29 September
The murmuring cocktail party of buses, mopeds, cars and crickets meandered through the second floor window. Safe from the growling vehicles below, I relaxed under a wave of tiredness. After a full day of travel, starting with a midnight bus from Oxford, even a shabby hostel mattress was welcome. Either the morning began ridiculously early or else the previous night lasted far too long. At 3.20 am, hours after running through the rain to catch my first bus, I discovered why the “Americano” was invented. More than a cup of coffee, the double shot of espresso tempered with hot water and milk is smooth, rich and deliciously caffeinated. Just what I needed prior to boarding the plane.
It has been over a decade since my first flight and I am still childishly pleased to travel by air. I let go as the pilot does the navigating, the attendant makes my coffee and the overhead compartment carries my baggage. If it weren’t for the hard-back blue seats of RyanAir’s planes my perfect perception would still be intact. After landing in Ciampino we caught a bus to Termini and successfully switched to the subway. Check-in at the hostel wasn’t for another several hours, so Alicia, Bethany, Elyse and I attended to our basic needs – fountains and facilities.
While searching the city for public toilets we came to a discarded basilica. What remained of the name on the notice-board was difficult to make out. I scampered up the thirty-two sun-stained steps to a porch framed by tall gothic arches. On the other side of the hulking wooden doors my initial quest was all but forgotten. Leaving the afternoon sunlight of a city ready for siesta, I was enveloped by the austere silence that characterized the overcast basilica. Black ballet flats moved at a bridal pace across unseen marble floors. My eyes were engaged elsewhere, gazing at mural-laden ceilings detailed in burnt gold and burnished bronze. The rafters must have been weary of the imposing illustrations. Unlike the whitewashed cathedrals in England these walls were mauve, mustard, teal and chestnut. Threadbare kneelers lay prostrate at the foot of the rod-iron gates barring me from the altar. I stood in silence, realizing why pictures weren’t allowed. It was in that moment of reverence that my bladder reminded me of why we had come.
I stopped for a quick snapshot on the stone steps, not wanting to join the hundreds who had forgotten the Church of Saint Alfonso. The quest for the toilet continued. Advertisement-clad windows hindered our efforts to appear nonchalant as we surveyed for anything resembling a gabinetto. Ready to admit defeat, but not yet ready to request some direction, we tried a hotel-in-the-wall that had a toilet on the main level. We forewent asking for assistance, hurried by the front desk and potted plants, and strolled confidently into the lobby. One at a time we ducked into the private water closet. Either our deception worked or the receptionist had better things to do than reprimand a few tourists for using the loo.
The first of our refreshment needs had been met. The second began to escalate. During the quest for toilets we had settled on pizza rustica for lunch. This was my first attempt to order in Italian. I asked for what I thought was pizza with tomato sauce and mozzarella. I ended up with two large slices covered in tomatoes and oiled mushrooms – not bad for three euros 35 cents. It took all four of my white paper napkins to wipe the grease from my fingers. Perhaps one piece would have been enough – if only I knew how to say that in Italian.
At about 2.00, we found ourselves with hours to spend before our hostel room would be in what the housekeeper considered an acceptable state. On the recommendation of our trusted junior dean, Jonathan, we visited the nearby Basilica de Santa Maria Maggiore. Though it housed an abundance of murals, paintings, statues and relics, the basilica felt open as a football pitch. If it weren’t for propriety and my own inhibitions I could have done cartwheels across the marble floors. The decadence of the place shed some light on why we found San Alfonso’s so lonesome. This was a church to be visited. Remembered. Listed in tour books and plastered on postcards.
With several more hours of afternoon at our disposal, we navigated our way to Piazza della Repubblica and Santa Maria degli Angeli e dei Martiri, both of which were constructed over the baths of Diocletian. Comprised of five metallic najadi (naiads) situated around the figure of Glaucus and run using one of the oldest aqueducts in Rome, the fountain is the focal point of the piazza. It also happens to be the background in all the photos we took while in the area. Just across the street from the fountain sat the third basilica of the day. Designed in part by Michelangelo, structure from the original baths is juxtaposed with detailed paintings of biblical scenes, marble pillars dating back to Diocletian and colossal statues in honor of the saints. Thin layers of red brick and pallid mortar, which compose the walls used in the original trepidarium, stand alongside a modern sculpture representing the grace of the angels. Thoughts of the secular and the sacred mingled as I exited.
