When In Rome…
Travel
writing or not, I wish to start on a personal note. I find people who designate beginnings as ‘difficult’ just can’t be trying hard enough.
Beginnings are beautiful. They open every single door at once, and all you have to do is choose, and let the path of story-telling fall out in front of your feet.
That said do
I start my Italy holiday on the plane, or in Rome?
As per usual, Mum comes along and asks for my opinion of where we should go next. I think for a minute, and reply “Rome”, in my best ‘ten-year-old-Rob’ voice. Not entirely sure why I said that. But what I DO know is that we ended up in Spain. And every year since, I always said I wanted to go to Rome for the holiday.
2013, I finally get my wish. Mum goes off on an impulsive fling and I get a text saying she’s booked a four-day holiday in Rome. Ten years on, my childish side did smile to know I was finally going there.
My ears hurt, we were stuck in a claustrophobic tube for 2 and a half hours, I read a book, saw a bit of the Alps and wanted more apple juice. I listened to Adele’s song Skyfall and hoped it didn’t come true.
Ah, I remember the days when I actually did write like that. Anyway, moving on.
Mum and I
are frantically poring around an Italian airport’s Meeting-Point, looking for
our surname on a piece of card. Mum gets to the very cusp of just getting in an
ordinary taxi (she had be warned, however, that some might try and rip us off),
when I switched on ‘Focused Mode’ and saw our name – upside down – on quite a
long list, held by a small Italian woman. Mum ambles over and gets out her
passport as identity, to which the woman replies “I believe who you are, madam!”
I burst out
laughing and we head over to some chairs, waiting for the others to arrive. When they eventually do show up – through the many crowds and many, many different dialects – we head over to a mini-bus, load up our suitcases and head off.
My first
glimpses of Italy were rather clichéd to a British tourist – dried,
dead-looking trees, rustic and rusting homes in the distance and mad motoring.
(Like
seriously mad motoring. You drive for yourself, and that’s it. Mum and I
agreed: it’s mad, but it’s all entirely mad, so it works.)
Anyway,
after quite a long drive on the motorway and stops off at random hotels – where
your mind plays the “Ooh, I hope this isn’t our district” game – we arrive at
our accommodation, Hotel Artemide. Which meant nothing to me. As a kid with
holiday-paying-parents, you just kind of accept the living quarters.
As it
happened, the door opened onto a rather swank reception, with plush sofas and
very noticeable air conditioning. Mum and I go over to speak to our first Italian
man encountered on the trip, would you believe, he was named Mario. While they
sorted out room details, passports and credit cards, I was constantly holding
in the urge to laugh. Soon enough, a very helpful porter came along – with colliding politeness, I swear he looked ready to wrestle the cases away from us – and took us up to room 307.
There began
the “Settling into a Hotel Room” routine. You know, opening drawers for no
apparent reason, messing with the headless hangers, inspecting the “tea-and-coffee-making-facilities”
and generally messing the pristine bed up into something more comfortable. Oh,
and using hotel soap, which is a marvel into itself. What DO they put in that
stuff which makes your hands feel like rock afterwards?
Plus a quick
trip to the rooftop bar, just to see our hotel in full…….and maybe sample some
alcohol.
Anyway, Mum
did her own little ‘We’re in Rome!’ dance, while I updated my travel journal.
But truth be told, I couldn’t resist grinning every now and then. The taxi ride
over had revealed one or two sights to see, but tomorrow, the whole of Rome was
pretty much ours.
Yeah, the first night’s sleep is often a bitch. But, why care when a city you’d been waiting for was right outside the doors?
Although before that came breakfast.
And when I say breakfast, I mean breakfast buffet.
Something extraordinary does happen to the British mind – or maybe everyone’s – when confronted with a breakfast buffet. Lunch and dinner ones aren’t quite the same; it’s later in the day and your mind has woken up.
But at that point in the morning between waking and showering, if any amount of food enters your vision, you want it. On day one, I had toast, pancakes, croissant, a yoghurt, three glasses of assorted fruit juice, hot chocolate and then, after all that, I insisted on having what I usually just have every day: cereal. I imagine my mind took everything before the cereal as simply a warm-up.
Well-fed and
watered, we retired for a quick shower and preparation; not entirely
stress-free with my itching like crazy to just get out there. I had a vague
idea of things to see and do; but when you’ve wanted to visit somewhere for a
decade, it’s like you’ve got hungry eyes or something.
