Running From Beer Bottles And Rocks Essay

, Research Paper

Jebadiah Moulton

July 29, 2000

MW 800-1000

Essay #1 Narration with Description

Running From Beer Bottles and Rocks

Americans have several different views on other countries. The people who seem to criticize these other cultures are mostly people who haven.t been to these countries and have the typical .I.m better than you attitude.. Just because our country is one of the top military and political powers in the world, does not give us the clearance nor justify us thinking we should have special favors or unearned respect from the people in their own lands when we are the intruder. When those disrespectful Americans go to these societies they give our whole country a bad name. Just like Newton.s 2nd law, every action has an equal and opposite reaction, the product of our insolence is our rudeness thrown right back in our face. The only reason the locals in far off places that have been so unlucky to have encountered some of our nations immature residence continue to tolerate our presence is mostly due to our money and all the useless wooden bowls, chincy necklaces, and other over priced ethnic crafts that we oddly enough find interesting and will pay top dollar for. This attitude can be extremely dangerous shown to the wrong people.

It was Christmas day 1999 in Sigonella, Sicily, all the officers and members of the maintenance crew had the day off to celebrate and have a feeling of togetherness since we could not be with our families that year. We drank wine most of the day and told .sea stories. of places we.ve been and what we.ve done. Most of these stories would not be something you would tell to your grandchildren or in some cases even to other sailors. After the sun went down, the crowd started to slowly leave their chicken bones, empty beer cans and wine glasses, and full ashtrays for the comfort of their quarters. Some of us younger sailors who thought we were invincible; Jason, Casey, Cal, and I wanted to experience the nightlife of Sicily. So with the help of the intoxicants we drank, we stupidly decided to go down to .The Gut., about 30 minuets outside the Naval Air Station.

The Gut was a moderate sized town that was legally called Catania. Because of the several blocks of legal whorehouses on one side of the main boulevard and the filthy bar scene on the adjacent side, everyone justifiably called it .The Gut.. Of course the military called this the red light district. This meant military members were not allowed in this area due to the high risk of arrests and the hatred the Italians had for the Americans in that area. The four of us figured that would be a good place to acquire some more of these outrageous sea stories for ourselves. The closer we got to our destination, the more I saw tipped over trash cans and crooked steps leading up to cracked and rust stained mortar of the several hundred year old buildings. It felt like I was going back in time to an old Gangster movie.

We got to our destination, Waxie O.Conners, an Irish pub that seemed to produce more crime every night. As we walked in, our eyes burnt from the clouds of cigarette smoke. We became the tourists as uninviting eyes looked at us as though we were outcasts. Soon we came to a table in the middle of the most crowded part of the bar. Our waitress took our order with a disapproving look on her face. Apparently she understood English but would not lower herself to speak our language except to tell us how much lire we owed her. There were demeaning slangs about Americans written on the wall in the bathroom, suggesting that we weren.t welcome. Several hours went by as we ordered pitcher after pitcher of the finest dark lager in the house. The more we drank, the more obnoxious and brave we got.

Eventually we decided to venture out into the street and roam the alleyways in search of some danger or fun, whichever seemed more interesting at the time. These ancient cobblestone passageways stank of mildew and ammonia from the lack of a sufficient sewer system. As we stumbled through the maze of prostitution and broken beer bottles, we became amused at the completely different lifestyle these people lived in. I liked to take pictures of all the different countries I go to, so I thought photographs of this poverty and decay would be nice to have on film. I took pictures of everything from drunks passed out (or maybe dead) in puddles of their own urine, to sets of granite stairs that led to dimly lit shacks. We began to make fun of this post nuclear war looking place and talk in a condescending way toward people we saw moping and straggling around. None of us could understand their language so we ignorantly thought they could not understand what we were saying. Most of the girls working on the street were either local Italians or Africans that came over from across the Mediterranean Sea. We would say rude things to these prostitutes who would approach us expecting us to pay 30,000 to 50,000 lire for their services. It was a good thing they didn.t understand much of what we commented on, or the situation might have gotten a lot worse. Jason and Cal decided to go down a gloomy alley in search of some services from an Italian girl. Casey and I continued to aimlessly stray around the Gut.

One of the African Prostitutes approached Casey hoping for a little work as she rubbed against him trying to convince him t