Arrivederci Roma

24/25-Settembre-2011 (The dates when things happened.)


On Saturday, we broke fast with our final continental morning meal and soon were back to Monti to buy a present for Katie.  Should have dickered over the price of the ring, but we were too American.  

Green architecture.

As the shopping wound down, I peeked into a previously unexamined corner building on the piazza.  Inside were the remains of a destroyed bar.  Looked like one wild party.  What happened there?  Another of life’s unsolved mysteries.

If you believe the bit about broken mirrors, this is a lot of bad luck.

We hung around in the delightfully sleepy Monti neighborhood as long as we dared.  

The flower vendor's truck at the not-so-busy intersection.

The flower vendor verifying the sleepiness of Monti.

The wording on the door was "essenzadesign.it"
The product was "style."

Time running out, we retraced our steps back to the hotel to grab our stuff and head to the airport.  Ancient Rome was a city of over one million people, so I was not surprised to see new sights outside the central tourist zone.  We passed a circular temple, another huge building with columns all around that seemed governmental, a Medieval church with a line of people waiting to enter, the Pyramid of Praetor Cestius (“Bury me in a pyramid, dammit!  I want to walk ..er ah.. die like an Egyptian”), and shortly after passing through a neighborhood that could only be described as ritzy, a incongruous storefront providing Cibo Cinese - Senza Limite (Chinese Food, all-you-can-eat).

The driver went through what looked like a garbage dump to get to an unmarked on-ramp for the freeway to Leonardo da Vinci airport in Fiumicino.  We followed a dirt path weaving through piles of debris. As much as we all admire Dave’s driving skills, he would never, ever have found that on-ramp, even if he was GPS equipped.  But we arrived more quickly than I remembered from past rides to the airport.  The driver insisted that termini 1 was the correct one, since it was for Alitalia, but as listed in our paperwork, termini 3 turned out to be correct.  Plus one for the ramp, but minus one for the terminal nets you zero, but he had already disappeared with our gracious tip by the time the score was tallied.

This post is getting long winded.  Don't you feel like having a triangular sandwich?
Or one of these tramezzini, as the Italians would say?

Surprisingly, the walk between terminals was not bad, so no matter.  Then came the stress of finding the check-in desk among hundreds, which made us walk briskly along the rows of check-in counters looking for some semblance of order.  Looking for order in a busy Italian airport?  How foolish am I?  

We eventually found the proper counter by dumb luck.   Finally ticketed, Mary’s bag was checked through to Rochester, but none of the others were.  “Sometimes you just get lucky,” stated the counter woman.  More like 3 out of 4 times you are unlucky, or maybe 3 out of 4 times the counter woman is too lazy to do her entire job.  Don’t you just love airports?  The last detail was the realizaton that our flight to NYC-JFK had been delayed almost three hours, making our connection to Rochester an issue.  

We killed time by walking through the shops.  I had the opportunity to buy an Armani belt, but I thought €177 was just a little too high for a chunk of leather with a buckle.  Let’s see, with a repurposed beverage budget of $50 per week, and a conversion rate of $1.42 to the Euro, this would equal….Nope.  Not gonna happen.

Finally airborne, we settled in for the long flight.  Before exiting French airspace, the man seated in front of me got up and turned around, kneeling on his seat.  He shouted in Italian to his friend further back, but the rushing air did not allow communication.  Frustrated, he smiled and yelled, “Speak English, I can’t understand you.  It starts with a P, like pizza, you know, a spice.”  He pauses.  “Oh, persimmon, that’s it!  Grazie.”  


Then he looked around at all the people he had interrupted.  “How you all doing?”  Big smile.  “Just a few more hours.  We’ll be home.  We’ll be back in the land of Obama.”  From his facial expression, one can see that just like Mary’s Dad, he feels that an Italian should have been President before someone with African lineage.  

Some additional political commentary observed in Rome.

We arrived to chaos at JFK—what else is new?  But we made record-breaking time through customs, where the alert and attentive agent duly noted that my hair was much more blonde than my almost 10-year-old photo indicated.  

“Whaddayamean, blonde?” said Mary.  “That’s all gray.”  

“Whaddayamean, Mary?  I like this guy.  He has truthful vision.”  

