The Aly

Everyone is happy in Rome. My Mom pointed out to me how nice it was to be among such happiness all the time. Everyone is delighted to be on their Roman ruin scavenger hunt, negotiating with gypsy cabs and street vendors. No one is thinking about the next calorie when they eat gelato after gelato and then top it off with a slice of tiramisu. They get up early to see the world and stay up late sipping wine. It’s perhaps as close to a utopian life these happy tourists might approach. But, tourists aren’t happy everywhere. On Cape Cod, for example, I encountered these not-so-happy-actually-quite-miserable-tourists all the time. Why aren’t tourists happy everywhere? I’d like to take some of the happy tourists home with me. Maybe, with the limited stem cell knowledge I have I could duplicate the happy tourists. Then, I would maybe be able to flip the bird a few times less going around the rotary on a rainy day in July. Although, I do enjoy that…

and the inside is AMAZING too!

Vatican City is nothing short of magnificent. I would like to start my own city one day, so it was good for me to spend a lot of time there to see how much one can fit in 110 acres. My friend Brooklyn invited my Mom and I to join their tour to the Vatican. It was the most thorough tour I’ve ever been on. I mean, the guide could tell you the significance of the markings on a door hinge. I probably learned more in that 2 ½ hours than I did in a semester of Art History in college; not to mention, I have never seen so many busts in my life! I did hit my capacity though, so by the time we made it to the Sistine Chapel, Adam came right down from the ceiling and sat next to me and then the flood came and I realized I should drink some more water. It was pretty unreal sitting in there. The Sistine Chapel had always been on my life list of things to see. It’s wonderful to be able to cross something off your life list, you feel like you can slack off the rest of your life and it won’t matter.

my tripod for the Basilica shot

Brooklyn, her Mom, my Mom and myself went out to dinner that night and that’s when I realized Clowns are scary in other countries too. We were walking down a perfectly quaint Italian alley lined with restaurants and outdoor seating filled with all the happy tourists. There was a street clown in between two of the restaurants and usually I have better sense and I avoid eye contact but this one time I smiled at him – I smiled at a street clown. So stupid! He immediately grabbed my wrist and yelled, “I love you!” At which point my Mom, feeling a wee bit protective grabbed my other wrist and yelled, “I’m her Mother!” At which point the hundreds of happy tourists turned in their seats to watch as the two Americans were getting haggled by the clown. The clown’s grip on me tightened harder, “But, I looove her!” And as I’m standing there while the true elasticity of my arms (and organs) is being tested I’m thinking someone should be putting a few euros in my pocket for this highly entertaining street act. We finally broke away and I swear I heard a faint applause from the happy tourists.

lots of busts

After we tucked the Moms in bed for the night at the hotel, Brooklyn and I went out in search of some much-needed libations. As we turned down one of the alleys, I saw a man leaning against the side. Figuring he was embracing the art of public urination we continued walking completely unfazed. At closer observation, however, this man seemed to be wearing all black and was not in fact using the street as a toilet…rather, he was taking advantage of the absence of light and people to put on a black ski mask. I immediately grabbed Brooklyn and turned us around to head back to the piazza. Being a typical New Yorker, Brooklyn was still completely unfazed by this man. Sometimes my country bumpkin roots really shine through…or was that common sense shining through? I guess the difference is that the New Yorker would walk down the alley perfectly aware of the threat of being mugged, but would be carrying mace.

documenting the busts

After a delightful drink on the town we headed back and decided we would have a drink at the hotel before calling it quits. Unfortunately, the hotel bar had closed hours before but the man at the front desk took no hesitation to offer opening the bar back up and serving us as well as opening the outdoor patio. So, while Brooklyn and I sipped our Italian beers in the beautiful patio adjacent to the Pantheon I thought clowns and muggers aside – it could not get any better than this.

Roma

Rome has a Great Wall kind of awe and curiosity to it.  I just don’t get how they did it; I can’t even begin to comprehend it.  It is so immense, so huge…just very diligent work.

the Forums - a little taste of some serious ruins

Rome is amazing.  You have to see it to believe it because it is totally unreal.  You can imagine that my trip to Rome was everything you would read in a guidebook so I don’t need to elaborate further.  I saw the sites, I took the pictures and I even sent a letter from the Vatican City post office.

