Ancient Romans Colonized My Brain!

In the summer of 2000, I moved to Barcelona with my family for reasons both professional and personal.

Unlike many people who change countries, we weren’t fleeing chaos. We weren’t forced to move under duress. No one was shooting at us.

But the truth is that I was fleeing something.

I was running away from my own complacency.

There’s a French word, “depaysment,” which roughly translates to mean “out of your element,”  and that’s what I needed. Moving to Spain jerked me out of my comfort zone.

Of all the expat adventures, comic defeats and small victories that emerged from my five years abroad, the one I’m most proud of is “No Roads Lead to Rome.”

Here’s how the book hit me.

One weekend, I was hiking with a friend in the Collserola, the hills above Barcelona. We were lamenting the decline and fall of damn near everything when the story hatched like a bird in my brain. I imagined two Roman soldiers having the same conversation 2000 years earlier. We were walking in their footsteps.  The world had changed, but people had not.

As revelations go, this tiny insight could have easily escaped me.  People have always felt like things are changing too fast and rarely for the better.

Big deal, right?

Within minutes, I was possessed by an old Roman legionary and a young conscript. I could hear them lamenting their lot in life.  How could the Senate vote to build another monument when people can’t even afford a decent pair of sandals? How did those vexed Roman numeral crunchers conclude the bread dole was too expensive?  Much of the dialogue between my grizzled old centurion, Marcus Valerius, and his chatty young sidekick, Gaius Severus, took root that afternoon.

Centurion Valerius is frustrated that the old ways are changing too fast. He’s tired of being marched off on fool’s missions to defend an empire he no longer believes in. He wants to retire, but no empire ever went broke paying pensions to old soldiers. The smart and mysterious conscript, Gaius Severus, thinks things aren’t changing fast enough. He’s full of opinions, eager to make his way in the world, and his nonstop talking nearly drives old, silent Valerius crazy. These two are pitted against Festus Rufius, the party boy Governor of Hispania, and his shady advisor, Winus Minem, a fast-talking bamboozler who would sell the world, twice, if he could.

When I learned that around 123 AD a slave had botched an attempt to kill the Emperor Hadrian in Tarraco — Tarragona, Spain — the first line in the novel wrote itself: “When it comes to assassination, execution is everything.”

My cast of characters staged a coup and took over my life. They took me hostage and have yet to let me go. They have many new stories to tell. Each one wants to star in a sequel. 

There are books and ideas that will change your life—relax, this isn’t one of them.  I’m not trying to make you think because you’re already a thoughtful person.  I worked hard to capture the sights, smells, and sensations of the ancient world and render the story humorous, entertaining,  and relevant to modern readers.   The e-book version costs less than coffee and a scone and lasts longer.

Of all the reviews I’ve received, this excerpt from a reader named Jerry, is the most gratifying:

”I have a pretty dreadful life at the moment and rarely laugh but several times throughout No Roads Lead to Rome, I found myself not only laughing but laughing out loud…”

I’m gratified that so many people have bought the book. Some people write for themselves, and that’s fine, but I wrote “No Roads” because a handful of old Romans colonized my brain.

Maybe all roads don’t lead to Rome, but I know they lead somewhere good and I hope we meet along the way.

Enjoy!

RSG

http://www.noroadsleadtorome.com/

If you like “No Roads,”  please return the favor by posting a review. Whether you love it or hate it, I’d be happy to hear from you. Please post a comment below or send me a note at noroadsleadtorome (at) gmail.com .  If you have a favorite character, let me know so I don’t accidentally kill him off in the sequel.

The US Presidential Marathon Explained

 

As a US citizen of global proportions, I feel compelled to explain our presidential election process to my three European readers.

First and foremost, it’s important to understand that the American election is run by the entertainment and advertising industries. Europeans who bemoan our superficial candidates don’t understand that we are voting for actors, not statesmen.

We vote for personalities, not politics. This is because the mainstream Democrats and Republicans aren’t really that different.  If you still have trouble understanding the two main parties, here’s an easy trick:  Coors is the official beer of the Republican Party, the more Euro-friendly Democrats drink Budweiser.

Unlike most places, where campaigns last a couple of months, we Yanks like to draw the process out for nearly two years. This is to assure that no sitting president can get anything done in the last half of a four year term.

Our extended election cycle is a giant economic stimulus package for event planners, caterers, hookers and consultants.

Because we have too many states to keep track of, we start with a primary election in the state of Iowa, followed quickly by New Hampshire. Both states receive an immense financial windfall from the sale of (imported) American flags.

Iowa and New Hampshire serve a vital purpose: they eliminate the most entertaining novelty candidates. This helps giant donors funnel limitless cash on the remaining candidates. Eventually, the remaining forty-eight sates stage increasingly expensive primary contests to assure that advertising and TV money flows from the rich to the super-rich.

A few months before the final election, when most Americans have completely lost interest, each party stages their big convention.

The main outcome of the convention is the “party platform.” The platform serves the same purpose in politics as in Olympic diving: the competitor must jump off the platform, twist and turn in mid-air, and land in the great bathtub of public approval without splashing anyone. Any candidate who “flip-flops” loses points.

Once the convention is over, the final leg of the campaign marathon begins.  Because most voters are loyal to their party, the candidates now engage in symbolic struggle to seduce a small percentage of critical swing voters to their side. These undecided voters force the candidates to escape Houdini-like from a variety of contorted positions.

