Italy=Paradise. Simple-as-that trip report
 

Hello Fodorites! I recently returned to Paris from my Italy trip and it was amaaaaazing. I kept a diary and I just transcribed it into text, so it might be really long and rambly with extra, non-essential details, but I don't quite have time to edit out stuff, as I need to keep typing! Here's the first bit:

19 April 2008

I’m on board the Vueling flight to Rome! This morning, however, I had to get up at four in the morning to make sure I got to the airport on time. As it turns out, I got there really early, but that’s OK. I didn’t realize until last night that although the RER to Charles de Gaulle starts running a bit before 5, the first metro leaves Gambetta at 5:30. This caused a time problem. So I reserved a taxi last night online (wonderful idea! That way I don’t have to speak French on the phone, which is a very uncomfortable situation. Indeed, I dislike it so much that I will physically go somewhere to talk to someone instead of speaking to them on the phone, since as soon as I start on the phone, I forget how to speak French.) Anyway, it was sort of drizzling and very dark and chilly and the taxi was late so I was starting to get a bit nervous until headlights flashed down my street, somebody gunned it, passed me, who was frantically waving, and slammed on the brakes. My taxi, voilà. It was actually really quick and relatively cheap to take the taxi to the train station, plus, he was really blasting the Amy Winehouse CD, so I just chilled. Yes, I know, despite her Cruella make-up, strange habit of wandering the streets of London in her bra, exposing her emaciated body for all to see, and oh yeah, that little drug and booze addiction, she really can sing. RER B to the airport, no problemo Vueling leaves out of Terminal 1, that really strange circular one with the crisscrossing moving walkways that go through the middle. I’m sue it seemed very mod and futuristic when they designed it, but with its thick cement walls and dull taupe paint job, it seems more like a gigantic, aboveground fallout shelter. For all its asthetic faults, however, it is so much nicer than Terminal 2, where they usually land all the American flights. I don’t know why Terminal 2 creeps me out—it just does.

When I got up to the security checkpoint, I ended up behind a couple who seemed a bit lost, as if they didn’t fly very often. In fact, the lady’s outfit consisted of swathing herself in, what as far as I could tell were, stadium blankets. Now you may imagine the problems this posed at the metal detector, for, lo and behold, she is wearing something metal (a belt, perhaps) underneath these twelve layers of cloth. She’s sort of rooting around for the belt without unwrapping her whole outfit and taking ages to do so when a nice guy sent me to a newly opened checkpoint. For the first time, I beeped at the checkpoint—I think it was because I left my earrings in and forgot about them. This led straight to a second first: I got frisked! Now I don’t understand what all the fuss is about, all this “They’re violating my privacy!” “I was humiliated,” blah blah blah. I’m sure every time you ride a bus or on the subway, people touch you a lot more and a lot more often than that airport security lady.

In Rome: Oh. My. I am in love—with Rome!!! I arrived at Fiumicino around 11 and found my suitcase, which I was a bit concerned about having never flown a budget airline before, but it came out quite quickly. I was impressed with the airport actually, but I’m sure everything seems like a winner compared to the three I’ve used: Paris CDG, Chicago O’Hare, and Heathrow. The triple threat. Everything was quite clearly marked, I was surprised to see, in both Italian and English. Going into the train station of course the escalator had to be out of order, but the steps weren’t so bad. I cannot imagine being one of those travelers who brings around three hard suitcases and trying to muscle those up the stairs. I seemed to be the only person not on the creatively named “Leonardo Express” to Termini Station, because I was staying on the other side of town, so I bought a ticket (which happens to be half the prince of the LE ticket, ha) to Trastevere station and also got a three-day public transportation pass. I was so nervous: my first fleeting conversation in Italian! But I got the pass, so evidently it wasn’t too terrible. Before I left Paris I had horrible visions of being pickpocketed at the airport by sneaky, grimy children, but everything seemed pretty normal for a giant airport with millions of grumpy, confused travelers fumbling about with more than triple their body weight in luggage. The train I needed was sort of confusing, though: I couldn’t find a place to stamp my ticket so I did what I read on a website: wrote the time and date on the ticket and then prayed the conductor wouldn’t come by. The train ride was really lovely, with air conditioning! I have such respect for A/C, especially having been in the Paris metro during the summer of 2003. The countryside was beautiful, but I was really surprised to see palm trees! This felt very exotic to me, because I’ve never seen a real palm tree outside. Very Gilligan’s Island-meets-Roman-emperors. I also felt very proud of myself when the guy seated across from me asked if this train was going to Orte (the terminus station) and I said yes. Ha! Up until now it was smooth as Lex Luthor’s pate. But.

Before leaving, I had a last minute panic attack realizing I didn’t know how to get from the train to my hostel. I ran the itinerary on the ATAC (Rome’s transportation company) website, it gave me bus routes, and I was happy. What I didn’t count on was actually finding the correct buses. Ha ha ha. So at Trastevere Station I needed to catch “8-Argentina.” This seemed strange, like I was going to visit Evita or something but okay. I looked at the parking area and it was full of buses with numbers like “453” or “387.” I found a “3” which sort of looks like half of an eight, but no dice. The bus area was in this little depression, so the road was actually above me, and I happened to see an eggplant-colored trolley roll by: number 8 to Argentina (which turns out to be a Piazza, but I didn’t know that then). Anyway, I lugged my trusty suitcase up the hill, sweating buckets because I was wearing my raincoat over a dark dress and jeans and it was about 80 degrees and the Roman sun has a peculiar habit of making it feel even ten degrees warmer. However, the throngs of people at the tram stop (don’t you think ATAC could have specified it was a TRAM and not a BUS? !?) seemed immune to the heat, dressed in coats and pants and boots. I must have had “Tourist from Finland” written all over me. Wait, I don’t look Finnish, at least not with these furry black eyebrows. How about “Tourist from Slavic State Where It Gets Really Cold”? I had the joy of traveling during elderly people rush hour—they must have all been going home for their naps. So I squeezed onto this train, crushing and being crushed by three tiny Italian nonnas

Now there’s this thing all the guidebooks tell you: Don’t block the door to public transport in Rome unless you are getting off at the next stop, because Romans will ask you: “Scende la prossima?” (Are you getting off at the next stop?). I didn’t really believe this, until as we approached stop after stop streams of people came up and started asking “Scende la prossima?” It was like some strange instinct.

Let me tell you a bit about the Roman bus system. Guidebooks claim it’s very good and efficient. I swear it’s insanely confusing. First of all, sometimes the bus will stop where there is no stop marked to let people off. I just counted how many times he stopped and got off at the correct number, which was thankfully also the correct stop. Secondly, bus stops are often moved for odd reasons or simply no reason at all. When this occurs, the sign is marked out of use. As you wander along, you might be able to spot a small white piece of cardboard stuck on a pole, with the handwritten phrase “ATAC Fermata” on it. No line number, no nothing. Just “Bus stop.” That’s if you see it. And finally, bus stops have strange names that don’t really allow you to figure out where the bus is going, because I could not get a map of the bus system. I asked the Tourist Office and they said they didn’t have one. Seriously, how can you not have a map? All the other travelers I met had the same problem.

More fun on the bus: I now needed to transfer to bus 125. I found that stop … and waited. And waited. I must have waited for half an hour before I had the brains to read the small print on the bus sign that said from 9 till 17 o’clock the bus stop was relocated to Piazza San Francesco di Assissi, you know, the animal guy. Okay, first of all, that’s most of the day that the bus isn’t where it’s supposed to be. Second of all, where is this Piazza? Mercifully, it’s on my tiny guidebook map and I find it, only to realize that 125 is an electric minibus. I clamber in to the zippy little thing, validate my pass, only for the driver to go about 200 metres, stop, and tell me to get out and get on a different minibus. At this point I had no clue what was going on. The second bus, however, seemed to keep going in the right direction. I actually missed my stop, but was able to walk back because there was a big sign saying “Foresteria Orsa Maggiore” and a nice big arrow pointing in the right direction. Finally. I found it, but missed the elevator so lugged suitcase up some more narrow Roman stairs to find the blissful oasis of my hostel. All the rooms are named after constellations and I was in “Orsa Maggiore” aka the Big Dipper. I was starving so I decided to go and try to find sustenance. I tried to head to Piazza Navona or Campo dei Fiori, which I had heard about, but after a few minutes walking found myself on the north edge of the city (I was supposed to go east) staring at the statue-lined bridge and the very odd looking Castel Sant’Angelo. It sat there across the river, ponderous and circular, looking strangely out of place. I still hadn’t eaten anything but I figured my stomach could definitely take a back seat to culture, so I went in. Although most of the discounts for young people (18-25) apply only to EU citizens, you can also get half price if you are a teacher in an EU country. Ahem: Sir or Madam, here is my hard-won teacher ID. Half-price city! The Castle was actually really cool, with the bottom areas dating back to Hadrian (you know, the Wall guy) and steep, dimly-lit ramps with tiny steps that made walking treacherous. And women were doing this in heels! At the top you get amazing views of Rome; I’m so glad I went even though it isn’t a “must-see” according to the guidebooks.