We consulted the Blue Book of Rome for directions to San Carlo Quattro Fontane, a busy intersection whose four corners each boast an impressive stone fountain. At one corner sat a church that was closed for siesta. Unable to nap ourselves, we—or Beth rather—set off to do something spontaneous: chop off her hair. The beauty shop was all mirrors and smelled of perm mingled with shampoo. Though there was but one customer among the four of us, all were offered salon chairs, from which we watched an anxious Beth as she listened to the English-Italian translation that took place behind us. Her expression grew increasingly concerned as tufts of hair fell to the ground, but the blow dryer’s effect brightened her countenance. She beamed for the remainder of the day, even after paying forty-two euros for a haircut.
A new do entitles a woman to enjoy herself, which left our band of four with only one option—gelato. My first Italian gelato—amaretto and caramel cream—did not disappoint. After consulting my green-bound Italian Phrase Book I attempted once more to order in Italian. My server was apparently used to Americans and she humored me, scraping two slabs of creamy gelato onto a crispy cone.
My sweet tooth had been satisfied and the afternoon hours were nearing their end. It was finally time for our siesta. All upper class citizens should experience Casa Olmata. Though far from intolerable, I wouldn’t want to spend any long stretch of time there. Between the four of us, we were paying 100 euros a night for six beds (bunked in three sets of two), two metal lockers, a broken sink, three trashy drawers and a water-stained desk.
7.00 pm came and went and I was surprised to find myself still enjoying the metal-framed bunk I had climbed a full two hours earlier. The window that had shut out the afternoon heat now opened to a city with a bustling nightlife. The traffic remained a constant rush of cabs, scooters and European cars. The trashy and the classy were out for the evening, sporting faded t-shirts and designer suits. Our financial limitations dictated our evening plans, so we opted for a dinner provided by the hostel.
“Up at the top,” the deskman responded as eight puzzled eyes approached. On the roof of the hostel we dined on bread and pasta and sipped fruited wine from plastic cups. Conversation was long and deep between four girls taking in a night view of Rome and an unlimited amount of wine. But one can only look out on a city for so long without wanting to be in it, a member of the masses, exploring the sites by night. No historical background was needed to enjoy The Colosseum, Arch of Constantine or Trevi Fountain. Overlooking the Roman Forum we spat out our gum. Whether this was an act of juvenile defiance or the result of too much wine I don’t know, nor am I sure what compelled me to kiss the stone walls of the Colosseum, but incriminating pictures document that I did.
30 September
The alarm on the little black travel clock began its series of beepity-beeps at 8.00. When I climbed into my rickety bed only twelve hours later it seemed that a full week had passed. We left the hostel that morning to snatch up bus passes and roam through the shabby stalls of a flea market. Expecting to shove our way through a caravan of vagabonds, in the end we experienced shoulder-to-shoulder crowds, confused bartering and organized chaos of a much different sort as we spent the entire morning just attempting to locate Roma passes at Termini. To say the station is large or confusing would be a terrible understatement. We rushed up stairs, across the corridor, down stairs, by the information booth, up stairs, down stairs, to the north end and then the south, from one Italian to another, sincerely hoping one of them would either speak English or understand broken Italian. We passed many a big-screen television as we scurried back and forth between information vendors. Each played the same loop of sycophantic voices encouraging travelers to purchase VAT free perfume, plastic-wrapped paninis, Roma t-shirts and model Colosseums. One advertisement still plays its loop in my memory. It featured a chocolate bar floating in all its luxury to the forceful tune of a symphony. Beth and I designated it Alicia’s theme song. She ran every which way and got nowhere, taking with her the three of us and the musical theme. After unsuccessfully following half a dozen leads we found the tabacchi that we had been directed to, no doubt by the first Italian we asked. A mess of a bus teeming with people took us to a stop where we failed to find the connecting tram for the flea market. Frustrated, we skipped the market for some coffee and 11.00 am gelato. When all else fails get gelato.
