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.