By this time my stomach was eating my other internal organs so I headed back across the bridge (which was covered in scammers, selling everything from magically dancing cut-outs of Mickey Mouse to “Prada” bags to little statues of the pope’s head (ew)). Finally I found this little place where they sold pizza by the etto (100g) and got a mighty slab of veggie-smothered goodness with an Italian beer (before this, I totally didn’t know Italians made beer) called Peroni. Everything was actually really good. Of course I needed dessert: Gelato Time! I found a little place and had my usual pistachio and lemon in a cone, Ohhhhh. By this time I did find Piazza Navona (think big and white) and Campo dei Fiori; however, I had to head back to the hostel to change shoes (mine were killing me!). When I left again, I rather haphazardly hopped on another electrobus to Piazza Barberini, who is evidently not Barbarossa, but that’s how I think of it in my mind. So there. From Barbarossarini, I took the Metro to Termini Station so I could buy my train ticket to Florence. The Roman Metro is sort of lame, although you really can’t blame them for having such a limited system; every time they dig they unearth more ruins. So I’ve heard horror stories about Termini: you will get robbed, pickpocketed, frisked, mugged, kidnapped, etc. here because it is a Dangerous Place. Hm. Seemed nice and clean to me, I mean wayyyyy cleaner than the French train stations. The sun was shining through the floor-to-ceiling windows, and there were little potted palms everywhere. Don’t get me wrong, this place is no Shangri-La, but it’s not, you know, Detroit. I left the station and wandered south, buying two waters along the way, and then when I turned down a side street, I caught a glimpse of the Colosseum glowing in the setting sun. I seriously almost started crying. It was very surreal, one of those moments where you can hear yourself talking: I am in Rome and I am looking at the Colossum. It’s like you have to convince yourself of reality. It was closed but I still walked up close and looked at it, then ended up walking the wrong way (i.e. away from where I wanted to eat) and then had to catch a bus back. I timidly pushed my way into a highly recommended trattoria where the staff, upon learning I was alone, looked at me the way you would look at someone with no skin or with the plague or who just asked them if the pope was “available.” They probably thought I was diseased or something for not having a boyfriend with me, or even better, a husband and a little bambino. After waiting for a table (evidently there are special “solo” tables), I ordered an antipasti platter, which was sliced meats, fresh mozzarella, olives, which I never eat but now I do, and pickled mushrooms. Delicious. After delivering my spaghetti alle vongole (with clams), the waiter came back and asked if he could seat another solo diner with me. I said sure. Two seconds later I wanted to either melt into the earth or kill the waiter, because he smilingly brought over a young Italian guy. Well, isn’t that subtle. Thank you, I’m here to eat, not to be set up. He was nice enough, saying nervously in English, “I’ve never been in this situation before.” You and me both, brother. Then he kept trying to feed be and read me “a most beautiful passage” from this book he had with him. Are you all gagging now? I was. I think the waiter was extra slow bringing the check too. I was glad to escape to my bed where I promptly fell asleep.

Sunday, April 20, 2008

Because I had a reservation at the Borghese Gallery this morning for 9 a.m., I woke up at 6:30. Sneaking around because everyone was asleep, I was out and on the express bus to Termini to catch the metro in really good time. Now, the deal with the Borghese is that you have to be 30 minutes early to get your ticket, otherwise you lose your place. After we rounded a corner in the accordion double-bus, a guy in a suit ran up to the driver and started shouting at him to stop the bus because he had hit … Here my Italian broke down. Finally the bus driver stopped, turned off the engine, and kicked us all out of the bus. We looked back to where the Suit was pointing and the bus had hit a shiny new black BWM. It doesn’t cease to amaze me how many very ritzy or vintage cars zip around Rome. I mean, the guy who parked his Beemer there was sort of asking for it, but the incident did nothing for my faith in the skill of Roman bus drivers. So we all had to wait to get on the dreaded bus #64, affectionately nicknamed the Pickpocket Express, or, more poetically in French, the Wallet Eater. I had a feeling that just by looking at this bus, my wallet would disappear. Well, it just seemed like a normal bus to me. I arrived at Termini but the delay had really cost me time and by the time I got to my metro stop it was already 8:20. It turns out the Galleria is in the mansion on these huge tracts of land. I started running (more like galumphing. I am not a runner. Period.) through the park, hoping to blend in with all of the other joggers, but I think the skirt sort of gave me away Add to that the fact that since one does not usually run in a skirt, the skirt started creeping downwards, while I periodically had to skip along while yanking it back up so I wouldn’t be indecently exposed in the park. There are so many reasons why I don’t do sports. By this time I have abandoned all hope of entering the Borghese (sort of like what’s written on the Gates of Hell, but I couldn’t get in. When I got to the house, which is on this little rise, there was a line and I assumed it was for those with tickets. I wandered around back, found a lovely garden full of tulips and statues, but no ticket area. I figured that I’d just get in that line to see if they had any places left anyway. Behind me, an American couple said they only had their reservation paper too. Then I realized that since the museum doesn’t actually open until 9 it was not expected that I be there before they opened to get my ticket. Shall I allow you a little break to guffaw at my stupidity? All better now? Okay.
Once again, they gave me an amazing “Starving Teacher” discount on my ticket. Before I went in, since it was still before nine, I decided to grab some breakfast at the café inside, since I had just traversed the city on an empty stomach and with no caffeine. First however, I had to check my purse. This was a new one. Everyone goes into that place empty handed. Very paranoid. I just took my wallet out and carried it in my hand, because there’s no way I’m leaving that to some coat check people. I got a cappuccino and a cornutto (croissant), which would become my daily breakfast. We had to wait in a really long line to get in, because the entrance is controlled. All of this agony and running was worth it though, because the Gallery was amazing. I wasn’t allowed to take pictures, but it was chock-full of sculptures by this chap named Bernini, who is my new favorite sculptor. The detail is amazing: there was one statue of the Kidnapping of Proserpone by Hades on her face was one delicate tear, and where his hand gripped her side the flesh wrinkled slightly just like in real life. It may be heresy to say so, but I think he was better than Michelangelo.

After the Gallery, I wandered through the park, which was full of people, especially those playing with their dogs. What struck me was how much these people genuinely seemed to be enjoying themselves. In Paris no one ever seems to be happy. I’m not, for starters. But there, in that verdant enchanted forest full of paths and statues and temples and Labrador retrievers with silly doggy grins, I was happy. The sun warms me, burns my skin (raises my risk for skin cancer, I know, but don’t rain on my parade today). A bright yellow bird that looks suspiciously like an escaped parrot flies shrieking form one towering tree to the next.

I walked down a series of switchback streets in an attempt to reach the Piazza del Popolo, but ended up at the Spanish Steps instead. The steps themselves were overwhelmed by people and by swathes of fuschia and white flowers, so much so, that it was hard to tell where people stopped and flowers began. So I climbed, up past girls with their sandals off so that they wouldn’t have mini tanlines on their feet, up past gaping tourists, and past those annoying street vendors who sell, in addition to ugly maquettes of David and the Pope’s head, heinous looking scarves and bubble-guns that make chirpy approximations of machine-gun fire. WHY???

At the top in went into the church but I think they were going to start something soon because they had turned up the funeral home music. I bolted and ran back down the stairs. After consulting my map, I figured out that the Via del Corso would take to the Piazza del Popolo. It turns out that road is the main shopping drag for you and me, the regular schmos, and one street over is the Ritzy shopping street. That capital “R” is completely intentional. Anyway, when I finally dragged myself up to the church I wanted to see (“Sanctuary! Sanctuary!”) it was closed for mass. In fact, it was closed for mass for pretty much the whole day. It’s hard to adjust to this vestige of religious piety, but one must remember that this is the city that let the Pope have his own country. I mean, no other religion gets their own country. Okay, the Mormons have Utah, but really, who wants Utah except my Uncle Dave so he could jeep the whole thing?

By this time I am hungry. So what do I buy? Coffee, of course. I went to this famous bar called Caffé Sant’Eustachio and got their specialty, the “Gran’ Caffé.” It was so delicious, almost like they frothed the coffee itself. There they sell the coffee pre-sweetened and you have to ask for it without sugar if you don’t want it sweet. For a while I didn’t realize that this was one of the bars where you pay first, get a ticket, and then get your coffee. I must have looked dumb but the coffee was completely worth it. After that, I found a recommended bakery and got what they called a pizza farciate, which is basically a foccacia sandwich. Mine had a type of salami, cheese, lettuce, and olive oil. I ate it on the steps of the obelisk in Campo dei Fiori, sunning myself.

Today I also saw the Trevi Fountain, which was packed with people and sternly patrolled by carabinieri to prevent any Anita Ekberg impersonators. Nearby is a shop called San Crispino that supposedly sells the best gelato in the world. Hmm, is this sort of like how Berthillion is supposed to be the best ice cream in the world … but isn’t? Short answer: Yes. The portions were miniscule and the taste average. Hmm, maybe this is the Italian branch of Berthillon?

After wandering the shopping street for a while without buying anything, since food is more important than anything else (at least while you’re in Italy!), I went back to the area near my hotel for dinner. There were these two highly recommended pizza joints, but they weren’t very full and the staff standing outside glared at potential customers as if to say, “Don’t you come here and make me work!” So I walked a bit more and found another place that also did pizza that was crowded. I had “pizza napoli” with anchovies (which are REALLY GOOD! WOW!) and the “roman-style” artichoke, which was divine, and wine, which is always tasty. After dark, things looked really different, so I just picked a street and started walking, but by some miracle it was the street the Foresteria was on, so I went in and flopped happily into bed.

