Congratulations, Kosovo!

It was announced yesterday, or at least reported in the New York Times, that Kosovo has finally been given a chance to form their own soccer team and compete in international "friendly competitions."  This may or may not make them eligible for the next World Cup, but it's still a big step and we felt inclined to post a big congratulations to the country.  We watched the final matches of Euro Cup 2012 in Kosovo - mostly outside on pull down projection screens, on computers, on sides of buildings.  It was fan-demonium punctuated by calls to prayer and we wondered just how into it they would be if they had their own team to root for.  We wrote about the experience here.  Good luck Team Kosovo!

Read Euro Cup Runneth Over from our travels in Kosovo.
Look through our Kosovo archive.

Euro Cup Runneth Over

We don't often whittle an explanation down to our nationality.  Especially having spent about seven times as much time in Europe than home in the last two years, it has gotten harder and harder to think of things - and people, really - in such certain and separate terms.  However, whenever anyone asks us why we don't watch football, we always respond, "we're American." Sometimes, Merlin can't help himself from working the word "soccer" into his answer.  We both grew up playing soccer, as most Americans do. But watching it? A live televised event with little to no opportunity for commercial breaks? Not our country's style.   So, we actually didn't know Euro 2012 was even happening until we read a news article about violence between Polish and Russian fans.  Once we knew, we made a concerted effort take part in the experience. 

Our viewership began during the last quarter-final match, shown on the ginormous screen at Beer Fest in Pristina.  It was between England and Italy and went into overtime, then double overtime.  Excuse me if these are not the correct terms.  The scheduled 11pm musical performance began to play over the broadcast and we assumed it would end as a draw.  The fact that that can happen is one of the few things I do know about soccer, having been in New York during the 2012 World Cup, when the Post famously printed the headline: "USA Wins 1-1."  As we walked past 91, an English pub just down the street, a television screen alerted us to the much more exciting outcome.  Penalty kicks!  The crowd inside was much less mellow - a group of British expats at the ends of their bar stools (and the ends of their wits).  The mood alternated so extremely between tension and jubilation that beer actually went temporarily untouched.  Eventually, Italy won.

The best thing about watching soccer in Europe, especially in the summer, is that it's an outdoor activity.  Unlike American football, which shuts people into living rooms and neon sportsbars midday no matter how beautiful the weather, soccer brings people out onto the streets.  This is especially true in places like Kosovo, where there aren't too many businesses that can afford a big screen television or ten.  Instead, projection screens are set up where they can be. When all else fails, the side of a building becomes a big screen.  You can walk around all day long and not have any idea where sports theaters will magically pop up after dark. There's usually a bit of finicking with the system.  Getting the picture to line up, synching the sound, a few switches to a blank screen and the words "Lost Feed," "Data Unavailable" or something "Interrupted" and then you're ready to go! 

Then, once it's up and ready, you get to enjoy the summer air while taking in the game.  Sure, there may be competing DJs or call-to-prayers through the broadcast, but it's a little like a drive through movie.  Something special. I can't imagine how well this would work other places.  In Pristina, Rahovec and Prizren, there was never a backlash against waiters or a loss of patience if the sound cut out or a play was missed due to technical difficulties.  The crowds were as far from rowdy as you get. People are laid back here, understanding, mostly sober.  Plus, it's not their own team's pride on the line.   Kosovo cannot take part in the Euro Championship, as they have not been allowed to join the Union of European Football Associations (UEFA). 

I'm sure if Albania or even Turkey had been one of the 16 teams who qualified for Euro 2012, they would have been the clear choice for default favorite.  Without them, it was interesting to wonder who people favored to win.  In the case of the final - it was clearly Italy.  The fact that Spain (like UEFA) doesn't recognize Kosovo as an independent country, may have had something to do with it.  For that Sunday night final in Prizren, cars clamored for parking spaces and high-heeled young women searched for a seat (or just a sliver standing room) at a cafe.  There was definitely an atmosphere of festivity, of a big event, but it just doesn't pack the same punch when you don't have a team in the running.  We were just like everyone else, watching a championship our nation had no stake in - but enjoying the heck out of it.