Out of customs, we were dumped into the clutches of incompetent, arrogant, patronizing and distracted Delta agents without a clue or leadership.  They appeared to thrive on drama.  Had they directed us properly, and not allowed others to cut ahead, we would have made our connection.  We finally ended our ordeal with a young woman working for Alitalia, not Delta, who helped us rebook and get a hotel voucher, but even she was handicapped by an archaic computer system and redundant paperwork requirements that forced her to transfer exorbitant amounts of data from several different screens to the hand written voucher.  All this while the line of people lengthened outside her door.  

The following letter wrote itself:

Dear Mr. Richard H. Anderson, CEO, Delta Airlines,

Our party of four recently arrived at JFK on Alitalia to make a connection for a Delta flight to Rochester, NY.  We didn’t make it, and Delta put us up for the night in beautiful Queens.

A few questions:  

Why wasn’t there a Delta agent to meet us when we cleared customs?  We were assured later that there was someone there to help us, but that was untrue.  30 minutes of one informed agent’s time would have made much of the ensuing chaos minimized or avoidable, and might have saved your company the cost of two hotel rooms.  And even if there was no way to make our flight, a simple redirection to the area where we received hotel vouchers would have made the experience much less stressful, and your photo would probably not serve as the floor in my birdcage.

After passing customs, could we have just left our bags for delivery to Rochester the following day?  After our original flight was in the air, we were pleased to learn that would have been an option, allowing us to board more quickly.  I would have gladly driven to the Rochester airport to collect our belongings after a restful night in my own bed.  For future reference, can you tell me if such an arrangement is possible?

Why was the Alitalia agent at FCO able to tag one of our bags through to Rochester and not the other three?  “Sometimes you get lucky” and “The system won’t let me” just doesn’t make sense in the age of smart phones.  Had we been able to check our bags at the “connecting flights” area, and avoided a new check-in, it is very likely we would have been able to make our flight.  Is your computer system provided by video poker designers from Las Vegas?  Or is it programmed to stealth-bump travelers with tight connections on overbooked flights?

Why don’t you have a scale in the check-in line, or in a separate area, so that people can weigh and repack their bags as necessary before they get to the ticketing counter?  We could not reach the Delta agent for 15 minutes because a woman with two oversized bags, ushered in front of us by Bozo the Clown disguised as a Skycap, repacked her overweight bags three times.  A simple scale disconnected from the ticketing process would have eliminated this fiasco.  Alternatively, if you allow those customers waiting in line to assist, I’m sure the bags would be repacked under the weight limit in no time.  A second and perhaps more appealing alternative would be to allow the customers waiting in line to pack the woman in one bag, the Skycap in the other, and send the bags on their way.

And finally, where do you get your ticketing agents from?  It has been suggested that at least a portion are from mental institutions of one sort or another, but I personally would not want to insult those populations.  No, due to their abilities to create and act out drama, it is clear that they are all cast members of off-Broadway plays no traveler wants to see.  “To fly, or not to fly, that is the question:  Whether ‘tis nobler on the ground to suffer the things that narrow outrageous chances, or to take alarm at a sea of cretins, and by opposing, fly away from them.”  Is this where you found them?

Thank you for your attention to this matter.  I look forward to your response.

Randy Fredlund

Tired and out of sorts, we took the train to the bus that dumped us at the hotel.  



Becky and I went to the registration desk to negotiate the rooms.  Thankfully, the woman at the counter did not work for Delta.  I handed over the voucher, and before long, had only to sign on the dotted line to get the key.  

“Here you go sir, just sign here.”  Looking at Becky, she said, “And I need your wife’s signature here.”

“My wife is standing over there,” I said, pointing across the room to Mary.

The woman looked back at me, then Becky, and then back to me.  “Oh, you naughty boy.”

Mary came over and asked, “What’s all the laughing about?”

***********************

Back in NY.   Name that crooked lake!

Always good to get back home.

The next day was thankfully uneventful.  We said our so-longs and parted ways at the Rochester airport.  Returning home, Mary went to see her Dad, I carted Mom to see my Dad, and in no time at all, we were back to the elder care races.  


Almost immediately, we felt the need for more Roma-therapy.

***********************

Epilog

$500 for the car door I tweaked just before we left?  Are you kidding?  How naïve.  Fixing the door cost over two grand.  Yes, that is what insurance is for, I guess.  I also need to make sure the next time I smash something on a car that I don’t touch anything active…like a door handle.

And no, I didn't send the letter.  Do you think I should?

Winding down in Rome

23-Settembre-2011

Out our hotel room window.  Pay no attention to the angle.  This is Rome, not Pisa.