In a series of televised debates that increasingly resemble "Survivor Island," hot-button topics like “Coke vs. Pepsi” get more scrutiny than dull questions about foreign policy.  

It’s a well known fact that most eligible voters don’t. This is because after two years of over-exposure, we’re sick of the candidates. We know them too well and don’t want any. By the final, fateful November election day, the northern half of the country is home bound due to freak snowstorms while the southern half forgets to vote.

This is why the incumbent usually wins.

No Roads Lead to Rome

The World's Greatest Doctor

(Excerpt from "The Expat's Pajama's: Barcelona")

The cluster migraines hit me in my mid-thirties, clamping on to the folds of my brain and refusing to let go for the next ten years.

When the migraines started I had good medical coverage and access to great doctors, but nothing seemed to work.  After an uneventful CAT scan, we tried every drug available—some with great recreational potential—but no cluster-buster emerged. 

I tried meditation. I tried warm baths. I tried meditating in a warm bath but I fell asleep and nearly drowned. I tried Tai Chi, but it was so slow and boring it only added to my stress. I experimented with varying my diet, systematically removing everything until only beer remained, but I never found the demonic ingredient that was causing the cluster bombs to explode inside my head.

I eventually found a formula that helped take the edge off—a concoction I called the “migraine mocha:” a cocktail of a controlled substance known as “Fiorinal,” dark chocolate and espresso. In retrospect, this was probably the world’s first “energy drink.”

I should have licensed it to Starbucks.

Many painful years rolled by, slowly. In 2000 I moved to Barcelona, Spain where, to my delight, Fiorinal was available over-the-counter in unlimited quantities at one-tenth the price it cost back home. I was in migraine heaven.

“Would you like codeine with that?” the Spanish pharmacist would ask, but I preferred my Fiorinal straight up with a coffee chaser.

My long-term migraine management strategy became simple: I’d buy lifetime’s supply of medication, have my visiting mother carry it home in her luggage, and pray that she didn’t get caught. Just before I turned my law-abiding mom into an international drug smuggler, I learned that Barcelona was the home to a world-renowned migraine specialist named Dr. Titus.

I decided to give the medical establishment one more chance to stop the intifada that had been raging in my head for the last ten years.

Dr. Titus was in demand so I had to make an appointment months in advance and then, due to business travel, I had to keep re-scheduling. A Fiorinal-filled year passed before I could finally see the legendary Dr. Titus.

When the day of my appointment arrived, I made the mistake of driving to the clinic and got trapped in the eternal gridlock of Spanish traffic. The roads had contracted like the spiteful arteries in my head.

“I’ll be a few minutes late,” I said, calling on my cell phone, the one with the intermittent battery. Fortunately, it was still working that day.

“Tranquilo,” the receptionist said.  “No problem.”

After a fruitless search for a parking spot, I finally parked illegally on a side street too narrow for tow-trucks. I was now a half-hour late and a mile away from the clinic.

I began to run, crossing against red lights, dodging oncoming cars and oil-burning Vespas. A cloud of cigarette wielding of teenagers billowed out of a schoolyard. I gasped for breath and tried to see my way through the second-hand haze.

Half way there, I called again. “I’m coming as fast as I can,” I said.

“Tranquilo,” the receptionist said, and I began to worry.

Tranquilo? I knew exactly what that meant. It meant I would arrive late and the same tranquilo office tyrant would tell me to reschedule my visit for the following century. She’d charge me double for wasting the doctor’s time, and probably charge me in advance for the next visit.

I was sweating and out of breath when I finally arrived in Dr. Titus’ crowded waiting room. To compensate for patients’ general lack of punctuality, many Spanish doctors schedule all visits for the exact same time. This strategy assures that the doctor’s time isn’t wasted and patients stay entertained  arguing over who’s next—unless one of the patients happens to be a clueless foreigner, in which case he goes last.

By the time my turn came, the office was empty and I was so hungry that my stomach started digesting my small intestines.

Dr. Titus was a tiny man, easily in his late seventies. He asked me a few questions in simple Spanish and then gave me his diagnosis: “Eres tenso” he said. “You’re tense.”

“Tense?”

“Tense,” he said, “you’re tense. That’s why you have migraines.”

“Of course I’m tense,” I said, nearly blowing a head-gasket. In frantic Spanish, I proceeded to tell him about the traffic jam and every other injustice I’d suffered that afternoon. “You’d be tense after trying to find a parking place in this town!”

“It’s OK to be tense,” he said.

 Dr. Titus, a man of few words, none of them helpful.

“Is that your entire diagnosis?” I demanded.  Was he really one of the world’s great migraine experts? Had I just paid a hundred and fifty Euros for him to tell me I was tense?

“Some people are just tense,” he said. “You’re one of them.”

I was ready to start shouting, but I didn’t want to confirm his diagnosis.  I took a deep breath and tried to remember my old mantra, the one that had almost killed me in the bathtub.   

“That’s it? We’re done?” 

He nodded, stood up, shook my hand and escorted me to the door. “Stop taking all that medicine,” he said, “and give your self permission to be tense.”

So I did. I ramped down the medication. I reminded myself daily that it was OK to be tense, and within a month, the migraines disappeared.

Years later, I’m still tense. But my head feels fine.