This is Michael reporting on a week spent in our glorious final destination, Rome.
We buzzed in at our hostel at around 8 pm, just barely beating the sun after a 100 mile race to the city. The city was quiet, and we’d asked a friendly local who was break-dancing how to get into the center, which turned out to be a couple blocks walk along the river. Rome was silent, due to August vacations, but I couldn’t complain. Empty streets littered in history are the best. They lack the clash and awkward tension that accompanies cosmopolitan bustle.
After checking in, a couple hostelers walked past and asked Rich “What happened?!” Not hearing them correctly, Rich responded, “Hi!” It was only afterwords that we discovered they were referring to his shirt, which — what with its massive accumulation of dirt over the trip — suggested that he had perhaps fallen in the mud, or gotten in a bad fight, or maybe even risen from the dead.
Luckily, a shower was readily available, and we could wash and regain some dignity for the remainder of the trip, which I will now refer to as a vacation (ha!). At this point, exhausted and relieved, we had not yet ample time to soak in the fact that NEVER AGAIN would we need to bust out the tiny, sweaty, bug-infested tent; that NEVER AGAIN would we have to spend the hottest hours of the day climbing up 600m slopes every 5 km along the Ligurian Riviera; that NEVER AGAIN would we have to sneakily attempt to bike through toll-booths, lost on the interstate, or to suffer in small towns so as to save ourselves from shriveling up like earthworms on the hot pavement. It had not fully sunk in that we were DONE. That all that remained was Rome — the city Rome — and all its grandeur.
In our room the first night, we met a German mathematician named Daniel (more on him later), and two Michigan girls (our first major American encounter thus far), both sisters, named Marissa and Megan. In spite of our soreness, we agreed to go out and meet the city at night with our roommates. Besides, it was a time to celebrate.
After conversing with an old Roman who drank a martini every morning and a martini at night, we moved on to find some pizza, where the American girls proceeded to speak in broken Spanish to our Italian servers, somehow imagining that it would be impressive, or even effective. It was a slightly embarrassing moment, but the staff didn’t seem to mind. Somehow it seems that girls can always get away with that kind of thing unscathed (at least in Southern Europe). In fact, far from being offended, the Italian men on staff took this faux pas as an opportunity to flirt.
We all moseyed on, passed some impressive phallic monuments, grabbed some late-night gelato, and hung out beneath the outdoor roof of the Pantheon. Then we returned to the hostel and slept like babies.
The following morning we grabbed a week-long metro pass and some groceries before walking a little ways down our street where before us stood St. Peter’s basilica. We walked around the plaza, impressed, and returned to the hostel to cook some food. There, we met a couple fellows from Holland, a man from Beirut, and two St. Petersberg girls. A heated philosophical debate ensued and continued for at least an hour, wherein Daniel and our Beirut friend explored their respective countries’ extremist viewpoints (which was really rather interesting). We danced around difficult topics including lingering Nazi-brand racism and Arab excitement over the events of September 11th. It was astonishing how open the discourse was. Everyone learned quite a lot that night.
After many a pounding fist, and many a wine glass, Daniel, the two boys from Holland, and the two Russian girls, joined us on a stroll to the gated off Vatican and then down to the Fiume Tevere, where we all proceeded to shimmy along the very edge of the river for some 50 meters, collecting cuts and scrapes along the way. Daniel, now loosened up after some drinks at the hostel, entertained us with German army songs about green parachutes and recitations of Full Metal Jacket quotes that I dare not repeat here.
Next day… hmm. Let me think. We woke up after sleeping in and headed into the ancient city to see the Colosseo. Unfortunately, it soon became apparent that a whopping €12 fee would be required to enter into the old arena. This was simply too much. So, we admired the architecture from the exterior (wOOt!) and lumbered around ancient ruins in the heat. At Circo Massimo, we took the metro back to the hostel, cooked up some dinner, and hung out with the staff and some new folks for a while. Just another relaxing night. Exciting, right?
I know I’ve made far too many chronological mistakes by now in this recap, but let us continue…
The following day Rich and I wandered up to the Villa Borghese and strolled through beautiful old gardens high up on a hill. Then we descended into the center of the city and searched for a cheaper hostel and central bike distributors (for boxes), but to no avail. Our feet hurting, we agreed to head back to the hostel and put on a movie and cook some spaghetti and such, but as we approached, we met up with our St. Petersburg friends yet again, and were soon enough invited on a long walk back down south east to the Orange Gardens.