Via Nazionale, below our room, is one of the main drags in Rome.  It is incredibly noisy all the time.  But our hotel windows belied this fact.  Open, the noise was loud and non-stop.  Closed, you don’t even notice it.  But you can’t trust my hearing.  I suggest you go to Hotel Artimede and test the windows for yourself.

The Foringers were up and out early for a tour of the Vatican Museum and the Sistine Chapel.  Mary and I passed on this one since we had seen them before, and the idea of a lazy day wandering around was appealing.  We would meet back at the hotel at dinner time.

Really cool picture Dave took while touring the Vatican.

While wandering, I couldn’t help but notice that we were seeing the same beggars over and over again, even thought we were in different sections of the city.  Maybe I’m just callous, but some of their disabilities looked less than authentic.  Frozen hat man prostrates himself on the sidewalk, head down on his arms, with his outstretched baseball cap awaiting your change.  Why is it that his clothes look brand new?  Cane and cup man with the shaky leg is dressed properly for the gig, but the leg that juts out at an odd angle seems to hold more weight than it should if it is really that unstable.  Scooter girl with dyed blonde hair has her legs curled up under her, but why is it that she pushes herself along with a pair of worn sneakers?   How come the silent ones with signs I can’t read look more like hiply disheveled college students than people down on their luck?  And I don’t want to forget the small entertainment value semi-beggars…standing motionless on egg crates, dressed like Egyptians mummies, the Statue of Liberty and the all-silver man.  I almost felt bad for Lady Liberty who had chosen to swelter fully covered in the hot sun.  And of course, we can’t forget the creepy faux-gladiators at the Colosseo.  Adding to their gladiatorial aura is their aggressive protection of their image with threatening gestures unless you pay them.  I am not personally motivated to get my picture taken with a smelly guy in plastic armor, but I’m not a Japanese tourist moving with the horde from the tour bus, either.  

Note the Times New Roman font.

We wanted to see the Campo de' Fiori in full bustle, so we headed off in that direction, but got distracted by a little shop where Mary picked out a necklace for Katie.  All was going fine until we tried to buy it.  The credit card scanner wasn’t calling out, and once that hurdle was surmounted, the receipt printer would not print.  Unfortunately, I had left the unabridged Italian language book with the section on how to reload receipt printers back at the hotel, and the sales girl had also left her English book at home.  She asked us to come back, “più tarde.”

Scene of the crime.

Only a few wrong turns later, we made it to the open air produce market.  It is interesting, it is busy, and the peppers and flowers are wonderfully displayed, but I prefer the market in Rochester, NY, where I’m certain I hear more different languages.  And I prefer it not only because I live nearby.  Primarily produce and flowers, the famous Campo de' Fiori is really rather limited in its offerings.  And there is not a single Amish vendor.  Take that, Rome.

After successfully making the necklace transaction with only a mild discomforting feeling that we may have been charged 6 or 7 times, our continued meandering brought us toward a street where Mary wanted to see some store.  The store of desire was the same brand store she had visited in Capri.  Why bother?  But it was past noon, so Mary decided to get some lunch instead of listening to my warped logic.  We sat down in a street café, but after 10 minutes it became apparent that they were unlikely to ameliorate our wine deficit anytime soon, so we went around the block to the next sidewalk restaurant.

We were seated a table away from another couple who began to order.  The man told the waiter, “I want a pizza that has sausage and onions and cheese on it, but I don’t want it all separated they way you guys do it.  I want it all mixed up and all over the pie.  Do you understand?”

The waiter nodded and disappeared.  After he was gone, I ventured, “I think he understands that you’re an American.”

The man smiled, more likely at the English than the comment, and said, “Actually, no.  We’re Canadian.”  He and his wife went on to tell us all about the multiple European vacations they take each year, and how they probably won’t be back to Italy soon since they had seen it all.  It didn’t take long for me to think that though they may have been all over the country, contrary to their thoughts, it was unlikely they had experienced any of it.

As our food was delivered, Mary spotted the Foringers walking our way.  What are the odds? With no plans to meet, and no way of getting in touch, we bump into Becky and Dave on a street of no particular note in the middle of Rome.  Had we not been ignored in the first café, we never would have seen them.  And of course, if it had been me sitting where Mary was, I probably would have been oblivious to them walking by.   Them or Lady Gaga.  Or Godzilla.

