Not Afraid of the Fall

by Kyle James

The alley streets east of the Vatican were lined with multicolored buildings with lush overhanging plants on the balconies. Outside of the many cafés, art galleries, and coffee shops sat old men smoking cigars and drinking wine at 1:00 p.m. in the afternoon, talking about what I imagined to be mafia things and their women troubles. But then we reached the Pantheon and the magic had worn off; it was back to tourist hell.

  The dome of the Pantheon was covered in biblical paintings and it was stunning. The gray granite pillars holding up the building resembled the trunks of redwoods, and the marble steps still glistened 1,900 years after being built (1,892 to be exact). I wished I had noise-canceling headphones to enjoy the beauty in peace. The constant applause of camera snaps was overwhelming.

  As I looked around and noticed every single person taking pictures in the Pantheon (including Ash and me), I wondered what it was like visiting a place like this in the eighties or nineties, before smartphones and high-quality cameras. Why don’t they treat these ancient landmarks like classy museums and forbid pictures and loud noises? Social media has ingrained this addictive need to capture every piece of our lives. Almost to the point that if we don’t capture it, we feel like it didn’t happen. I guess I was just born too late to experience life before technology had taken over the world. At least I won’t get polio and I get to eat Chipotle. You win some, you lose some. I looked up into the dome one last time. Ah, fuck it, I thought, snapping a GoPro picture.

  We decided to head home to get ready for dinner. But before we got a mile closer to home, Ash spoke the five worst words since “The power just went out.”

  “Hey, look! There’s a Zara.”

  The Spanish clothing store had become my archnemesis. After safely dropping Ash off in the romper and jean shirt mecca, I headed back outside to look at some of the local shops. I passed by a suit shop that looked like the Italian version of JoS. A. Bank. The sign read something along the lines of BUY TWO SUITS AND GET A FREE HOUSE, HEALTH INSURANCE, MAIL-ORDER BRIDE, AND SEGWAY! I could use some health insurance soon. Ash returned with a maxi dress that was surely going to trip her every time she wore it. We shall see, I supposed.

  We capped off the night with a candlelit dinner at a café in Trastevere and found ourselves quickly venturing down the familiar path of Chianti. Ash was glowing with happiness. I couldn’t believe the trance this food was putting her in. Every bite was followed with a noise of extreme satisfaction and then a gulp of acidic wine that left her smiling and ready for the next bite. Gentlemen, if you want to put your woman in the best mood ever, feed her pizza, pasta, chianti, and gelato—the Italian cheat code to a woman’s heart.

  8/5/15

  Rome, Italy

  I woke up and immediately braced for impact, but the blow of the hangover never came. I felt like I was dodging bullets every morning, which was good, because today we were heading to the final remaining “must-see attraction” in Rome, the Colosseum. I was pumped to see the largest amphitheater ever built and check it off my monument list. Growing up and learning about the epic battles between warriors and beasts and the gruesome executions that took place had made me infatuated with the Colosseum. I was starting to realize I’d loved all that crazy shit as a kid.

  The walk from Trastevere to the Colosseum was far less visually stunning than strolling through Vatican City the day before: it required crossing large, busy roads and took us through a desert-like park (Circus Maximus) that looked like it hadn’t seen rain in years.

  With every one hundred yards closer to the stadium, the amount of tourists grew exponentially. I saw the Arch of Constantine and knew we were close. We passed under the arch and through a crowd of selfie sticks as everyone captured themselves with the famous landmark. I was cussing out some Asian tourist under my breath who’d just hit me in the head with a phone, when I laid eyes on the old battleground.

  When we reached the entrance, one thing quickly became very apparent to us—after visiting such attractions as the Eiffel Tower, the Berlin Wall, and the Grand-Place … nowhere was even as close to as swarming with tourists as the Colosseum. There were hundreds of people taking the exact same picture (the one you see when you Google “Colosseum”). There were lines in front of the rocks outside. These rocks were probably a foot tall and gave the tourists a somewhat better shot as they stood above the rest of the nimrods taking pictures. Actual lines just to stand on rocks. I cannot believe how ridiculous this whole social media/photo craze has gotten, I thought as we patiently stood in line for a rock.

