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.