From Rome to Sardinia: Elvis lives!

I was in Rome shortly. Rome was nice. Everybody knows Rome, so please accept my apologies for not dwelling on its historic importance or assorted tourist paraphernalia. Suffice it to say that –in the parlance of our day- a lot of shit happened there. Most of it happened in Latin too. But boy, the place has changed a lot since those loin-clothed and tuniced days. Last week a screaming mob of middle-aged, and slightly less than middle-aged women conveyed to me the fact that the black dye on my fur has evanesced entirely. Introducing myself as “Ben” availed nothing, even in one of the more upscale restaurants of the Trastevere area, where diners could be expected to show a little more restraint in the reverence of fame and glory. I fled Rome. I fled, and I still don’t know if it was a demonstration of wisdom or disgrace. There is no hitchhiking when you are famous. Only hopping. Hopping madness, and perhaps the appropriation of a Vespa scooter, although I still maintain that I’ve merely borrowed it and might yet return it one day. I estimate a big splash in the tabloids tomorrow, if not the respectable newspapers too, about my sudden materialization from presumed death. If I’m lucky it will be dismissed as just another Elvis-chimera. But then again, Elvis pays good money to a handful of media tycoons to have anyone ridiculed that chances upon the 63 year-old at local supermarkets and dares to speak about it. He is truly a genius of our time. Ah well, I will have to whittle my own way through this tabloid-infested life. And I cheated. It’s an emergency and I cheated, deviated from the penniless path that I had set out at the onset of my journey. What can you do? The fine people of Credit Suisse decked me out with a brand-new Visa Platinum that allowed me to pay for the crossing to Sardinia, lovely Sardinia. How I love it here.