  When we reached the inside of the stadium and rushed to the top, I realized it was much bigger than I’d imagined it to be. It felt like we were in the sky. I also expected the inside of the stadium to be a field of dirt stained with old blood, but they were renovating the area where the battles took place, so instead of a dirt-covered field we saw the belly of the Colosseum, the hypogeum. This was technically under the battleground and was a series of cages where the animals and gladiators had been kept before contests.

  We stood in the upper seats like peasants and continued to casually inch closer to a tour guide nearby. Every time he turned to face the group, we would pretend to take pictures and be uninterested. Classic case of Tour Guide Red-Light, Green-Light.

  The guide told the group (and us) that when the gladiators entered the ring and fought, there were two possible exits: the gate of life, where the winners exited and partied all night in the town square, or the gate of death, where the dead bodies were dragged by a man dressed as Charon, the ferryman of the underworld. I tried to wrap my mind around watching the Tar Heels wax NC State and the losers being dragged out of the stadium and to their deaths. I disliked NC State as much as the next sane person, but that seemed a bit extreme.

  We had one last meal in Rome before heading to Florence tomorrow. Ash asked a man in his fifties changing the sign for his wine shop where to eat. He told us to walk four blocks to the east. Then he smiled and said, “Eat anywhere on the right side.” Seemed like a strange piece of advice, but we trusted the locals.

  Four blocks later, we saw the restaurants on the right side; they were all packed with people, but not tourists. When the waiter came around, he said, “Ciao,” followed by more Italian. We looked at each other and responded, “Ciao, do you speak English?”

  “Ah, Americans,” he said, raising his arms. “You came to the right place!” He sounded proud of us for finding him.

  We asked him to do us a favor and just get us the best starter and two entrees on the menu (reasonably priced, of course). He returned with some variation of eggplant as an appetizer. We chased our eggplant with a homemade pici dish, and then split the grilled lamb to finish. I am still unsure what the appetizer was, but what I can tell you is, it was easily the best meal we had in Italy.

  Why we pretend to know what the best thing on the menu is when we go to restaurants, I do not know. I understand having preferences on types of food, but if there is something amazing the staff recommends, we should let them paint our palates with the best colors. The waiters who work and live at these places have a much better understanding of their ingredients and specialties. You also don’t always know what you like until you try new things. Would we have ordered eggplant and lamb had we made our own decisions? No, absolutely not. Would we have even found this restaurant had we not asked a local? No, absolutely not. What travel blogs don’t tell you is that if you want to find the best restaurants, ask a local, and if you want the best food the restaurant has to offer, ask the waiter.

  8/6/15

  Rome, Italy → Florence, Italy

  I woke up well rested in our large bed, nestled in a cloud of conditioned air. This Airbnb had been amazing, from its location in Trastevere to its amenities inside. We couldn’t have asked for a better place. We’d had back-to-back great Airbnbs. We were hoping for a three-peat in Florence.

  Our BlaBlaCar driver was picking us up outside of town, and the only way to get there was taking a train from a station near the Colosseum. Rome resemb
led a boiler room, and my forehead was perspiring at an alarming rate as we trekked across the Circus Maximus track. The sweat drops occasionally traveled to the corners of my mouth and gave my taste buds a jolt of salt. Half of me was proud of my body’s ability to carry this heavy backpack while adequately cooling itself to remain near homeostasis; the other half wanted to stop fucking sweating.

  I thought I was relieved when we reached the metro station and hopped on the train heading south; that is, until I realized the AC in the train was weaker than a Red Rover chain of toddlers.

  We reached our stop and searched through waves of heat for a white compact car. Forty-five minutes went by, and we were sure we had missed the pickup. Either that or the driver, Dominico, had not come at all. (By this point, our BlaBlaCar experiences were getting more and more unreliable.)

  As we looked for a white car, a man and a woman stepped out of a van in my peripheral vision. It looked like the van had just broken down or run out of gas. The man approached us, a black tank top tucked into his ripped jeans. His mustache was one that could only belong to a pedophile or porn star. He resembled an Italian version of Napoleon Dynamite’s uncle Rico. The poor guy probably wanted to call someone to pick him up. He approached us, and I was prepared to tell him we had no service when he asked, “Ashley?”

