Rome: Day 1
Today I landed in Rome – the eternal city, Roma, the city of the seven hills, the pick-pocketing capital of the world. I tend to be a little preoccupied with the latter. I have spent many a sleepless night pouring over details of the dangers of petty theft in Rome, and I am completely prepared to take all necessary precautions. Money belt? Wearing it. Nicely dressed men, women with babies, adorable children? Avoiding them at all costs. Large groups of Americans? I’m not a fool.
I am completely prepared and on edge, ready to keep my guard up and not become distracted by the magnitude of the Coliseum, or the beauty of the Tivoli fountain lit up at night (nice try, Rome). I’m no sucker. I even bought some stylish ankle boots to blend in with the locals who hopefully also carry around maps and wear cameras around their necks.
Stepping out of the train with my giant backpack, I anticipated being immediately landed upon by an assailant. Rick Steves says that, if you’re wearing a money belt, you should just stand there and let them feel inside your pocket for a bit, taking comfort in the fact that they’re not feeling you up, just your wallet. However, I didn’t see any pickpockets, just a few workers trying to convince me to rent a room in their hostel. Not happening!
We’re staying in another Air B&B, this time an apartment about a half-mile from the Coliseum rented by a middle-aged Italian couple, Marco and Mirelle. Marco was waiting to let us into the apartment and show us around. This apartment isn’t bad per say. I don’t have any point of reference for what apartments are supposed to be like in Rome, so I’m assuming it’s okay. But I would probably sue the heck out of my landlord if this was my apartment in America.
Everything is just kind of old and crumbly. The building is rather old with these beautiful, 16-foot tall huge double wooden doors and an elevator that probably isn’t up to code. The unit itself does not have a living room and mostly consists of a very narrow hallway with doors to rooms on each side. The bedroom only has one, tiny window with no screen and only a bit of glass that has a busy road right outside of it. The bathroom is a bit strange for many reasons – one of them being that water for the sink comes from a foot pump, which is actually pretty convenient and should be instated everywhere.
But anyways, Marco let us into the apartment, showed us our room, gave us some maps, and poured us some mugs full of wine. I have learned a few things about wine in room: it’s ubiquitous, cheap, and strong. I don’t know if it was the long morning of travel or not having eaten for hours or the lingering hangover from yesterday but this wine went straight to my head.
Marco is everything I would expect in a stereotypical middle-aged Italian man – tan, loud, slightly balding, funny, and warm. “I makea the pasta” is a real sentence he has said. I was really tracking with his wine and helpful information about the city. Then, just as he was about to leave, he asked us if he could see some form of ID, explaining that he needed a record in case we were terrorists or fugitives or being hunted by terrorists or fugitives or something along those lines.
My mom, drunk off a single mug of wine, just whips out her passport and hands it over like he’s the border control, no questions asked. He writes down her name, passport number, birthday, and date of passport issue. Then he asks to see mine too, and I figure that he’ll probably think I’m a terrorist/fugitive if I say no, so I hand it over. Now you know, if I disappear from this trip, it is probably because I had my identity stolen from my Air B&B host and that there’s another Hayley Woodbridge living in Rome.
Anyways, after that, we went to a restaurant that Marco recommended in which I had the greatest pasta and bread of my young life. It was full of Italian businessmen on their 2 pm lunch break, ordering wine by the liter. Then, we went and saw what you’re supposed to see in Rome: the Coliseum, Palatine hill, and the Forum.
It’s interesting because all of these ruins are in a “park,” but it’s a park you have to pay through the nose to enter, so that’s a huge part of the city that’s gated off and privatized from anyone who lives there. It’s basically an outdoor museum. Visiting ruins is much different than the standard historical tour of old buildings that goes down in every city ever, because Rome has just been city-ing for SO LONG. The ruins are mostly fragments of buildings that are now so far removed from their original purpose that it’s hard to imagine anyone actually walking around in them and using them, especially since they’re now far removed from the rest of the city. I don’t know. It was just strange.
When we returned to the apartment, Marco brought by a bag of fresh assorted croissants, cream filled, topped with custard, and the crown jewel: marmalade. That marmalade croissant was by far the greatest croissant I’ve ever eaten, and I’d maybe extend that to say the best baked good I’ve ever eaten. Needless to say, you can have my passport information anytime, Marco.