Day 5- Florence to Rome- 13 May 2011
This morning we had another great breakfast on our hotel’s rooftop terrace. I could really get used to the Italian hot chocolate every morning; unfortunately, my waistline cannot. As I wrestled my way into my jeans after breakfast, I knew immediately that I’m in for some hard times when I get back to gym access. I’ve pretty much sulked about it all day, not that it stopped me from splitting ice cream with Mom after dinner. Ce la vie.
We took a mid-afternoon train to Rome after lunch. The train ride was uneventful save for the unavoidable sleep. Something about the movement just lulls you into dream world, and before you know it your neck’s snapping your head back against the headrest. It’s a very cute look, gaping mouth and all.
Once in Rome, we went in search for our hotel. In both Florence and Rome, our hotels have been blessedly close to the train stations; it’s just unfortunate that on our initial trek from station to hotel we have no idea where we’re going. The trip back to the station is never a problem, though, so I guess there’s that. Anyway, we drug our luggage through the streets once again. My irritation with this has nothing to do with laziness; sure, it’s a pain, but—as noted earlier—I’m in desperate need of a little calorie burnage. The problem is the meandering people all along the sidewalks, taking up as much room as they please, blowing their cigarette smoke downwind at me, and so on. This elicits audible sighs from me, my road rage on steroids.
We checked into Hotel Diana a little after three. The concierge was none too pleased with my questions about WiFi and a power adaptor—the man rolled his eyes and sighed at me!—but I pretended not to notice and hit him with a 1000-watt smile. That’ll show him. We settled into our room then hit the ground running.
Here’s a fun fact about hotel bathrooms around here: every one of them has a bidet. If you’re unfamiliar with a bidet, it’s like a birdbath for your bum. Usually there’s a little bottle of “intimate cleanse” next to the bidet and a special towel, I guess it’s a bum towel as opposed to a hand towel. The bidet has a faucet and a stopper, like a miniature bathtub, but to be honest I’m not sure how to use it. I keep meaning to Google it as the novelty doesn’t come with instructions or pictures. Do you fill it up and sit in it? Do you just splash about? Try to aim the nozzle just so? I know, I know, it’s kind of personal, but we’re all friends here.
Back to Rome. Before we left our hotel for our first day of sightseeing, we had to stop back by the desk and see my friend the concierge. Boy, was he happy to see me. No matter how much eye contact we have maintained, I smile silently until he verbally acknowledges me. I don’t know what it is about poor customer service that drives me to be a tiny bit obnoxious, but, hello, I’m paying to be here. Smile at me. Please. Anyway, he quickly instructed us on the bus and hurriedly cut our conversation short before sending me on my way to buy bus tickets. And off we went on Mom’s first Italian Metro experience (Em, having recently endured Chile’s micros, this was a snoozefest). Just like when she rides shotgun with me, she gripped her seat and went back and forth between wide-eyed horror and squint-eyed prayer.
We arrived at Saint Peter’s Square in no time and got into what we believed to be a line to get inside. It was definitely going in the direction of the entrance, but the queue system at Saint Pete’s seems to be a bit off. After standing patiently in line for several minutes, we noticed that groups were randomly popping in line ahead of us. This won’t do, obviously, so we took a page from their book and pressed on. It was just some kind of free-for-all. Chaotic, but oddly satisfying.
Now we’re not Catholic, so this wasn’t any kind of religious pilgrimage for us. Architecturally speaking, this place is beyond breathtaking. The light cascades through the dome, and you expect to see a dove descend from Heaven at any moment. Michelangelo’s Pieta is the first thing you see when you enter, and the vision of Mary holding the crucified Christ is just the sobering image you need before entering this holy place after a stampeding line to get in. As a Protestant, it’s a more jagged pill to swallow. I’ll try not to get on my soapbox about it, but it kind of breaks my heart. There’s a famous statue of Peter whose concrete foot has been rubbed into a teardrop shape by so many pilgrims hoping for his blessing, like some kind of Christian Buddha. Around the sides of the basilica are altars housing the remains of popes from long, long ago and, in front of the altars, pews for those who wish to kneel and ask favors of the saints. Perhaps someday I’ll find out I was all wrong, that I ignored the serious resources of a network of intercessing saints… but for now, I am humbled to believe, and thus to know, that I can speak directly to the Man Himself.
On our way back to our side of the Eternal City, we made our first big tourist faux pas—which I think is pretty good considering it’s Day 5. We found our bus stop with no problem, the bus came and emptied, and we hopped on, pleased that we had scored seats. The bus went nowhere, someone was yelling at us in Italian, and then suddenly people on the sidewalk were telling us to get off the bus. Dutifully, we hopped off the bus and it sped away still empty. A sweet Italian grandfather tried to explain to me what had just happened, but he spoke as much English as I do Italian, so we were never able to make a connection before his own bus arrived. I left Mom on the sidewalk to wait for a friendlier bus as I went to find answers in the bookstore across the street. Apparently, we were at the bus’s last stop. After the last stop, the bus driver gets to pull over and enjoy a few minutes’ break in his empty bus, then he pulls into a parallel street where the route starts over. So off we went, one street over, to hop back on the bus with the driver who had yelled at us before. Perfect.
On our way home, we stopped at a pizzeria in our neighborhood for Mom’s first Roman pizza—wood-burning oven-baked cracker crust with tomato sauce, cheese, and mushrooms. Ooh la la (French, but totally necessary). We had caprese salad first because it’s my personal favorite and fresh fruit with a dollop of vanilla ice cream afterward because it’s Mom’s ideal dessert.
For the rest of the night, we’ve stayed in the hotel. Mom’s having some bizarre dizzy spells that she thinks are due to the pressure change, first in the flight over and, today as the train went through tunnels. As of now, bedtime, she’s feeling much better, but we’re hoping for no further relapses. I, on the other hand, have read several chapters in a book and paid an outrageous fee for WiFi in order to update my Facebook and be sure I’m not missing anything earthshaking in my social world, shoot my dad and the new boy emails, and do a little research on vertigo and guided Coliseum tours. And now I’m off to bed where the epic battle between jet lag and I continues to rage. Jet lag, prepare to meet thy doom.
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