A Roman Holiday

“See the world. It's more fantastic than any dream made or paid for in factories. Ask for no guarantees, ask for no security.”
From Fahrenheit 451 By Ray Bradbury

First, let me apologize to my readers for not writing about my adventures in Rome sooner. It’s been a crazy/busy last week of term and I just haven’t had the time to do my trip justice. Hope it’s worth the wait! 

There’s something crazy to an American about going to Rome for the weekend. It’s like a Minnesotan going to Chicago; fun, but no big deal! I was extremely excited to visit my friend Lyssa who was studying in Rome for the fall semester. We’d planned on my visit before we left Minnesota in September.
However, I was worried I’d not make it due to an error with my visa expiration date. Due to that (I really felt that having my visa expire January 2013 instead of 2014 just wouldn't work for my…) I had to send my passport to the Home Office for a new visa. They claimed that it would only take three weeks. Being a government agency I didn't want to bet on that and book a ticket only to waste my money because I couldn't leave the country!
To my great surprise my passport arrive three weeks to the day (I know it would have been delayed if I’d booked the ticket before getting it back) so I hopped on my computer, confirmed dates with Lyssa, and booked my flight. I found a flight that got me into Rome early Friday and didn't leave until late Sunday evening! Perfect – like they knew people would take long weekends to Rome, imagine that! Traveling the weekend before the last week of term wasn't ideal but I wasn't going to let a little thing like homework get in my way.
After booking my ticket it dawned on me – my flight left at a time when I couldn't use public transportation to get to the airport…So I sucked it up and ordered a cab to pick me up. That’s a first. After an extremely early morning (I potentially got up at four) I made it to my flight without a hitch.
Once I arrive in Rome things got a little bumpier. My first obstacle was that I thought the line on the metro map was an underground train from the airport to the Termini Station, where I had arranged to meet Lyssa. Yep, you’re right, it wasn't  Turns out it was a express train that cost €14. As we've already established I’m a cheapskate. Instead of sucking it up and just paying the money, I headed back to where I’d seen a sign for a shuttle bus for €5.
Giving the woman behind the counter a €20 I waited for my ticket. “You got a 5, lady?” She asked briskly. I was so insulted! Where I come from when you say ‘lady’ is it to be rude. I was seconds away from chewing the lady out when my brain (a very tired brain, I might add) connected to dots – lady translates into Italian as signora, which is basically the same as ma’am in America. Not that I like being called ma’am, but at least that translation isn't rude. Cultural blunder averted, I gave her a smaller bill and left, relieved not to have reinforced the stereotype of the rude America tourist.
I was supposed to meet Lyssa at 11:30, it was already 11:15 – my bus didn't leave until 11:50…great. It couldn't take that long to get into the city, right? Wrong. I check to mileage when I got home, it’s only about twenty-one miles between the airport and Termini Station – it took over an hour! It didn't help that the bus left late. At 12:30 my phone started to ring, I didn't recognize the number, which meant one of two things: either a telemarketer had gotten a hold of my number or Lyssa was calling (I’d been smart enough to give her my number and load up credit so I could use it internationally, if necessary). I correctly guessed it was Lyssa calling. “Hi, Amy. It’s Lyssa. Where are you?” Good question. I told her the situation and we changed our meeting place to the MacDonald’s. Should be easy to find, right? Guess who went to the wrong MacDonald’s at Termini. Yep, not Lyssa. We finally connected and after dropping my stuff off Lyssa took me on a walking tour of her Rome. We had a grand time catching up and I loved seeing Rome again, this time not as a tourist (except for my camera, I couldn't help myself) but as the guest of a resident. We even stopped by her school and she climbed one of the orange trees in the garden so we could have a snack. It was funny how she had settled in to the point where she got super annoyed by the tourists – especially the tour buses – and walked boldly across busy streets without blinking an eye. We had dinner at her “regular” pizza place (they didn't even give use menus, she just told them what we wanted) then headed home, tired, but happy.
Saturday we got up and plotted our day. Not really knowing what was around I relied on Lyssa for suggestions. In the end we decided to go to a place outside the city. Gathering our things we headed to the underground station. Lyssa only had her camera bag so she put her wallet in my purse. After catching the train we chatted happily, hopping off when it was time to transfer.
You ever get that feeling in the pit of your stomach that something’s wrong? Yeah, as we got off the underground I got that queasy feeling and with a sinking heart I felt down at my side to my purse. To my horror the flap was down but the zipper was open! My pulse skyrocketed. I felt inside then looked over at Lyssa. “Do you have your wallet?” “I put it in your bag.” A dreadful pause followed, as she stared at me. “I think we just got pick-pocketed.” I thought I was going to be sick. I felt deeper into my little purse, hoping to find her clutch (like it was somehow hiding? I don’t know. My brain wasn't working properly). My fingers brushed against my own little wallet at the bottom and I had the selfish thought we all have when something bad happened to someone else. ‘Thank goodness it wasn't me.’ I know; I’m a terrible person. I’m human, I can’t help it.
