cranes; Berlin was rebuilding.

I set out to walk from Andreas’ place; and two minutes later was starstled to find that I was across the start from the hotel I had stayed at in 1991.  I only knew that by the street name - the memorable Paul-Robeson-Strasse - that it was the same corner.  The dour, quaint neighborhood was now spilling with restaurants, bars, vintage stores, curio shops, and so on; all of which look like they have been here forever.

I decided to walk to Alexanderplatz, the former center of East Berlin.  The first time I had been there was in 1992; the U-bahn had recently reopened service to to it.  When I got off the train, I was underground, and had to climb steps to emerge into the plaza; I remember almost shivering with anticipation, my head filled with the melodrama of spymasters John LeCarre, Len Deighton, Ian Fleming; I don’t know exactly what I was expecting, but I certainly was’nt expected what I saw as I emerged.  A pretty young woman, naked but for a bikini bottom, was doing a shoot for a commercial.  A faux shower was in place, and a camera crew and technicians surrounded her.  One of the crew, an older man, looked totally bored as he sprayed her perfect breasts with cold water.  A few gawkers stood by, but most people emerging from the train barely noticed the ensemble.

So much for the mysterious Alexanderplatz.  This time, the radio tower had been remodeled, now a giant football atop the tower the square wasn’t nearly so attractive.  i emerged to see a head shop, beer gardens, a casino; all of the decadent excesses attributed to the West in old Communist days were visible, and, of course, in excess.  The fountain was now covered in graffiti and a nest of loitering punks; it was all so shabby. 

I tied the Italian flag around my neck, the wind fluttering it in my wake; and soon found myself constantly high-fiving Italians, being avoided by French, and having friendly chatter with everyone.  The streets were getting full of football fans; time to go get Gijs and head for the match.

It is 3:34 in the morning in Berlin.

Everyone around me is asleep; and they have been for an hour or two. Me, I am vibrating. I should be asleep; I drank a lot of beer today, but have just opened a delicious 12 ounce Warsteinzer; I am more than a little high. Waaaaay more. But as usual my capacity is more than that of my company, so here I am.

The place I am staying is 3 large, high-ceilinged rooms; Andreas is sleeping in one; his Irish roomate Paul with his brother in another; Gijs and I on mattresses on the floor in the middle room. Gijs is snoring gently; he passes out early and quickly in the evening.

Viva Italia!

I have had a great night, and have lots to say about it, but my wits are addled and I probably will sleep soon. After I win this 9 player SNG on pokerstars, anyway.
I will delete this post after I have written about today, and what an amazing day it was; probably will write it on the way back to Holland, and post it then.
Viva Italia. Vive France. viva Germania. This has been a magnificent World Cup

laurie

The train was simply jammed, no seats available; Gijs and I would have to stand for 5 hours in the bar, artificially propped by our diminishing thirsts. Fortunately the train was filled with World-Cup bound germans, italians, frenchmen, and others; the conversation was lively and ribald and fun.

Gijs has arranged for us to stay with his friend Andreas, a music booking agent; after flailing a bit at the station trying to find the U-Bahn, we opted for a taxi. Once we were in the cab, I pulled my Italian flag out and hung it out the window as we drove through the streets. The cab driver and Gijs laughed when someone going by yelled ‘Schei�?e’ at me, loudly; and again when two cyclists went by saluting me with their index fingers; part of the universal language of football.

We settled in at Andreas, and prepared for a night of football. ‘Where should we go?’ we asked Andreas, ‘Where is there a lot of people?’

‘Well’, he said, ‘we are too late for most places’. It was 6:30,and the game started at 9pm.

He got on his cel phone, and started calling around. The main square in front of the Reichstag was full, he reported, no more people. It only had a capacity of 1 million, and they would not allow any more people into the area. The Cuban Embassy and Mongolian Embassy in old east berlin were also full. Mitte, the downtown area, would be hopeless, he said; for a Germany game there would have been reservations for months.