The morning delays were nearly forgotten in light of our arrival at the Pantheon. A tribute to Roman gods and goddesses, the former temple of sorts has been destroyed by fire, struck by lightening, rebuilt several times, and now stands as a basilica. The queue to get in was long and the entrance congested, but it all faded as I walked through the giant marble pillars and gazed up the gigantic dome. It was at that moment that the choir broke out into Handel’s Hallelujah Chorus. The first words of English I heard all day were praises to God, declaring Him King of Kings and Lord of Lords, and in a building that once served to honor mythical gods and goddesses. I was struck and blessed by the irony. The choir finished and arc-by-arc we explored.
Outside of the Pantheon I nibbled on an apple and had a good look at some low-class actors posing as centurions and charging ten euros for a snapshot. This was one tourist trap I wasn’t going to fall for. A little farther on we found Piazza Novano and dropped some euros on a little “street shopping.” An upscale version of how we had pictured the unvisited flea market, there were stands of photographs, paintings, jewelry, purses, scarves, and a number of the oddities that tourists are inclined to purchase. The piazza boasted an array of notable statues and three of its four sides were dotted with sidewalk cafes.
The fourth consisted of the Roma National Museum, a fortunate coincidence for four Oxford students eager to follow the advice of their junior dean. Better still, admission was free. The building we entered had once been a palace and housed an appropriately royal display of art. We walked through room after room of colossal and shamelessly nude statues. I would like to say we were mature enough to appreciate the human form in its original state, but four college girls couldn’t help taking a few indecorous photos with the idealized marble men. The second floor rooms were endowed with brilliantly painted walls and ceilings. Corridors lined with busts of ancient emperors were situated around a central courtyard plastered with frescoes. Countless thoughts, feelings and adjectives were swirling around in my mind. Eventually they would spill over, but I at the moment I was silent. Time did not permit a visit to the third floor. Better to have seen, to have really seen the pieces we did than to run through the entirety of the museum.
The morning’s experience with public transportation left us wary of a second attempt, so we continued on foot. We walked to Capitoline Hill, where I had prickly pair and mango gelato. We walked to the Roman Forum, where we think we saw the Arch of Titus. We walked to Mamertine Prison, where Paul and Peter were allegedly held prisoner. And we walked to the Circus Maximus, where Beth, Elyse and I made a short sprint. We then headed for Bocca della Verita (in the porch of Santa Maria in Cosmedin) to recreate a scene from the movie Roman Holiday. We weren’t the only ones. The line was long, the day was full, the sun was hot, and our feet were tired. Alicia stuck her camera through the bars that held back the queue and we got a snapshot of a little Asian boy standing where each of us had hoped to. We passed the church content with a long distance view and vicarious experience of the Bocca.
Just to see how far we could physically push ourselves, we chose to head up, way up, Aventine Hill for a look at Santa Sabina and its neighboring park. We innocently walked into the middle of a wedding ceremony and, though none of us understood Italian, stayed for the remainder. If not for needing a toilet (cursed necessity that it is) I might have enjoyed the whole affair more. Everything about that afternoon was picturesque Italy – quaint stone and stucco houses, narrow streets, bright flower gardens and window boxes. The wedding celebration continued in the park where an artist dabbled on canvas and lovers expressed their feelings, perhaps a bit too freely. A few local nuns joined us in viewing St. Peter’s through a garden gate keyhole atop Aventine. Perfecto! Or close enough.
