The Ultimate Vampire Resource and Directory

USA - January 2005



Ok, so...I'm the walking dead. Actually, I suppose walking "un"-dead is more appropriate. Six months ago I thought vampires were the construct of 19th century authors and Hollywood, and now I know better.



So why was I so surprised to end up smack dab in the middle of a coven of witches?



Ok, for the record, I now know that witches creep me out. Why, you ask? Well, because it's in our national interest. (And if you get that joke, you can get up off the floor and sit back in your chair. grin) Seriously, witches give me the willies because I don't know they are there until they are right on top of me. For example, recently, I was in a bar...yes, a bar. Imagine that. Jason is in a bar again. Hey, if you want a chili-cheese burrito at 2 in the morning, you go to Taco Bell, right? I was hungry. Sue me.



I digress, as usual. Anyway, I'm in this bar...ok, it was more like a nightclub. I guess. And it's just par for the course that I zero in on a real, for sure enough, witch as my companion for the evening. No, not the Samantha Stevens, nose wiggling variety. I'm talking about the pentacle-wearing, sage-burning, blessed-be, four corners of reality type. Granted, for the majority of our time together, I just thought she was wearing interesting jewelry. Silly me. So, we're standing up on the raised area, overlooking the dancefloor, just conversing the night away. The music isn't really to my liking. It's mostly 80s and 90s dance tunes and club mixes. But, I like to people watch, and apparently, so does my companion. I'd describe her, but...well, on the off chance she reads this and recognizes herself, I really don't want to be turned into a gnewt. That's a joke, darlin'. Put your wand away and step AWAY from the candle! Let's just say that she has a beauty that goes way beyond what the eye can see. That, dear reader, should have been my first clue that all was not what it seemed. Have you ever met someone that you felt like you could see way, way deep inside of them. And, in return, they could sort of do the same to you. If you have, then you know what I'm talking about. Sure, I could see her, smell her, touch her, and feel her with all my natural and preturnatural senses. She seemed quite human to me. Well,

then again, I guess she is human. Was she a "normal" human. No way.



I suppose if I'd have probed a bit, and let myself tip-toe through the corridores of her mind, I might have sensed the difference right off. But, I was just casually observing the crowd and having a nice chat. She seemed interested enough that I didn't feel like I needed to influence her any more than with me just being me. Everything was copacetic, as my dad would say. We were chatting away, smoking cigs, and both pretending to be interested in our drinks. The place had a pretty good crowd, I guess.



The dancefloor was the standard square of a faux-wood island floating in a sea of easily shampooed and stain-resistant carpet. She and I

were basically just poking fun at all the characters in the place. Next thing I know there is another woman standing next to me. I didn't feel her approach. Did see her walk to us. I had no idea she was even in the place until she was there. She had a huge smile on her face and addressed herself to my companion. "It's so nice to see someone who's not afraid to show the world who she is," she said, gesturing with one hand to the pentical that dangled from a satin chord and was settled between my new friend's breasts. I don't think they even knew I was there as they embraced as if they had know each other for years. As soon as their arms encircled each other, I felt...something. Just a wash of air. It felt like a breeze, but as were were indoors, I dismissed it as the air conditioner switching on. I need to pay more attention to unusual breezes.



The newcomer looked as though she was of arabic descent. But, much more than that. She was exotic. She had the look of all races and none. If you tried to imagine what another thousand years of human racial mingling would be, she would have been pretty close. Long black, thick wavy hair, dark olive skin, an Arabic nose and Nubian lips. She had dark eyes. They were so dark, they look to have no

pupils. Or that could have been the lighting in the place. She gave me a cursory glance, then turned to my companion, "Do you know him?"



"Oh, we've only just met," she said, "but I think I know him well enough." I had the distinct notion that there was more to the exchange than just those words. It was as though they were sharing some sort of inside joke.



"Well, love," said my companion's new friend, "different strokes, I guess. My name is Mary." With that my companion and Mary began to converse as if I didn't exhist. I was rather amused. I think my pride was a bit wounded. I considered "reminding" them that I was there, but I still didn't want to push too deeply into their minds.



I closed my eyes, as they conversed and tried to get a sense for the approaching day. It was definitely getting late. Or early. And, I think I've shown that I have a very deep respect for sunrise and all that it brings. "Pain and blood," I could hear Patricia in my mind. I shuddered. The woman could ruin my evening from halfway across the planet. I was also feeling a definite need to "run for the border." If you get my drift. I decided that I didn't have time to listen to idle chit-chat. I needed to make something happen, soon, or I was going to bed hungry.



