Sheepie87

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.

vjpblovesitaly

Nice report. Thanks for sharing!

Byrd

What fun! Love your report.

Byrd

cathies

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

LBev769375

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.

Dayle

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.

LCBoniti

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.

mebe

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?

travelfan1

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.

Sheepie87

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!

Sheepie87

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.

Dayle

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

luvtotravel

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

luvtotravel

This is more, isn't there?

WillTravel

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.

Sheepie87

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!

ellenem

Enjoying this report . . .

SusanP

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!

EricBentzen

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.

Sheepie87

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.