When the sun is bright, the day hot, and the water freely flowing from public fountains, the need for a physical relief is inevitable. After being turned away by a forceful and confused Italian priest I began to wonder if these people show hospitality to strangers. We ended up at a metro station where I was soon reminded of the European practice of charging for public toilets. Fifty cents and no euros accepted. Between the four of us we came up with 38 cents. I thought I might cry. Beth dropped all previous inhibitions about approaching strangers and begged ten cents from a kind passer-by. After deeply digging into the corners of my bag for the final two cents the toll could be paid. I inserted my coins into the designated slot outside the metal door. The portal opened and once more I thought I might cry. So many awful smells in such a small place, yet the facility was surprisingly high-tech—automatic water, soap, hand dryer and toilet paper. Thank God they had toilet paper. I went about my business as quickly as possible, for fear that an explosive would detonate, the lights would go out, the door would automatically open, or an animal would crawl out from under the wadded up shirt in the corner. Though I still drink my two bottles of water a day, I now live in fear of public toilets and detest the need for them.
At 19.00 showers commenced. Warm water brought a renewed sense of life as it splashed the dust from my body. Washing is invigorating, even when it requires using a grease-stained towel, settling for Johnson’s baby shampoo, and sharing facilities with peculiar middle-aged men. I hesitate to call our hostel “home,” but that is what it was for the time we were there–-a place to relax and regroup—both of which we all needed to do before going out.
We rested and prepped until 20.30, when we headed out for a “night on the town.” I don’t know if I was more excited about wearing my little black dress or eating a nice meal near the river. After a long day of walking, sweating and starving, both were pretty appealing. While hunting for a restaurant we found a used book sale. Hundreds of paperbacks, art books, and other novelty manuscripts filled the six wooden tables beneath a red and white striped marquee. The girls were intrigued. I was hungry. Thirty minutes and two paperbacks later we made it down to the river, but only to have Beth send us back up. The docks were deserted, and so there would be no riverside eating that night. Fortunately, Rome has no shortage of sidewalk cafés. Twinkle lights, viney foliage, outdoor tables, and a waiter who spoke the lovely language that is English gave The Cornucopia great charm. I selected a house specialty - pasta with shellfish, prawns and squid. The tantalizing smell of the entree would have been reason enough to consume it. Matched with a red house wine and an anxious appetite it was irresistible. I find myself a more tolerable person once I’ve sipped a little merlot. How much of that is in my head I’ve yet to figure out. As I nursed my first glass an elderly violinist approached our table. Being serenaded by an Italian as I dined outdoors was more than I’d expected out of the evening.
The check arrived an hour short of midnight—time to head “home.” We caught the last bus of the evening, but it only covered a fraction of our journey. The gelaterias and Internet Cafés that lined the remainder of the trip were too inviting to pass up. The electronic connection to our other “home” was satisfying. The gelato, on the other hand, was disappointing. I’m not sure what flavor trifle is, but it’s little better than liquerida, an unfortunate relative of black licorice. I was happy to see my bed, though the time we spent together was far too short.
1 October
For years I’ve had a peculiar desire to re-create scenes from my favorite movies. Maybe the lack of excitement in my day-to-day life is the reason for such imitation. I’m not sure. I do know, however, that I was put out when my long-time dream of licking a gelato on the Spanish steps in the afternoon was not realized. I was disappointed by the queue that kept us from the Mouth of Truth and similarly frustrated at not getting to dine beside the river. It was highly unlikely that I would ride a moped by the end of the trip, and to top it off I couldn’t even enjoy an afternoon indulgence. Apparently I was not to follow in the footsteps that Audrey Hepburn took while filming Roman Holiday.
The culmination of unfulfilled desires combined with the fatigue of yet another day of walking the rugged Roman streets necessitated my leaving the hostel. My roommates appreciated my time away as much as I did. I chose my new favorite coping mechanism—dessert. It was probably one of the few good choices I would make. Black cherry and chocolate “Kiss” gelato with whipped cream and a cookie, and all for two euros. I don’t know what an Italian kiss actually tastes like, but the chocolate form was exquisite. I was surprised by how satisfying sugar can be. No longer in such a tumultuous state, I reflected on my third day in Rome.