Opening my eyes, again, I glanced at my companion and gently pushed toward her mind. Nothing. Must be the energy of such a large group of people, I though. I pushed a bit harder. More insistant. I was feeling many things as my probing met with firm resistance: curiousity, urgency, irritation, and not a little fear. I was preparing to take the kid gloves off, and open up completely. I gathered my stregth for a push into her mind that I was reasonable certain the outside interference wouldn't meddel with. Just as I began let my tentrils of thought caress her psyche, she turned to me with a smile, and waved her index finger before me like a mother telling her child that he wasn't supposed to touch something. "Oh no, baby," she

chided with a mischevous grin. "There's no such thing as a free lunch."



At that, the two of them collapsed in hysterical laughter. I was definitely not my most eloquent as I stammered, "Um...am I missing something, here?"

Spain - November 2004



I am told that after the sun had finally set my charred and nearly expired form was brought back to the Bat’s Breath. I was laid to rest in the basement for quite some time. I remember drinking several times but who they were I don’t know and was never told. I remember hearing Patricia and Lou conversing over my still form. After an undetermined time I sat up to find Patricia sitting in the darkness across from me. I was still weak, but I lunged at her, fury burning inside of me like the sun had seared my flesh. I only succeeded in prostrating myself across the floor before her. “Why?” I asked. My voice came out as a whispered croak.



For the first time Patricia seemed very serious as she spoke to me. Nary a hint of a smile or jest was in her demeanor. “Call it a baptism. Initiation, maybe?” I just shook my head in disbelief. So much pain for something so petty. I couldn’t comprehend that. “No, you’re quite right, my love. What you went through is the absolute zenith of horror for our kind. Short of a true death, there is nothing more horrible. I imagine that you were wishing for death, weren’t you?” I nodded. “That experience is the truest statement as to what we are, Jason. If you ever have doubt as to your true nature, you have but to reflect upon your first waking moments. We are pain and blood. We are no more and no less. It is what defines us. In truth we are powerful, yes. And you have such power, as you will not comprehend for some time, my dear. Our line, “ she paused in reflection, “and your line, now, is very, very old. It was only a bloodline such as ours that allowed you to survive your experience. You know now that daylight is not your friend. It is quite an important lesson. But that lesson is elementary compared to knowing your true nature. Pain and blood, Jason. Never forget that.”



The memory faded as Patricia flowed from my mind and the familiar surroundings of that bar in Spain reformed around me. She lowered her gaze and quietly asked, “Do you still hate me, so?” I blinked away the fuzzy remembrance and stepped away from her.



“I’m hungry,” was my only reply as I gazed around the room, letting my gaze settle on a group of patrons who were not “in” on the joke. Blood and pain. And darkness, I amended to myself. I think I heard a quiet sob from Patricia as I moved toward them, across the room.

Spain - November 2004



A hand on my shoulder brought me back to the present. “Thinking of the beach, I’ll bet,” says Patricia, with a half grin. I avoid looking her in the eye. Oh yes, I was certainly thinking of the beach. Thinking of the last time I saw the sun. The glass in my hand shattered in my crushing grip. When had Lou given me that? I must have zoned out for longer than I thought.



“I’ll get that, Jason. No worries,” says Lou as he begins to pick up the shards of glass and wipe down the bar. I’m surprised he’s not eyeing the blood seeping from the wound in my hand. Everyone else seems to be.



“All right you bunch of vampires, show’s over!” I intone, wrapping my hand in a towel on the bar. The wound is already healing, but I don’t want any of the Bat’s patrons to get any funny ideas. They all seem to think my statement is quite funny, as laughter erupts throughout the place. There are some there that are not in on the joke. They aren’t laughing. I feel for them. Patricia would call me weak. Then again, she never has known me as well as she thinks she does.