Nice report. Thanks for sharing!

What fun! Love your report.

Byrd

Lovely report so far, this time next week we will be in Rome. I'll remember not to freak out if the buses are a muddle and I'm going to get my DH to read your report too. We will have flown from Sydney to Rome (24 hours in the air) and the brain will be mush by then, so it's good to be forewarned. Loved the story of you running through the Borghese Gardens, very funny, although probably not for you. Look forward to reading some more, but please hurry or I will already be in Rome :)

I love your attitude and the fun and enjoyment you were having and you epress in your report. I'm looking forward to the rest.

Sheepie,

Loving the report and your style. Very fun to hear from a first time visitor to bella Roma.

By the way, Utah is great! Get yourself over to the US forum and check it out. You have absolutely NO idea what you are missing.

OH, my! My horrible day is rescued by this wonderfully amusing trip report. The mental image of you running to the Borghese really had me roflol!

Please continue to include the "extra, non essential details" - I love them!

And yes, Italy = Paradise.

I also enjoyed the image of running with the skirt coming down - lol.

And your experiences solo dining, which I have never done, and will be doing in Rome, in four days.

So, I ask you kindly -- can you please finish this before Monday? :)

Enjoying your trip report Sheepie...and I am always amazed at those of you who have the energy to write so much.
My DH and I were always so exhausted at the end of the day most of our daily events were recorded on the flight home! But we're older too! ;)

Looking forward to more.

Hey, thanks everyone. Dayle, I have in fact been to Utah and love it--it's more a jab at my uncle, whom you have the pleasure of not knowing ;)

Next installment coming soon. Almost done with Rome--then on to Florence, Venice (Sort of!) and Bologna.

Cheers!

Okay, so here's the second half of Rome. I apologize for all the spelling and grammar errors in the first part--I was really excited and forgot to spellcheck.

Monday, 21 April

Today it is time to go into the Lion’s Den (see Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade). Except instead of going to see Hitler, I was going to the Vatican. I told myself that if I could handle the basilica, I might try the museums. My hostel is actually pretty close to the Vatican, so after chatting with some other American girls also living in Paris (one of them was even a student at my school and has a class with my boss!), I walked along the river and turned onto the street that approaches that Vatican. It is VERY imposing. I thought there would be a little sign saying “Welcome to Vatican City!” Once you arrive in the Piazza, you feel very tiny. They have those metal line barriers up like you see at concerts and such; we all had to line up to be checked out by the V.P.D. Once you get past them you are presented with five (“Three, sir!”) ahem, three choices: basilica, crypt, or climb the dome. I picked basilica because it was free and I am poor. Inside I was astonished at the opulence, the enormity, and the sheer amount of people. Everyone was talking and pointing and laughing so it felt like some kinky party inside of a huge church. The pope wasn’t there, of course,; I was there during his American tour. As I may have mentioned before, I get really panicky inside churches, and since this is the Big Daddy, I was terrified. I think I may have set a time record in seeing the Vatican: Photo of Pietà, run to next chapel, run to big umbrella-thing where the pope says Mass, run down the nave, run outside, zip into line for the crypt. Now, if any of you have been unlucky enough to read the “novel” by Dan Brown (eek) called Angels and Demons, the denouement of the book takes place in this crypt, where it is described as dark, mysterious, spooky, and labyrinthine. This place was lit up like a carnaval! Everything painted white, sarcophagi arranged in neat rows—nothing to fear here. The only very strange thing was that there was one area which had a little rope in front of it, two guards, and a crowds of people praying and crying behind the rope. I think—aha! We come to the “grave” of Peter. Nope—it was for the not-so recently deceased pope, John Paul II. Everyone was praying to him (or for him) and sobbing and I felt very uncomfortable. Peter’s “bones” (probably just some random guy they dug up, but you know …) were in this little room that you couldn’t even see into. That was rather dull. I felt sort of uncomfortable going into the museums, even though I know they contain amazing art, and by the time I got there, the line was enormous. I now had a choice to make: Forced march through museum, or gelato. You know what I picked! I had the best gelato in my life at the oddly-named shop “The Old Bridge.” It was huge, cheap, and sublimely good.

The second half of my day was supposed to be the Colosseo and the Forum, so I found a bus whose front info panel read “Piazza Venezia,” which was in the general direction (south!) I wanted to go and I figured I could just hop off when I wanted and walk or get on a different bus. Alas, ‘twas not to be. The bus driver obviously hadn’t changed his direction indication on the front so we were actually going to the end of the line in the other direction. As I rode through unfamiliar suburbian-looking places, I worried. This didn’t look like Rome’s center … once I finally, haphazardly leapt off the bus at a stop, I found a Metro entrance—turns out I was pretty much at the western end of line A, so I had a ways to go to get back to the Colosseo.

By the time I got there, I still hadn’t eaten lunch, but that didn’t matter because this was History. I knew it would be faster to buy my ticket at Palatine Hill, but I wanted to see the Colosseo first and the line wasn’t that bad, maybe 15 minutes. Now, as a little aside, I don’t understand all the fuss people (and guidebooks) make about standing in line. It is a part of life. You stand in line at the DMV for hours to receive a plastic card that publicly states your weight and is stamped with a picture that usually resembles You + Horror Movie Monster of Your Choice. Complain about that. Don’t complain about waiting a few minutes to see things that are just slightly more important than your driver’s license. Anyway, teachers got a discount at the Colosseo as well (Yes!), so when I got up to the ticket window I showed the cashier my ID card. She looked at it and started talking to me with her head turned away from the microphone, so I heard nothing of what she was saying. When I told her this, she became angry and started yelling (still not into the microphone) which created a rather funny image. Finally she realized that if she was going to get rid of me, she would have to use that microphone, and so explained that she could not give me the teacher discount (reason unknown) but would do the “Under 25” discount. I said OK and handed over a 10 for my 5,40 ticket (I had spent all my change). She rolled her eyes so hard she must have spun her optic nerves like licorice and yowled, “MAAAMMA Mia!” Crimeny, lady, it’s not like I gave you a 500 euro bill or something. Or a traveler’s cheque. She did let me in, though. Note: if you have to pee in the Colosseo the bathrooms are actually inside of trailers wedged underneath the structure, smothered in shadow, and painted black. This was very odd—even at our state fair we have real buildings with toilets in them. Maybe these are mobile toilets? I’m not a very poetic person but I don’t understand how so many people can describe the Colosseo as “boring” or “underwhelming.” I just imagined our baseball stadium back home, with chaps in togas hawking wine and drunken men cheering and ogling the ladies. Instead of bats and diamonds we would have beasts and martyrs and gladiators. At my stadium we have sausage races—the only way I could see this happening in ancient Rome is if they covered prisoners with sausage and then set animals after them, thus causing the sausage-people to run.

I went to another recommended place for lunch, where I got the now-expected eye-roll of doom when I announced, “Sola.” After being ignored for ages by the wait staff (not unusual to me, I live in Paris, ha ha), a nice old lady with neon lipstick took care of me. I ordered the highly praised stuffed, fried olives, which are sort of like scotch eggs, except the meat is on the inside and, well, it’s not an egg but an olive. Then I had the salt cod with zucchini, thinking: Finally, a vegetable! The menu didn’t say that everything was fried. I mean, I’m not against frying at all—it’s delicious! I love salt cod now! Wow! But after a meal of fried everything, I felt a bit, well, heavy. Okay, my innards had bathed in grease. So I walked it off in the Forum. I didn’t have a guide so I really didn’t know what anything was, but it was quite peaceful just to wander about. Actually the thing I enjoyed the most was the profusion of bright red poppies (just like in that Monet painting, which hangs in my room) next to the vestiges of a fallen civilization. Life coming from death. I thought about all the people who walked these streets two thousand years ago, who they were, what they did, etc. It was quite sobering. But when I left the Forum, aha, the fun began again. An older gentleman walking down the street next to me starts yammering away in Italian and I don’t understand him, plus I just ignore strangers talking to me, so I just kept walking. He started up again in English, pointing and saying “Caesar’s Forums.” I said, “OK” and he launches into some store about how he’s from Milano, I say I’m from Chicago (not true) and he asks if I’ve been to the …. Museum yet. I had no clue what he was talking about and just wanted to get away so I said no. His genteel reply was, “Well, we can go there right now.” Ahem. I’m sorry—did you just ask me to go with you to a museum? Together? You think I’m that stupid? Evidently it works or he wouldn’t be trying it. Anyway, I laughed and said “No, sorry, I have an appointment at, er, Piazza Navona in fifteen minutes.” Lie. Then he said, “Oh, too bad, but look right here! Here’s another museum want to go there?” No thank you. Ew. It was really no big deal, but the absurdity of it all left me a little shaken. I would however, like to proudly point out that this whole (creepy) exchange took place in Italian. It’s all coming back to me now (I never liked that song, though).