The morning, which began at 6.15, consisted of walking and waiting, primarily the latter of the two. We arrived in Vatican City at 7.30, only to stand in line for another two and a half hours. I think we were misinformed concerning when the museum actually opened, but at least there were another 200 misinformed people waiting with us. After finishing off our pre-packed breakfasts of juice, croissant, biscuits, Nutella, yogurt and fruit we sent two representatives across the street to purchase cappuccino. I might have savored the warm caffeine a bit longer, if only it would have retained its heat. We continued waiting, striking up conversations with Jean from Pennsylvania, a couple from the DC area and Ari, who came from Colombia, Israel and Mexico.
I was startled when the line actually began moving and doubtful that the Vatican Museum would prove worth the wait. It did. Standing in the queue had been like waiting in the neck of a wine bottle. It was liberating to pass through the doors and get into some open space. Following a toilet stop—a vast improvement to the one made at the metro station—we entered one of the leading art houses in Europe. Beginning in ancient Egypt we walked through centuries of art, receiving lessons in more than history. Passing by canopic jars, onyx statues, a three thousand-year-old mummy, sarcophagi, and figures of Anubis, Horace, and Isis was like flipping the pages of a textbook. Hundreds of Roman busts and marble statues filled entire halls. Frescoes, tapestries, maps, and murals depicted events of historic and religious significance. My neck ached after an hour of constantly looking up, down and around each room. Gold shone from every corner, sculptures grew out of the ceiling, vibrant blues, yellows, reds and greens composed rich pictures. Soft angelic wings and brush-stroked clouds complimented hundreds of thousands of uniquely drafted human forms. I walked through room after room, each competing with the last for a place in my memory. Seeing Raphael’s original School of Athens was like seeing snow fall for the first time. Imitations I had seen were a faint echo of the original. What a shame for the tour groups that rush through all of this in order to see the Sistine Chapel. Though the walls and ceiling display dynamically illustrated stories, as well as four years of Michelangelo’s life, it is but one of a thousand awe-inspiring rooms.
I ingested a lot of beauty in a very concentrated dose. Several times I sat down just to shut my eyes and process. My legs and feet appreciated it, but my mind was what really needed time to rest. Though we were just inches from St. Peter’s Basilica after exiting the museum we decided to break for lunch. Our mealtime entertainment consisted of watching street peddlers attempting to lure those passing by. At the appearance of a police officer they scattered like a flock of pigeons. Their unlicensed bartering wasn’t exactly legal.
We disposed of our trash and went back to waiting in line. Being that it was after noon the wait was warmer, but significantly shorter. After the Vatican Museum I had no doubt that St. Peter’s would be worth it. The basilica dwarfed every other church or cathedral I have or ever will see. I entered and was quickly entranced, continually looking up as I made a slow and straight procession past all the chapels and toward the altar. For the next 90 minutes I stood in silence, gazing on colossal statues, brilliant marble, mosaics, paintings, tributes, domes, ornamentation, and wealth beyond anything I had ever seen in my blue-collar church back home. Even when kneeling in prayer I was unable to close my eyes, I was so in awe of my surroundings. What kind of God merits this? I walked along the sides of the basilica, contemplating the amount of time and talent that man had invested in creating such finery. Looking up at the towering domes I winced at the blinding light of the sun – the handiwork of the original Master Artist. I stood there for a moment, basking in the light and warmth, realizing that even this art is but imitation.
I nearly bought a souvenir on my way out, but settled for my memories. No pictures, no words could capture what I experienced. I may not have gotten my Spanish steps and gelato, but Audrey Hepburn did not see St. Peter’s. I concluded my reflections, along with my chocolate delight, and headed back to the hostel to prepare for another unforgettable night out. I changed clothes and we headed, at long last, to the Spanish steps. Unfortunately, the aesthetic affect of the steps was interrupted by a large advertisement, spoiling any plans of a Roman Holiday re-creation. At the top of the steps we found peddlers, painters, photographers and craftsmen. “How quaint” I thought, “all of these dedicated artists trying to make their living in such an enchanting city.” They may have thought similarly of me, tourist that I was traipsing about Rome in all my naiveté.