Patricia turns me to her and lifts my chin so that I must look at her. At once I’m drowning in blue. “I’ve already explained to you why we did what we did, love. There’s no point in dwelling on it. The lesson was learned, no?” I try to wrest my will away from her, desperately. She’s taking me back to that night, again. I feel like my mind is under a microscope. Only a moment before my mind lays open to her completely, I utter with nearly no breath, “It is a lesson,” I am fading, “I hope to teach you, some fine day, Patty.” The Bat’s Breath drifts away. The bar-sounds fade to nothing and all at once…



I am in a box. At least at the time it felt like a box. I could smell the wooden construction. It was large enough that I could lay almost comfortably on my side. The top of the structure was only a few inches above my head. I imagine that just about anyone in such a situation would be scared silly. One moment, dancing on the beach with a lovely women, the next moment fangs, pain, then darkness. Yes, I remember pain. A sharp pain at my throat merged with a feeling of complete helplessness. I remember not being able to breath. I remember the taste of copper filling my mouth.



Then, I wake up in a box. Why is it that being in a box was somehow comforting? It seemed a perfectly natural state of being. “Yes, I’m in a box and it’s not really all that bad.” I believe that was my actual thought. I can feel Patricia’s presence in my memories chuckling at that. Feeling her there brings the remembrance of what is to come into sharp focus.



The interior of my box was completely dark. Strangely, I can see quite well. The joining of the wood is quite perfect. Sealed with something, maybe. I can feel no seams as I run my fingers across the surface. I remember being quite fascinated by this simple box. I can hear something outside my little sanctum. It takes a moment to determine what the sound is, through the muffling effect of the wooden structure. Waves. The sound is water washing along the shore. Am I still on the beach? Wouldn’t that be odd?



I push at the top of the box, curious to see where I am. The lid doesn’t move. I push a bit harder, hands flattened against the wood. Nothing. I feel around for a latch or hook. There is none. I begin to feel a sense of urgency now. My box is not as comforting now that there doesn’t’ seem to be a way out. My mouth is dry as I feel panic begin to rise. Suddenly, my only thought is to wet my pallet and quench this maddening thirst. I had to escape this trap! I can feel thoughts in my head as I struggle to find some way to open the lid to this nightmare. “Escape!” they scream at me. “Get out! You must get out!” Frantic whispers from beyond.



I pound at the flat wooden sides of the box with desperate fists to no avail. “Up!” the voices urge me. “Free yourself! You must drink! Must drink!” Reminded of the terrible dryness in my mouth and throat I gather my legs beneath me. The thirst becomes a hunger that seems to drive me to the brink of sanity. With both fists I assault the lid to my wooden prison. My legs drive upward with maddened strength. “Yes!” the voices in my head shriek in a unified hiss.



The box explodes from the force of my blow. Bright, awful light sears into me. The pain is nearly blinding. I remember screaming until my throat bled. The taste of my own blood allowed me to focus on only one thing other than the pain. As my skin seemed to sear from my bones, I notice a figure on the sand. I am on the beach after all. Oh, horrible sunlight! There is a woman lying in the sand. Unmoving, but definitely alive. I fall out of the remains of the box toward the woman. I can hear her heart, even above the searing of my flesh. Screaming again, I drag my smoking, burning self across the sand to her. With one last surge of energy, for I am surely dying now, I pounce upon her immobile form. My burning flesh (Gods the pain!) chars hers as my arms gather her to me. Her blood is coursing through the vessels in her neck, and her pulse calls out to me. My teeth tear at her flesh. As her lifeblood flows across my lips and over the sand, I drink. Each swallow of hot blood is ecstasy counterpoised by the horrific pain that is my immolation. I imagine I looked like a living funeral pyre, burning away both my flesh and hers. She scarcely moved as I consumed her and we burned together. In a very short time, I had nearly emptied her. As her sustenance began to run dry, the burning pain became my entire universe. I flung her corpse from me and shrieked in defiance at the setting sun. As blackness took me once again, I realized that the pain was never going to end. And that the sun didn’t care one wit.

Spain - Early November 2004



I’m always overcome by feelings of nostalgic dread when I return to Spain, for it was here that all of THIS began. In my wildest dreams I would never have imagined that a poet from New England would change my life forever…on a beach in Spain.



Yes, I’m in a bar. Yet again. Do you see a trend forming, gentle reader? It’s definitely my kind of place. Then again, even before I was reborn I frequented this establishment. Therein was, most likely, my downfall. Or awakening, as the case may be. This place is dark, the air thick with the cigarette smoke. The owner, Lou, is tending bar and “spinning” tunes on the mp3 program running on the computer back there. I am standing in an old Spanish pub with a computer running full-blown sound mixing software behind the bar. Yet another minor glimpse at the dichotomy of man.