They sat down and had some wine with us.  The waiter must have thought highly of us since we got the small glasses used for water instead of the crystal goblets.  Just like family.  He also dripped wine on me when pouring the Valpolicella.  He wiped my hand, and when I made a motion to protect the tablecloth on his next pour, the waiter said “In Italy, it is luck to drip the wine.”  Drip on!  Even if it was a total lie.  I like the man’s style.  

Even better, as he retired to the kitchen, he deposited the check at the edge of the Canadian’s platter of unfinished pizza.  In all the times we have been served meals anywhere in Italy, we have never received the check until long after we have finished eating, and almost always have to ask for it.  And I don’t think the waiter was inclined to drip any wine at their table, either.

The Foringers filled us in on their tour.  They were shuttled around in a bus picking up a few here, a few there, basically wasting a lot of time.   The museum was packed, the guide was "una cagna" (though it wasn’t clear that she was up to date on her rabies shots), the headsets worked great if you wanted to work on understanding German sentence fragments, and instead of amplifying the experience by finishing in St. Peter’s Basilica, the tour dumped them on the street.  Bummer.  But the Capella Sistina was still the Sistine Chapel, so it wasn’t a total loss.

Not a total loss...Dave took this on the way to the Sistine Chapel

Vino finito, we took the short walk to Via Fratini, where the “store of stores” was located…the store they had already been to on Capri.  

Skilled navigatioon

The street turned out to be a total mess due to construction.  The mason’s union was in full flourish, ripping up asphalt and covering the revealed sandy soil with pavers.  As they slowly progressed down the street, the entry doors to a store or two would become inaccessible for a time.  Guess which one we couldn’t get to?  What are the odds?  We discovered the problem by taking the right fork where the sign on the fence separating the workers from the shoppers clearly instructed us to walk left, where we would not have dead-ended just short of our destination.  But even though we would not have had to turn around, we still would not have been able to enter.

The sign clearly says "English Speakers Go Right."

Italian tax dollars at work.

Mary approached one of the masons to find out when the store might be accessible.  She returned with news that quattro was the mason-designated time to go back, which gave us most of an hour to kill.  Mary and Becky took the opportunity to explore other nearby shops and do their best to prop up the ailing Italian economy.  

Never a good sign when all the wares are tastefully displayed.

The girls are always talking about how they love the smell of leather in the boot and handbag shops.  In fact, the smell is powerful.  I’ve seen it suck Becky right into shops.  Personally, I think it smells like burnt toast.  So after a short period of intense negotiation, I took the opportunity to banish myself to the nearby Spanish Steps, just far enough to insulate myself from waiting for the magic door to the one-true-shop to open.    

The sun blazed down on me where I sat on the steps because there was no room in the limited shade on the side where the buildings shelter the sedentary squatters from the sun.  I need to be somewhere on the steps so that Mary can find me when she is done shopping.  Check that…more correctly stated, I need to be somewhere on the steps so that Mary can find me when she takes a break from shopping.  Which she did, just as I was getting started on the Great American Novel.  I guess it will have to wait.  It was close to four, and though they had not made much progress, the masons allowed access to the shop door, not wanting to run afoul of the union mandated quitting time.  So we were allowed in, nervous with anticipation, and the glorious result was…zip.  Not as advertised.  What a letdown.

We marched off toward our hotel.  On Via delle Quattro Fontane, at the corner of the four fountains, traffic temporarily halted for a procession.  A police car, a business-suit-clad man walking, four men in uniform on horseback, another walking man and finally a police car proceeded slowly through the intersection for reasons I can’t begin to guess.  But the parade was not quite over, since the police car was followed by a street cleaning truck.  I laughed out loud, and my laugh must have been in English, since the woman standing next to me commented, “It’s the most important part of the procession.” 

No idea why this was happening, but you have to love a parade.

Essential equipment

Back at the hotel we recharged and then went to the rooftop terrace for a drink.  You can see a long way from there, but the most interesting sight from our perch was the nearby cupola of the Episcopal Church of Rome.  Do you think it’s there so that the Archbishop can leave dreary Canterbury on junkets to sunny Rome?  

The bartender gave us a recommendation for a restaurant within walking distance.  We sat outside next to a couple who identified themselves as Swedish in near perfect English.  Damn our single language American education.  I found myself telling them that although my Dad was an American, his parents were both Swedish.  I went on to relate the story of the time I read an article about a study of Norwegian professional soccer players.  The finding was that 30% of them had signs of brain damage from heading the ball.  “Only thirty percent?” responded Dad. “Heading the ball made them better?”  Even though their English was very good, the humor didn’t translate.  Or perhaps they did not have any sense of humor.  They departed soon after.

