Advertisement
Published: October 17th 2005
Roman Collosseum
Connie was getting emotional when she saw this place as her grandpa was kept in this space when he was captured as a prisoner of wawr during World War II.NOTE: Hi folks I am trying to catch up to where I left off on the blogs. Let me start with something more recent and then I will backtrack.
A stereotype about Italians is that they are over-the-top dramatic. In the case of Conchetta (otherwise known as Connie), with whom I used to share a cubicle at the office, the stereotype is true. So last year when Connie invited me to join her when she goes on her first visit to her ancestral Italy, I jumped at the chance. A few months later, I found myself getting a big dose of Italy.
I found a super cheap flight ($46) to Italy with Ryanair. I soon found out why it’s so cheap. From Rotterdam I hopped on the two-hour train ride to Brussels. Then I wandered around the train station for a while looking for a way to get to the Chaleroi Airport, which is a regional airport in the south of Belgium that only budget airlines use. I turned to the woman at the information booth, and she me told me to go right then turn left and go around, out the door and behind this and that street…blah blah blah. After I pretended to understand what she said and left the information booth. I wandered around the station trying to relax, bought some language DVDs for my niece, and finally found the bus on an obscure street and away from all the other buses.
About an hour later we pulled up to a building. I thought it was a greyhound bus station. But no. It was the fabulously provincial Chaleroi Airport. Everyone rushed off the bus to either of the total of three check-in counters at the airport. Most passengers were Italians. The lady in front of me started to grumble loudly in Italian after she got her ticket. I thought, oh geez, there goes the Italian, complaining about nothing. When I got to the counter, I found out why. Ryanair, the official most on-time airline in Europe, would be two hours later getting into Italy. It would only have had been an inconvenience for me except for the fact that Connie was waiting for me at the infamous Rome train station at 8:30pm. Since I’d be lucky to get there by 10pm and had no way to contact her, I thought this would be hopeless. Connie’s pet peeve was people being late. I am now going to Italy in the middle of the night, expecting not to see the one person I was to meet. Worse, she would be in Rome at night without a hotel reservation (I was suppose to make one but had not come through) and feeling like I ditched her. Oh well, I headed for a cappuccino at the cafeteria, which was as dingy as one might find at a greyhound station in the States. I pulled out my laptop (to work on the take-home final exam that would be due the day after I return from Italy), swapped at the flies, and shared the frustrations with the other passengers. It was 5pm, I had been traveling since noon, and I won’t be in Rome until 9pm. Two hours later and fighting through the mob of Italians all cutting lines and trying to grab a seat, I somehow ended up with a window seat. Finally something is going right.
When I finally arrived at Ciampino Airport (another regional airport that Ryanair uses) and then at the Rome train station at 10pm, I looked for the ticket machines where we said we’d meet. Unfortunately there were ticket machines everywhere. When I finally saw her, sitting on her luggage looking lost and in despair, I snuck up to her and shouted, “boun journo bella!” She turned around, screamed, and hugged me. Yup, it was definitely Connie. She was happy to see me, late as I was. I made her drop her McDonalds and offered to pay for dinner in return for making her wait.
We followed my idea to look for a hostel as I flipped through my Lonely Planet. The neighborhood was decidedly shady. The hostel I was looking for was full. The next place we saw was full too. This was not good. Connie offered to pay for any hotel we saw next. And she did. A Pakistani guy waved us over and told us he’d hook us up with a room. He ranged the doorbell and then unlocked a gate. Normally I avoid hawkers, but this time we ended up with a fantastic deal. The hotel was nice, with a decidedly Italian flair. Connie chatted up the front desk clerk, and he laughed at her attempt to speak Italian. I, on the hand, was busy checking if the quoted rate was higher than the official rate that hotels in Italy all have to post.
After we unwound a bit, we headed out for dinner at an Italian bistro. We were their last customers before closing, but the waiter were super friendly, probably because Connie was chatting in Italian. Turns out the restaurant serves Cabresian cuisine, and Connie’s ancestors are from Cabrese, as were the waiter’s. They compared notes on where their villages were and all that. I just focused on the free bruchetta that they gave us. I ate super yummy veal and mushroom. I would spend the rest of my time in Italy trying to relive that dining experience. That night we talked for hours about the extraordinary three weeks she had just spent on exploring Italy.