Lou appears middle aged, black hair losing the battle to the gray He is shorter than I and balding on the top of his head. Lou is a die hard sports nut from the U.S. and he’s been a friend of mine for years. Some friend. It seems I barely knew him at all. It seems things at this place have never quite been what they seem. He asks if I want the usual. It’s a semi-old joke between the two of us. My usual used to be the standard: booze, ice, wave the bottle of Coke over the top of the glass, thank you. Now…well…I don’t have the stomach for such things, in quantity. Lou is a terrific guy and always has been. Lou is also a lot older than he looks and an insidious bastard. I glare at him, in response to his little joke. He chuckles, “Still pissed, huh?”

“Not really. It’s fascinating, really. When does the novelty wear off?”

“It never does, if you embrace the life you’re been born into, darling!” Lou and I turn, and there she is. Patricia glides down the two steps leading into the place. Slender and tall is she. She is lean in the way that a predator is lean. Her hair is long and blonde. Her long black coat nearly sweeps the floor as she sways, almost struts, toward me. She’s been cocky this way for as long as I’ve known her. Lou says she’s been like that for a lot longer.



Patricia has eyes of such deep blue that you can almost see her soul when you look into them. That is, if she has a soul. Or ever did. My opinion on that is biased. As Patricia wraps her arms around me, then greets me in the European fashion, a light kiss on each cheek, my thoughts begin to drift back to a similar scene, in this very establishment, less than a year ago.



I had been at my usual place near the turn of the bar, nearest the back of the room. The Bat’s Breath Saloon is typical of European pubs. It’s small, dark and smoky. Opposite the bar, on the far side of the narrow room is long, cushioned bench, with tables and chairs lined up along it. In the far corner of the room is a TV with whatever sporting event Lou can pull in on his satellite dish playing on it. It’s early in the evening, around 9. The place is empty of patrons, as is usual in Europe. The locals generally don’t start coming out until 10 or so. Lou as I are chatting away, talking about nothing, and “telling lies” as he calls it. We trade anecdotes as he refreshes my usual.



As the night passes, more people begin to slowly fill the place. There are a few that I know and more that I do not. Almost all are American expatriates who are working in Spain, or who have retired here. I hear smatterings of Spanish being spoken, and occasionally German, I think. Patricia is there, as she is most every night. It seems that, without exception, everyone knows her. They all stop whatever conversation or activities they are engaged in to greet her. I call her the Queen of the Bat, but not to her face. The man seated next to me gets up from the bar, and Patricia glides onto the now-empty barstool. We begin to talk about how I am and how my travels are treating me. She always seems so fascinated by what I have to say, like there is nothing else going on in the world to her than what I’m talking about. I suppose that’s part of her charm. It’s a bit like intellectual seduction.



Before long, she and I are walking out of the bar. On occasion she enjoys a walk on the nearby beach in the moonlight, and I have accompanied her a few times. The beach is less than a block from the entrance to the bar, and shortly we are walking along the waterline in the wet sand. The sound of the waves washing along the beach is calming. She always removes her shoes, or sandals as is the case, this evening for these walks. I never have likes sand between my toes, so I still wear my boots. There is no moon, this night. It is almost completely overcast. The end result is that it is very dark on the beach. I can see the lights from the nearby marina. The beam from the lighthouse slashes through the mist as it passes overhead. We exchange idle chit chat as we walk, and Patricia seems to be in a good mood. Her demeanor is animated and almost childlike as she talks about her children. I get the impression that she has several of them, but she has never spoken of them at length. I’ve certainly never seen or met them, and I mention this to her. “Certainly you have, my dear.” She says, then giggles. I must have looked quite puzzled, because she laughed out loud, took both of my hands and spun around with me on the sand. “Jason, you are such breath of fresh air, I must say!” As we stopped circling each other, the lighthouse beam again swung overhead, and the last thing I saw was a flash of light off of what looked like fangs.



=============================

If you've read this far, I commend you for staying with it. Thank you so much!

She stared blankly into my eyes. I may have pushed a bit hard with fledgling power. I withdrew my senses and my presence from her mind. Her shoulders relaxed a bit, like a string that had been holding her rigid had been severed. I nodded my head to her and smiled a bit. She rose from her stool and moved around the bar toward me. “Buona sera,” she said, with the obvious accent of one to whom Italian is not her primary language.