Looking for the loo, I went into a large white building next door, which could only be reached by climbing a hellish number of steps. Actually, I was a bit nervous about going up at first because there was an older gent standing near the bottom who would yell at random people. I later figured out that this was the monument to Vittorio Emmanuele and the two very serious solders in the middle were guarding the Unknown Soldier flame. Italians take respect for this sort of thing very seriously, and I was impressed. Inside was a museum about how Italy became a nation (I’m sure it has a name, but I’m too tired to look it up…) where a school group decided to take possession of the entire hallway and engage in conversation. By “engage in conversation” I mean scream loudly, guffaw, and generally behave like apes. Urgh. It took me ages to get through (I was still looking for the bathroom!) and I literally had to push people out of my way. This didn’t seem to bother them, and so it didn’t bother me! The signs for the bathroom kept pointing up and up, so I went up and up and found the roof (obviously), which had a café and “panoramic elevators.” The toilet signs had mysteriously disappeared. Looking back, I’m sure it was in the café, but I wasn’t going to pay for some overpriced coffee just to use the loo. So I walked all the way to La Tazza D’Oro, a most excellent bar whose toilet happened to be blocked, as I was informed by two German ladies (evidently, most German tourists think that everyone also speaks German. I speak a little, but seriously, guys. And people say that only Americans think everyone speaks English … BTW, I love German people. They’re great—just making an observation). So I just used the men’s room. I mean, there is usually no difference. All the ladies looked at me with a variant of the now familiar “Sola” look. I bought my caffé lungo, I enjoyed, I should be able to use whichever bathroom I so please, thank you. The caffé was excellent and so was the atmosphere. 80 centimes for a tazza of heaven.

After this little jaunt, I went shopping. Now, being a poor teaching, I didn’t have much to spend, but my dad did ask for “Something Italian.” Well, that’s so specific, thanks. I happen to be obsessed with stationary (blame Jane Austen—she makes letter writing so cool) and found a slick pen shop where I bought my dad an orange marble pen (his favorite color is orange). The shop’s colors were a bright orange and dark orange, so the box and bag were also orange. He’ll love that.

For dinner I went to a super famous, el grunge-o pizzeria, where, after the obligatory look of death, I received a place at a table with an English-Danish couple who were very nice and we had a refreshingly intelligent conversation. We were watching the two guys make the pizzas and the woman wondered why they didn’t say anything. Later, the boss came by and one of the workers started talking to him and it sounded like a lynx had mauled his voice box. Don’t smoke, kids. I turned to her and said, “Well, there’s your answer.” I am so cruel sometimes. Oh, bad me. Anyway, the pizza was good, but it wasn’t anything I’d cross an ocean for. The coffee at Tazza D’Oro and Sant’Eustachio, though … Anyway, after the pizza, I walked back to the hostel, pleased to find my way back so quickly. I chatted for a while with a roommate, and then BOOM! The worst thunderstorm I’ve experienced in a long time burst! The rain turned to hail and back again, and the wind was so strong it actually blew open our window! I jumped up and slammed it shut again. It made me think of when I was little and during sleepovers if there was a storm everyone got all giggly because you were scared but not really and it was more fun than anything else. I hadn’t felt that way in a long time, maybe since I was ten, but Rome gave me that back. A whiff of happiness, forgotten and withered up, which flowered again in the light of the storm.

Thursday 22 April, 2008

I had a leisurely wake-up this morning. Amazingly, here in Rome, I never feel tired or groggy when I wake up. I feel a bet as if I’m in a breakfast cereal commercial, where I jump happily out of bed to eat a bowl of, well, whatever. You know what I mean. The shower was cold, but I can’t help that and it’s not the end of the world, people. I ate yogurt and toast an made a cappuccino and chatted with a girl from Israel, then headed of to find the “best and cheapest” coffee in Rome at Bar Giulia, aka Caffé Peru for an amaaaaazing cappuccino (0,90!). Inside everyone was running, yelling, kissing, laughing, drinking, eating—in short, living. When people discuss the French way of life, they inevitably bring up that “joie de vivre.” Well, I have personally seen zero displays of this joie de vivre in Paris, but plenty of joie de grève. It seems like here in Rome, people are more in tune with themselves as human beings. That’s probably hopelessly, romantically naïve of me, but it makes me feel good and so there.

Anyway, back to reality. Or was I there all along?

I took the 40 (no BMW incidents today, whoo-hoo!) to Termini so I could take the metro and see the Appian Way. I got off at the wrong stop, which was no big deal, but it did eat up a lot of time. At the correct stop, as I was just climbing up the stairs to the street, I saw the bus I needed just leaving the stand, so I was reassured that I was in the right spot. Unfortunately, the bus never came back! I waited for at least 20 minutes (this seems to be a recurring theme) but no 660. Finally I went to the supermercato in a fit of fruit craving and bought some plums, a giant pear, a bottle of fizzy water, and a Kinder Bueno bar. OK, the last one is definitely not fruit, but I’d never had one and wanted to save it for a bedtime snack. I metroed back to Repubblica, hoping to make it into a church to see another Bernini (my hero!) before it closed at noon. It was 11.30, so I figured I could do it. Except! The metro stopped for at least five minutes in the tunnel near San Giovanni. I am used to this, as the line 7 in Paris seems to do this quite often, but at least in Paris the driver gets on the intercom and asks you to “vous patientez.” Not a peep from his Roman counterpart. We waited interminably in a half-light underneath the city and I mourned that I would never make it to the church on time. On top of all this, as I was hurrying towards the plaza where the church was, it started pouring buckets with a strong sideways wind. I felt like a correspondent for the Weather Channel. My trusty, bought-in-London umbrella held his own, and more against the wimpy umbrellas around me, who just gave up. The dancing Mickey Mouse guys popped up hawking umbrellas (lame). Amazingly, I made it to the church and it was still open, so shaking myself in a rather canine manner, I entered. The first thing I noticed was that the church was very small and rather plain, but that people were clustered in the back left chapel where the statue is. It’s the one of Santa Theresa, which had an unfortunate role in the more unfortunate book Angels and Demons by that guy, you know who, which I had the extreme misfortune to read. Anyway, the story behind the saint is hysterical but the Bernini is sublime.

After checking my guidebook for any interesting trattorie in the area (none, this is by Termini, right?) I walked down the street, through yet another downpour, to the Basilica of Santa Maria Maggiore, which is famous for … something. Can’t remember what. I noticed that the ceiling here was completely flat, instead of being vaulted and frescoed to death. It was more like a palace ceiling that that of a church. Ooh, I remember: the basilica has baby Jesus’ cradle, which just so happens to be royally pimped out in silver and gold. Right. That totally makes sense, since, you know, his family was poor.

Anyway, today I just wanted pizza or a pizza farciate for lunch, so I found a pizza place east of Trevi and scarfed it down in front of the fountain. In case you haven’t noticed, I do not have that “bella figura” and never will, so why worry? As I licked the last dribbles of tomato juice (I used to hate tomatoes too!) from my fingers, I realized that I was still hungry. Starving, in fact. I thought that I’d just walk around and after 15 minutes my stomach would feel full. At Campo dei Fiori: still starving. So I went into this cool old salumeria and got a gigantic mortadella sandwich. I munched on that, watching the people go by. Thus fortified, I walked some more and finally decided, after more fortification from a second trip to La Tazza D’Oro, to go back to the hotel and pack as much as I could so I wouldn’t have to worry about it latter. I was very proud of myself because I actually did it! Later, I took one of the mini buses to Tritone, which is sort of south of the shopping area because I wanted to go to this jewelry shop where they used old Roman coins and things like that. After getting lost in a sea of luxury boutiques: I found it covered with a giant banner which said: Coming soon: Jimmy Choo! In that moment I was filled with such hatred for haute couture that I wanted to rip off Karl Lagerfeld’s ugly, wrinkly, fluorescent face and then force-feed him a kilo of lard.

Morose, I plodded back towards Navona and Fiori and decided to eat in Trastevere again except it was too early for dinner. I found a bakery on one end of the campo, which smelled divine. I crept in and ordered this vaguely pretzel-shaped thing covered in icing and dotted with nuts. It was crunchy, butter, better than anything I’ve had in France, and I simply didn’t want it to end. I seriously contemplated buying a few more and making that my supper. This would not be very nutritious, so I wandered across a bridge and sat on the steps of a fountain just opposite, contemplating my options. I finally decided on Cave Canem. “Sola!” I bravely announced, ready for the worst, but to my infinite surprise and pleasure, the owner simply smiled and happily lead me to a table. The people there were so friendly! I had the cacio e pepe, wine (duh!) and a giant bowl of fragole con panna. I was farcita—ha ha. Walking home, I turned the wrong way and ended up walking up a hill above the city. Very pretty, but not where I needed to be. On a way back, I was flattered that a couple stopped to ask me for directions. Safely back at the hostel, I went to bed. And that was Roma. I’m going back come hell or high water.

Sheepie,

I really do love your sense of humor! :-) I'm sure you will get back to Rome soon. Lucky you to be so close!

Ciao

Very entertaining. I can't wait to read more!!

This is more, isn't there?

This is so much fun.

How was the women's hostel? Lots of people have posted about booking it, but I think you're the first to post back about it.

