T A B L E_T A L K How did you learn a second language? Discuss immersion, classroom and other methods in the Wanderlust area of Table Talk ___________________ Are you dying to go to Italy? Read all about it at barnesandnoble.com ___________________   R E C E N T L Y If you film it, they will come By Steve Rushin A passionate sports fan begins his cross-country pilgrimage with a visit to Iowa's Field of Dreams (12/18/98) Christmas in Germany By Deanna Hodgin A family visit to Nuremberg's Christkindlesmarkt turns into a lesson for adults and children alike (12/17/98) Brahmaputra: Tales From the River By Tiziana and Gianni Baldizzone Extraordinary photographs portray a mighty river's journey through Tibet, India and Bangladesh (12/16/98) The yuckiest food in the Amazon By Mary Roach What tastes even worse than rodent knee and saliva-flavored manioc mash? (12/15/98) Ryoanji reflections By Don George At a Kyoto temple, a simple plot of sand, rocks and moss makes visitors stop -- and see (12/14/98)   Browse the Wanderlust Feature archives     Wanderlust's Official Travel Book Partner		AN INNOCENT ABROAD: PART ONE | PAGE 1, 2, 3 - - - - - - - - - - The ship rolls on. We pass through the Strait of Gibraltar and along the Algerian coast to Naples, where we tour the harbor. Cobbled streets, the Tyrrhenian Sea blue and implacable. Sunshine, cottony clouds riding the breeze, a pervasive smell of salt. The city looks ancient to me, historic and filled with mystery. I am aware of barnacles and rotting wood. The glassy-eyed fish at an open-air market are arranged precisely, as in a Dutch still life. The fat market women wear wedding rings, the shapely ones do not. Men huddle in doorways nearby and smoke cigarettes with a furious energy. They argue, they gesticulate, they stomp their feet and comb their hair. Their only job is to observe. They are the fabled ragazzi, boys forever, even at the age of 45 or 50. They visit their mothers every Sunday unless they live at home, as many do. Priests -- black crows -- spook them. They're behind in going to confession. Their fathers work as barbers and listen to opera on the radio. The music drifts from shop windows, sublime arias I hear floating above the racket of the crowd. I eat at a pizzeria. I eat a real Italian pizza -- no cheese, a sauce of fresh tomatoes, herbs sprinkled on top. The red wine is raw but good. Gregor is still happy. He imitates Frankie Lymon and sings "Why Do Fools Fall in Love?" to a tattered bunch of urchins, who ask him for coins and pretend to steal his wallet. In England, the Beatles are busy being born. We get off the ship for good in Genoa, dragging our bags behind us. In the morning, we will go by bus to Florence and settle in for the long haul. The thought of impending study fills me with dread. Professors, classrooms, dead air, responsibility -- but there won't be any snow, at least. That's a plus, I tell myself. Meanwhile, we have a last night free to wander. I plan to make the most of it. I am a youth with a mission. I walk from our hotel at twilight, into another ancient city that seems in a state of perennial decay. The colors are muted and faded, touched with an ashy pallor. Everything human has already happened here, I realize, and it will keep happening, infinitely repeated. The idea is new to me and comforting somehow. Genoa has already witnessed every mistake a young man can make. I count this as a blessing. It's nasty out. The clouds open and rain batters the old stones, but I ignore it. My mission is to find a woman -- a prostitute, to be more accurate. This, too, goes against my upbringing, but in Europe, women are part of the deal. It says so in every novel. The hero is always ducking into a bordello with some sleazy tart. I almost expect to see signs that read, "This way to the whorehouse." Cafes, narrow alleys, the reek of gutters. I feel anxious and high on adrenaline, like a thief about to pull off a crime. I check the railroad station and the waterfront without success. Maybe it's too early for the girls to be on duty. What do I know about the rules of whoring? Soon I am hopelessly lost. The rain drenches me to the bone. A driver hurrying home toots his horn and shouts at me, "Cretino!" I am about to give up the search when I bump into a friend. It's Gregor, of course. He is also on a mission, same as mine. We laugh about this and order espressos at a bar, where old men in fedoras are playing cards for money. Gregor takes off the beret he bought in Lisbon and wrings it out. Water splashes on the counter, it forms a tiny lake on the worn linoleum floor. You wouldn't think a swatch of wool could hold so much liquid. Then we spot them, two hookers on their rounds. Miracolo! They are dressed alike, in tight red sweaters and short black skirts, and they carry shiny little purses of patent leather. Their stiletto heels click on the paving stones. Our mouths must be agape, because they pause by the bar and stare at us. The petite one is attractive in a hard-bitten way, but her partner is huge, built like a professional wrestler. We have a problem, obviously. Gregor, being a man of the world, will solve it, I assume. He'll do me a favor and choose the wrestler. But no, he wants the petite one, too! We stand in the rain and debate the issue until he has a bright idea. How about a coin toss? OK, I agree. I flip a lira coin. I lose. I'm sick at heart, reeling with envy. I watch Gregor disappear with my beloved, wishing I had a knife to stick in his back. The hooker has become immensely desirable in the moment, a prize, a trophy. Yes, I would gladly kill on her behalf. The wrestler chews gum and stands waiting with her arms crossed, but I send her away. "I'm sorry, signorina," I tell her, adopting a forlorn expression and gripping my stomach to show that I'm indisposed. I keep an eye on her purse. For once, I'm lucky. She doesn't hit me with it. I sit on a dry ledge and mope. I can return to the hotel, or I can go second. There isn't any other option. I remember my father, who's paying for this trip. I remember how my mother, a devout Lutheran, stuffed me with religion. My sense of sin is deep and Gothic, stoked by fire-breathing preachers from the Middle West. Clearly, I am a fallen being, a wretch. I belong in one of their sermons. There is no justice in life. That is the traveler's second lesson. N E X T+P A G E | Searching for Lord Byron's grotto - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Become a Salon member. Click here.