So there I am, sitting at a little cafe in front of the Pantheon, enjoying the sunshine and the warm weather, reading a great book, sipping a cappuccino, and letting my legs breath in a pair of cut off jean shorts... when I hear... wait, could it be? Thunder? Whaaat?
So it begins to drizzle. The pages of my book have splashes of rainwater running down the words. The waiters break out the umbrellas, and I do not worry because I believe it to be just a thing in passing. After all, it's still warm and the sun is still shining... when... wait, could it be? IS THAT HAIL? Yes. Hail begins to beat down on the umbrellas that have become more of a force field against the weather than anything else. I move further under the umbrella as my cappuccino gets attacked by small chunks of ice. I like my cappuccino hot damnit!
And yet, miraculously, the sun is still out! The hail then gives way to a brutal dousing of heavy rain. I briefly wonder how I will get home in my flats and shorts and lacking an umbrella.
Gypsies, seizing their chance, spring up like mushrooms in the piazza, carrying an arsonal of umbrellas. The one nearest me offers to sell me one. Five euro? No thanks, buddy, I've got one at home, not that it's doing much good now. Plus, the last one I bought from you gutted itself in the slightest of winds!
What to do, what to do? First step: pay for cappuccino. Second step: make a run for it. The waiter handed me the check. FOUR EURO FOR A CAPPUCCINO? Remind me to never get a cappuccino at a restaurant again, thankssss. I could have bought an umbrella for less than that and got more use for my money. In any case, the waiter offered me a plastic bag for my hair. I accepted graciously, said "Piacere Adam, grazie," and with an audience of the entire restaurant, put the plastic bag over my hair, and ran for home.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Monday, March 28, 2011
Bed and I: The Reconciliation
I just got back to Rome a couple days ago, and nearly slept all of those two days. "Why" you may ask. And I would answer: traveling is not for the weak! Especially if you're a cheapo like me.
I had about a week long adventure roaming around Europe with some amazing people, seeing incredible things, learning about the world and myself, and meeting more amazing people. But to get to these places and have these experiences takes time, effort, loss of sleep, and hopefully not so much loss of money. To combat this last part, we had to get a little creative.
For example: sleeping in places I would normally not choose to sleep. Three nights of this journey were spent sleeping in airports. Two of those nights, in London, we had to sleep on the floor. Apparently this is not so unusual for people to do in London, as many people were fully prepared with blankets and pillows. These were the true travelers, the tramps, the ones that give the finger to society and say instead: I will see the world and on my own terms!
So we did as the Londoners did, found a free expanse of floor, used our suitcases as pillows, and tried to fall asleep as we jealously looked on at people sleeping on benches and others who had put together six chairs in order to keep off the floor.
Oh yes, did I mention the floor was stone and extremely cold? No matter how many layers you put on, the cold somehow sneaks its way into your bones and refuses to leave.
We attempted to ward it off by layering pants over pants, shirts over shirts over sweaters over jackets and coats, emptying out our suitcases in the hopes that we could make some sort of semblance of a bed out of our clothes but it was to no avail. The cold still snuck in and set up camp.
Other times we slept in buses while we traveled from here to there, getting as much shut eye as we could. Of course, we did have hostels and beds to sleep in, but the party lifestyle just won't allow for much sleep.
So here I find myself back in Rome, exhausted but happy, hugging my bed as in greeting of an old friend. Bed, I will never take you for granted again.
I had about a week long adventure roaming around Europe with some amazing people, seeing incredible things, learning about the world and myself, and meeting more amazing people. But to get to these places and have these experiences takes time, effort, loss of sleep, and hopefully not so much loss of money. To combat this last part, we had to get a little creative.
For example: sleeping in places I would normally not choose to sleep. Three nights of this journey were spent sleeping in airports. Two of those nights, in London, we had to sleep on the floor. Apparently this is not so unusual for people to do in London, as many people were fully prepared with blankets and pillows. These were the true travelers, the tramps, the ones that give the finger to society and say instead: I will see the world and on my own terms!
So we did as the Londoners did, found a free expanse of floor, used our suitcases as pillows, and tried to fall asleep as we jealously looked on at people sleeping on benches and others who had put together six chairs in order to keep off the floor.
