For the first time on this trip I actually finished a photo and like an idiot I worked on the low res file. I would much rather just click the shutter, but the final product looks much better with a few adjustments and a little dodging and burning.

The Italians are great people, they carry themselves with a sense of pride and when they speak, every word sounds like poetry. The Italian language is fluid, eloquent and beyond beautiful.

These are a few descriptions of people I have encountered over the course of my stay in Rome. I would say stereotype, but it so often gets a negative connotation. If you think about it we all have a mold.

The younger guys look straight out of Grease. Black leather jackets, tight blue jeans, jet black gelled back hair, an air of assurance that dances on the edge of arrogance all topped off with a pair of buddy holly shades.

I first arrived in Rome hungry from a long travel. I stumbled upon some great pizza. It was actually my first pizza in Italy (Not counting the nasty shit I ate in La Spezia). I was still a little nervous ordering in Italian. Cinque Terre didn’t force me into very many situations where I had to use Italian and the gigantic angry looking man looming over me from behind the counter didn’t make it any easier. His face carried a look of disgust as if he immediately knew, I was a tourist. His cheeks sagged slightly as if he lacks the muscles necessary to form a smile. His long white, loose hanging apron carries the raw form of the product he is serving. It is clear he is not here for his customer service skills. I open my mouth, his frown sinks deeper and his brow rises slightly, causing his eyes to grow. He angrily flings a string of questions at me. Knowing I don’t have the proper answers. My answer is always “si” when confused. I eventually got my pizza and immediately understood why he could act so angrily and still have a line at his door. It was that good. It just so happened that I ended up walking past the place three or four time a day and being that it was that good I braved embarrassment again the next day. Then the third time I returned we were o.k.

Work in progress. This is all I managed to get on the train ride to Venice. The regretful feelings have been drown by excitement. I hate to think it’s the last bit of new on this trip. My wanderlust has not been quenched. Venice may be the end of this line, but it’s far from the last stop.

My initial reaction was awe, then I was struck with a compulsion to never take another photograph. An incredible feeling of inferiority came over me. It is the type of feeling that usually challenges me and drives me to improve, but his level of execution seems unobtainable. His work was so good, it made me embarrassed. He has amassed entire books containing photographs of a surreal caliber. There’s no need for me to go on. Check it out!

All my wide angle shots have to be stitched because all I brought was a 50mm. Thank you photo-merge!

It was one of my first days in Paris and I had just ordered a cappuccino. This was the first stop in non-English speaking country, of my trip and even something as simple as ordering a drink was still a bit nerve-racking. So, as you can imagine I was a slightly hesitant to respond when the “gentleman” behind me tried to start a conversation. It went something like this.

As I turned to leave the counter, the gentleman looked directly at me and said “ca va?”.
I responded with the same expression, hoping that was the extent of his inquiries.
It was not.
He responded with a long-winded chain of words of which I recognized two, bien and Paris.
Yes, Paris is good I thought to myself and responded with what I thought was an appropriate response. A simple “oui”.
This must have been an odd response.
He followed with a few very simple phrases.
“Parlez vous Francais?”
“Vous en vacances en Paris?”
“Vous en American?”
“Je American, oui”, but it is more likely that I used a simple “oui”.
Then he introduced himself “Je suis Antoine” and gave the international me, you gesture.
I respond by pointing at myself and saying “Scott”.
We enjoyed a brief moment of semi-awkward silence at which point I ended our conversation with a simple “au revoir” and walked away feeling pretty good.

I continued on admiring my surroundings stopping every few minutes to snap a photograph. Ten or fifteen minutes passed in peace. I hunched over to rest my camera on a fence post and suddenly, sensed someone invading my personal space. I gave a very slight glance to my left, just in case the intrusion was justifiable and sure enough it was Antoine. Now; I was a little annoyed, but not to the point of being rude. He obviously knew I didn’t speak French. What enjoyment could he possible get from our indecipherable exchange of words. Regardless; he was back for more and somehow, I still remain clueless of his intentions. At this point he became very gesticulate, letting his hands do the majority of the speaking.

Its funny how much you can communicate with a few simple gestures. There are a few simple hand signals that are universal. Its almost as if they are hereditary, passed down from our most primitive ancestors.

His hand signals quickly became quite vulgar in a very obvious way. It was at this point that the indubitable intention of his unceasing efforts, finally became transparent. To me anyhow.

This is not the first time I’ve found myself in this position. I like to think that it is just because I am nice. Which may not be the case. I could just be quite slow at picking up on a hint.