Our first reaction was to go back to the house and call to cancel her debit cards. As we rode the train back to the stop to get home I had a thought; the damage was done. By the time we got a hold of someone in America from the bank any charges would have been made and her cards would have been frozen. Even if there were a lot of charges, she wouldn't be out any money. “Lyssa, let’s just go on with our day. I have my money; I can pay for anything we need.” After a short discussion we agreed. We’d not let it ruin our day but take care of it when we got home that evening. We did, however, alter our destination to a place closer and included in our metro ticket – Ostia Antica.
As we transferred from underground to above ground train it began to rain (did I mention the forecast for the weekend was a 50% change of rain every day? Talk about bringing British weather with m!) but we plowed ahead, refusing to let it dampen our day together.
By the time we’d reached Ostia the rain stopped and the sun begun to peak out between the clouds. It was like a good omen. The rest of the day was wonderful. Ostia Antica turned out to not just be an excavation site of an ancient Roman town but completely free of tourist and ropes blocking us from wondering around and climbing on whatever we wanted. It was wonderful. That evening we went shopping and made ourselves stir fry from fresh ingredients. It was lovely.
We finally had to pay the piper and call about Lyssa’s cards. It took some doing but she finally got a hold of a person (who amazing was an American-English speaker). To both our surprises there were no fraudulent charges on them. The thieves must have grabbed the €40 in it and tossed the rest. This development should have made the process of getting new cards issued a breeze. No such luck. Apparently their system was acting up so we ended up on the phone for almost an hour between the first lady and then having to call back and talk to someone else, a significant part of which was waiting on hold (with the usual bad music to entertain us). However, the whole stolen wallet things could have turned out a lot worse and as Lyssa put it – “they must have needed that money more than I did.” She’s an amazing young lady.
Sunday we took a walk to the Vatican and then wandered around the quaint streets. After having some gelato (you can’t go it Italy and not, come on!) we strolled down the Tiber River back to her place, enjoying another lovely afternoon.
Too soon it was time for me to catch my train (yep, I splurged and paid the higher price) to the airport. Somehow the express train (with only a start and end point, no stops in between) managed to be ten minutes late. I should have sense that a pattern was going to arise. With some effort I found my ticket counter and then headed to security. I arrived at passport control and when I got to the window the officers were switching out. The guy starting looked at me while he was taking his jacket off and said “open it up and show me your picture.” I hold it out as he settled his coat on the back of his chair. He glanced over, “where’re you going.” “Birmingham.” “Ok, go ahead.” That was it. I was past before he even sat down. Gotta love the Italians!
Soon the boarding time approached and, as a now well-trained English resident, I queued, and waiting. And waited. The boarding time slipped by. “Sorry for the delay,” they announced. “We’ll starting boarding at 7:20.” Our flight was supposed to depart at 7:40. At 7:40 they finally began the boarding process. We all settled in and waited. And waited. At 8:00 the captain came on the speaker, “for those of you who've flown out of Rome before, you won’t be surprised – but we are currently scheduled to take-off at 8:15.” 8:15 came and went. We got an old fashioned safety demonstration (some of the televisions seemed to have broken, and banging on them didn't solve the problem) by the flight crew. The captain came back on and in a voice that conveyed his annoyance at the aviation system in Italy, told us we were currently fifth in line for take-off, adding “for those of you on the left, the air stripe is on your side if you want to count down the planes departing.” We finally took off at 8:50, a measly hour and ten minutes after our scheduled time. Thankfully I was seated next to two very nice ladies from the Birmingham area who I regaled with my knowledge (such as the fact that people should call Leonardo Di Vinci, Leonardo, not Di Vinci and that the Sistine Chapel’s ceiling was a fresco, which was plaster that had to painted while still wet and Michelangelo laid on his back – thank you Art History teaching mother and Mary B). They were so impressed; it was kinda funny but, also in way, sad. Not to be a snob, but isn't everything more interesting and awe inspiring when you've already learned the facts about it and can just enjoy the aesthetic experience of the place (wow, I think I've been completely indoctrinated by my mother, *shudder*).
At last I reached home, after a trip of planes, trains, and automobiles.