Even as we
left the hotel room, my visuals were taking in everything; the scooters, the
wannabe-English-clothes-shops, the little separate traffic lights for
pedestrians. (Which, FYI, don’t exactly amount to much. The little man may be green, but some taxi drivers aren’t exactly his best friend. Or yours.)
Quite a lot
of hills in central Rome. Bit like Bath, but hotter.
Not a bad
view, it must be said. The general history and ruination of the Forum stretched
out below us in a great scattering of destruction, decay and brightly-dressed
tourists. With breath taken rather far away, we went past a statue of Romulus
and Remus and their mothering she-wolf (involving a quick history lesson for
Mum) and headed down into the Forum.
It’s a
melancholy moment, in life, to walk around ruins. It plays on your mind, in so
many different ways. There’s remorse, for the people who used to work, play,
live there. There’s curiosity, and a thirst for knowledge. And finally there’s
that little niggling thought at the back of your head; is this right?
Imagine, if
you will, your house or place of work, thousands of years from now, with
tourists walking all over it and around it; taking pictures, getting tours or
pretending they’re shaking the statue of you’s hand. It’s not really a point;
just quite simply food for thought.
Speaking of
which, it was around this point we called in on a restaurant near the Colosseum
to get our first taste of Italian-cooked spaghetti and proper bruschetta (which
Mum went mad for. Saying that, once I’d had my first, properly fresh tomato
taste, I was rather content.)
The pasta
was most enlightening. After so many student evenings of pasta, pasta and maybe
a bit more pasta if there’s nothing else, it was satisfying to finally get the
proper stuff. I did see the point my housemate Emma made; that they don’t quite
cook it as long as we do. That said, the cheese was exquisite and, well fed
once again, we returned to see the Colosseum.OR, and this is the one that rather ruins the others three for you, you can visit the subject monument personally.
The Colosseum, once an awe-inspiring amphitheatre of shows and gruesome deaths, now an awe-inspiring, fully-immersive history lesson. The corridors inside are PACKED with sculptures, archaeological finds, mosaics…and a gift shop.
Personally, the mosaics were my favourite. A particularly memorable one was of two people, on either side of a side-on tiger; which I mentally captioned: “Ooohhh Noooooo! A tigerrrrr!”
Take me to the Colosseum and the immaturity continues. Moving on.
Once you
push past the many little pieces of history and Italian/English caption boards,
you step outside into the oval open area that is the Colosseum. It is a dire
shame how much of it has eroded away over time; yet, it is still a beautiful artefact
to behold. The general design is still relatively intact, despite missing an
upper third of it. And some sections have eroded so much it looked like the
people at the top were actually sitting on slides of death.
Maybe they
were. It could have added extra merriment halfway through someone getting their
limbs torn off so many centuries ago, just having a low-income Roman topple in
from row nine hundred and ninety nine, stone seat C.
Following
the trip into the Colosseum, we stopped at a nearby concession stand for a
delicious – and massively overpriced – ice cream. In fairness, it was deemed
over-priced because the man didn’t seem to hear Mum say “a small…er, piccolo…gelato…”
in her pidgin Italian. In fairness…
Still, the
Italian do know what they’re doing in terms of ice-cream. Accidentally large or
not, I wasn’t too fussed about having a huge, strawberry ice-cream, with the
Colosseum in full view. 
And even
that wasn’t the end to the day.
After the Colosseum, we decided to head back to the hotel for a while. Our feet were in moments of learning how to scream, we’d seen pretty much every corner of the Forum, and – as I discovered when we got back – the seventy five new photos on my phone rather proved it.
As stated,
with our feet in relative pain, we didn’t venture far for dinner, and decided
on a small place just down the road from the Hotel. The woman serving us may
have been a bit on the rude side, but I couldn’t deny, my beef/rocket/parmesan
cheese pizza was just sensational. Eating it with a knife and fork was a bit of
a faff, but we’d already got the “Ugh, tourists” look enough that day and I
just wanted to fit in for a little while; even if a pizza which would usually
take me ten minutes took thirty.
Over dinner,
we discussed seeing two more things that day which were recommended in “Day
One” of Mum’s travel guide; the Trevi Fountain and the Spanish Steps.
Now, the
Trevi Fountain for me was a special moment.