Finally he knew of a place not far away; an occupied former East German building called the Electricity Factory. We walked over to it, a solid brick structure, and into an immense beer hall. Lined with tables on the sides, bars and massive tvs hanging from the ceiling; it was already jammed when we arrived. Two of Andreas’ friends, Yents and Stefan, were waiting for us, sitting on some beer kegs. They pulled down some full kegs from the stack behind them, and voila - we had seats.

After 40 minutes of waiting, the pregame was finally on. The German fans cheered, sung, whistled as their team was announced. At one point, Gijs turned to me and said, can you feel that? can you feel the emotion?

I could. There was so much love in the room, it as almost visible. Jurgen Klinsmann was being introduced, and the affection and adoration were palpable. Klinsmann’s directorship had been in jeopardy a few months before the World Cup, so much that it was even a cause for parliamentary debate. Here, now, in a game for 3rd place, he had proven himself to the German people again, by masterminding a team that had come within minutes of competing with penalty kicks to enter the final. This German team was admired throughout the country, but Klinsmann had even higher respect - unabashed love.

The first half was a bit tense, as the Portugal squad took their usual approach to the game - drama queens to the end. People in our area loudly counted the number of dives, yelling out the number each time one occurred. There were 6 in the first 8 minutes alone. Pheh.

As the second half got under way, the crowd, now well lubricated, was seriously into the game. Song after song was introduced, bellowed. Anytime German fans were seen or heard on television singing a specific song, the entire room would take it up boisterously. Once Germany scored their first goal, it became increasingly jovial. I made a few quicktime movies, trying to capture the essence of some of the songs and chants; most of my photos were too dark to use though.

We cheered through to the end, and afterwards walked around Berlin for a while, the usual tooting of horns, waving of flags, bleating of airhorns; a little more subdued than I had seen earlier in Koln; it as all over for the Germans.

We asked Andreas and his friends where we could go that there would be lots of fun, lots of people. After discussing among themselves they decided that we should go to the Mitte; and after a 20 minute tram ride we were in the old center of Berlin. Their idea of fun, though, was a bit different than ours; they wanted to sit on the stairs of a chip stand and drink beer; which they did for 90 minutes. Bored the hell out of me and Gijs, but we had no idea how to return to Andreas’ place, and had not a set of keys; so we had no choice but to hang out with these guys. After a long wait, they decided it was time to walk back, and so we walked for 90 minutes. Gijs and I were confused; they kept mentioning a cab, but, ‘if we go to within 2 kilometers, it will only cost 3 Euros’. We didn’t care about the savings, and were a little more annoyed when it was decided that, ‘if we go to within 1 kilometer, it will only cost 1 Euro’.

When I grumbled a little to Andreas, he laughed. ‘That is what is like to be a Berliner. We will walk a kilometer to save a Euro, but have to stop for a 3 Euro beer along the way, because all that walking makes us thirsty!’

The line was long; and at the front, there were 3 wickets for customers. I was about 20th in line, and there was half an hour to go before my train departure; it seemed fine. I jumped out of the line for a brief moment to grab a coffee, and when I returned only one person had moved in front of me. we chatted for a while; personable and engaging, Jean-Thierry was half-Swiss, half-Algerian, and a World Cup devotee. Now that the Swiss were out, he is 100% behind Zizou - Zdeno Zidane and the French.

The queue was taking impossibly long, and now the signs on top the ticket wickets were flashing: This wicket closes at 19:15. Frack.

Jean-Thierry managed to get to the front of the line, and I was left in the worst spot of all - front of the line when the line closed. Arggh. We were directed to the back of a long queue in the next section. I couldn’t believe it. I argued, tried to complain; no avail.

Maybe the Amsterdam Express would let me and my Eurail pass on without a reservation. I ran to the train, and asked the conductor on the first car. He frowned at my pass; I explained my problem. End of the train, he said, go to the end of the train.

I ran along the train, counting the cars as I passed… 30,31,32. Was I getting on the world’s longest train? I finally reached the last car, and asked the conductor. No, he said, not possible, you must get a reservation; yes, there is space, but I cannot let you on without paying the full fare, �?�124. Ouch. No.