“I speak, English,” I said as I held out my hand. “Jason.” She turned her eyes down a bit and I felt her face flush again. I’m still amazed at how that sudden blood rush to the surface just radiates a wave from the person. I don’t think she notices my small intake of breath at that.

“Christine,” she said, as she took my hand. I tried to hold my inner touch back as our skin made contact, but her eyes seemed to lose focus for a bit, and I knew that I’d better be a bit more careful. “It’s so nice to run into someone from the States, over here.” The airy quality of her voice was enchanting.

“I’m originally from America, yes, but as of late, I’m, well, more transient.”

“Very mysterious,” she said with a lilt of irony. “More than you can even imagine,” I replied quietly.



We talked for what must have been hours. The inside of the café, for the most part, stayed empty. I suppose the locals prefer to socialize in the open air. That, or I may have been subconsciously repelling the others to keep the place my own private little sanctum. The woman is terribly enchanting. Quite striking, actually. She carries herself with confidence and exudes a vibe that’s quite atypical of the living. I must say that I was drawn to her. As we conversed, I must confess that I was only half listening. I was studying her. Dark eyes set in smooth ivory skin. Thin, but sensual lips, mouthing words that were carried to me by her enticing voice. Her dark red blouse was rather revealing, in a conservative way. If that makes any sense. I must have watched her breath, not hearing a word, for several minutes. The rest was jeans, cut in the American fashion, and black leather boots. The boots were of moderate height, as she is easily my height.



The young bartender was very attentive to us, as we were the only two at the bar. He kept us constantly amused with juggling tricks using liquor bottles and various tools of his trade. He was a very nice young man, who obviously enjoyed his work. He said he was a political science student at the local university. We discussed the pending election in America, and he seemed pleased that I really have no opinion of the thing one way or the other. This led to a discussion of the lesser of two evils, which progressed to conversing about evil, in general. I don’t think he was particularly thrilled with my view on good and evil. He seemed to grow more agitated as the conversation progressed. But, he kept the drinks full, and the entertainment flowing, so I was quite content. He was really quite talented.



Through my repartee with out young Tom Cruise wannabe, Christine seemed amused. Each time I glanced her way, she had a slight smile on her delightful lips. With all my attention focused on the bartender, I had let my passive mental caress fall away from her. I was rather pleased to find that she seemed genuinely interested in me. It was here that I began to internally wrestle with inevitability. The bar drinks were tasty, but I would soon need something a bit more fulfilling. Is there such a thing as “pre-guilt?” There in front of me was sustenance for the taking. She was mine if I wanted her. And oh, how I wanted her! My mind ran though every enticing detail. I could almost see it moment by moment. I must have been radiating the desire, because I could sense her heart begin to beat a bit faster. Her breath was shallower. I could feel the heat of it across the short distance between us. Her scent changed slightly. Desire was there. She could be mine for the taking, but such a glorious creature shouldn’t be subjected to such things.



It grew late. Or maybe it was early. I suppose it’s a matter of perspective. I sensed some bit of angst trickle down the connection I was keeping with her. “I am getting the impression that you feel that you must be going, Christine.” A brief look of surprise curled across her face like the smoke from my cigarette. “May I walk you back to your room? These dark streets are no place for a young woman to be travelling alone, this time of night.” I exerted a subtle influence, but I don’t think much was needed. It only served to banish what little resistance there might have been to my suggestion. She only nodded slowly.



A return to the dark byways of Catania. The night air had cooled considerably and it was quite refreshing after the stale atmosphere of the café. The streets were nearly deserted. We moved through the dark paths that crisscross the downtown. I took her hand in mine and we looked like any the other young couple moving along the streets. We crossing a small square, when she stopped and began to walk backwards toward the last corner, leading me by the hand into the darkness. She backed up to the corner of a building and laced her fingers into my hair, pulling be closer. I was too stunned to resist, even had I wanted to. Our lips met, and I almost lost control of my restraint as her sharp feeling of lust washed over me. If my heart had been beating at that moment, she would have felt it in her core. She pressed every square inch of her body that was possible against mine. I felt her tongue part my lips and I drew back suddenly. Here was the moment of truth, and I didn’t want her to know. She was not to be mine, tonight. A being of such genuine emotion didn’t deserve what I had for her. She was completely open to me, emotionally, and without any influence of mine, she just NEEDED. “We should go, dear. Time to get you back, I think.”



