Dave Fox's Outbursts!

A Bird's Eye View of Rome

I was in a taxi in Rome a couple of weeks ago at 4 a.m., on my way to the airport to start my second tour in Stockholm. As my driver sped through the streets, I looked out the window and  discovered Rome at 4 a.m. is a peaceful place. No throngs of tourists clogging the streets. Just a few late-night drunks and prostitutes.

And birds. Lots of birds.

I began to wonder: Birds can live anywhere. What makes a bird decide to live in downtown Rome? I've got friends who prefer urban areas, and others who like to live out in the country. Are birds the same way? Do birds who live in Rome ever wake up and say, "Hmmm... I think we should get away from it all for a few days and go hang out in the Tuscan countryside?" Do they ever go on family vacations to the coast? If they do, do they stop at highway rest stops along the way to forage for food? Do the younger birds peck at each other until their parents threaten to turn around and go back to the city if they don't stop?

One wonders about such things when one is forced to wake up at 3:45 a.m. to catch a taxi.

Ciao von Italien

Kasselruth, Italy

My brain is hurting in this German-speaking, former-Austrian village in northern Italy's Dolomite region. I had to take a tour member to the doctor today, where I was given a choice between translating to and from German or Italian, both of which I speak equally pathetically.

I am absolutely not qualified to translate medical German, but after several repetitions in German, we determined his problems were nothing urgent. At least that's what I think we determined. As of this afternoon, he is still breathing.

But luckily, in the face of imminent danger on a hike this afternoon, I was able to speak English to the youngest member in our tour group.

"Paige," I said, "please don't put your tongue on the electric fence."

Travel and Look Sexy. But Keep Your Shirt On.

Varenna, Italy

I've been in Italy less than 48 hours, and already, strange things are happening to my body.

For one thing, new muscles are sprouting on my arms that I swear were not there when I left Seattle. This is from hauling 762 pounds of tour guide paperwork from Seattle to Amsterdam to Milan to Varenna. Last week in Seattle, a friend looked dubiously at the dumbells on my living room floor and asked, "Do you actually use these or are they just here for show?"

"I do use them," I said. What I meant was: "I use them to remind myself that I wouldn't be so scrawny if I would pick them up now and then."

Travel is a form of exercise in and of itself. I think when I get home, I am going to produce a new exercise video. I will call it the "Dave Fox Accumulate Too Much Crap and Carry it Around Europe Workout."

I also couldn't help noticing when I looked in the mirror last night that I already have a suntan, despite the fact that I have been slathering myself with SPF-30 suntan lotion. This is bad -- not just because I am accellerating my journey into skin cancer -- but also because I am only tanning on my face and neck. Professional tour guiding etiquette prohibits me from prancing around topless. The end result, come mid-August, will be the world's most embarrassing farmer tan -- a beautiful, bronze face and milky white arms. When I get home in six weeks, as long as I keep my shirt on, I will look a little bit more like Mr. T than I usually do. I am thinking about getting a haircut to complete the image.

Our group gathered for our first meeting yesterday afternoon. Taunya, the lead guide, explained that I am a lead tour guide myself in Scandinavia, and that I am assisting on this Italy tour to expand my tour guiding horizons.

"Do you speak Italian," someone in our group asked me as we wandered down to the village ferry dock after the meeting.

"I speak Italian like a four-year-old," I told him. "Like a four-year-old who knows how to order a half-liter of red wine with lunch."

Greetings from It'ly

Varenna, Italy

It's amazing the corners of the planet you can fling yourself into given 24 hours. I'm used to hopping on a plane and ending up half a day laterin Scandinavia's big cities. Rural Italy is another story.

At the airport in Seattle, I was greeted by Northwest Airlines' new e-check-in system, which is designed to save their employees time by not having to help you while you try to use a difficult to navigate computer system.

I followed the directions, entering in the first three letters of my destination, "MIL." I was given three options -- Milan-Lenate, Milan-Malpensa, or Milwaukee.

"Milwaukee," said the man behind me.

I ignored him.

I couldn't remember which airport in Milan I was flying into. I tried to find it on my itinerary.

"What's the matter," the man behind me sneered. "You don't know where you're going?"

"Yes," I said, "I do know where I'm going. I'm trying to find the name of the airport."

"It says Milwaukee," he said. "Just press Milwaukee."

"I'm not going to Milwaukee," I snapped. "I'm going to Milan. There are two airports there."

"Oh, you're going to It'ly! I didn't know you were going to It'ly!"

The man and his wife, i deduced from their matching T-shirts, were on their way to an Alaskan cruise. They reminded me why I have so much scorn for cruise ship passengers.

But I made it on my flight to Amsterdam, which I think took about four days. I couldn't tell, since my watch battery had died. After a six-hour stopover in Amsterdam, I boarded a delayed flight to Milan, followed by a frantic race through the Milan train station to try to catch the last train of the evening to Varenna, a cozy and humid village in Italy's northern lakes district. By the time I finally gt to sit down, I realized I am in unfamiliar turf here -- a huge distance from Seattle both in space and culture. In reality, I arrived 24 hours -- almost to the exact minute -- after leaving home in Seattle. It happened so fast, I'm now wondering, in my jetlagged blur, how I got here.