Disenheartened and pissed off at the French train service, I went back to the ticket queue 45 minutes later, I had a reservation to Brussels; and away I went. I was seated with a Canadian family from Toronto; husband Alexander, originally from Russia, wife Cheryl, originally from Alberta, and their cute 18 month old daugher, Ariel. They had been briefly in Paris, after visiting St. Petersburg for two weeks. I complimented them on their patience in helping their baby cope with the annoyances of travelling, and they warmed to me instantly.

Alexander, too, had complaints about their treatment in Paris. ‘In Russia, in England, when they see we have a small child, they try to make things a little easier for us; get us through the queue, really lovely,’ he said. ‘But in Paris we were treated with rudeness, first they tried to overcharge us, and then made it impossible for us to get a reservation until we got to the station, then we had to jump on the train without reservation or we would have missed it.’ He explained that the conductor had charged them 1/3 of what they were originally quoted in Paris for the train.

We arrived in Brussels, and I found a connecting slow-train to Rotterdam. Closer is better; away I went. Once in Rotterdam, I needed a place to stay. I left the station expecting the usual melee of hotels, currency exchange, coffeeshops, and instead found, once again, peaceful Holland.

I wandered the quiet streets,looking for a hotel; but everyone I came to was locked up tight. At about 12:30 I came upon a small restaurant/pub, with a group of men drinking at a table outside, and a small, convivial group inside. I went in, and asked the bartender if she knew where I could get a hotel. Brow furrowed, she said it was a bit late for hotels; and then called to one of her customers, ‘Ian, can you help this man?’

Ian, reddish-haired and jovial, could. He explained that he lodged nearby, and that maybe Mrs. Mudde had an extra space for him. We took a short walk along one of the canals, to a typical brick home. Ian went in, leaving me in the yard; a few minutes later he returned with Mrs. Mudde, still tugging her clothing into place.

Mrs. Mudde spoke no English, and I no Dutch; Ian quickly returned to the pub, so we had to use sign languages and smiles to communicate. She rented me a small room for the very affordable 20�?�; and I slept that night in a bed 6 inches shorter than me, beneath a Vermeer recreation, in a room atop three flights of creaky stairs.

In the middle of the night I met another of the tenants, in the bathroom.

Next morning at dawn I walked back to the station, past the sleeping ducks, the still canals.

It’s good to be back in Holland.

I am heading north tomorrow, taking a lot of trains. I pick up Gijs in Amsterdam, then head to Berlin, site of the final game.

I will be wearing the Italian flag I bought in Porta Ceresio as a cape.

Viva Italia. Vive France.

A warm mistral has just swept over the Mediterranean.  This is a picture from the window of my hotel, right now.

Next commuter train leaving is bound for Ventimiglia, with a couple dozen stops in between; I remember Ventimiglia is on the Italy-France border, so hop on it. Last time I passed through Ventimiglia on a fast train, and it took about an hour to get to Genova; so I figure the commuter train will take a couple hours.

Four hours later, I arrive in Ventimiglia. It is 8:20, and the match starts at 9. A late commuter train to Nice is ready to go, but it will not get to Nice until 9:30; given that it will take me time to find a hotel and drop off my backpack, I will not be able to start watching the match until 10 or so; by which time the game may possibly be decided.

I give up on reaching France, and walk into Ventimiglia, looking for a hotel. It is an old city, with posters advertising the 30th annual Medieval Festival coming up; my first impression of the town is horrible. The streets are filthy, the buildings falling apart, and every so often some unidentifiable stench almost makes me gag. I go a couple blocks, and decide to race back to the station to catch the Nice train; but it leaves when I am about a block away. Not my day today.