  Dear God, no way. No, no, no. Come on, Ash; analyze this situation thoroughly. Think this answer through. We can take a bus, ride a train, walk, crawl, or even crab-walk to Florence.

  “Yes, are you Dominico?” she excitedly replied.

  Fuck.

  Dominico and his female counterpart were from Italy and made their living as laser show performers. I am still unsure what that career entails, but the flyer they passed back to us showed them surrounded by smoke, wearing Alien vs. Predator costumes, and holding massive fake laser guns. And by the look, smell, and feel of their touring van, business was far from booming.

  Dominico explained that his other vehicle, the white compact car, had broken down. I found it hard to believe this was the reliable vehicle. The entire third row and trunk of the van was covered with equipment for their show. I nicknamed this van the “No Van”: It had no AC, no seat belts, and there was absolutely no way we were going to survive the four-hour trip to Florence.

  Then Dominico turned around and said, “One more.”

  One more what? We stopped abruptly at a house, and a beautiful young girl in a rather racy outfit walked up to the car. Luckily, we picked her up on Ashley’s side. If I were smashed up next to this girl, sweating in the backseat for four hours, Ashley wouldn’t be excited. Our backpacks now sat on our laps … Add “No room” to the résumé of the van.

  Two minutes down the road, Dominico said something to the young girl in the back and passed her a laser show shirt. She replied, “Grazie,” and then proceeded to take her shirt off right in front of us, exposing her bra and stomach. My vision traveled from big tan breasts to big blue eyes with a change of focus. Ash looked at me as if to say, You have one second to turn around before I punch you in the mozzarella balls. I quickly averted my eyes and looked out the window, shrugging it off and murmuring excuses under my breath.

  We finally got moving up the road to get out of Rome when Dominico took the next exit. If we pick up another person, we are out of here, I thought, still not looking to the right of the seat in front of me. Dominico had pulled into a gas station to fill up. (Add “No gas” to the ever-growing list of the No Van.) Dominico exited the car and walked up to my window and asked if we had the BlaBlaCar money. “Yeah,” I replied, confused. He stuck his hand out and said something along the lines of “I need it for gas.” Holy shit, add “No money” to the list.

  A few hours later, Dominico dropped us off along the Arno River, and after my first four steps out of the car, I almost collapsed. I hadn’t realized how crunched my knees had become in the car. I must have looked like a newborn giraffe walking for the first time. My knees were cracking like fresh morning knuckles. As we prepared to leave behind this nightmare, Dominico said, “Heyyyy, I’m sorry,” and held his hands out to his sides apologetically. The funniest part was he didn’t even apologize for anything specifically; the No Van was just a bad experience all the way around. We told him not to worry about it. Despite the no AC, no seat belts, no room, no gas, and no money, we’d survived. We started the trek to our Airbnb for the next three days.

  Florence had the small-town charm of Kraków, the authenticity of Prague, and the Italian culture of Rome. This was exactly how I had imagined Italy to be—historical churches and museums around every block. It was no wonder so many artists and painters spent their time here. Ash fell into this category. She had spent six weeks here studying abroad in college. By studying abroad, I mean she took a food-and-wine-pairing course and couldn’t remember a single recipe.

  Our Airbnb was in the heart of Florence, surrounded by cathedrals, cafés, and, unfortunately for me, shopping. We were only a few blocks from the Uffizi, Duomo, and Ponte Vecchio. Our place was rather pricey, but not many Airbnbs in Florence had AC, and that was an absolute necessity at this point in the summer.

  Our host’s assistant, Giovana, did not speak any English. It was a game of smiles and hand gestures. At this point, we were masters of the Airbnb intro exchanges. Give us the keys, Wi-Fi code, and AC remote, and we’re good to go. Giovana gestured to us as if to say, Got it all? and smiled. We nodded back and told her, “Grazie!” The only issue was the immense heat, and I wished we could have paid an extra ten dollars to have had the AC cranked before we got there. We turned it all the way down to sixty-two degrees, showered off the No Van germs in freezing water, and headed to explore Florence for dinner.