WillTravel,

The women's hostel was amazing. It was extremely clean and it didn't have that hostel feel. It was more like a hotel where you just so happened to share rooms and a shower. At first I didn't like the location so much but later I realized how close it was to so many things without the hike in prices or noise. My favorite part had to be the breakfast: they had these Lavazza espresso machines where you could make your own cappuccino! Plus free internet access.

Actually, I'm going back to Rome *blush* and Florence and doing a little tour of Tuscany in a few weeks once we're done with school here in Paris. Then I'm heading home to the States. But I am so excited--I actually started planning this trip when I was still in Italy!

Enjoying this report . . .

Sheepie, I'm really enjoying your report. Have to say that I'm surprised at the reaction you got in restaurants when you were alone. I've spent a lot of time in Rome by myself and have never had that happen. Glad you didn't let it get you down! How lucky that you're going back again so soon!

Excellent and funny report Sheepie. :-) "..shaking myself in a rather canine manner.."

You have the ability to observe things at a distance and yet make us all feel in the midst of things. Looking forward to the next part!

Eric

P.S.
And how refreshing to hear someone dislike the you-know-who's books. I was fortunate to miss the angeli one, but alas somebody recommended the sequel.

Okay, here are some Florentine adventures.

Wednesday 23 April, 2008

Off to Florence today! I made it safely, with all my limbs and luggage, to Termini via Bus 64, where I subsequently had a minor panic attack. I rechecked the ticket I had bought earlier and I wasn’t going to Florence Santa Maria Novella, but rather the smaller train station outside of town, which would mean I would have to get on another train to go in. In a panic, I simply bought another ticket Rome-Florence on the Eurostar that was leaving a bit earlier. I would later regret this wanton spending of my money, but at the time it seemed like a good idea. I think the Eurostars in Italy are great—I always pick the single seat right next to the door because I hate climbing over people to go to the loo, or vice versa. The other benefit of changing my ticket was that I cut my travel time in half, because before I was on an IC train. While waiting, I had a cappuccino and cornutto in the station. I now think this is my favorite breakfast in the entire world. Italian pastries are (blasphemy ahead!) more delicious than French ones, in my mind. They’re crunchier and lighter and don’t make you feel as if you’ve just eaten a stick of butter, which may have been the case!

Anyway, I got off the train and straight away bought my ticket to Venice—32 euros—ouch. I found the underpass mentioned in the directions to my hotel and went around back to the tourist office for the free map of Florence. I rumbled off (for rolling suitcases rumble like Monday Night Football on cobblestones) in search of the Locanda Orchidea. I walked past the Duomo, barely registering its presence but noticing the abundance of beggars and street “merchants;” there seemed to be many times more here than in Rome. After a few nervous minutes, I arrived. I buzzed in and lugged my suitcase up a flight of stairs to be welcomed by the nicest lady I’d met so far. We spoke all in Italian and she showed me all the keys I would need and my room, which had a window on the central garden. I found this hotel in Let’s Go and immediately knew I must stay there, for Dante’s wife Gemma Donati was born in this palazzo. There was even a statue of Dante in the entrance hall. Thanks to one of my uni professors, I am now in love with Dante and his works. Too bad my name isn’t Beatrice! ☺ Anyway, I felt sort of strange, because Florence wasn’t really how I imagined it. It seemed more touristed than Rome! Plus, really the only thing I had influencing my idea of Florence was the book A Room with a View. I had a nice view of the garden, but nobody named George offered to switch with me for a view of the Arno. Humph.

By this time I was rather hungry and assumed that Florence would have the same type of pizza shops as Rome, forgetting that I was in another province. Oops. Some of the places I saw sold panini but they generally looked pretty sad. In the midst of my wanderings I got quite excited upon spotting Via Dante Alighieri. I followed it and found La Casa di Dante (not his real house, mind, just a replica, but that’s good enough for me!) and you bet I went in despite the hunger pains in my belly.

In high school I swore I’d never read Dante because it sounded dull and depressing, and, quite frankly, Edith Wharton already filled that spot for me. Then I went to college and took a course on love in early Italian literature with a professor who was a Dante and Ted Williams fanatic. Just hearing him talk about Dante made me itch to take his course on Inferno, so I did. Wow. Wow wow wow. Dante, unfortunately, had that hooked nose, and based on that and the title of the book most people decide it’s dry and old and very fire-and-brimstone. The man had serious poetry chops, a major crush on a babe who died of the plague and didn’t know he existed, and a grudge against most of the people in Florence. This is reading pretty well, huh? Plus, it has fart jokes. What more can you ask??? So going to Florence was as close to making a pilgrimage as I’ll ever get, being that I’m not of a religion that does the pilgrimage thing. My goal ever since reading Inferno was to go to Florence and buy an Italian copy of The Divine Comedy. And I did it. The frightening part is I think I have a crush on a guy who’s been dead for around 700 years and who would never reciprocate anyway, since Beatrice got there first. Gar.


So walking into that house, climbing the stairs, looking at the meager little displays—I felt a strange, possessive sort of joy. I was so excited to use the loo in his house I took a picture. Of the loo, not me on the loo. Ew, you’re sick.

Just down the street is the little church where Beatrice would go and pray and where she is buried. A strange sense of awe filled me as I looked at her tomb. I never quite understood why people feel such an attraction to saints and their relics. To me, thinking about a girl being stripped, burned at the stake, and having her head cut off doesn’t make me tremble with ecstasy. But looking at this little stone tomb, I thought about how much love can do. It’s so clichéd, but really, Dante wrote one of the finest works in modern literature because he loved Beatrice and he loved God and in the book, Beatrice is his guide to finding God. Wow.

Back to Earth. I finally just bought some water and a veggie foccacia sandwich and didn’t quite understand the ordering system in that place. It was sort of embarrassing, me just sitting there. It’s better to pretend that you meant to do that. The guidebook I bought in Paris turned out to be completely useless, so I went in search of a Let’s Go Florence or Tuscany. After stopping by two English bookstores, I found out they don’t make one and so I (re)bought the Let’s Go Italy I have at home, which I didn’t bring with me because it’s sort of bulky. Stupid. After this, I went back to the hotel to regather my thoughts and find an internet café. The lady marked some down on my map, and after resting, I went to one. It was really skeezy, and I had to give them my titre de séjour just to buy some time, but I got used to that after awhile. I chatted with my mom for a bit and then decided to hit up the Uffizi (I hadn’t made reservations) to try my luck. All these people who moan and gripe about having to stand in line have obviously never been to an amusement park with proper rides, where you wait two hours for approximately two minutes of excitement. I only had to wait thirty minutes in order to see one of the greatest art collections in the world for only 3,25 euro! Ha! It was big and tiring and mostly full of baby Jesus pictures, but the Botticelli works were really the highlight, as the Titian I wanted to see was out on tour. Gar. That night, after walking and checking windows of seemingly every restaurant in my area, I went to a place called Il Gatto e la volpe, or something like that. It was done up with this quirky Pinocchio theme. At first they pretended they didn’t have a seat, but in the end I sat in the back at the counter, which was actually really cool because I could watch the guys making the food, which was excellent. I had an insalata mista and gnocchi with gorgonzola and some wine. When I gave the waiter my CB he asked if I was Spanish and I said no, American. I added, helpfully, that I spoke French. Evidently I have a French/Spanish accent when I speak Italian, which is sort of confusing. He brought me a limoncello on the house. This was my first time … and boy, was it good. The café we go to in Paris sometimes makes us drink some of their “agricultural rum” before we leave, and that is like … I cannot describe how heinous it is. It literally burns your skin where it touches it. But this limoncello … ah. It actually tastes good! Wow, there’s a first. However, as I went back home, I realized that it was rather potent as well. All in all, a very nice and relaxed ending to the day!

Thursday, 24 April 2008

This is going to be a short entry because my pen is dying and I am too cheap to buy another one. Plus I can’t really find a place that sells cheap pens. Everything is like, here, have this feather dip pen with ink! Um, no. I am a major klutz—this would be a disaster. This morning I went to my new favorite breakfast place in the whole world, which is a bakery/caffé just down the street from my amazing hotel. Inside they have great coffee and their pastries are to die for. The guy who runs the cash register is this grumpy balding chap who is always scowling but is actually really nice! Too bad it’s not breakfast time all the time. After Nirvana-time, I went to Santa Maria Novella station to get a bus pass and decided what they hey, I’ll take the bus to Fiesole (which I discovered I was pronouncing wrong in my head). We rode up the hill and I jumped out into the sun. At first I got a bit lost and I hadn’t brought my guidebook on what to do or see, so I just went up the hill and finally found the lookout point. It was so lovely—I had really just come for pictures, not to tour the town or anything. While waiting for the next bus, I dropped into a caffé for a caffé lungo and giggled at the people who were paying triple just so they could have a view of Florence with their coffee. Ha. All you have to do is walk up the hill! I jumped on the bus back into town, and since it stopped back at the station, I figured I would go into the church nearby. It wasn’t very impressive and I’m not a big fan of how photos are forbidden in so many places. I realize it protects the art and everything, but I usually take pictures of the place itself or some quirky architectural detail. Anyway, after this I went to a recommended joint that supposedly had a great lunch menu and as I was studying it, someone behind me yelled out, “Go in, it’s really good!” I just smiled at him and went in through the door. It was very good: I had a bowl of minestrone, then some sort of veal, a side of spinach, and some wine. Unfortunately the guy who recommended the place also came in for lunch and guess where he sat. You bet—at my table. I hadn’t seen any of the honking/whistling/general weirdness displays that constantly attack you in Rome, so I was a bit surprised at this guy. Then when I looked at him closer, he sort of looked someone from my cousin’s husband’s family, which is Sicilian. Now forgive me if I’m being uncouth, but from what I heard, the farther south you go, the more, erm, demonstrative the guys are. I mean this guy had the red hair and fair skin and everything: think a slimmer, more attractive Mario Batali. However, he could have been my father—eww. He kept trying to talk to me, and I kept trying to figure out new ways to ignore him. Fiddle with my napkin, go to the bathroom, read a book, write in my journal … these guys are persistent. Thankfully he seemed in a bit of a rush so he left before I did. Urgh.