My first impressions, though, turn out to be unjustified; once I get to the waterfront, Ventimiglia is lovely, palm trees, marina, seaside restaurants, umbrellas dotting the beach. I ask an elder where I can find a hotel, and he points across a small footbridge to a road curving around the waterfront. After crossing the bridge, I don’t see any hotels, but do see a string of restaurants. Several have televisions on, awaiting the start of the match; and the smells are mouth-watering. I finally find a couple small hotels side by side; the first quotes 100 euros, way too expensive, but points me down the road to another; that place is cheaper, I am told.

It is quaint, relaxed, a lovely hotel. I ask the clerk how much it is, and he tells me 75 Euro. Acceptable. I check in, and walk up the stairs, getting lost after a while in the labyrinthic halls. I hear a phone ringing in the near-deserted hotel; and when I finally find my room, it is my phone ringing. I open the door, grab the phone. ‘Pardon, Mr. Mercer’. It is the desk clerk. ‘I have made a mistake, I quoted 75 Euros, but it is 95 Euros, the rates have gone up July 1, and I have forgotten, terribly sorry’.

Not my day for hotels, is it?

Later I have dinner at one of the small restaurants, and watch the game. The food is average at best; the room becomes crowded with locals watching the game. When Zidane scores on a penalty, I clap my hands, once. I can almost hear the echo, the room is so quiet; one old man spits on the floor, melodramatically, wwwwwhtt-tooey.

I am within eyesight of France, twinkling a long way along down the beach; but there is no love for the French team in this room. The disappointment at Zidane’s goal is obvious; with probably 70 people in the room, I am the only one who showed any signs of approval. The silence is stony.

I try to chat up some people, but my voice is thrashed. I left Rome in anger, did not eat or drink; then jumped to another train in Genova. The lack of water added to last night’s yelling amidst the dust has left me croaking and whispering. Oh well no pain no gain.

As the game progresses, the room shows less and less emotion. As France prepares for a corner kick, with 20 minutes left to go, I look around the room and count 8 people actually watching the game; probably really only 7 paying attention, as one, a woman, has the glazed look of someone thinking about someone else, probably the man beside her, arms folded, glaring toward the beach.

Finally, at the end of the match, Portugal gets a penalty kick, a chance. Several of the young men in the crowd stand up, crowd the tv, with the most emotion I have seen all game; but when Portugal once again fails, they sit down. The game ends, without even a whimper.
(the next today, in Nice, a Canadian barrista tells me it ws so wild that there was a massive crowd throwing beer bottles at the police, down at the beach. Reminds me of Edmonton, kinda)
I settle my bill, and walk back to the hotel on the sidewalk above the beach. Suddenly I feel tired, dead tired, tired at a cellular level. I have been moving around for such a long time, and it is catching up with me. I take off my shoes, walk down to the sea, and wade for a while, then collapse into a deck chair, and look at the Mediterranean. A couple walk out onto a spit, sit at the end, snogging; the moon is beautiful, thousands of small reflections shimmering on the water’s surface. Miles down the coast, lights twinkle; a soft warm wind sighs in my face. I start to relax.

I realize I am still scribbling in my head, that I probably haven’t truly relaxed since this trip began. I am a person with a lot of energy; everywhere I go, everything I do, everything I see has been constant grist to my mill - I have been wordsmithing, forming sentences, parsing phrases, looking for balance and insight and rhythm. Stars start to appear, and I automatically sift through cliches and adjectives to label this simple beauty, to gloss over the mundane nightly fact of the occurrence with romantic mediterranean superlatives. Most often these thoughts leave me by the time I get to my laptop, evaporating with inattention, overwritten by new information. Why do I do it? Do I need to apply imaginary ink to imaginary paper to convince myself that I truly am here, that I exist, that on my solo journey I actually have a relationship with these things?

I tell myself to relax, find oneness, breathe balmy breeze, om. I manage, for a few refreshing moments, to do exactly that; then regurgitate fragments of those thoughts a day later - now - and decide to stop scribbling, and go be One again.

A man walks up to me, ‘Have you got a cigarette?’  He looks bad; I shake my head, no.  He hurries toward me.  ‘What’s the matter? You don’t smoke?’  I say No.  He continues, getting closer, ‘Where you from?’  Stupidly, I answer.  ‘Canada.  Viva Italia~!’

