Ghost Town

I had hoped that my recent absence would be understood by my loyal readers to be the result of a mid-August vacation. Would that it were so; at the moment I am the only one in my office who came into work. D.C. is notoriously empty in August, of course, but those residents I would be happiest to see go -- rats, kickball players, and comically bad drivers -- seem to be tied up in the kinds of jobs that don't afford much R & R. (Let's face it: Being a rat involves a 24/7 commitment, kickball players would squander a week off playing flip-cup and "practicing" anyway, and the worst drivers... well, more on that in a moment.)

The president, however, has taken his leave. Today he has broken Ronald Reagan's record of 335 vacation days during a U.S. presidency. Reagan, of course, took eight years to reach that mark, while Bush has surpassed it in just 55 months. If he maintains his current pace of one day off for each four on the job, he will hit 584 vacation days before leaving office.

Of course, these statistics imply that POTUS is a seven-day-a-week kind of job (I've always assumed it was), and that a presidential "vacation" involves no work (I'm certain that it does). But still, it's more depressing than alarming to me. This year, I expect to spend about 3% of my time on vacation, and this includes holidays and "personal days."

A more relevant question might be how many hours out of any given day are spent on the job versus time spent goofing off. In this department, I am as guilty as anyone. I might not spend my stolen time mountain biking or jogging -- in fact, I'm writing this instead -- but I certainly find ways of breaking the monotony of a nine-hour work day (which includes a mandatory hourlong lunch -- don't get me started on that).

But getting back to the subject of terrible driving, I was somewhat stunned yesterday evening when I saw an elderly Chinese Quizno's employee drive straight into the rear bumper of the bus I was running to catch. He was attempting to turn out of a hospital parking lot and, apparently, failed to see the bus directly in front of his car. My astonishment quickly turned to dismay as I realized that the bus driver was going to wait for a supervisor to arrive to submit an accident report, despite no visible damage to the bumper.

The offending motorist was not so lucky -- his quarter panel and hood received a prominent gash, resembling the corner of a soft stick of butter after being gouged with a knife. Still, he was anxious to be on his way, and repeatedly sought assurances from the other driver that his leaving the scene would not precipitate undue legal action against him. "No problem, boss," he said several times. The bus driver was less than reassuring. "I can't make you stay here, man. I can't hold you, dog."

Moments later another bus arrived and I was able to leave. I guess I should be glad that I hadn't encountered Darkalena Large.

Jokes and Jokes and Jokes...

In the past I have mentioned time spent in Europe by way of introducing topics such as Italy's smoking ban and French teen rap phenom Fuckly. My conspicuous lack of commentary over the last two weeks has had more to do with my lack of imagination than with my reasonably busy schedule. While searching desperately for a suitably asinine story to file here, I happened to remember another memorable episode from my Spring 2002 semester abroad in Florence.

It became clear quite early on that spending one's weekends in Florence was a tremendously wasteful thing to do. For one thing, most shops and restaurants outside of the central tourist district were shut. The one chance in my sleepy little neighborhood to buy provisions occurred twice for 15 minutes on Sunday mornings, both immediately before and immediately after mass. At these well known times, the tiny bar and cafe across the street from my apartment would open its gate so that church goers (all of them men, and all of them over the age of 65) could prepare themselves -- and subsequently unwind -- with a quick drink of whiskey or Campari.

What's more, weekend field trips to places like Rome, Siena, and Ravenna had been pre-paid, so to avoid them was to piss away a segment of the tuition fees. I therefore took the first opportunity to visit Rome when it arose, and eagerly arrived at Stazione Santa Maria Novella in the early morning to eat a McDonald's cheeseburger and await the "Eurostar" express train to Roma Termini.

As one might expect, the trip was chaperoned by several faculty members from my program. One of them, before the train had even left the station, had already dismissed an Italian couple looking for a place to sit with a poorly pronounced "Buona fortuna." He was wearing, I clearly remember, a black suit, overcoat, and beret, and a pink scarf. He was also carrying Gucci sunglasses.

About half way through the trip, whispers began to circulate among us American students about "Robocop" being one of our chaperones. I thought this to be a joke -- the beret-wearing tough guy did indeed bear a striking resemblance to that character. Upon arrival in Rome, however, I was told that this was, in fact, Peter Weller, the prolific actor and original Robocop, who was now pursuing a master's in art history through the American university that ran the study abroad program. It was, I must admit, an unlikely scenario.

Our first order of business for the day was a visit to the Vatican Museum, where I made sure to insert myself into Weller's tour group. He marshaled his troops outside.

"Listen up, you crazy cats. This museum ain't no jive. You lose us for even two seconds, and you'll end up in ancient Egypt. This place is huge, you dig?" This was going to be a worthwhile trip, I suspected.

Once inside the lobby, equipped with our tickets, Robocop continued his preamble. This raised the ire of nearby guards, who demanded that we move aside to let other visitors through. "Si, si, si. Va bene, va bene, va bene," he replied. Then: "Oh, fuck you assholes. Where were we?" He was determined to stand his ground.

He told us from the beginning that he was "a filmmaker. Director. Producer." -- anything but actor -- and that he was in Italy to "make a major feature film," among other things. Further whispers from students who had already encountered him in their art history seminars warned strongly against ever calling him "Robocop," even in jest.

And so began a whirlwind, two-hour tour through the museum, stopping mainly at "highlights of the renaissance." Our pace was so quick that I can scarcely recall entire galleries. I remember seeing Laocoon getting devoured by sea serpents, Raphael's Stanze, and the Sistine chapel ceiling. But I remember most clearly Weller's monologue that introduced us to a gallery of Raphael's paintings.

"See, I'm a filmmaker, dig? That's why I can dig on this crazy cat Raphael. He's cinematic, boom! He's painting movement, color, like cinema."

Exhausted, we left the museum and were given ample time to explore the Basilica of St. Peter and the surrounding piazza. I remember a luncheon of Carciofi alla Judaica (Jewish artichokes, which are deep fried) and some really awful manishevitz (it is unwise to order house wine in a Jewish restaurant, even in Rome). I remember very clearly the menu in this restaurant, where each dish had been translated into English a bit too literally, so that "Penne all'arrabiata" became "Pasta pens to the angry."

Later that evening, a friend who had been making great efforts to befriend Weller (who is a regular contributor to both Cigar Aficionado and Wine Spectator, and lives in a villa above Amalfi) arranged to meet him in the hotel bar before dinner. He had been promised a fine Cuban cigar. Sure enough, Weller breezed in around quarter to ten, wearing some sort of elaborate cape and, I'm almost certain, a tuxedo. He coolly slipped a cigar tube onto our table, and was off.

The next day we visited the Colosseum, where Weller took an instant liking to me after I correctly translated "Ave imperator, moritur te solutamus" (Hail, Emporer, we who are about to die salute you). "Good job, kid. Classically educated. That's really neat. You come talk to me later."

Alas, Peter Weller and I never became fast friends. When the Colosseum trip began to drag a bit, we split off and joined a different tour group headed for San Clemente and the Domus Aurea. Still, it was a hell of a way to be introduced to Rome.