It also doesn't pack the same punch when the match is a blow out.  By the end of the 4-0 final, the bars were almost completely cleared out.  Places kicked up their stereos a little more, people began to make their way back to their cars.  Spain was victorious once again, for the second time in a row.  It will be another four years before anyone gets to strip them of their crown and we will most likely be back in America with more knowledge about the relatively inconsequential NFL summer off-season than this large-scale competition.  Way before then, though, is the London Olympics and I plan on watching the soccer events a little more closely.  I've got some history under my belt now, I know some names and faces.  Super Mario and such.

Maltese Horses

Few people know that George Washington was not only the first American president, but also the first American mule breeder - and he can thank Malta for it. In the years leading up to the Revolutionary War, trying to create a kind of super agricultural animal, he sent out a request to a few European friends for their finest stock. He received a special present from the King of Spain - an Andalusian jack named "Royal Gift," almost the first of its breed to be exported from the Iberian peninsula. The Andalucian jack donkey was famous for its size, strength and hardiness, but Washington credited another animal for the success of his new mule.

The Marquis de Lafayette, a close friend of Washington's and a general in the Revolution, supplied a different, even more obscure, kind of donkey. The Maltese jack, known primarily for its vigor and fierceness, became the other ingredient in the American Mammoth Jackstock - a breed so popular that it reshaped the farming landscape of the southern states.

The Malta donkey was a mix of European and North African animals that was, for centuries, the main cart and draft animal of the archipelago. Today, despite its history, there are less than fifty Maltese donkeys in the world. They've been replaced by a new island equine love: the horse. Above, a man in Rabat eyes a friend's trotting pony.

In the heat of a late March afternoon, we stopped at the Marsa racetracks to watch a few trotters and riders work their horses in the sun. A water truck roared around the oval, kicking up dust even as it sprayed the track to keep it from turning to powder. The horses went in easy, looping circuits, the pounding of their hooves growing and ebbing as they passed. Close by, we could hear the slight metal noise of the harness, the whir and creak of the sulky. This is Malta's most popular spectator sport.

Malta is mad about horses, horse racing and horse riding. Before the British colonized the islands, horses were prized possessions, and riding was an important part of the culture. In a continuing tradition that dates back to the 1400's, an annual bareback race is held each June, reportedly a wild event. But the climate is too hot and dry, there's not much grazing land; donkeys were better suited to the temperature and were cheaper, horses remained rare. With the British came formalized racing, finer breeds and, in 1868, the Masa racetrack. What had been a fascination became an obsession.

Saddle racing grew in popularity for nearly a hundred years, mirroring the growth the sport saw back in England. But, in a historic twist, World War II destroyed much of Malta, and most of the race horses were slaughtered for food or killed during the bombing. When the British navy left, following the war, they took along the remaining thoroughbreds (and many of the best jockeys), leaving behind a country starved for races.

To fill the void, Malta embraced trot racing. The ponies were less expensive and easy to keep, jockies weren't required. It's grown into a craze - the official tourism website calls it "Malta's prime spectator sport," and total attendance is supposedly higher than at the national soccer stadium. Real horses have returned in the decades since, but ponies are still much loved. These two old men walked their steeds very slowly, having a jovial conversation.

Even in the middle of Malta's horrible traffic, navigating roundabouts and underpasses, one will find men and horses. Not only close by to the racecourse, which is now ensnared in a twist of motorway, but everywhere. Even parked outside stores. Some people actually seem to use the sulkies as a form of transportation - not much room for groceries.

In Valletta or Mdina, the horses you're likely to see are of the tourist-ride variety, but even these are interesting. The small, covered carriages they pull - called "karozzins" - are unique to the islands, though I have to admit that it's difficult for me to see why. I'm guessing it has something to do with the draping. They are generally tattered and faded, relics kept alive by pushy touts and romanticism.
It's easy to see why the horse's finer lines and more noble gait have enraptured the Maltese. Donkeys just don't fit into modern Malta. The country is ever more urban, with fewer fields to plow and more roads to clomp down. Life here is a little more glamorous, less hardscrabble than it used to be. It's also a small place, and riding from one town to another (or one coast to another) seems perfectly practical.