Suddenly he is spinning me around, one leg locked around mine, chanting ‘Italia!’ staring into my eyes.  I am wayyy uncomfortable, and push him away; another man is a few feet away, grinning at me.  ‘Fuck off!’ I yell; a black hooker leaning on a car distracts me, ‘Fuck Italia?’ she says, ‘honey, fuck me, c’mon’.  The two men scuttle away, and she glances towards them,  knowingly.

Shitshitshit.  I hurriedly go through my pockets.  Left-handed, my main pockets of my hiking shorts are on the left; velcro tabs are solid.  My wallet, passport, camera are safe.  But my right pocket is empty,  I have been pick-pocketed; all that is missing is my hotel room key.

It was a large key, with both hotel name and room number boldly printed on it.  I rush back to the hotel, to explain to the night manager what has happened.  He sympathises; and goes over the details with me.  I ask if I can move my room tomorrow; he sadly shakes his head. What?  He hands me a small key.  Here, he says, use the safe in your room tomorrow, put your valuables in it.

I explain this does not work for me.  If I go out tomorrow, the pickpockets can walk in the unguarded door, go straight to my room, and clean it out.  I will have no choice but to stay in my room all day.  This is absurd.  He explains that I should probably hang out on the street in front of the hotel all day, so I can call the police if I see the pickpocket.  Stupid.

I go to bed, angry at myself for having let the pickpocket get close enough to me, for not seeing the obvious set-up developing.

The next morning, I talk to the desk clerk.  He explains that there is no second key for the room; I had the only key.  This is such an obvious lie, such a ridiculous statement, that I bristle.  The clerk looks at me malevolently, knowingly, haughtily.  I have lost the only key to the room, he says, and the lock is a special kind of lock.  Not easy to replace such a key, he says, big problem.

I have to leave the hotel, of course, I cannot stay considering a thief has my key.  I tell him I am going to check out, to prepare my invoice.  Certainly, he says, but you have to pay for tonight; you reserved a third night, and we cannot rent it, because we cannot replace the key by tonight.   Finally, angrily, I demand an invoice; I am leaving this place right now.

The invoice staggers me.  Two charges totalling 100 Euros for the key - 75 to replace the lock, 25 for the locksmith; who, I am told, will come the next morning, first available time - so I am also charged for the night rental.  After sleeping 2 nights in a shabby little room without Internet, I am being billed a whopping 370 Euros - about $450 US.  I am being shaken down by the Serena Hotel in roma, and I am trapped in a situation I cannot easily deal with.  I fear leaving my room, with all my things.  I stand outside for a bit; call the police and try to explain, but they are completely disinterested.

I have booked the room with my PayPal Mastercard; my only hope is that I can stop payment after I leave.  So I pack my bags, and check out.  I try to yell at the clerk, but my voice is totally fried from the big game last night.  Angrily I head for the train station, and the first train heading towards France.

The train was crowded, but not packed; it was about an hour before the opening kickoff.  I wanted to be in place early, watch the fans arrive, scope the situation.  The train emptied at the Circo Massimo stop, though; everyone had the same idea.  Outside a river of cheering, laughing, chanting fanaticos poured itself into the Circo basin. The ground was dry, dusty, covered with the kind of weeds and plants that frequent arid places; happily there were not mosquitos. 

The big screen was a huge screen, set up at the far end of the field, where thousands of fans had already congregated.  I started counting Italian flags, to get a benchmark of the number of people already in place; I got to 60 or so before I gave up, having only counted one ’small’ area.  Circo Massimo can hold a lot of people!

I wandered around, taking pictures, watching the crowd grow larger and larger and larger.  I spied some German flags in a corner, and made my way to them; snapping a photo just to prove that there were, indeed, German fans in attendance.