After visiting the Piazza Novana the day before, I was determined to bring home a small painting to commemorate my trip. What better place to get it than atop the Spanish steps? Oh the dangers of romanticism. I flipped through some “water colors” of familiar sites in Rome, pictures which should have been only too familiar. I walked away. Then I went back. I’ve never prided myself on my ability to make good decisions, or any decision for that matter. The only intuition I experience is the sick feeling that begins in your mind, reaches your stomach and consumes your whole being after you’ve made the wrong decision. The last time I experienced this I was receiving a speeding ticket. This was just about as pricey.
“You like?” asked the stout Italian man in the white painter’s hat. He claimed to be from the Ukraine, which I took to be true.
“Si,” I responded, using one of the three Italian words I knew. “How much?”
“What you like? How much you have?”
“Fifteen euros.”
“Ha! For this size?”
“No, the bigger one.”
“Of course you want the bigger one. They always want the bigger one.”
This went back and forth until I was willing to pay 20 euros for a picture, but couldn’t decide which I wanted most. “I tell you what. You like pizza? You make dinner with me?” came a second kind of offer.
“Oh, I don’t know about that. I brought these three with me,” I reasoned, pointing to my travel mates.
“I like a girls. We make dinner. I pay.”
It sounded good to me. I was about to pay 40 euros for two paintings. The least I could get out of this was a free meal. The other girls thought not.
“For you, I give bargain. Two for the price of one, two for 50 euros.”
“No, no,” I scolded. “I pay 20 for one, no more than 40 for two.”
“Ok,” he replied. “Because I like-a your eyes you have two for 40 euros.” He rolled up the pictures I had selected and grabbed the two twenty-euro notes in my hand. “Ha!” boomed a proud voice. I should have realized what was going on.
“No, no. You give me my pictures.” He did.
“Oh come. You give me kiss.” I conceded a small peck and we scampered down the steps, forgetting the painter and searching for dinner ourselves. It was at this inopportune moment that Beth voiced her thoughts: “Do you suppose they actually paint those pictures? They look a lot like prints.”
Enter feelings of sickness and despair. I had just spent 40 euros and didn’t even get dinner out of the deal. My mind was racing all the way through a crisp green dinner salad and two glasses of white wine. I reasoned away a few doubts - my travel mates and the wine helped. The pictures were lovely and I did enjoy them.
We revisited Trevi Fountain to make wishes and (incorrectly) toss coins over our right shoulders. I may as well admit that my wish was both romantic and unrealistic. After several failed attempts we located San Crispino’s, which claims to be Rome’s best gelateria. I was a little too nauseated to enjoy it. The sick feeling in my stomach wouldn’t go away.
After sharing spoons and swapping wishes we returned to the Tiber River. My mood quickly changed. I don’t know that anything is so romantic as a river at night, particularly in a city like Rome. The St. Angelo Bridge was dotted with old-fashioned street lamps whose light was reflected in the river. St. Peter’s loomed in the background. One of the pictures I purchased captured a nearly identical scene. This experience justified at least 20 of the euros I had spent, didn’t it? I convinced myself it did.
After a short stop at the Castel de San Angelo we searched for the last bus back to our hostel. The bus system in Rome is likely not all that complicated, but after several failed attempts to understand the street signs and fruitless efforts to ask for help, we began heading back on foot. I don’t know how many miles we walked on the trip—enough to justify gelato twice a day. My toes were likely black and blue beneath my pink nail polish and ballet flats. I certainly stubbed them on the jagged Roman streets often enough to warrant a battle scar. About half way to our destination a bus heading in the same direction passed by. We chased it down, running through the streets in order to spare ourselves from walking those last several blocks. Tired travelers do strange things.