Ye Olde Girne

We spoke a little too soon when we said "we haven't really left Turkey." While technically Turkish since the occupation of 1974, Northern Cyprus has very much its own flavor. This was readily apparent in Girne (Turkish for Kyrenia). The harbor town, only a two hour ferry from Turkey, feels central Mediterranean and, dare I say, Greek. Looking up at this old white Church against the deep blue sky, thinking of Greece felt almost too obvious. But that Turkish-Greek mix is to be expected here in Cyprus. What surprised us in Girne was that it all came with a heaping side of British.
The sharply dressed touts outside the main square's cafes felt familiarly Turkish, but when we saw a big chalkboard sign that read: Pork Steak, Pork Chops, Pork Shish, Ham Salad, With Glass of Wine is Free! we knew we weren't in Kansas anymore. Turkish Cypriots have always been more secular, but this seemed a little... extreme? Efes beer in frosted pint glasses topped the mid-day tables. Suddenly, we realized we could understand every conversation around us. But this is the off-season? As it turns out, Girne is home to the largest British ex-pat community in Cyprus. Brits have been coming here since the end of World War II, when soldiers and civil servants decided it would be a wonderful place to retire.
Even more intriguing, Cyprus was under British rule from 1878 - 1960. During this period, road systems were developed (drive on the left, wheel on the right) and children were taught English in schools. So, essentially, in Girne we get to stroll in the Mediterranean sun until it sets behind a mountain range topped by an ancient Hellenic castle. Then, we move inside to Fisherman's Inn for some Turkish beer, wine and pistachios and have fluent sorrow-laced conversations with the old Cypriot bar keep. He tells us about the home town he left behind in the south and the Vietnamese love of his life; about the time he was mugged in London and how there are more Cypriots in that English city than there are on this entire island.
They say that once a foreigner lands in Girne, they never leave to see anywhere else in the North. This is the sort of phrase that usually turns us off from a place, translating in our minds to "tourist town." After one day, we found ourselves asking our hotel for a few extra nights, proving the theory true. Still, I think the reason for its accuracy is twofold. There is the sleepy seaside seduction laced with all the aforementioned technicolor. But there's also the lack of readily available options for exploring without a car.
The bumper-to-bumper traffic in town, half necessary and half a parade of souped up cars in for the weekend from the capital, didn't make us excited to rent a car. Neither did the prospect of driving on the opposite side of the road around particularly aggressive drivers. Add to that the legalities involved with getting into any sort of trouble in a territory unrecognized by the world aside from Turkey and you have a lot of bus rides. One of these truly retro buses, imported before 1974, took us out to Famagusta. Much to our chagrin, we then had to take a taxi the 7 kilometers to Ancient Salamis. St. Hilarion Castle, which we can see in the distance, was impossible for us to get to, let alone the relatively untouched coast of the Karpas Peninsula.
In lovely, curious Girne, this hardly made us feel trapped. We jumped head first into the local culture, other than wisely avoiding sun-soaked afternoon alcohol consumption. The most popular place to eat is definitely Niazi's, which has a large restaurant and an adjacent take-out joint. Like almost all of the Turkish-Cypriots in Girne, the restaurant is a transplant from Limassol in the south. Grilled meat is the specialty. So, while foreigners give in to their coastal cravings for (imported or farmed) seafood, locals dig in to some shish.
If the smell of grilling meat didn't take us back to our days in Turkey than the sight and sound of nard playing sure did. If there was a place to set up a table in the sun, there was a nard game going on. Younger locals played over drinks at the harborside cafes. All establishments have the game on hand, often in a pile next to the menus. One evening, as the sun went down and it became immediately cold, a foursome of men in suits sat down near us. They were immediately provided a nard board, blankets to drape over their shoulders and heat lamps, dragged out from inside. A British man next to us tried to engage the waiter in a chat about rugby.
British, Turkish, Cypriot, German tourist - the great equalizer is always soccer. Our last night in Girne, the entire town was tuned in to a match between two Turkish teams. At Six Brothers Restaurant, our waiter asked if we would like to sit next to each other so that we could both see the television. We declined, but wound up staring past each other at the scene around us anyway. Everyone was rapt. The restaurant (no one was actually eating) was divided into sides. At the very last minute, a game-winning shot was made and the crowd erupted in cheers. I wouldn't be surprised if the jubilation caused all the boats in the harbor to rock in the still, night water just a bit.