High above the grounds stood the ancient Roman walls, dwarfing the enormous melee of Italian flags and people.  The half-moon was ascendant, already visible in the sky; cheers, airhorns, singing filled the air.  I had a perma-grin on my face, the jubilation infectious.  The talking heads on Rai television were applauded, every shot of the German team warming up was booed lustily, and, when finally the Azzuri team were introduced, the noise so loud that plates must be rattling in the restaurants in the distance. And my, how the dust flew; every group of dancing fans elicited a huge puff of dust; and the opening anthem created a cloud so dense it threatened my view of the massive screen.

The match started; and all the flags but one disappeared.  Chants from the back of the crowd aimed at the offensive bandera were unnoticed by the flagbearer for about 15 minutes; then a phalanx of fanaticos from the rear of the crowd reached the position, and the last flag came down.  Throughout the game the respectful fans would keep their flags hidden during the action, but at the slightest break would snap into the air by the hundreds.  Delightful.

The game was tense, the Germans and Italians each getting their chances.  Once again chants of Ga-tu-sso Ga-tu-sso everytime the able forward touched the ball; and the rising oooohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh whenever the Germans had a free kick or corner kick.

At halftime, to break the tension, many fans danced or pogoed, generating massive dust clouds; occasional group cheers infected the whole crowd, a roar of anticipation.

When the second half started, I had moved forward in the crowd considerably, and was now about 10 meters from the giant television.  Oddly enough my view was more constrained then it had been farther back - why is it that the tallest fans always go to the front?  I would complain, but at 6′2″ myself it would be the height of hypocrisy.

Tension, tension, tension.  The Italians were playing great, but the Germans were giving up nothing.  The second half played out exactly like the first, no score, but the fans were more subdued at the break before extra time; this was far too serious.  No Italian can forget the sad pain of ‘the little ponytail’ Roberto Baggio missing a penalty shot and destroying a nation’s dreams; the Germans had proven their inner fortitude only a few days earlier by dispatching the mighty Argentinians.  If there is such a thing as collective nausea, this crowd was feeling it.

Halfway through the extra time, and I wasn’t certain if I was going to make it.  Suddenly I felt pain in my chest, blackness at the edge of my sight; the dust, the jammed crowd, the heat combined to make me feel dizzy, disoriented.  I told myself not to panic, I have felt this before; this is the effect of collective tension on my central nervous system; I breathed deeply, pressing a few key accupressure points, steady, steady..  Maybe this time, I thought, this time it is real.  I thought of my family, my friends; what a way to go.. he died in the middle of Circo Massimo, watching the World Cup; he died a happy man, they would think.  And of course it wouldn’t be true; I would die not knowing the outcome, wishing I had a beer and that my feet didn’t hurt so much, not happy at all; and no one would no that my epitaph should read ‘I thought it was gas’.  Then I belched repeatedly, the stress releasing from my body physically, and farted so loudly and strongly that, despite the din, the woman standing beside me looked at me with disdain.  Whatever.  Happily I could re-focus on the game.

Just in time for the greatest single outpouring of joy I have ever felt in my life, as the Italian forwards skillfully dissected the German defense, and, impossibly, with minutes to go, scored.

The cacophony was both unbelievable and indescrible; the choking dust ignored, the screams piercing.  I tried to video the moment on my camera, leaping into the air, hollering as loud as I ever have, hugging  and being hugged, high fiving and kissing.

The roiling dust had not yet settled when it happened again.  2-0 Italia; the Germans visibly abandoned hope.  Cacophony, chaos, clouds of dust, cries of joy.  Unbelievably thrilling.  I took dozens of photographs, but later found that so much dust had covered my lens they were unusable.  I did get a great video clip; as soon as I figure out how to upload it, I will.

Viva Italia!  The Azzuri are in the final game.  The game ends, the giant screen goes blank; the crowd begins to pour out of Circo Massimo.

Rome will be one great party all night long.  Because of the extra time, most bus and subway services are closed, the taxis are one strike, so hundreds of thousands of people are forced to walk or drive home. Intersections become gigantic, hilarious noisy traffic jams, scooters and motorcycles commandeer the sidewalks, often carrying two or three people and an Italian flag.