I decided to hit another church today and went to Santa Croce, which is actually quite near my hotel. In the piazza out front they had all these stands set up from which you could buy different food items—it was sort of like the State Fair! I bought my (discounted!) ticket and went to go in, except they wouldn’t let me in because the small v-neck on my t-shirt, which was mostly covered by a scarf anyway, was too immodest. I was ticked. Other people were going in wearing spaghetti-strap tops—what did I do to merit this treatment? Oh well. I dropped back into my room, grabbed a sweater, swung by a gelato joint (Vivoli) and went back to the church, where a new Church Policewoman was waiting and barely gave me a second glance. Grrr. I really enjoyed this one (church, not the glance!), despite my fear of churches, because so many famous people are interred (or not) here. I find it so amusing that they have this huge memorial to Dante when he really died in Ravenna, in exile from Florence. Now everyone’s all weepy—ohhh, we don’t have his body. Well, they should have thought about that before they exiled him, shouldn’t they have? Ha. Also the monument to Galileo, who just so happened to be on the outs with the pope since in those power-tripping, it’s rebellion time days, MAN was unquestionably at the CENTER of the UNIVERSE!

If I remember correctly, that night I went around the shopping district and gawped at the goldsmiths on the Ponte Vecchio. I wonder if people shop there regularly … wow. After all this walking and culture and taking fifty photographs of Dante’s un-tomb, I was hungry. All the guidebooks I’d read recommended this trattoria, which I had passed by the night before since it seemed empty. Well, tonight it was slightly less empty, and the price seemed right (Don’t forget to spay and neuter your pets!), so in I marched. Florentines are decidedly less touchy about the “sola” thing, and they said I could sit wherever. I ended up next to two American ladies. I eavesdropped on them awhile, and then we started chatting. In all my pro-Europeness (which has worn off after a series of strikes, months in my miserable job, and the fact that I never received my French health insurance), I would declaim not unlike Enjolras about all the “bad” things Americans overseas would do. Perhaps you know, however, the pleasure one can have in simply conversing with people who understand your point of view on many things. Yes, I realize this is what many people horrifyingly label “conformist” or “close-minded,” but really—speaking to someone whose English does not sound like Borat’s is a relief (really, my students do speak in this manner. Shoot me). Anyway, I really don’t remember the dinner much besides that it was large and filling and I shamefacedly had to send some back because I couldn’t finish it. Ooh, one more thing: I had the crostini Toscana that were spread with chicken liver pâté—another first. Wow, that’s actually pretty good. Let’s pretend it’s good for you too so I don’t feel so bad about ordering three things.

Friday, 25 April 2008

Yay! It’s Liberation Day! Let’s close most everything! The sheer amount of holidays in Europe is astounding. For example, here in France during the month of May we’ve had off: 1st May (Labor Day), 8th May (V-E Day—you do remember your history, don’t you?), and yesterday (12th May) was Pentecost Monday. Labor Day, all right, and V-E Day, sure, but Pentecost? Seriously? I mean, it’s great and all that the disciples received Holy Spirit on that day, but why does the modern French person care about this? Answer: They care … because it’s an excuse to have another day off! Sorry, I got a bit distracted. Anyway, today I went to the Bargello, which I didn’t see on my first day in Florence because they refused to let me use my teacher discount. In a most sneaky manner, I got a different lady to give me the discount this time. Alas, no photos, which a lady screamed at me inside a very small room. No Bernini, so I really wasn’t that interested. And rooms full of porcelain can hold some people’s attention, but I was already on my way out, looking for the loo.

I came to the Bargello because the line for the Accademia was insanely long and slow (of course I didn’t make a reservation and of course I will next time!) and because I could get in for a few euros. By this time I was having a major money crisis—I had money in my account, but I just couldn’t access it because my bank only allows 500 euros worth of ATM withdrawals in a 7 day period. A lot of these places required payment in cash, so I was freaking out.

Frankly, I cannot remember much about this day because I am forgetful and the stupid pen ran out of ink. I think I went down the main shopping drag and ate many servings of gelato. By the way, my favorite in Florence was Perché No!, not only because the name is great, but so are the portions and flavors.

That night, I wanted to eat near my hotel, so I went to a place down the street in a little piazza where they had tables out on the sidewalk. I wandered in and out of the restaurant, waiting for someone to pop up so I could announce “sola” with a smile, but no one did. Confused, I reverted to Paris mode and slunk over to a table in the corner on the outside patio. Instant service! I ended up seated next to a couple from BC who were actually staying at my hotel. Unfortunately, because the seat was outside, I became the newest all-u-can eat buffet in town for the mosquitoes. When I asked the waitress where the WC was, she said go inside, straight down the hallway and then turn left. I did this and found myself in front of a door marked private and in the corridor of the kitchen of another restaurant. A waiter almost bowled me over and looked at me very strangely. I scurried away, whereupon my waitress rescued me, showed me the (hidden) left turn I should have taken and explained to the indignant waiter that I was just looking for the bathroom. I have to add in their favor, it was a very nice, large, clean loo. The toilet, however, must have been made for tall people, because it was very … tall. I returned outside to enjoy my grilled veggies, wine, and pasta with hare sauce (de-li-cious!) and so that the mosquitoes could enjoy me. I reasoned with myself, saying that sooner or later I would be so covered with welts that they would not be able to find a fresh spot to bite. This was not that comforting, as you can well imagine. I’d like to just add here that the whole time I was in Italy, I was out like a light and slept like a rock, if you’ll forgive the gratuitous use of these little clichéd phrases.

Still enjoying your report, but trust you had a cornetto for breakfast rather than cornutto . . . though I could be wrong.

OMG, I actually wrote that! Zat's why I need to proofread. That could open up a whole other box of worms. Ew. yes, a cornetto.

I am blushing furiously.

:D

Sheepie, I just today saw your thread and thanks to your wonderful style of writing and your delightful sense of humor..I have read the entire thread and now am behind on my "To Do" list, lol.

Your students must so enjoy having you as their teacher.

Trip reports like yours is why I stopped all subscriptions to travel magazines. Professional travel writers cannot hold a candle to the informative and so amusing report you have generously shared with us. Thank you!

Please forgive any spelling errors. I just realized I can't spell my favorite type of pasta but am too lazy and tired to go get my dictionary and figure it out. Enjoy!

Saturday, 26 April

I have to admit, that with the loss of my pen I must have lost many neural connections as well. I remember trying the line for the Accademia again (no luck; there’s always next time!) and having a really neat lunch. I finally found a cool sandwich place, but the best part was: it was actually a tiny enoteca, so you could get a wee glass of wine with your sandwich for a great price. This trip report makes it sound like I am a total lush, but I never got drunk and would always order the smallest amount of wine they had. Outside on the wall of the building were two little sets of shelves, marked with numbers. They were for your wine glasses, so you wouldn’t accidentally drink someone else’s chianti. This is much simpler and more chic than those strange “wine charms” that some Martha Stewart reject came up with. Oftentimes I find myself enjoying a hearty lunch with a bunch of old men—I must be a crusty old guy at heart. So out in the street it was me and bands of old Italian chaps enjoying their monster panini and glasses of wine.

The couple from BC were raving about the view from up on this hill in the Oltrarno, Piazza Michelangelo or something. That evening I walked over the river and up the hill. Hiking with my dad in Rocky Mountain National Park really pays off, because I was up the hill ahead of most of the huffing and puffing crowd. The stupid sunglasses guys were up there two, practically throwing ugly paintings at your feet, but that didn’t distract from the view. Okay, side note on the sunglasses guys. One of them came up to an Italian family who were admiring the sunset and the “vendor” proceeded to harangue the father saying something was wrong with his (the father’s) daughter’s sunglasses so she needed a new pair. The worst part is: he actually bought them in order to make the guy go away! I don’t know much about assault laws in Italy, but if he were that persistently annoying with me, I don’t think I could have restrained myself to a ladylike “No, thank you.” When I got mobbed by the “good-luck string bracelet” guys at the foot of Montmartre and one of them got too close I rammed my elbow into his gut. He left me alone after that. ☺

Do you remember how in Jurassic Park they talked about mosquitoes being fossilized in amber? Well, at sunset, it looks like all of Florence is suspended inside a block of amber, because the honey-colored light seeps around the corners of the buildings and glitters on the surface of the water. Up there, well, that would be my ideal “room with a view.” Without the street vendors, of course.