I strongly believe that if you can learn the mail system in a foreign country, you can do anything

But what you won’t read in the guidebooks, and what everyone will keep from you when they return from their fabulous trip to Rome is this: Rome is like one big scavenger hunt; everyone in Rome carries a map and they live in their map, even the Italians!  It is the most bizarre site.  Just picture every New Yorker carrying around a map, stopping at every corner to double-check where they are.  And no one asks anyone for help and everyone gets lost.  They concentrate very hard and rotate the map around a bunch of times.  And then they spin around a few times take a picture, walk a few yards and then repeat.  It’s my heaven.  Anyone who has traveled with me knows this is me.  I don’t try to fit it; I play the part.  I relish in being the conspicuous tourist with camera and fanny pack (well, at least a cool looking one for my gear) and sunglasses and layers tied around my waste and hanging off my bag; but most of all, I really like to get inside my map.  I like to whip it out in large crowds of tourists and say, “look at me!  I’m not from here!”  Then I take a bunch of pictures and I pull out my map again and put it on the ground so I can become one with the map.  Rome is full of my people!  I’m so at home here.

A map in daylight, much more useful

And we did get lost, very lost.  After my Mom, the 10+ marathoner led us around by foot (and they say that Rome is too big to walk the whole thing, but we did…twice) we were at mile 15 or so (for real) when we decided we should head back so we could fit in a nap before dinner.  Well, I got in my map, but my map was poorly lit as the sun was setting so we set off in the wrong direction, actually the total opposite direction.  And then we took a short cut and it was not a short cut.  This is the point where I became a very irritable eight-year-old, once again sitting in the back seat of a grey Oldsmobile rental in Arizona with no air conditioning en route to the Grand Canyon.  Yep, took me right back…and I was not happy.  It’s amazing how easy it is to shed years off your life.  I was eight again, just like that.  And Mom was still Mom…and oh, was I a brat.

We finally got back to the hotel two hours later, a luxurious hotel only made available after a, “you’re not that poor” moment.  We had arrived in Rome specifically on this day to meet up with my friend Brooklyn, a fellow world-traveling companion from college, and her mother who were touring Italy.  They were staying at the Albergo Santa Chiara, literally adjacent to the Pantheon;

I mean they probably shared the same plumbing (yes, you could call the hole in the floor of the Pantheon, plumbing).  It was beautiful and clean and just so Roma.  But, being the travelers Rick Steves would have been proud of, we decided to walk around the block to check out if there was anything cheaper.  The concierge at the Santa Chiara recommended the Pesione down the street.  We rang a little buzzer and were let in.  A mangy looking man in mangy clothes with a careless walk led us to a room for us to check out…the most depressing, dimly lit, creepy room I had seen in a long time for a fraction of the price of the Santa Chiara.  It reminded me of my first frat party I had gone to.  It was in the basement of the frat house, dark, smelly and certainly creepy and I remember wondering, “this is what all the hype is about?”  Well, we decided, this was not what Rome was about and that we weren’t that poor.  So after our long hike back to the Santa Chiara a well-groomed man with a confident walk led us to our beautiful room.

Shooting Brooklyn. Yes, that would be the Pantheon behind us

Brooklyn and the latest heart throb of Roma - this head shot of a handsome young priest was on every street stand. The JTT of Roma.

His leg was crossed in a way that made his dirty little sock stare relentlessly at me and declare, “smell me.”  As my Mom and I made our way to Roma on the Regionale train I was wishing I had my Italian phrasebook that had a whole section on insults.  I had originally thought, why would I even need to know this stuff.  I get by on my limited knowledge of Italian swears and hand gestures but what I could really use now was, “you are disgusting.”  I felt like we were in a brother – sister stand off, “not touching, can’t get mad…not touching, can’t get mad!”  Only I was and to top it off, not only was his nasty foot staring at me, but his gaze had not shifted from me since the train left the station two hours ago.

In the U.S. we have deemed staring rude and inappropriate for specific circumstances.  We’re not supposed to take an extended look at a person in a wheel chair or wait to see if an obese person will fit in their airplane seat.  It’s offensive to get a double take of someone who is missing an arm.  If a man looks at a girl’s assets as she walks by it’s chauvinistic and repulsive.  In Italy apparently, they didn’t get the memo.  This guy is sitting diagonally across from me and just staring.  I glare at him several times and it’s my meanest stare I can come up with.  To him though, I probably look as though I am partaking in the ritual dance of man and woman.  He stares and then I stare and then we get married on the Ponte Vecchio.  The dance I’m imagining, however, involves me ringing his neck.

He came off as one of the guys at the gym I go to back home.  When he sat down he immediately took off his shirt to reveal his tight, sleeveless workout shirt with his big arms exposed.  In all honesty he really lacked good definition and I was far from impressed.  Then he began eating one of those fatten-up-bars to achieve the maximum calorie intake for the day.  And then he took off his shoes…and then his socks.  It should be noted that I hate feet.  I mean, I really hate feet.  I deal with my own but I have no desire to look at other peoples’ feet.  So when he started picking at his toes I could barely sit still in my seat.  Why had we opted for the cheaper, regional train over the sleek and sophisticated Eurostar train?  When confronted with the ultimate quandary of the avid traveler, to splurge or save on accommodations and transportation our Roma tour guide would say always remember,  “you’re not that poor.”