To Ski or Not to Ski

After many days of snow, we decided that we may as well just give in and go someplace where all this cold white stuff would feel like it belonged. Some place that would have more people. Some place in its on season. What better choice than Armenia's premiere ski resort? And on the weekend no less! Tsaghkadzor is only about 40 kilometers north of Yerevan, making it an ideal getaway for the capital city's weekenders.
Old taxis competed with four wheelers for the non-icy side of the main road. The big, loud toys were for rent, which meant that there were a lot of inexperienced people zooming around the struggling Ladas and beeping at the Land Rovers with deep tinted windows that squeezed through as the evening approached. Every now and again, a snow mobile would pass through the town square. We figured there weren't more of them because four-wheelers are a better all year round rental investment.
Somehow, the number of wheels on the road never seemed to translate into people. So, Saturday morning, after two nights of eating dinner in basically empty restaurants we followed a little cluster of people to see where they were headed. None of them were dressed for skiing. The young women wore high heeled boots and the men, slender toed dress shoes and shiny sneakers. Up a hill we followed them to a sort of bobsled run carved out of a hill's deep snow. Down they were sent on deflated inner tubes as Maroon 5 blasted on a speaker and back up they were pulled by a poma lift with a Christmas tree, tinseled and spinning, affixed to the top.
In the main square, an uneven ice skating rink and a few kids on runner sleds slipped around. Nearby, the people who were really not interested in any sort of snow sport visited the Kecharis Monastery. Before heading into a small mass, they would take pictures outside of the 11th century church. A bearded monk welcomed us in for the service, but we declined.
It was really very beautiful and, as any premiere ski resort's ancient monastery should be outfitted, a big crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling inside. It cast rainbow light glitter on the old carpets and paintings in the chapel. After a pleasant visit, we began to wonder not "To Ski or Not to Ski? but, rather, "Where the heck are all the skiers?" Aside from the small rack of skis and boots for rent in our hotel lobby, we had yet to see any signs of actual skiing.
They were all up on the ski mountain of course! The sun was shining and music blared. A big yellow building outfitted novices with equipment and coffee was had in a cafe decorated with photographs of figure skaters. There were foreigners ready to really go for it and teenagers all geared out, but it still felt like a new phenomenon to a lot of the locals around our age or older. Never have we seen so many faded jeans and tight leather jackets on a ski slope. One man led a young woman, struggling in stilettos and encased in fur back toward their Range Rover - one of many lined up in the parking lot. People with skis on looked like they were having a much better time. Teenagers were geared out and proficient.
Unfortunately, we were forced out of town before the weekend was over. Big banners hanging on all the central hotels alerted us to the "BRIDGE International Economists Forum" taking place. A mix of foreign accents descended upon Tsaghkadzor and scooped up every last hotel room. It's always exciting to see a small town at full whirl, readying itself for a big event. A local camera man was settling in as we drove out.

The Luck of the Irish

Really, we were the lucky ones. Andorra played the Republic of Ireland in a sold out match on Friday and we happened to be camping right above the stadium. When we pulled up to pitch in the afternoon, just about every police officer in Andorra was surrounding the grounds. "We're just camping," we explained to the first row. "Here for camping!" to the second. "We're in a tent up there," we told them when we came back through later. "Yes, yes, camping," they all said, pointing us through on our final trip. We couldn't have been more a part of the action.
Except, of course, if we were Irish. The first green shirts were spotted in town that morning. We thought it was amazing that those guys traveled all the way here for the game. Little did we know that busloads would arrive and congregate outside the stadium for hours before the game. It was a big match for them, bigger than for Andorra. Both teams are in Group B of the UEFA Euro 2012 qualifiers - and Ireland is just a win or two away from securing their spot. Andorra, on the hand, is an underdog, as the friendly old man who runs our campsite explained with a hand up near his forehead for Ireland and a hand down near his knees for Andorra.
Beers were carried from the campsite bar over across the street, where the Irish supporters had hung up flags and a banner that read "YES WE CAN!" The game didn't start until 9:30, but the singing started around seven. When it rained for a little while, the singing got louder. Close to game time, the Andorran supporters (who we'd assumed were just having an 'early' dinner) had still not arrived in any great number. We were invited down to join Team Ireland, but would have felt a little bit like traitors. Plus, we had a paella to make.
When the rain stopped at the start of the match, this rainbow crossed the sky. Dare I say there was a pot of gold underneath. Two quick goals put the Irish up 2-0 in the first twenty minutes of the game - a fact we surmised by the roar of the crowd in the distance. The tiny stadium's stands were almost completely green. Just to give you a little perspective: The other Group B stadiums (Armenia, Slovakia, Russia, Macedonia and Ireland) hold an average of 31,000 people. Ireland's is the biggest of the bunch, with 50,411 seats. The Estadi Comunal in Andorra la Vella holds 500. You could say that enthusiasm seemed to be relative.
The campsite owner had introduced us to this police officer earlier in the night and we'd been given permission to come over and watch. At that hour, before the game had started, a specific spot was pointed out for us beneath the glow of the stadium light - presumably, so no one could see us there from below. By the time we arrived later, with the match in progress and the Andorrans struggling, no one seemed to care that we were there. Other campers were huddled around with umbrellas and the police chatted casually to each other.
Andorra's more of a winter sports country - and roller hockey, interestingly. Their national soccer team is about as good as any country's would be working with such a small population. It doesn't mean they don't like the sport. We've seen pick-up games like this one a few times and heard rowdy matches going on at recess. It just means that most Andorrans were probably not heartbroken about the 2-0 loss to the Republic of Ireland. To be honest, we were a little relieved. I doubt we would have gotten much sleep had their been a huge upset. And it would have been a very sad, long bus ride home for a lot of fans.