Oh yes, did I mention the floor was stone and extremely cold? No matter how many layers you put on, the cold somehow sneaks its way into your bones and refuses to leave.
We attempted to ward it off by layering pants over pants, shirts over shirts over sweaters over jackets and coats, emptying out our suitcases in the hopes that we could make some sort of semblance of a bed out of our clothes but it was to no avail. The cold still snuck in and set up camp.
Other times we slept in buses while we traveled from here to there, getting as much shut eye as we could. Of course, we did have hostels and beds to sleep in, but the party lifestyle just won't allow for much sleep.
So here I find myself back in Rome, exhausted but happy, hugging my bed as in greeting of an old friend. Bed, I will never take you for granted again.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
How to Save Money, and then Fail
When traveling, it's important to have a financial plan. My friends and I, for example, have an excellent money-saving plan. We're going to starve.
The only problem with this is that we can't seem to keep our hands off of food. We're big fans. Only the other day, my roommate and I went out to get a bite of pizza and ended up eating our way across the piazza.
To practice our financial plan, however, we thought we would give it a go in Venice since we were going to be there overnight. By the end of the night, we were drunk, tired, and most of all, hungry. We followed some Venetian locals back to their apartment with promises of a couch to sleep on, since we didn't have a hostel (another brilliant money-saving plan), and promises of food.
When we arrived, we found the house to be curiously devoid of food. In my drunken state, I felt lied to, deceived, and scandalized. I put on my coat and declared that I was leaving. "FOOD IS THE ONLY REASON I CAME HERE" I explained... until my friends pointed out we had nowhere to stay.
So our gracious host offered up the only food available in the apartment: a loaf of frozen bread... which I proceeded to eat half of. Frozen. Between mouthfuls of icy bread, I inquired of my friends how we were going to starve ourselves during our travels. Clearly this was going to be impossible.
In the morning, I was quite sick. As soon as I stepped off the train, I ran to vomit up a half a loaf of bread into the trash (first checking to see which one was refuse, of course, as Italians are big on recycling). My friend stood by me and asked if I was alright.
"I'm fine," I said. "I just need some food." I think our plan will be a fail...
The only problem with this is that we can't seem to keep our hands off of food. We're big fans. Only the other day, my roommate and I went out to get a bite of pizza and ended up eating our way across the piazza.
To practice our financial plan, however, we thought we would give it a go in Venice since we were going to be there overnight. By the end of the night, we were drunk, tired, and most of all, hungry. We followed some Venetian locals back to their apartment with promises of a couch to sleep on, since we didn't have a hostel (another brilliant money-saving plan), and promises of food.
When we arrived, we found the house to be curiously devoid of food. In my drunken state, I felt lied to, deceived, and scandalized. I put on my coat and declared that I was leaving. "FOOD IS THE ONLY REASON I CAME HERE" I explained... until my friends pointed out we had nowhere to stay.
So our gracious host offered up the only food available in the apartment: a loaf of frozen bread... which I proceeded to eat half of. Frozen. Between mouthfuls of icy bread, I inquired of my friends how we were going to starve ourselves during our travels. Clearly this was going to be impossible.
In the morning, I was quite sick. As soon as I stepped off the train, I ran to vomit up a half a loaf of bread into the trash (first checking to see which one was refuse, of course, as Italians are big on recycling). My friend stood by me and asked if I was alright.
"I'm fine," I said. "I just need some food." I think our plan will be a fail...
Thursday, February 24, 2011
The Curious Incident of the Keys in the Night-Time
First there were two sets of keys. Those belonging to my roommate, and those belonging to me. On Friday both sets were accounted for, and by Saturday, both were gone. This is the tale of lost and curiously recovered keys and the confusion that followed.
On Friday I wandered around Rome with some friends, hopped some fences, kicked around a soccer ball, you know, the usual. I got home around 6 o'clock pm and let myself in with my keys. Somewhere between that time and the time I left to go out that night, they had disappeared.
My roommate came home about an hour later, and let herself in with her own keys. These she set on the night stand between our two beds, and this is the set I grabbed that night before I went out. My roommate stayed in that night and I let myself in when I got home.