That night, I ate near my hotel again, in a place called Trattoria Antica Noé, which is situated in this little underpass where all these drunken dudes hang out just off the cute piazza near my hotel. It’s not a bad area by any means and they don’t bother anyone, but I really have no idea why they hang out there, of all places. This restaurant was actually one of my favorites I ate in while in Italy. The service was jovial, the atmosphere amazingly cozy yet not kitsch, and the food—well, ha. Divine. I mean, in a place where the owner and the waiter pour each other glasses of wine in between runs between tables and the kitchen, how can you go wrong? I also had the pleasure of seeing a very loud American man whose vocabulary consisted mostly of the f-word embarrass himself by asking the waiter, VERY LOUDLY, how much to tip. The waiter explained that tips weren’t really necessary; they were included in the service and cover charges. The man then proceeded to leave a seven-euro tip. SEVEN EUROS!!! Dude, this is not the land of the twenty-percent tip. I think the most I’ve ever tipped anyone is a euro for a great meal and to sort of apologize for being loud with my friends. The waiter looked sort of shocked too. Do you know how much gelato I could buy with seven euros? How many caffé lungos? Mamma mia. So, anyway, it was fabulous and since I will be back in Florence in a few weeks, guess where I’m going for dinner?

Sunday 27 April, 2008

Since today is the day of rest, I slept in until nine o’clock. This was very strange, since in Italy I would wake up at eight like clockwork (ha ha , no pun intended) without that horrid groggy, I-think-I’d-rather-die-than-get-up feeling that I have everyday in Paris. Being Sunday, my favorite bakery was closed so I wandered around trying to find a bar that wasn’t too expensive yet still served paste. I made it all the way to Piazza della Reppublica where I amazingly found a decent place, wedged in between two touristy restaurants. I wouldn’t go back, but it wasn’t awful. Sunday was my last day in Florence, and I decided to hit the Palazzo Pitti.

Now, you’d think that our French friend Nicolas Fouquet could have learned a thing or two from Signore Pitti. Fouquet was the chap who built Vaux-le-Vicomte, which was nicer and more extravagant in every way than what the king (our friend Louis XIV) had, and to underline this stupidity, Fouquet threw a big party and invited, yes, the king. Umm, he didn’t get to keep his castle for much longer. Evidently the same thing happened with Pitti and the Medici.

I had quite the adventure buying tickets for the Pitti. I saw the long line out front and it didn’t look too bad yet, so I jumped in. Just before getting to the entrance I realized I was the only person in my area of the line who didn’t have a ticket, and it was only then that I saw the second line for tickets. So I got out of the entrance line and into the ticket line, where, at the window, I ordered both tickets, but only got one. Unfortunately, when I realized she had only sold me the ticket to the gardens and not the palace itself, I was already walking away from the window, so I had to get back in line and reorder the 1st ticket. Then I marched back down to the line, waited a while, and finally entered. I must say that I’m not sure whether I was over or underwhelmed by the palace and the art. It was … nice, very large, but it was almost like there was so much to look at that my brain just stopped functioning. Plus the signs were very small so to find out what something was, you had to walk the delicate line between approaching the sign and getting too close to the painting, upon which you will be attacked by rabid dogs. What I enjoyed most, actually, were the frescoed ceilings, mostly because it had to do with mythology and in middle school I was nuts for Greek mythology. I understood much more of that than I did all of the Madonnas and saints and angels.

After this I marched out into the Boboli gardens, which I had never heard of before but I have eaten Boboli brand pizza crust, which was a Big Deal when I was little and now I feel really guilty because I always begged my parents for it and now I realize we didn’t have any money for that. Oops. Anyway, I didn’t realize at first how BIG the gardens are. You could easily get lost in there and they’d find your skeleton fifty years later, fervently clutching the guidebook to your chest. I went all the way up to the top, near where the Porcelain museum is (mostly looking for a loo, but finding none) and then wandered back down. I’m rather on the fence about the Italian-style garden, with its manicured hedges and little paths and fountains with ladies spraying water out of, well, you know. It’s very pretty in a very left-brained way, I suppose. I prefer the woods, plain and simple, or a huge field of flowers. Walking where there are no gravelly paths or handrails is so much more mysterious, and, in a strange way, more real.

I finally found my way back out (it’s not that easy!) and headed off in search of something to eat and a toilet. I got a sandwich (check) and found a public bathroom where the attendant so graciously allowed me to use the handicapped stall, which is nice because you get your own sink. I also dropped into a fruit and vegetables store and bought some plums to snack on. They were so juicy it looked like I was drooling all over as I walked down the street. I had plum juice everywhere.

I had heard much about Florentine leather but was rather intimidated about buying anything. It either seemed tacky and fake or way too expensive. But in the Oltrarno I found a really nice shop where I could have pretty much bought everything and made away with a fabulous purse for a fabulous price. My other quest, the Dante books, had to be fulfilled as well. I went over to Feltrinelli and after much searching, found what I wanted and grabbed Pride and Prejudice in Italian just for good luck. I’ve been reading it and have found that this translation is much more faithful to the original than the French. This is sad that I know this, because I didn’t bring the English edition with me, so I’m doing this from memory. On the way back to my hotel I found a tiny little paper and leather shop where I bought a recycled leather journal with the Florentine Lily on it at a great price. He also made really lovely journals where you just replaced the inside, but I felt like I was atoning for having bought so much animal skin in the form of a purse that I might as well get a recycled journal. Prickings of green-ness. That night, old Noah was closed, so I went back to the Cat and the Fox for another large meal (and another free limoncello!). This time I had taglietelle (spelling?) and the grilled veggie platter. Oh, and bruschetta. Yum yum yum. Once back at the hotel, I realized I really wanted some dessert, so I ran out at around ten thirty to a gelateria and moseyed on back, enjoying my gigantic cone of goodness. A sweet ending to Florence. Next: On to Venezia, and right back out again!

Hilarious! Love your sense of humor. Thanks.

This is so much fun. I can't wait for more. Do you talk to yourself in your head? I thought I was the only one to do that.

bfrac, alas, yes, I do. But it's mostly mental preparation for the Italian that will soon be coming out of my mouth. Like at the pastry shop, I would always repeat "cornetto, cornetto, cornetto" in my head to avoid the blunder I made here when I wrote it down. You'd think I'd know the difference between a croissant and a cuckhold, having read some Boccaccio and one of my favorite plays ever, Il Mandragore by Machiavelli (yes, THAT Machiavelli) where most of the men are cornuti.

Ah well. In my head I was saying: "FieSOle" instead of "FiEsole." That's sort of what I meant. Good thing the bus recording said it before I did :)

Oh yes, I always practice what I'm going to say in Italian and hope the other person knows their lines so I can respond again in Italian. My hardest word to get from head to mouth was "prenotazione" but I finally conquered it. We stayed in "FiEsole" so that was one I mispronounced here at home and a good friend (from Italy) corrected me.

I can't wait to hear the rest of your story, especially Venice. I hope you liked it, it has a very special place in my heart.

I have been enjoying reading your 'trip report' so much. Your candor, your sense of humor, your prospective are all so refreshing, I've laughed out loud several times which isn't something I want to do too much as I'm at work. I don't work in a stuffy office but I really don't want the folks around me to know how much I'm not getting done, if you know what I mean. Anyway, this is the kind of report I love to sink my teeth into. I'm eagerly awaiting the next installment. Right now I'm jumping back and forth between you and TeacherCananda. I'm hooked on both ongoing reports.

I am really enjoying your report, love your writing style. Memorizing Jane Austen hasn't hurt you any.

Sheepie...

What a delightful report! Anxiously anticipating the next installment! :)

Thank you so much to everyone for liking it! Like I said, once I finish the photos I'll post up the link. There's pictures I took while in France and Germany, too.

Sorry I've been a little slow in finishing up--I've been packing for Italy and for going back home, and then my apartment was burgled and they took my backpack and one of my suitcases. Since only clothes and shoes and a few books were inside, they left everything all around the apt. complex. OF COURSE this happens less than one month before I leave Paris. So have been busy with that, and final exams for my students.

Sorry to hear of your trouble. Fortunately, you are safe. Good luck with finishing up your exams, etc.

We will be looking forward to your return trip to Italy as well. I hope you have made a reservation for David!

Hi everyone! I realize most everyone is pretty involved in a certain heated discussion on another thread, but if you're interested, here is the website with my pictures from Italy. I am finishing typing up my report--it'll be pretty short, so I might post it later today. Hope you like it and thanks again for all the great advice I received on this forum!

Argh, I always do that. The link is:

http://web.mac.com/buzzhead61

THE END:
Monday 28 April, 2008

The trip to the train station was rather uneventful. It’s funny how your impression of a city can change over a period of time; now I understand why people enjoy this slow travel concept. When I arrived in Florence, I felt disappointed and rather depressed, because it wasn’t like Rome. Obviously this makes no sense, but who says emotions make sense? I settled in quite quickly, and felt like I was leaving home. My feelings on Venice were mixed even before I left; I had heard some people say they hated it and others say it is not to be missed. The train ride was pretty uneventful, but riding over the bridge and seeing this city floating on the water was a sight I will not soon forget. Alas, that was probably the best thing I could say about Venice.