2 October
The excitement and busyness of our last day followed the precedent set by the previous three. Though made up of the same twenty-four hours, it was by far the longest. We woke at 9.00. That is, I woke at 9.00. My travel mates were a little less enthusiastic about greeting the morning. Unintentionally long showers resulted in our scrambling to check out and get to breakfast by 10.30. Though I moved quickly, failure seemed inevitable. We turned in our keys and sat down to a checkered tablecloth with two minutes to spare. I was proven wrong yet again.
The previous two mornings we’d opted for the hostel’s breakfast pack, which provided me with enough food for two meals. Today we chose vouchers for the Gran Café where we received fresh pastries and hot cappuccino. I’d never heard of a white chocolate croissant before, but the pastry’s sweet ivory cream eliminated all thoughts of its caloric content. Our conversation around the café table was worth the four euros we paid to sit there. During our trip our discussions ranged from stories of dating and romance to our families and feelings about travel. Others, like this one, tasted of academia.
At about 1.00 we headed to the Colosseum. On the way there the sickening feelings from the previous night returned. As we passed by a souvenir shop I glanced at a display of kitsch prints. Sure enough, there was my beloved view of St. Peter’s by moonlight, priced at two euros and fifty cents. My stomach turned as I realized I had paid 35 euros for a “good story” and the faulty signature of a con artist.
Thoughts of being swindled threatened to spoil my mood, but the Colosseum—my personal metonym for Rome—was enough to divert my attention. A persuasive young American nearly convinced us to join his guided tour. The price changed our minds. We spent a good hour and a half wandering through the site on our own, envisioning what may have taken place thousands of years before. We walked where we imagined Caesars had walked and stood where plebeians stood. In a place as renowned as this colossal amphitheater the thought that we were a part of something greater than ourselves was unavoidable.
At Palatine Hill we began to regret our decision about the tour guide. The site where Romulus supposedly founded the celebrated city is perhaps the worst signed of all attractions in Rome. I’m not sure what we actually saw. I’ve decided to refer to it as “ancient Roman ruins.” Aside from the house of Augustus, the Farnese Gardens and an amazing view of the city, that’s the most detailed description I can give. We did identify the Arch of Titus. I think.
By the time we were reached the bottom of the hill the sun had absorbed most of our energy. Growling stomachs refused to be silent until they received something resembling lunch. We returned to the American-friendly café that we knew employed a particularly attractive gelato guy. The girls got sandwiches, but I opted for raspberry and Tiramisu gelato—my last for the trip. Our server of choice wasn’t working. We settled for his substitute, who informed us that the catacombs we had planned to visit closed before we could reach them. Four tourists with time and euros to spend, we headed back to the river, hoping to find some street side shops.
It was about this time that I found it necessary to make another of my infamously poor choices. On its way to Europe, one of my suitcases was fatally wounded by the friendly staff of United Airlines. When I saw potential replacements for only 15 euros I thought myself lucky. After running through the city and lugging it along, rollers and all, I changed my mind. Not only did I not need this suitcase, I didn’t want it. I still don‘t know how I’m going to get it back to the States.
As I began to realize the stupidity of it all I reached a breaking point. On the corner of a busy piazza I dropped the suitcase and blubbered through my frustrations. Another infelicitous choice. “You and your attitude are ruining this trip for all of us,” Alicia snapped. She was right. My incessant complaints had worn on everyone’s nerves. Alicia and Elyse headed to the river while Beth and I soaked our feet in a nearby fountain. Beth patiently listened as I tried to explain myself through the tears and snot dripping down my face.
My whole life I have wanted things to play out just the way I think they should; to follow my script like the scenes in a movie. But desiring life to be perfectly executed can only lead to disappointment. As Beth and I talked, I began to realize how many people I had hurt by striving for ideal. My parents, my friends, my boyfriend, my siblings, all of them suffered from my unrealistic standards. When life didn’t meet my expectations, my disappointment affected them. When they couldn’t anticipate my desires I made them feel inadequate. And now, I had done it again. It was the same scene I had replayed so many times before, except that I saw my actions for what they were. By the time Alicia and Elyse returned I had soaked through the entire stack of napkins I’d taken from the street vendor. We were all ready for dinner.