The walk itself was fantastic. Rome is fantastic. Not livable, or pristine, or tranquil, or “hoppin”, but fantastic. Every turn presents you with yet another major historical landmark. After a while, you see so many that you feel like it is quite normal to slurp a gelato constantly beneath the looming shadows of antiquity. Seriously. Historical significance inundates Rome up to the chin. It can’t be escaped. And it doesn’t take long for the surrealism to dissolve into something very real and everyday. At least that’s the only way I can imagine Romans remaining unfazed walking along their own streets.
In any case, we arrived at the Orange Gardens and were rewarded with a beautiful panoramic view (love those) of the city, just before the sun began to set. Played a couple pranks on fellow tourists and watched the sun set over the oldest cityscape we’ve yet set eyes upon.
When at last we returned to the hostel, we were ready to crash. Our legs were exhausted from a day’s worth of walking in the debilitating heat. But, alas, Raul, the hostel owner (or something) insisted we join him to find dinner in the neighborhood. So, we took another walk into the dark lit streets in search of a kebap. Along the way, Raul shared with us many stories of his rise to power in the hostel after moving from Peru. Included in these stories were various Don Juan ventures that left us semi-suspicious, but entertained us nonetheless.
The next day (maybe? I don’t really know) Rich and I had an appointment with a friend of ours, Lisa, from Frankfurt (we’d met in Florence), for dinner in the Trastevere neighborhood, a place we hadn’t yet explored. We met her at Circo Massimo, and crossed the river Tevere (the Tiber) into a genuine Italian restaurant hub, decked out with vine-drapped walls, narrow cobblestone streets, gelaterie and of course — restaurants! Lisa picked a place, where we were promptly greeted in Italian by a waitress and ordered delicious dinners. I decided to try the Gnocchi alla Bolognese (dumpling pasta drenched in Bolognese meat sauce), while Rich chose a seafood dish (too predictable) and Lisa a pizza. Mmmmmm. Everybody was happy. Lisa spent most of dinner teaching us German words and phrases.
Later, we walked along the Tevere and explored the Isola, where trendy clubbers and tourists lounged in dark-lit outdoor bars complete with hammocks and riverside bean-bags. Then we bid adieu and returned to the hostel, were Daniel was just returning after a failed attempt to travel to Greece (the forest fires there were ravaging the land — as opposed to Italy, which we saved). Poor guy.
Sigh.
Our plan the following day was to split up for 5 or 6 hours, and then reunite at the Spanish steps for a free tour of Rome. Thus, I departed the hostel on my own and wandered south in the direction of Trastevere, which I felt deserved more time. Rich went his seperate way moments later. I was determined to find a small, cozy “book and bar” that I had spotted the previous night, where I might sip some coffee and finish a book. Luckily I did find it, and ordered a panino and an espresso from the beautiful Italian woman behind the counter. I was the only customer there, so she didn’t charge me to sit inside and actually brought out two free, cold cups of water to help fend off the heat.
I withdrew my notebook to jot down some thoughts, but no sooner had I uncapped my pen when the Italian woman who had served me plopped down beside me and began to talk enthusiastically, about everything, waving her arms around in the proper Italian fashion. For the next hour or so, the woman and I conversed in Italian, with me only just managing to keep up (she didn’t speak a word of English). It was a wonderful time, and it was very educational (which is what REALLY matters). Before departing to meet with Rich, I found out her name — Monia — and was enamored for the rest of the day. Yes. Enamored. Lovestruck.
Rich and I both agreed, upon meeting, that we would not take the free tour. We simply weren’t in the mood. Instead we headed back to the hostel, put a couple pizzas in, and watched Gladiator. Yes, Gladiator. Because that’s what you do when you’re in Rome.
Meanwhile, people passed through the hostel like ghosts, all of them becoming life-long friends momentarily. Raul cooked up a pasta and made some sangria for the entire hostel, always the entertainer. We felt like we were in a home away from home.
