5:45 – The crush of people congregating in the Piazza del Campo is overwhelming. And I don’t mean that in the figurative, pretty way. I mean trying to navigate the mob entering the Piazza is literally useless – it is as though everyone is wearing roller-skates and someone very strong in the back of crowd is pushing us along. My girlfriend mentions something about the bathroom. I laugh.

6:10 – We finally make it into the center area along with about 50,000 people. The race track surrounds the perimeter of the field. People spin in slow, tiny circles watching the procession of pageantries preceding the race. I have never been to Times Square on New Year’s Eve, but I imagine this is what it is like, only hotter. My girlfriend comments, “Good thing the race starts at 7:00. I really have to go to the bathroom.”

6:30 – My friends and I all lay 10 euro on a different contrade to win. I choose Seashell. Throughout the course of the race, I refer to my horse as “Seashell.” This is likely very demeaning, although maybe less so than “Goose” and “Tangerine,” which isn’t even a logo, rather the color of a jockey’s shirt. Tangerine did not win the race.

7:00 – The Bishop is parading around the track on a cart drawn by oxen. Oxen, as a general rule, move rather slow. As he passes, the crowd waves the flags of their respective contrade wildly. The Bishop is halfway around. It becomes abundantly clear that 7:00 is a “suggested” starting time. My girlfriend says, “At least the race only lasts two minutes.”

Three years ago when a certain American President retained control of the White House after a less than stellar first go at it (you may have heard of him), I made a promise to myself. You see, I wasn’t what you would call “satisfied” with the results of that election. However, I’m not the type of person to take to the streets in protest (it was a cold winter and the streets can be dangerous). So I decided to protest my way: I would leave the country…once every year for the next four years. I figured everyone won: I got to see new and adventurous places. And no one else really mattered.

The first year I went to Scotland. It was my first intercontinental trip, and I only drove into oncoming traffic once. It was a roaring success. After navigating myself from the small northern town of Ballater all the way to Edinburgh and back in one day, I considered myself a seasoned foreign traveler. I’ve always set the bar for success rather low.

My second year, I ran out of money or time or maybe both. After futile attempts to pay my way to Fiji using $500, a Blockbuster gift card, and my wit, I settled on Montreal. I gave myself a pass on this because technically Montreal resides in a foreign country. Besides, I have learned that it is never good to be hard on oneself, especially when one is giving it their best shot, even if that best shot only lands you in Canada.

I resolved then (re-resolved, really) to not let myself down this year. So this Saturday I leave for Siena, Italy. Clearly, I will have much to write upon my return. In fact, I have a distinct picture of what Italy will be like. And taking a cue from a certain world leader, I will end my pre-trip post with some ignorant observations about some things about which I know nothing. Call it cultural stereotyping, call it racial profiling, call it my best plan yet. Here are some uneducated expectations:

1. I will eat pasta and drink wine. Every morning.

2. I will meet a beautiful, dark-haired woman named Maria. She will speak little English and giggle at my big American hands. My girlfriend will hate her.

3. I will eat pasta and drink wine. Every night.

- by Dan Murphy of [redacted] fame