I may be
alone on this, but whenever I travel somewhere, I build up a mental image of it
in my head. Whenever I travel to London, I see the Eye in my mind’s eye. When
returning to Bath, I see the busy, Bath-stone streets. And when I pictured
Italy, I saw the Trevi Foutain. I think this is because it was the only part of
Rome I had ever seen properly on TV.
So when we
ventured back out (feet: protesting), and rounded a corner not long past the
President of Italy’s house, I finally saw what I wanted to see above all else
on that trip.
In three
words, it was stunning, incredible and busy. Tourists clamouring around each
other in the evening light, camera flashes going off everywhere, all of this
mingling with the noise of the tourist-sellers bustling around with their
old-fashioned cameras and squeaky-splat toys. (Literally. A little, colourful, squidgy ball shaped like an animal’s head. The seller throws it up, it lands on the ground, splat with a squeak. And then it slowly reforms into a ball, and is picked back up. I laughed every time I saw one. It is of great regret now I’m home that I didn’t get one.)
But the
Trevi Fountain was a big moment. I finished my mind’s picture of Italy, so to
speak. I took many pictures, pushed my way to the front and back out again, and
went off with Mum towards the Spanish Steps.
Steps which,
too, were crowded. According to Mum, the Spanish Steps is a hot-spot for talent
scouts and the people that need them. I was sceptic, but even as we climbed
them, I heard snatches of conversation that did sound rather along those lines.
I swallowed any vulgar ideas about what they were agreeing to and carried on
upwards. The view at the top offered a beautifully lit street in the
semi-darkness and a small fountain at the very bottom. It wasn’t nearly as
spectacular as the Trevi Fountain to me, but was still most enjoyable.Mum got rather annoyed at the random sellers constantly offering her roses; as a man, I just laughed and watched her little routes to avoid them.
As we headed back, I passed a young girl with her friends and I noticed she was holding one such rose. I silently wondered her reasons for it; but carried on indifferently.
And I’m British, right? We just can’t walk out of situations like that. So, quite rightly, I came away with the small statue replica and a Mario video-game-based t-shirt.
(And I made a mental note not to let a particular hotel worker see it.)
Day
Three: 25/06/13
I’ve already
established what happens when you put me in front of a buffet. But I will
additionally mention that on this particular day, I had at least six different
glasses of fruit juice, and a few of some multi-vitamin drink.
I think,
subconsciously, I was making up for a holiday mostly consisting of pizza,
pasta, ice-cream and tea-and-coffee-making-facility-biscuits.
We soon came
across the Column of Marcus Aurelius, and the longer I looked at it, the more I
heard Russell Crowe’s voice saying “this is the dream of Marcus Aurelius.” Or
something like that. Haven’t watched Gladiator in a while; and let’s be
honest, it’s not a film short enough to watch on a whim.
The Pantheon
is quite stunning, put simply, so long as you look at it dead on or from the
inside. Around the sides and the back, it still looks beautiful in that
“rustic, old, stereotypical Italian” way, but the front doesn’t match the back.
It’s like discovering Buckingham Palace actually backs out onto a shed.
The interior
is a lot more incredible. Everything is illuminated by a large, circular hole
in the ceiling, which, if you get there around midday, lights up the stone
floor to striking (and blinding) levels.
The edges are greatly decorated by more paintings, sculptures and altars
etc.
(Which
apparently wasn’t enough for all. I clearly heard a young American boy walk
past me, asking his parents “Where’s McDonald’s?” Priorities do vary, person to
person.)
I will say
as well, do try to look dignified and quiet. More than once during our little
visit, “Quiet please” could be heard in several languages more than once. It is
a place of great religious merit, after all. Entirely worthy of a visit. And
sunglasses.
Nearby the
Pantheon was, quite possibly, my new favourite shop ever. As a writer, it was
like heaven. Stocked, ceiling-high, with old leather bound journals, notebooks;
as well as old-fashioned fountain pens shaped like quills with ink wells; and
EVEN customisable wax-seal-stamps. Needless to say, I bought myself my own
little journal book from there, and left with the divine hope that I live to
see that shop again.
Following
all this, we saw the Fontana dei Quattro Fiumi (Fountain of the Four Rivers);
as expected, stuffed with tourists, performers and sellers. But in this case,
most sellers were in fact artists and had done some pretty good works. And the
performers were the “Invisible Man” (some glasses and a hat in a frame atop a
suspiciously long-torso-ed man) and a dancing old man. The latter was
definitely my favourite; his moves were not exciting, dynamic or very well
co-ordinated. But still he danced and danced and danced, completely at ease. I
ended up videoing him on my phone and giving him a euro. He is a hero of that
holiday.