The next day we met a girl named Rachael, from “everywhere”, who had some CRAZY stories to tell. Honestly, this was one impressive gal. She had won a free trip around the world by entering into an STA video contest, and was having the time of her life. Futhermore, she had already secured no less than 3 jobs in the short time she had been in Rome (one day). After sharing pictures of New Zealand, Thailand and Cambodia with us, we all went out for a night-time stroll and stayed up until 4.30 or so meandering and reflecting on our travels. Strangely enough, that evening, one of our roommates was from Milwaukee, and happened to know not one but two of our acquaintances.
The next morning was to be our last in Rome. We woke up too late, hustled over to the Basilica di St. Pietro, finished two beers on the plaza (see sub-goal 4), and failed in an attempt to see the Sistine Chapel (it closed earlier than we’d thought). Oh well. Next time.
Now it was time to box up our bikes and lug them to the Airport. The airport awaited us many kilometers outside of the city, closer to the sea, at Fiumicino, so we opted to hoist all 50 or so pounds of them in their awkward shape to the metro, take the metro to a stop close to a station, and then hoist them again onto a suburban train, which would take us to the airport eventually for a good price. The plan was flawless. Well… Almost. Upon approaching the entrance to the metro at Lepanto station, an angry man and a police officer scolded us and suggested we take a bus. After all that work! We lugged the boxes (which were abnormally large for bike boxes… much larger than last time), up to street level and pondered over what was to be done.
It was at last decided, reluctantly, that we should call for a taxi or shuttle that could accommodate the boxes. So, I scooted back to the hostel, had the staff call for a taxi, said goodbyes again, returned to our spot, and waited with Rich. Minutes passed. Many minutes past. After what felt like an hour had passed, neither taxi or shuttle had come our way. I decided to ask an idle, official-looking man on the other side of the road if he was waiting to take two bikers to the airport, but he just looked perplexed. Returning to our side of the street, I found Rich in a truly peculiar situation. Apparently some “cops” had approached him in a car, shown him a badge, and insisted that he come with them around the corner on suspicion that he was a drug-dealer selling hash and morphine. I suppose sitting next to a big, unusual, cardboard box in the late evening on the lookout for a passing car might look slightly suspicious. But, in retrospect, neither of us thought the conduct of the “police officer” was too convincing. Instead, we considered the alternative — namely, that they were members of the Italian mafia (it was the most fun alternative). Still, we may never know…
More time passed and Rich hustled over to the hostel this time to have staff try again. Fortunately, a cab came within 15 minutes. We brought over our boxes and tried to stuff them into the trunk and over the back seats, but they stuck out too far. Rich pulled out some thin rope and we barely managed to tie the trunk down via a knot around the back windshield wiper. I had no choice but to sit on Rich’s lap and crane my head down onto the glove compartment for the ride to Fiumicino. It didn’t take too long, but it cost well more than we had bargained for. Slightly disheartened after the huge drainage of money, entered the airport with our boxes — which we now despised with all our hears — and found a place to sit and wait for 12 hours, until check-in time. We took turns sleeping, on the ground, on open chairs, anywhere. The night was cold and uncomfortable.
When morning came, we checked in and were disappointed to discover that taking our boxes on over-sized luggage from Rome to Dublin would cost us a whopping €40 each, even though Aer Lingus (our airline) had previously accepted the bikes for free. We had no choice but to cough up the money. It was truly a nightmare. Next time (ha!) I’ll rent a bike.
We boarded the 4-hour flight to Dublin exhausted, grumpy, and hungry. Arriving in Dublin, we found it to be rainy and cold. At the airport, we had no choice but to store the boxes in a luggage room, which knocked off more money, and took a shuttle bus into the city center where we quickly checked into a hostel. To celebrate our departure from the Mediterranean (that’s my excuse) we went out for Guinnesses and grub at a pub called “Panama” near the river.
Now we await our flight home. There is nothing much left to say. “Goodbye Europe.” “See you in a while.” “It was a pleasure — sometimes.” Yes. A rather anti-climactic ending to our story, but an ending nonetheless, and that’s good enough for us.
Looking back – which is always easier than being back – I wouldn’t trade this experience for anything in the world. Even all our naivete and all our failures were worth it. But I’m ready to go home. I’m ready to sleep in a warm bed, to own material goods, to wear clean clothes, to walk down the same sidewalk at least twice, to have a bowl of cereal in the morning without a strangling budget, to speak my own language, and to function without a map.
Red List task 1: Bike Across Southern Europe — check.