The next morning, my roommate woke me up saying that she thought I had taken her keys the night before and that she needed them now to go to meet up with a friend. I opened my junk drawer where I had tossed them before falling into bed, and handed them to her. I figured a quick search of pockets and table tops would reveal my keys in no time. I was wrong. They were nowhere to be found.
That day, I stayed in and cleaned. When my roommate returned home, she had some amusing news.
"I dropped my keys down the elevator shaft" she announced.
"Shit." I commented.
We wanted to go out that night but no longer could because we would have had to sleep in the streets, and the streets of Rome are no place for sweet dreams.
The next fews days were spent making sure at least one of us was home at all times so the other could get in. This worked out surprisingly well because my roommate has morning classes and I have night classes.
Then on Tuesday, the door man fished my roommate's keys out of the bottom of the elevator shaft. One set down, one to go!
Tuesday night I went out and took my roommate's keys with me. She told me to set them on the night stand when I got home so she could find them easily in the morning to go to class, so I did.
That night I had a dream aboout homeless people and a whale being stuck in the street, but more importantly, I dreamed I had found my keys.
The next day I was extremely hung over and slept in til about 3 pm. When I finally pulled my alcohol-soaked body from bed, I noticed something very peculiar. There were two sets of keys on the night-stand.
When I inquired my roommate about this curious reappearance, she said she had found them in the livingroom next to one of the potted plants. I have no idea how they got there, but we now have two sets of keys, where there were once none.
On Friday I wandered around Rome with some friends, hopped some fences, kicked around a soccer ball, you know, the usual. I got home around 6 o'clock pm and let myself in with my keys. Somewhere between that time and the time I left to go out that night, they had disappeared.
My roommate came home about an hour later, and let herself in with her own keys. These she set on the night stand between our two beds, and this is the set I grabbed that night before I went out. My roommate stayed in that night and I let myself in when I got home.
The next morning, my roommate woke me up saying that she thought I had taken her keys the night before and that she needed them now to go to meet up with a friend. I opened my junk drawer where I had tossed them before falling into bed, and handed them to her. I figured a quick search of pockets and table tops would reveal my keys in no time. I was wrong. They were nowhere to be found.
That day, I stayed in and cleaned. When my roommate returned home, she had some amusing news.
"I dropped my keys down the elevator shaft" she announced.
"Shit." I commented.
We wanted to go out that night but no longer could because we would have had to sleep in the streets, and the streets of Rome are no place for sweet dreams.
The next fews days were spent making sure at least one of us was home at all times so the other could get in. This worked out surprisingly well because my roommate has morning classes and I have night classes.
Then on Tuesday, the door man fished my roommate's keys out of the bottom of the elevator shaft. One set down, one to go!
Tuesday night I went out and took my roommate's keys with me. She told me to set them on the night stand when I got home so she could find them easily in the morning to go to class, so I did.
That night I had a dream aboout homeless people and a whale being stuck in the street, but more importantly, I dreamed I had found my keys.
The next day I was extremely hung over and slept in til about 3 pm. When I finally pulled my alcohol-soaked body from bed, I noticed something very peculiar. There were two sets of keys on the night-stand.
When I inquired my roommate about this curious reappearance, she said she had found them in the livingroom next to one of the potted plants. I have no idea how they got there, but we now have two sets of keys, where there were once none.
Monday, February 21, 2011
The Purple Prostitute Phenomenon
Upon arrival in Rome, I was told by a fellow American that the color purple signified prostitute.
I took care to avoid all things purple. I abandoned my purple knit hat and secluded my new purple scarf to the bottom of my closet. No one was going to mistake me for a prostitute.
As the days wore on, any glimpse of purple caught my eye. I saw women with suede purple high-heeled boots, luscious dark purple scarves and hats, and even some with shameless purple dresses.
IS EVERYONE A PROSTITUTE?! I thought.
Then I had my first Italian class. My professor, a Tuscan woman looking good in her 50's, showed up to class clad all in purple. The next class was no different. She was decked from head to foot in all shades of purple imaginable. I was confused.
Did my professor have a side job turning tricks and refused to change before class? Or had I been misinformed?
One night I asked my Italian friend. After a few amusing minutes spent attempting to define a prostitute and their relation to the color purple, I could see a light bulb click on over his head.