We piled out of the train and lined up to get tickets for the vaporetti. There was a guy standing next to the booth hawking maps of Venice and other ephemera, like the all-important gondolier hat that says VENEZIA on the ribbon. I couldn’t believe how many people fairly threw themselves at this old guy, buying maps like they were going out of style. I suppose they had heard that Venice is hard to navigate, but really, don’t you think this guy marked up his merch just a tiny bit? I argued with the ticket lady for a while: she took some convincing that I was eligible for the Rolling Venice card, which was actually the best deal I got in Venice. I found my vaporetto without too much trouble, but it was so slow! I understand that you can’t just zoom around the Grand Canal, but still. I felt like I was on a little kiddie’s ride. The way they “stopped” the boats made me a bit nervous as well. The driver maneuvers the “boat,” which is basically just a large floating platform with a roof and seats, toward the floating dock, and then another worker throws a rope around a metal pole on the dock and loops the ends around another thing that’s on the boat. So basically the tension of the rope stops the boat. As you can imagine, it isn’t a “soft-dock” or anything; sometimes if the driver doesn’t slow down enough, you really whack into the dock and everyone on the boat wobbles. So after motoring around for what seemed like an hour, we finally got to my stop, Sant’Elena. I disembarked and suddenly realized I had no idea where the B&B was! For the other hotels, they gave precise instructions on how to get there, but this sheet just said, “We are a quick two-minute walk from the vaporetto stop, in a yellow building.” When I had to choose whether to go right or left on a street, I went right. Of course the B&B was actually to the left, around the corner. It was nice enough, run by a little elderly couple. I had a huge room with my own bathroom (finally!) but I still felt uneasy. I just couldn’t shake the feeling that I had been dropped in a new Disney concept park. We didn’t have Cinderella’s castle, but maybe San Marco took its place. Everything had an aura of unreality, or perhaps hyper-reality would be a better word. It was all IN YOUR FACE. The vaporetti and gondolas were the rides, and there were little stands everywhere selling the kind of overpriced junk they sell at theme parks. But really, the worst were the prices. My mom’s mom used to work at a Six Flags park and she said that all the food was marked up 1000%. In Venice I’m sure the markup was higher than that. Understandably, since the lagoon separates the city proper from the mainland, they have to ship in everything, but really. Three euros for a coffee standing up at a dinky corner bar? I don’t think so, especially when I could have enjoyed the same thing in Rome for 0,60 centimes. For lunch I ended up at a little bar where it seemed half the gondoliers in Rome ate; that was pretty cool, actually. The sandwich was decent, but again, far too expensive for what I had. By this time I decided that I just couldn’t handle three days in Venice, like I had planned. I was tired, I wished I had stayed longer in Rome, and I was getting a little homesick. Even if I would leave the next day, I decided that I should still something in Venice, so I went to the Basilica di San Marco. By this time I was so sick of churches I wanted to cry, but I did it anyway because it’s famous, etc. Admittedly, the mosaics were stunning, but since I couldn’t take any pictures I felt cheated and angry. Afterwards, I marched out across the campo, angry at the stupid pigeons, angry at the strange people who actually invited these infected beasts to come sit on them (ew!), angry at the tour groups, angry at the stupid cafés who basically deprived me of the elixir of life because I cannot afford paying 3 euros for an espresso. Grump grump grumpy. I wandered around, trying to figure out what to do. I ended up paying a ridiculous amount of money for thirty minutes in an Internet café, and figured out I could leave Italy without being out of a lot of money. I went back and told the B&B I could only stay one night, and they pouted and moaned, but obviously I’m going to leave if I have to leave. That night I paid as much for a pizza in Castello than I did for entire meals in Rome and Florence. Humph.

Tuesday 29 April, 2008

Rainy morning. I rumbled off to the vaporetto stop and waited ages for one going in the right direction. At the train station, it was nearing time for our Eurostar to leave, but nothing had been posted on the boards yet. Finally, we all just headed for a Eurostar that had just pulled in. It turned out that that was the correct one; someone was just too lazy to inform people that their train had arrived. It was practically empty, and the trip to Bologna was pretty quick. I actually made my hotel reservation on the train; that was the first time I’d ever done something like that on the fly. Plus I did it in Italian, which was terrifying, because, you know, I could have booked something crazy like a 4-person room or the Honeymoon Suite. Har har. I got sort of lost coming out of the train station, and because I was pretty poor at this point, I didn’t buy a bus ticket. I figured it would be a quick walk. Um, no. Please take the bus from the station to the city center! Basically, I got there without incident because I followed the bus I would have taken. This city was another new experience. The main roads were wide, flanked by the long colonnades. It’s a university city, so I felt more comfortable with the type of folks I was seeing. Seeing flocks of kids in dreads and baggy pants, with cigarettes in hand made me feel like I was back at Censier in Paris. These people are way less intimidating than those who take their fashion lessons from, say, Karl Lagerfeld or Victoria Beckham (who decided SHE should be a style icon???). I finally found my hotel, which was on the third (American fourth) floor and of course the lift was out of order! The lady at the reception was nice but seemed kind of kooky. My room was huge because it was a double, but still, I’ve been in Paris doubles that were like closets! It had high ceilings and a TV. Luxury, people. ;) I grabbed lunch at a little café, just a sandwich. Then I toured the archaeological museum (which I found dull to the max, simply because it wasn’t really edited. It was historical overload). I then hit up a gelato joint for a rich, creamy cone to munch on as I walked to the pinacoteca, which is supposedly quite good.
Now, if you go to the pinacoteca in Bologna, it’s helpful to know that the whole museum is not open at the same time. While one wing is open, the other is closed. This was frustrating as I was running on a strict time budget. I got to see their Renaissance collection, which wasn’t bad, but monotonous in subject. After that, I headed back and went to the main church, which shocked me with its austerity. To think that they once aspired to rival Saint Peter’s in Rome … you would never guess by the inside of the church. It does, however, possess the world’s largest zodiac sundial. Whoo-hoo. It also has a small pendulum à la Foucault, but the one at the Panthéon in Paris is, admittedly, much more impressive. Finally, it was time for dinner, so I checked out a few of the recommended places, decided they seemed creepy, and ate near my hotel in the old town. The waiter was awesome and chatted with me, because he thought I was French! Well, the French would be shocked to hear that! When I ordered a limoncello for a digestif, he gave it to me free, but he gave me a huge amount! It was frightening. The food was excellent as well: I had my standard grilled veggies and some tortelli with asparagus—amazing. It was a really fun place, a restaurant-cum-bar. I was really confused about the appetizer buffets set out in the bars. Do you just order a drink and then eat as much as you want? I didn’t know what I was doing, but if anyone does know, let me know! It was really a lovely dinner to top off my Italy trip.

Tuesday 30 April, 2008

Last day in Italy! I took the Aerobus to Marconi airport, which was quick and cheap. The airport itself was quite nice: clean and rather modern. I easily found my check=in, had a coffee and bought some water for the flight, and settled in to wait for my flight. Being completely anal-retentive, I was there two and a half hours early, which ended up being worse than it seems, since the flight was really late. I flew MyAir, which I would not recommend to anyone. For some reason our plane got held back in Bucharest, and when it finally did arrive, we had to get bussed out onto the tarmac, and when we actually got in the plane, they sat there with the air off for about twenty minutes while running through the safety procedures. We were all dying of the heat when finally we took off. The flight was rather uneventful, and despite a mildly terrifying landing where we skidded slightly and you could feel the pilot jerk the plane back to the right, we got back safely. Same routine to get into CDG: wait for bus, pile in bus, and roll across tarmac. We landed at T3, so after the luggage came out, I popped over to T2 and took the RER back into Paris. And … that’s it. But not for long, because I’ll be back in less than a week!

Really enjoyed your pictures and their captions :)

How fortunate you are to be returning so soon!

Thanks for a very entertaining trip report.

After reading through my report, I realized that it may not seem like I think Italy is a sort of paradise. I can be very critical and sarcastic, but often I think I do this most with the things I love most. Plus, I cannot write in a very sentimental style. My description skill is nill. I'll leave that to Zola. :)

Sheepie,

I've only gotten up to day 1 of your trip report and I can't count how much times I've died laughing at your descriptions! Wonderful travel report! It will probably take me a while to get through all of it(since it's already 8pm here), but I can already tell I'm in for a great read.

I loved your description of the bus system, especially when you read that it was so easy. On our first trip to Europe, DS and I had never...never used public transportation in cities before, and whenever we asked people, they always said the metros were a breeze - ha! Our first city was Paris, and as soon as we entered our first metro station, he hung around for about 10 seconds and just about ran due to sheer terror and frustration!

I don't think I would have been able to navigate the bus system on my own - can't believe there are actual cardboard signs at the bus stops! I'm sure all of it is hilarious now, but must have seemed so overwhelming in the moment.

Is it bad that I died laughing over your set-up story in the restaurant? Talk about a great story to tell when you get home - cannot believe the guy continued to "woo" you even after he realized why the two of you were put at the same table...was he at least cute?