Monaco Classics Week

The tenth Monaco Classic Week (it's not annual) is a strange, only-in-Monte-Carlo event. Where else is there a competition to select, according to the official website, "the most elegant crew which lives up to the codes of naval etiquette?" It's only correct that these crews be "judged by a panel including princesses and artists." Walking around the harbor during the showing, we have been struck by how beautiful and immaculately kept these craft are.
The show brings together about eight boats, many of them "centenarians" or older. Organized by the Monaco Yacht Club, it's a chance for some of the rarest and most valuable craft in the world to come together for a race, for the spectacle and for bragging rights. The Hispania, pictured above with her crew, was built for King Alphonse XIII of Spain in 1909. It's one of four surviving 15 M IR boats - a group of racing yachts designed and built by the legendary scottish shipwright William Fife. All four examples are in town for the week, including the Yacht Club's own Tuiga. A near flotilla of Chris Craft and Hacker motor skiffs fill in the margins, along with some larger sailing craft and a few broad steamships.
There are also a small number of classic cars, including this Monegasque plated BMW Isetta 250. In a city overrun with expensive autos, though, the quay's collection wasn't especially fascinating. Anyway, the effect of glimmering paint and polished chrome was lost when compared with the century-old gleam of much polished wood and brass.Two very particular types of people crew the boats - young, broadshouldered, suntanned men with quick hands and sure feet... and somewhat-aged, more generously-paunched men and women, who pick up a rope now and then. The boats have owners, after all, who do love to participate. There are costumes, of course, with straw hats and stripes of many widths and colors. A red carpet rings the dock, maintained by a woman with a vacuum cleaner.
Nearly all of the yachts have little baskets near their gangplanks, filled with slippers, boat shoes or other soft-soled footwear. Tours are occasionally possible on some craft, visits more common, and hard shoes are inadvisable.
As surreally impressive as the Monaco Classics Week is, it's only a prelude. The real event is the Monaco Yacht Show, which begins this Friday. Already, tents and large trucks have begun crowding the waterside, a flurry of activity focused on new ships and sales contracts. In the background, rows of hulking, SUV like mega-boats dwarf the old masts and decks. There is a disheartening sense of opulence at play - fanatically cared for, centenarian, royal yachts playing second fiddle to new, consumer grade toys.

Still, it must be breathtaking to sail these magnificent things on a calm Mediterranean, with so much history ingrained in the wood underfoot. In the end, the show isn't for the spectators but for the people crewing the yachts. From high atop the Monaco bluffs, we watched them tack lazily in the light breeze. They looked especially elegant from afar, their low, classic shapes recalling another era.

