Days 7 and 8: Rome and the journey home.
Our last day in Rome was spent leisurely strolling the city and, once again, showing the Roma public transit system what’s what. We took the bus to the Pantheon—once again, no thanks to my dear friend Matteo, the miserable deskman—and guessed (correctly!) where to get off. We navigated the tiny, winding roads into the heart of Roma, following very helpful brown signs, and lo and behold the ancient landmark appeared around a random corner.
The Pantheon is old—like, real, real old. Once upon a time, it was a sanctuary to all the Roman gods, but at some point along the way the Catholic Church Catholicized it. Every niche has a sculpture of one saint or another—you’ll have to excuse my lack of knowledge regarding saints—and the now-church also houses the remains of Raphael and two Italian kings. In fact, I unwittingly pledged allegiance to the Italian monarchy, which is apparently very controversial. All I know is, I saw a nice old man in white gloves manning what appeared to be a guest book, so I strolled up to him and signed it. It seemed harmless enough. Later, I was doing a little research on the Pantheon in our hotel room, and I figured out that I had signed some sort of passive petition in favor of a monarchy, as opposed to a Republic. Oops. No wonder he seemed so pleased when I signed “U.S.A.” after my name.
From there, we headed to the Piazza Navonna for lunch. By now our forecast was clear: the clouds were beginning to churn and the breeze was chilly and damp. Sure enough, as we sat eating our pasta lunch, sprinkles began to fall from the sky. I covered myself up with my napkin; very chic. This is really the first and only time when the persistent street vendors came in handy. Out of nowhere, countless vendors appeared with arms loaded down with umbrellas. I’d really like to know where they keep their goods. My mother has a fear of melting, apparently, so we cornered a vendor and bargained for an umbrella. For just five euro, we quickly became the proud owners of a tiny red umbrella… one that I didn’t benefit much from, but Mom was significantly happier. And we all know that “if Mama’s not happy, nobody’s happy,” so it worked out just fine.
Umbrella in hand, we pressed on to the Spanish Steps. In the rain, the Spanish Steps are just that: steps. I can’t say I was nearly as impressed as I was my first go-round in Rome as I stood in the misting rain and looked up the staircase this time. Mom insisted on a picture to prove we were there, and then we ducked gratefully into the subway station. And once again, I’m proud to report, we dominated the public transit.
On our way out of our home base subway station, Mom had to stop and get a Coca-Cola. This brings me to my greatest observation from the trip: my mother is a Coke addict. Watching her sip on her endless supply of red cans at home, I don’t think I ever appreciated her dependency. Get her away from her stash, though, and the withdrawals become clear. Luckily, we never progressed past a headache and low blood sugar, but I feel certain that had Lady Luck not been in our favor I would have found her trembling in a puddle of sweat and vomit.
We spent the rest of the night repacking our lives into our suitcases, now a bit heavier with a few souvenirs and finished carry-on books.
We woke up Monday around the same time Dad was going to bed stateside—10:45 pm in Alabama and a very painful 5:45 am in Roma. After breakfast, we checked out and sat in the hotel lobby sleepily awaiting our airport shuttle. And we waited and waited and waited. The shuttle was supposed to arrive at 7 am so by 7:35 I was getting concerned. Luckily, Matteo was off duty so I got to deal with Michela instead. In comparison, she was a ray of pure sunshine. She called up the shuttle service and, after many transfers and Italian arguments, she was able to inform me that our shuttle would not be coming to Hotel Diana. Apparently, the shuttle service was having trouble with their drivers this morning; when they were going to tell us that, I’ll never know. Anyway, Michela arranged for a taxi to pick us up. When our taxi driver arrived, I asked him if he took Visa—of course he didn’t; of course we were down to 5 euro. So, first stop: bancomat (ATM). The sweet man who spoke zero English—not that it stopped him from talking to me in Italian continually—took us first to a bancomat. I jumped out, scampered over to the ATM, and was unable to use it. So I ran back to the taxi window where I spoke English and Driver spoke Italian and somewhere along the way communicated to each other that I couldn’t work the ATM, so the sweet man got out to help me. Well, he couldn’t figure it out either. Not speaking Italian, I don’t know if it didn’t accept Visa or was out of order or what. Anyway, off we went, still communicating by not communicating. When we arrived at the airport, I went jogging in to find an ATM while Mom waited—in complete silence—with our driver. Obviously the ATM was in the very back of the airport, and of course the line was three-deep. After 20 minutes or so, I got back to Driver and Mom. That sweet man was—predictably—extremely sweet about the situation and graciously took the money and gave me perfect change, which I handed back because the man had certainly earned his tip. At long last, we were ready to check our luggage and relax.
Or so we thought. Fiumicino Airport is not so organized, as it turns out. We were in Terminal 3; however, US Airways flies out of Terminal 5. You can’t drive up to Terminal 5, though: you take a shuttle. Then you go through a long line of self-check-in kiosks that conclude with an airport attendant checking your boarding pass and pushing you along to the next stop: baggage check-in. Another winding queue takes you to the baggage check desk, where your boarding pass and passport is checked once again and, at long last, your luggage is taken from you. Next up: surprise! Another queue. This time, the light at the end of the tunnel is the security line. All electronics must be put in plastic bags—the kind you put your produce in at the grocery store—and scarves and jackets must be removed along with your shoes and dignity. The security workers are just as friendly in Italy as they are in America, by the way.
You would think that this is where we turned a corner and headed to our gate, footloose and fancy free. Oh, but you’d be wrong. Once again, you are taken to a shuttle where you are ferried off to your gate. Then and only then are you free to have a seat or, like Cheryl, find the nearest Coke vendor. Once they began boarding our flight—which, despite being there three hours early, was soon after arriving at our gate as a result of the labyrinth style arrival process—it was time for a little more security. I passed through unfazed, but once Mom caught up on the plane, she began grilling me. Apparently, she had been pulled aside for a little “extra” scanning. Maybe Italian security misinterpreted my “Coke addict” musings…
Our flight home was infinitely better than our first transatlantic hop, despite the extra two hours. This time around we each had our very own television screens, complete with Video OnDemand: Sex and the City, True Grit, Two and Half Men, Entourage, Cake Boss, etc. Without this little novelty, the eleven hours would have been unbearable.
The rest of our trip was uneventful, thank goodness, and we arrived in Huntsville with no issue. Tim was there to chauffer us home, and we were beyond glad to be there. Trips are great—and I know how outrageously blessed I have been to do the travelling I’ve done—but at the end of the day, home is where my heart is. Nothing beats familiarity and creature comforts: my own bed, plugs that don’t threaten to blow up my electronics, waiters that speak my language, vending machines that accept my cash, and so on.
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