As Connie had sprung her ankles, we took it slow walking around the next day. After getting information about the night bus Connie will need to take to the airport the next day and another hour of wandering around for a hostel and, Connie finally convinced me to spring for a hotel. After a few that were too expensive, full, or shady, we found one near her bus stop that fit our needs. Next stop, the Roman Coliseum. It was definitely Roman. Plus hoards of tourists, hawkers, and vendors. As usual, I was disappointed about the size of it. Here it was, an all-important building that had survived thousands of years, and I was feeling disappointed due to its size. Talk about being a cynical traveler. Connie and I wandered around, unambiguously listening in on other people’s tour guides, and tripped the alarm on a few statues. Then it was lunch time.
We hopped on the first bus that came along and hopped off at the first sight of a decent restaurant. As usual the Italian food was fantastic. I don’t know how they do it. It’s the same pasta, the same veal we have anywhere else. But they make it better. I could have drank the rich olive oil and dined on the fluffy parmesan shavings. And best of all, the grappa was cheap! It was my slice of la dolce vida. The next question to ponder was where in Italy I would buy my villa. Connie said that she could not imagine why anyone would need to vacation anywhere but Italy. Despite having just been to half the world, I tend to agree.
After lunch we went to the Roman Forum and chatted some more. I wish I could have seen Rome at its prime. It sure did not help that the British, French, Germans, and Americans had stolen half the antiquities from Italy. But it was a nice setting nonetheless. Aside from the constant English conversations next to us, we were definitely having the Italian experience.
We went back to the train station to buy a bus ticket for Connie, but none of the vendors even knew of the night bus. Worst of all, Connie kept getting cut off by other people. I thought she was going to bust out crying. Turns out she was just annoyed. Connie is definitely the emotional…dare I say dramatic…type.
For dinner we stayed near the hotel. First bad sign was that they had a laminated menu in English. We sat down near a group of American retirees talking loudly about cruising up to Alaska. I could have sworn they were wearing Hawaiian shirts and had big fat cameras around their necks. Luckily they soon left. Unfortunately in their place was a downpour but not the waiter. We grew tired of waiting while getting wet and got up to leave. The waiter then magically appeared to escort to another table. Fine. We stayed. Then we waited while the waiters helped all the other tables. Another fifteen minutes, we got up to leave. The waiter again magically appeared. We told him we could not wait any more and ran across the street in the rain. Impatient? Yes. Annoyed? Very much. Big ugly American tourists? Big fat I don’t care! I felt better about my cultural adaptation abilities at the next restaurant when the English folks next to our table ordered mussels and fries in the Italian restaurant.
That night we again chatted again for hours, forgetting that Connie had to catch a bus at 3:45am the next day. Connie talked about her life, and I was applying what I was learning in business school about personal leadership. I guess I became very frank after we had the yummy chianti she bought in Tuscany. One thing about Connie is that she can take my bullshit quite seriously, so we would go on and on. And applying the technique of no-judgement listening I was just learning in class, I became more attuned to what she was trying to tell me. The technique was giving me a break-through in getting to know who she is inside. Later, Connie would tell me that out discussion helped her as well. When we realized it was past 1:00am, we both shut up and fell asleep.
At 3:15am we walked the three blocks to the bus stop, past the transvestite hookers and 24-hour cigarette stand. We were soon joined by other weary travelers, reassuring Connie that the bus was more than just hearsay. Watching the drug dealers, prostitutes, and johns making their drive-arounds made for entertainment. Finally her bus came five minutes late. No sooner had we finished a hug and she hopped on, did the bus go screeching out onto its next stop. I went back to the hotel and slept. The next day, knowing I would return someday and so did not opt to see the Vatican this time around, I would be heading north toward Venice.
Advertisement
Tot: 0.24s; Tpl: 0.012s; cc: 7; qc: 44; dbt: 0.0737s; 1; m:domysql w:travelblog (10.17.0.13); sld: 1;
; mem: 1.1mb
Rick
non-member comment
Glad to see and hear that you are well. Take care of yourself and God bless.