Walking back to my hotel, past the Colosseum and other historic sites, I try to get photos but it is just so wild!  A man mock-bullfights every motorcycle or scooter in the middle of an intersection, using a flag .. Ole!  Ole! Ole!  A line of dancers block traffic one lane at a time, synchronizing their steps and mock-bowing when they change lanes, allowing the lane they have blocked to move forward.    Many sing, shout, or airhorn the catchy rhythm of the Italian anthem - duh duh do do do duh dh! over and over again.  I know it is the same all over Italy, and Italian neighborhoods around the world, including mine, will be grinning all day.

Viva Italia.

Next I asked where many Italians would be watching tomorrow’s big game against Germany, and, like every Italian I would meet in Rome, he grinned and spoke animatedly about the big game.  He pulled out a tourist map and pointed to Circo Massimo - Circus Maximus - the enormous relic of Roman antiquity.  Here, he said, here was where the most people would be.

I asked how large a place it was, how many fanaticos could I expect?  He shrugged - during the big labor protest of 8 years ago, it was said that 1-1/2 million Italians had flooded the area, filling the streets and squares surrounding it.  Tonight, maybe, he guessed, 400,000.

Wow. This would easily be the biggest event of this trip. Wow. And for such a great matchup - I was stoked.

I checked into the Hotel Serena; the agency at the Hotel had taken a deposit for one night.  When the clerk asked how long I would stay, I said two nights, possibly 3; I would let them know tomorrow if I was going to add the third night.  It was a creaky hotel, with two entrances, one of which led to the offices, the other to the stairwell and creaky open elevator.  Three different hotels seemed to share the building.

Once I got to my room, I found there was no wi-fi, no internet.  It had been the main criteria for my booking, at the Termini, grrr.  I went down to the clerk to ask about it, he shrugged his shoulders, no, no internet; many internet places in the neighborhood.  I had seen signs advertising internet available in several places in the walk to the hotel, but I have found that usually I cannot plug my laptop directly into the bandwidth.  Oh well.  Having already paid one night’s rent at the Termini, I was stuck there.  The room was small, the airconditioning weak, but I was in Rome.

I had time for some sightseeing, and did not get a chance to see the Trevisi  fountain on a previous visit to Rome, so I hopped onto the Metro and soon found myself in the flock of tourists and tour groups heading in that direction.  I amused myself by occasionally waddling and quacking.

The fountain was, of course, beautiful.  This was another instance when I vaguely wished I had a tour guide, so I could jog my memory; was this a Bellini?  You could spend an entire holiday in Roma visiting fountains in all their dazzling variety; but Trevisi is a gem among gems.

I had a great, but expensive, dinner in the neighborhood, and then wandered around for a few hours soaking up the environment. Finally, around 11pm, I decided to head back to the hotel.  It took me almost an hour to find a busy street and a metro station, only to discover the Metro and bus lines were finished for the night.  Ok, a cab, then.

I talked to a carabinieri - where was a cab stand?  Ouch.  Taxi drivers were on strike, had gone on strike that day, for a new contract.

I was hooped. The walk back to the termini took about 90 minutes; en route, at the Plaza Venezia, I found hundreds of cabs parked disorderly, blocking the traffic circle; the kind of statement that would not be tolerated at home but here only evinced shrugs.

The next day, newspaper headlines were either of the upcoming match, or the taxi drivers’ resolve to paralyze the city.

I went sightseeing all day Tuesday; revisiting the old heart of Rome, the Forum, the Palatine, Colosseo.  I spent an hour wandering through a museum dedicated to the unification of Italy, and peered at Garibaldi’s pants, sword, bullet-holed boot; busts, paintings, caricatures, political journals and other documents, photos, flags, and other memorabilia.  I ended the afternoon in a bar on an island mid-Tiber, staying out of the scorching sun, watching the world go by, counting the minutes until the big game at Circus Maximus.