Angelo provided us with a memorable dining experience.   Assisting Dave with the wine list, he pointed out the 700 Euro bottle in all seriousness.  “You would like two bottles?” he asked, and then burst out laughing.  After the far less extravagant wine was delivered, Angelo went around the table taking orders, first advising the ladies and then Dave about what they might enjoy.  Finalizing their orders after quite a bit of negotiation, he turned to me and flatly stated, “You get fish.”

As we finished, Angelo noted that Becky had not cleaned her plate.  “Something wrong?”

“No,” said Becky, “It is very good.”

“Then I help.”  He grabbed a napkin and draped it around Becky’s neck.  Then he reached around her, stabbed the next morsel, and proceeded to feed her like a little child.  The rest of us nearly fell out of our chairs.

The table cleared, Angelo brought out not one, but two bottles, the standard limoncello and something green and no less potent in another.  The wavey glassware fit together nicely and provided an optical illusion that caused Mary to misjudge their position.  Dave’s quick reactions saved the day, however.  I’m happy to say that his agile maneuvering insured that all of the liberated limoncello found a home in his crotch, and not a single drop was wasted on the pavement.  Bravo, Dave!  It was well past nightfall, but I’m sure several people noticed how cool he looked on the walk home.

Touring Roma

22-Settembre-2011

Fillipo, our guide, picked us up at the Hotel Artemide at 9 a.m.  "You want to walk or get a cab?  It is not far."  We chose to walk.

Camera white balance problem...one of us is blonde.

We spent three hours with with the unassuming young man.  Though I am generally not pleased with tours, this one was a great experience.  Fillipo dispelled many of the misconceptions I’ve had for many years regarding the demise of much of the Colosseo (It was an earthquake) and the ill feelings toward the monument to Vittorio Emanuele II.  The Romans are not enamored with "The Wedding Cake" because they find the edifice memorializing unified Italy's first King to be garish and out of proportion to the grandeur of Imperial Rome. 

Very impressive, even if the Romans don't like it.

Mussolini roused the rabble from the balcony.

He told us many other stories including how Mussolini had pushed a roadway through the forum so that he could see the Coliseum from his office window.  Though not inexpensive, walking around Rome with a well-informed and proud native was well worth our time and money.  

While in the forum, another passing tour guide spoke to him in Italian, and he burst out laughing.

“What was that about, Fillipo?”

“She asked how you people were enjoying being given a tour of Rome by Jesus Christ.”  His long hair and beard could easily have made him the model for many of the paintings in local Basilicas.

The photo just does not do the Forum justice.

Looking back toward the Forum from the Colosseum.

Incredible detail on the underside of an arch in the Forum.

Counterweights for the canopy

We walked directly from the Forum to the Colosseum.  Fillipo's tour guide status allowed us to walk right in past hundreds of people. Another good reason for paying for his services.  As always, it was impressive, particularly if one has any imagination whatsoever.  Enjoy the simulated naval battles under the silk canopy, or watch the bloody spectacle as lions appear magically from below.  Just remember that had you resided in Rome in those days, you were as likely to have been a slave as a citizen. 

Colosseum interior

Though the seating is a bit rustic, what a great place for a concert.

After the tour, we took Fillipo’s recommendation for a Da Giggetto in the Jewish ghetto next to the Portico di Ottavia, where columns from two millenium ago still stand, and fish were sold in Medevil times.

View from the restaurant.

View in the restaurant.

We were not disappointed.  Our fish was much fresher.  As we left, the children streamed out of the middle school just up the street.  I particularly liked the yarmulke one tall boy wore with the skyline of Rome embroidered around the bottom.  

We worked our way back to Monti.  It is a nice neighborhood where the real people, or at least a smattering of the real people of Rome live.  Slightly off the tourist routes and more than a little bit more relaxed, Monti was an enjoyable place to be, even if Mary and Becky were shopping.  

After a drink back at the rooftop bar atop our hotel, we returned to Monti for gelato and people watching on a bench provided just for Mary and me.  Strolling back, we saw Becky and Dave at a café across Via Nazionale.  We timed our run to the other side so as not to be stuck by the heavy traffic.  A night cap and a bit of focaccia finished our evening.