  Today had taken its toll on us, and we were in desperate need of comfort. With our apartment scalding, it wasn’t going to come in the form of rest. We needed food. But before we could eat, Ash wanted to take me to the Duomo.

  I had never seen the Duomo, and frankly I’d barely heard of the thing. She promised me it would be worth seeing before food. I didn’t even need the Duomo; I was in awe at the sculptures scattered among random piazzas. I kept stopping and pointing at statues and buildings, and she would reply impatiently, “I know, Kyle, but wait until you see the Duomo.” Then we arrived.

  “Shut the fuck up,” I casually blurted out, and attracted many a disgusted look from mothers with children. “Sorry,” I said to everyone who could hear me. So this is how Ash feels. This was easily the most impressive cathedral I had ever seen. It looked like a massive Gothic soccer stadium. How had I never seen or heard of this before? It felt like I had just found a thousand dollars in my back pocket. The pink, green, beige, and brown colors were perfectly faded to complete the architectural perfection. Ash laughed as I walked up to touch it. I don’t even know why I did this—maybe just to make sure it was real. We promised each other to return tomorrow and set off in search of food.

  La Cantinetta was the name, and perfection was its game. I rarely go into great detail about meals, because who wants to read about food? Food is like baseball: great if you are there and can experience it, but you don’t want to hear someone tell you about it.

  But this wasn’t food; it was art. We ordered a bottle of Chianti that our quintessential mustache-sporting Italian waiter recommended. We then asked him what we should order to eat. He turned our bottle around and said, “With this Chianti, the linguine with buffalo sauce and our homemade pici with bacon, garlic, hot pepper, and ricotta cheese.” Sold.

  The food and wine were both amazing on their own, but when we took a bite of our respective dishes and chased it with the wine, there was some sort of Italian chemical reaction that occurred in my mouth, and it sent an explosion of flavor to my taste buds. The food was a grenade, and the Chianti pulled the pin. We paired every single bite with wine and laughed in excitement.

  We left the restaurant after complimenting every person in the place we could, and walked home to wrap up our first night in Florence.


  8/7/15

  Florence, Italy

  The streets of Florence were steaming hot, but they paled in comparison to the heat basking inside our Airbnb. We arrived home last night and thought the place would be cooled down from turning on the AC, but it was hotter than when we had left. The unit was clearly not conditioning our air to do anything but cook us alive. To try to get any amount of sleep, we had to resort to our emergency sleeping-in-the-heat protocol.

  Phase 1 started with pounding three large glasses of water. We were going to sweat profusely; there was no way around it. To not wake up with a pounding headache and cottonmouth, we had to get ahead of the dehydration storm. Next, we took showers as cold as our bodies could stand and then got into bed immediately to try to retain a cool shield to the heat. Unfortunately, I was sweating within a matter of minutes, and the frigid feeling of moments earlier was long gone. It was time for Phase 2.

  Phase 2 required teamwork. This was not ideal at 1:00 a.m. We were both exhausted and annoyed by the heat, but we had to find a way to fight the temperature together. We grabbed ice cubes from the freezer and took turns giving each other ice cube wipe-downs, gliding the frozen water across our backs to cool off. This seemed to cool us enough for sleep to be in sight. Time for the knockout punch of Phase 3.

  Phase 3 was drugs. When in doubt, rely on man-made drugs. Our drug of choice (and only option) was melatonin. We each took two pills and hoped for the best. It worked for Ash; she fell asleep in fifteen minutes. I did not have such luck. It was hours before I tricked my body into not being awake.

  Around 9:00 a.m. we exited the boiling room. The fresh air and cloudy sky was as refreshing as a cool shower on sunburned skin. We agreed to play the Google Maps Monument Game. Oh, you’ve never played? Here’s how it works: we opened our map and walked to random monuments that stood out nearby. First was the Piazza Massimo D’Azeglio, followed by Piazza Cesare Beccaria, and lastly the coolest of the three, the Basilica di Santa Croce.