She looked hurt. Wounded. The rejection was clear, but I sensed…relief? Oh my, there is so much more, here, that meets the eye. She smiled. Oh, what a smile. It lit up the night like those dreaded streets in Trieste. The irony did not escape me. She wrapped an arm around my waist, and pressed close. I think I heard her say “Thank you.” But it was very quiet, and might have been the cool breeze. No, she was not to be mine, this night.



But, I think I heard one of the waitresses at the café say that she would be getting off work right about now….

Ahhh, Sicily. I'm much more at home, here. The streets are darker. The alleys unlit. Cobblestone streets intersect with brand new contruction. I could get to like it here.



Except for all the churches and cathedrals.



They are positively EVERYwhere. The main square in Catania is literally surrounded by beautiful, gothic cathedrals. They are as imposing as they are magnificent. They tower over the pedestrians that stroll through the square. The bright streets of Trieste were practically warm and comforting as compared to the piety radiating from those stone houses of God.



A priest is standing on the steps in front of the largest cathedral on the square. He is conversing with an unremarkable woman. As I approach them, on my way out of this gauntlet piety, the priest seems to falter mid-sentence. He turns and his gaze follows me as I stroll past them. I give him a polite nod, as we both recognize each other for what we are. He, the servant higher power, and me the walking embodiment of power he’s only given sermons about. I grin slightly, and wink as I pass him. I almost laugh as he ushers his conversational companion into the refuge of his holy sanctuary.



I move off of the main streets, tucking into even darker alleys. The corner ahead has been taken over by several teen-aged children who are kicking a ball around. Their laughter is genuine. They are oblivious of their surroundings, totally unafraid of the near darkness in a way that only youth allows. The ball rockets from the group and bounces toward me, down the street. Casually, I stop it with my foot and kick it back into their midst. Several calls of “Grazie” reach me through the half-lights. They are loosely standing together, and I greet them, . “Buona sera,” as I walk through the group.



Down the street a bit is one of the dozens of café’s that are scattered all over this side of the city. I suppose After Nine, as it is called, is more of a restaurant/bar. Small tables are lined up outside in two long rows. I walk down the two steps that lead to the interior and I see that the place is set up much like any other drinking establishment. The bar is L shaped, with stools around it like pawns protecting royalty of the back row. Several members of the staff are grouped around the end of the bar, close to a set of stairs that lead up. The three waitresses are stunning. Each one classically Sicilian and beautiful. Whoever does the hiring here, has excellent taste. Hip-hugging jeans seems to be the fashion this year. I’m certainly not complaining.



.As I move to a stool at the bar, I notice that oddly, there is no music playing. Very atypical of a social establishment, here. Instead, there is a single television mounted to the wall across from the other side of the bar. I stop, halfway seated on the stool. Seated around the other side of the L, watching the TV is a woman. I can see only black hair spilling across the shoulders of her equally black jacket. The hair is almost lost in the color of the garment. Human vision couldn’t ascertain where the hair ended and the jacket began. The details of each are more than clear to my preternatural sight. I can see her clearly. More to the point, I feel her. She is a presence overshadowing all others in the room. I reach out to her with my senses. I detect the scent of clean linen, and faintly, olive oil. Some type of body lotion or oil, I suspect.



I probe with other, senses, that are new and still wondrous to me. I’m like an awkward child, new to toddling. I’m obviously not very subtle with my mental caress. Her back stiffens slightly, as if she’s be overcome by a chill. I can hear, feel her slight, sharp intake of breath. She turns toward the door, as if to see if there is a breeze. In that moment, I see her eyes. Dark. The room falls away as her eyes meet mine. I smile, slightly. I feel more than see the blood rush to the skin of her face and neck. This is going to be an interesting evening, indeed.

...as I walked the streets of Trieste, last week, I felt a constant sense of unease. Something bothered me in this city of ageless history. As I sat in an outdoor cafe on the Piazza Del Unita D'Italia, amidst the unsuspecting tourists, locals and street performers it dawned on me. (Pardon the pun...heh) The place was extremely well lit. In the dead of night, the streets are like day. No, this was not pleasant at all...I stood and moved farther into the shadows of the darker alleyways. The remainder of my stay in Trieste was quite pleasant, as I spent much of my time with an enchanting lady. Poor dear, I think as I leave Trieste behind. I wonder if I shall be so fortunate in Sicily. I hear the streets are darker, there.