And, to top
it all, to add to my “Italy Stereotypes” list, a man nearby was playing Amore’ on the accordion. (When the moon hits your eye, like a big pizza pie…that one).
Gave him two euros and kept on trucking.
Then a
nearby restaurant delivered some excellent, honest-to-God, spaghetti carbonara.
Not the English, microwave-meal type for us. No, no, the full-on,
creamy/cheesy/spaghetti joy.
Probably
left a few pounds heavier, but we were walking. Totally worth it.
As was the
round of banana ice-cream that followed soon after. I don’t seem to remember
ever having banana ice-cream before now; but I do know that I’ve probably
spoiled myself for all future banana ice-cream in any case.
After
that…pizza/hotel mini-bar drinks/shower and bed, most likely.
Day Four:
26/06/13
Waking up on
Day Four was a rather low moment. First, because it symbolised our last full
day in beautiful Roma.
And second,
because we’d seen so much already, it’d be difficult to be amazed again. But
that isn’t to say we didn’t try.
After
another, juice-filled, “Getting-One’s-Money’s-Worth” buffet, we set off with
the intention of seeing The Vatican; the last big sight to see before England
reclaimed us.
Along the
way, the Trevi Fountain and the Pantheon passed us by again. And I was
disheartened to learn that, like commuters living in London, seeing an
attraction too many times loses its buzz. I insisted we carried on before it
happened fully and we soon reached a bridge across the River Tiber. The bridge
itself was a sight to see; flanked with a pleasing display of different
sculptures. But they are not why I shall remember that bridge.
As we first got onto the – rather long –
bridge, I was distracted by a little display of wooden trains, which had
carriages that were letters, creating what I called “Name Trains.” Of course by
looking, I’d already doomed myself, and the merchant came bustling up to me
with a notepad and a pen and told me to write a name down on there. Unable to
see a polite, British way out, I complied and wrote my name out. He then bent
down to the floor and got to work making the train. I swapped glances with Mum,
saying “How do we get out of this one?” He then finished, and the rest of the
interaction went like this:
Merchant:
“Twelve euro, please.”
Me: “No
thank you…grazie.” *go to leave*
Merchant:
“Twelve euro?”
Me: “No,
grazie!” *set off down the bridge, Mum in tow*
Merchant:
*following us now* “Ten euro!”
Me: “No,
no.”
Merchant:
“Nine euro!”
Me: “No!”
- This
continues until we reach five –
Merchant:
“Five euro!”
Me:
“…..yeah, alright.”
I paid, and
I got my name in a train like a seven-year-old. But Mum and I carried on,
laughing to ourselves and mimicking him chasing us down the bridge, as the
Vatican started to come into view. I was rather distracted by my very first
haggle; learning that tip one is to walk away.
But turning
left after the bridge – and Castel Saint Angelo, a nice extra little sight on
the bridge – the home of the Pope was visible at the end of a long, busy road.
By the way,
is there actually a difference between a queue and a crowd? If time really is
money, some tourists would end up rich if they learnt what the difference is.
But what
properly made me laugh were all the plastic chairs. You know those god-awful
chairs that they insist on in schools; that break if sat on, and like to reform
in heat?
Like Italy
heat, for instance. We actually sat on some to consult the map for nearby
restaurants, and probably burned a few buttock-pounds in the process. I went
away laughing to myself: see what kind of quality true worshippers really get?
The Home of the Pope; in all its classroom-chairs glory.
Then you see
all the nuns and priests hurrying about, in full black attire, and continue to
wonder: how have you not burst into flames by now?
Probably
because there’d be a Satan-scare or something.
Right, let’s
move on.
Lunch, in a
very fancy restaurant nearby, allowed me to try veal for the first time. I know
it’s horrible and cruel…but it’s also something I’d been meaning to do for
quite a while. I liked it, although wasn’t massively overwhelmed. I think it’s
a kind of fine meat that requires a bit more heavily on its sauce, and the
sauce didn’t seem quite right to me.
Maybe I’m
just old-fashioned. Give me crispy chicken skin anytime.
While we
were in there, feasting on cow babies, Rome’s weather decided to change face
and started raining.
Now, as
said, I’m British. Rain doesn’t bother me.
So if it
happens to be warm, almost tropical rain, so much the better. I imagine the
Italians looked at us incredulously as we set off, perfectly content.