Not many people in Rome dine as early as 6.00 pm, but we did find one café willing to serve us the house wine and thin-crust pizza we were after. An accordion played down the street as we waited for our meal. Accompanied by a tambourine, the musician made his way toward us. “Gratsi bella,” responded the young woman after I dug the last few euros from the bottom of my bag; “buen appetito.” The couple at the neighboring table paid for their meal and walked down the street, leaving a basket of bread behind. It conveniently fit in my lap and we soon disposed of it. The combination of good food and free-flowing conversation resulted in our losing all track of time. After the standard confusion of figuring out how to pay for dinner, we started our exodus to the airport.
We rushed to the metro, which took us to Termini where we began the frantic search for a bus to Ciampino. The fact that we were racing up and down the same stairs we had covered Sunday morning would have been humorous if missing our flight wasn’t so quickly becoming a very real possibility.
“Dove Ciampino? Dove Ciampino?” we asked at least half a dozen people. We received the same number of differing answers. Our flight was scheduled to depart at 9.00. If we didn’t check in by 8.20 all would be lost. It was nearing 7.30 and still we couldn’t locate the correct bus.
Beth approached a white van by the curb. “Dove Ciampino?” To our great surprise the man spoke English and his van was actually a cab of sorts. We hopped in, suitcase and all, as quickly as possible. Any price would be worth paying if we could make it to the airport.
Traffic that night was terrible, but our driver was determined. A Ciampino resident hoping to make it home in time to watch the Manchester-Italy match, he too was in a hurry. Time flew and the van stood still, trapped behind more traffic than any of us had ever seen on a Tuesday night. “I be hurry,” said our driver, and he was good for his word. The white van hopped in and out of open spots, weaving its was through catacomb streets. Though the music playing succeeded in relaxing our nerves, there was cause for concern when our driver found it necessary to put on his seatbelt in the middle of the trip.
8.20 came and went, as did all hopes of making our flight. Though disappointed, we shelled out the 55 euros for the taxi. At 8.40 we ran up to our gate, backpacks and suitcase awkwardly in hand.
“Is there any way we can make the 9.05 flight?” we begged. Our apprehensions rose as the receptionist phoned the gate.
“Four more? No? Thank you.”
“Transfer,” I half asked, half demanded. “Is there any way we can transfer our tickets?”
“You’ll have to check at that desk over there.”
Holding to our last shards of hope we gracelessly scuttled to the blue and grey RyanAir desk and explained our situation. Seventy-five euros later we had tickets for the second flight. I tried to disregard the fact that I had just paid more to transfer my one-way ticket back than I had initially paid for both tickets combined. We checked the superfluous sidewalk suitcase and shuffled over to our gate. An hour and a half after the second flight was scheduled to depart we boarded the plane. Not long after take-off I found myself huddled in the corner of the lavatory rocking back and forth. The stress of the trip was taking its toll. I tried to keep from hyperventilating for the forty-five minutes that remained until landing. Scenes from the past four days looped through my mind. The bridges, the basilicas, the bathrooms, the break down. Cafés, metros, gelaterias—all of that in only four days? No wonder I was developing a migraine.
The ding of the seatbelt sign told me it was time to head back to my seat. Within half an hour I was on British soil and going through customs. Two bus rides remained between me and my bed. No sound was so welcome as the British accent of the woman who helped us sort through our bus route. It would have been ideal if we hadn’t needed to purchase additional tickets, but such was not our luck. Another nine pounds? Why not?
Twelve minutes later a coach that we alone occupied left for London. Four weary travelers woke to a knock on the window and de-boarded from the most comfortable bus known to an exhausted human being. Twenty minutes into the second bus ride we slumbered again. My eyes closed and I saw St. Peter’s Basilica, the Roman Forum, the Colosseum and the warren of streets over which I had walked so many miles. My mind drifted back to café conversations, creamy gelato and our last meal in Rome. As my imagination replayed the sound of the accordion I dozed under a blanket of satisfaction.