2011 ISAF Youth Sailing Championship

Somehow, without knowing about it beforehand, we found ourselves in the middle of a championship. Zadar has been full of young sailors, their parents, their sponsors and their coaches. We see them in the supermarket, at restaurants, on the boardwalk and on the beach - they all wear white t-shirts with the ISAF logo and seem to be treating the event like a vacation. It's the premiere youth sailing event of the year, though, and it's a big deal.
We saw the boats first, lined up on the marina concrete in exact, gleaming rows. The competitors hadn't arrived yet, and we were free to walk around and take pictures. A few days later, the sails arrived and the sailors began to trickle in. A fence went up around the dock area; we were no longer welcome. Signs for the "ISAF Youth Sailing Championship," were plastered all over town and a big floating stage was set up off the town promenade for the opening ceremony.
The first race began at noon on the 9th, but the boats went out much earlier, massing chaotically like seagulls on the water and scooting back and forth between the islands. From the beach, they were alternately distant and very close. You could hear them coming across the straight, sails snapping, voices calling out to one another. As the races began, groups formed, divided by class and gender, and spread out in different directions. More organized, it became like watching schools of fish divide and rejoin and break apart again.
Amazingly, the ferries and fishing boats kept running, sometimes blowing their horns to alert the competitors and get them to move out of the way. People swam amongst the boats when they were close to shore and jet skis whined around and through the groups. Life certainly went on, probably more undisturbed than the racers were.
There are 58 countries with teams at Zadar, fielding 247 boats manned by 349 youths. The vernacular of categorization is almost comically incomprehensible - there are laser radials, 420's, RS:X's, 29'ers and bullets, none of which I can tell apart. The New Zealand team was the favorite coming into the race, apparently, but I was told that the US had a good shot. The countries represented were dominated by ex-British colonies, with a few Asian nations thrown in and a small contingent of South Americans.

Two Puerto Rican sailors - Raul Rios and Fernando Monllor - led the standings after competition ended on day one, which (we gather) is a surprise. They put out a few happy but cautious quotes: "It was pretty light and shifty and it was my first bullet. It is a great feeling," Rios said. "It was very nice. Sailing with Raul has been really good and a great experience, he is a really good sailor and having the opportunity to sail with him has been a great pleasure," Monllor chipped in. The races will continue on Sunday and Monday, but we won't be there for them.

Quotes courtesy of isafyouthworlds.com

Marathon Day

Isn't Marathon in Greece?

Yesterday we watched as thousands of runners streamed by the Vatican, which was at the approximate fifteen kilometer mark of the race.
We arrived early at Via della Concillazione - the grand boulevard that runs from the Tiber to St. Peter's Square - to find it almost deserted. There were a few policemen and a couple of photographers, but not many others. Suddenly, a pack of motorcycles and a large stair-car came screaming around the bend, followed closely by a small group of men running very, very fast. We were pretty unprepared and didn't have any time to get into position, so our photos weren't great. This is the group of leaders, though. The man who ultimately won the race, Dickson Kiptolo Chumba, a Kenyan, is the last runner in this picture. He's wearing red and only his arms, shoulders and head are visible.

The frontrunners were gone quickly, leaving us with an empty street again. Having never seen a Marathon in person, I was surprised by the speed of the running (there were much slower people to come), and by how much separation these men had gained after only fifteen kilometers.
A trickle of others began making the turn a few minutes later. The photographers and early fans left when the famous faces had gone by. Soon, though, more people began showing up - both in the race and along the course. This view is up Concillazione, with St. Peter's Basilica in the background.
As the morning went on, the mood became more festive. A band showed up in formal police regimentals and intermittently blasted a snippet of song. Behind them, from speakers mounted to the Vatican colonnade, Sunday mass was being broadcast.
We set up shop near the halfway point of the boulevard, taking pictures of interesting people. The second thing that surprised me about the marathon: how many people wear costumes. These two were part of a group of four dressed as Romans, appropriately enough. When we saw them, we wondered why there weren't more like them.
This guy was one of the most enthusiastic about having his picture taken. A middle aged, breathless couple actually stopped in front of us and demanded that we take their camera and photograph them with the Vatican in the background. A third thing I was surprised by at my first marathon: how many people had cameras strapped to their hats or in their hands. Also, the number of people taking pictures on, looking at or messaging with their phones - as they ran!

The best part of the spectator experience became watching people cross the street. There were volunteers at the crosswalks, trying to dissuade people from crossing. If it was apparent that they were dealing with someone very stubborn, the guards would sometimes allow them to cut through during less-crowded moments. This old man shuffle-sprinted across slowly, weaving his granddaughter (daughter? abducted child?) through annoyed runners.

In general, the bulk of the people we saw were energetic and enthusiastic - this being less than a third of the way into the race, it's good that they were. We left as we began to see more people struggling.
It was a perfect day for running, it seemed. The air was cool, the sky was blue, Rome looked beautiful. We wandered along the colonnade, looking out past the "border" at the athletes, listening to the singing from inside the basilica.

The woman who won the race, Ethiopian Firehiwot Dado, took her shoes off before the finish line, paying homage to the woman who won the 1960 Rome marathon. You can read more about her here. The amazing thing - she took her shoes off and STILL won by more than two minutes.