Until my wet
Converse met wet Roman roads and I nearly slipped on every stone.
Then an
electric Nissan Leaf came silently up
behind me and scared the life out of me. (What was left of it, anyway, after
all my slide-stone moments.)
TANGENT
Sorry, but
mentioning surprised Italian’s stares reminded me of something. Mum’s guide
book had mentioned that Italians are interested, curious people; and so
tourists shouldn’t be too surprised to find locals basically staring at them.
Now this may
have happened to me on all the other days, but only during the last two did I
really notice it. Such to a point where I and a rather old Italian man were
having, essentially, a staring contest.
When I
brought this up with Mum, she made a rather interesting point of “Maybe it’s just
a British courtesy to break that eye-contact that just doesn’t exist here.”
Interesting
point. Strike up another one for British mannerisms.
TANGENT OVER
It was at
this point that Mum and I went our separate ways for a while. We had discussed
having just a few hours to ourselves; and this was really our last chance.
So, we went
to the Pantheon and then split up.
I went off
on a little adventure to buy my housemates some little gifts, and then after
that, just went wandering. I love wandering. It goes back to the ‘hungry-eyes’
thing I mentioned. You can just go where you want, as fast as you want, and see
everything around you in a natural, not-following-the-map kinda way.
I thoroughly
enjoyed it; saw the Piazza del Popolo, where they were setting up some kind of
music festival stage. There were also some more excellent sculptures scattered
around; the photo count climbed ever higher.
And then I
decided to do some shopping; which basically involved me making an absolute,
British-tourist-twit of myself…and seeing some random, homeless-looking guy go
“GRRR!” at some girls. Who, understandably, screamed and hurried off.
That doesn’t
really add, or mean anything. But it was memorable, for the wrong reasons.
Headed back
to the Pantheon again to meet Mum, who had purchased a Leonardo Da Vinci
t-shirt from the museum we had seen the day before. Was rather pleased with
herself, it has to be said.
There was a
little place just down the road where we called in, to receive an excellent ham
pizza and a rather sharp cocktail. My “Stereotype” list scored another point,
when Con te Partiro (It’s Time to Say
Goodbye) came on the radio behind Mum. I tucked into my pizza, listened to
the beautiful music and a part of me wished I wouldn’t be on a plane home the
next day.
That night
entailed little more than packing, drinking, and heavy hearts.
Although I
went to bed glad that the flaming air conditioning vent would cease plaguing me
the following night.
Day
Five: (You guessed it ) 27/06/13
I didn’t
start on a plane, and I won’t finish on a plane.
As this is
my blog, I shall end on a thought, a joke, and for once in a short while, a
book recommendation.
Between
check-out and our taxi to the airport, I had time to think and write in my
journal.
Our holiday to
Rome was quite spectacular. Better than last ones in my life, because I’m older
and mature now. I actually wanted to
experience the history, and beauty, and culture of Rome. I wasn’t just a hot,
stressed-out little kid being dragged along; more often than not, I was walking
far ahead of Mum.
As said at
the start of these five thousand words of travel writing, (Score!) I had been
asking to see Rome for ten years. And I think
it was worth the wait.
If I had
seen it at the time I asked, I would have just been the kid at the back
complaining of heat, foot pain and demanding an ice-cream. (Maybe Mum will tell
it as I did that anyway!)
But because
I had those ten years; to want it more, and maybe more importantly, to study
Classical Civilisation and know a lot more about all the histories, the holiday
meant more to me than ever before.
I wonder
where I’ll be writing about in the next ten years.
The joke,
well, isn’t really a joke. But it sure as hell entertained me.
The
taxi-driver who drove us home from Heathrow Airport had survived an Olympic
elevator landing on him.
And finally,
the book recommendation. I started reading it in the airport when our flight
home was delayed two hours; and found being told to get up to board the plane
as nothing less than an interruption.
The book in
question is another Neil Gaiman hit. Shocking I know. Still, I recommend American Gods as another great fantasy
read.
And I
recommend Rome. Completely.
***
Links, for those interested:
Con te Partiro: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tcrfvP11Hbo
The Story of Romulus and Remus: http://www.historylearningsite.co.uk/romulus_and_remus.htm
Russell Crowe's "These are the dreams of Marcus Aurelius" moment (SPOILERS): http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=72uwmHsFSAg
No comments:
Post a Comment