"No, no, no," he laughed, looking bewildered. "This is not true."
"Oh good," I thought as I looked down in sudden horror. "Because this shirt would have made things really awkward."
I took care to avoid all things purple. I abandoned my purple knit hat and secluded my new purple scarf to the bottom of my closet. No one was going to mistake me for a prostitute.
As the days wore on, any glimpse of purple caught my eye. I saw women with suede purple high-heeled boots, luscious dark purple scarves and hats, and even some with shameless purple dresses.
IS EVERYONE A PROSTITUTE?! I thought.
Then I had my first Italian class. My professor, a Tuscan woman looking good in her 50's, showed up to class clad all in purple. The next class was no different. She was decked from head to foot in all shades of purple imaginable. I was confused.
Did my professor have a side job turning tricks and refused to change before class? Or had I been misinformed?
One night I asked my Italian friend. After a few amusing minutes spent attempting to define a prostitute and their relation to the color purple, I could see a light bulb click on over his head.
"No, no, no," he laughed, looking bewildered. "This is not true."
"Oh good," I thought as I looked down in sudden horror. "Because this shirt would have made things really awkward."
Bruised Pride
My pillow was calling my name. I had been out all night drinking and dancing at Coyote Bar and finally made it home at 5:30am.
My bed was there, just how I had left it. The pillow fluffed up, the blankets and sheets in disarray, just how i like them. Tonight there was nothing on my bed, no laptop or books or papers. The way was cleared for me to leap and be consumed by everything bed-like. I knew my bed would not fail me, sleep would come quickly and I would dream of feathers and silk and my favorite bathrobe, and everything soft.
I kept the light off so as not to wake my roommate. I tip-toed to the edge of where I knew my bed was waiting for me and I leaped with a child-like grin, my arms held wide, ready to embrace sleep.
And I missed.
"What the fuck?" said my roommate.
"Uhhgghhhowww ehhhh," I replied.
I felt the bruises begin to bloom on my knee and my pride. It will be a while before I trust you again, bed.
My bed was there, just how I had left it. The pillow fluffed up, the blankets and sheets in disarray, just how i like them. Tonight there was nothing on my bed, no laptop or books or papers. The way was cleared for me to leap and be consumed by everything bed-like. I knew my bed would not fail me, sleep would come quickly and I would dream of feathers and silk and my favorite bathrobe, and everything soft.
I kept the light off so as not to wake my roommate. I tip-toed to the edge of where I knew my bed was waiting for me and I leaped with a child-like grin, my arms held wide, ready to embrace sleep.
And I missed.
"What the fuck?" said my roommate.
"Uhhgghhhowww ehhhh," I replied.
I felt the bruises begin to bloom on my knee and my pride. It will be a while before I trust you again, bed.
Friday, February 18, 2011
A Royal Pick-Me-Up
The learning never ends here in Rome. Every day I learn new things about the culture, the people, the language etc. Just the other day in my Italian class, I learned about the origins of the Italian dessert tiramisu.
Long ago, the Duke of Tuscany took a trip to Sienna because, as legend has it, that is where the most beautiful women were. The Duke supposedly was a legendary lover and had lots of women but he wanted to check out the Sienna babes. So, to welcome him, the good people of Sienna made him a dessert.
The dessert consisted of fresh eggs, coffee, and rum, all good aphrodisiacs and energy boosters for the Duke's "enterprising" in Sienna. The people of Sienna named it tiramisu, which in Italian translates literally to "pull me up." Basically, the good people of Sienna made the Duke a pick me up to help him spread his legendary loving around.
I love Italians.
Long ago, the Duke of Tuscany took a trip to Sienna because, as legend has it, that is where the most beautiful women were. The Duke supposedly was a legendary lover and had lots of women but he wanted to check out the Sienna babes. So, to welcome him, the good people of Sienna made him a dessert.
The dessert consisted of fresh eggs, coffee, and rum, all good aphrodisiacs and energy boosters for the Duke's "enterprising" in Sienna. The people of Sienna named it tiramisu, which in Italian translates literally to "pull me up." Basically, the good people of Sienna made the Duke a pick me up to help him spread his legendary loving around.
I love Italians.
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