A bellman greets me at the entrance and, in my best Italian, I tell him I’m checking in. He immediately replies in English that he’ll have my bags sent up to my room. I reply thank you in Italian, because I’m here, damn it, and I plan to practice. The same thing happens at the registration desk: I speak Italian; the clerk replies in English. And when I say buongiorno to a hotel employee in the elevator, she also replies in my native tongue.
So it’s going to be like that, is it?
I realize I don’t look European, but with my snappy travelin’ scarf and my stylish shoes, I don’t appear to be overwhelmingly American, either. I mean, I’m not draped in the stars and stripes, clomping around in a cowboy hat or sparkling white sneakers, demanding ice in my drink. I could easily be British or Australian. Fine, both these countries speak English, and, granted, I appreciate everyone’s trying to make everything easier for me to understand, but I studied really hard to be able to navigate without assistance, so I’d like to try.
I take the elevator up to the third floor. The door to my room is massive and solid wood, glossy to the point that I can guarantee these are rubbed with lemon oil daily. Inserting the key card, the first thing I notice upon entry is that instead of a full king bed, I have two large twins pushed together. While I should be disappointed at how not-romantic this is, I’m actually pretty psyched to have my own covers. Fletch is a known blanket thief and does this hugging and spinning move in his sleep that leaves me perpetually chilly.
The room’s on the small side, with only a tiny desk and a single chair, but the ceiling’s easily fifteen feet high, so it feels airy. The walls are padded and lined in fabric, and the draperies are heavy, so the whole place is cozy, too. I don’t hold out great hope for my view, and when I part the curtains, I see industrial air conditioners, exactly what I expected. Although I’d love a balcony with a view of the Piazza della Repubblica, I’m not paying for that luxury. Generally when I travel, I go for the least expensive class of room in a higher caliber property, as the overall amenities will be better. (Basically, this is the same theory as owning the worst home in a nice neighborhood. Case in point, my house.) At one point, the hotel was an actual palace, but this room indicates that even the maids had to sleep somewhere. Regardless, I’m happy to call this home for the next week.
As I’m a little delirious from not being able to sleep on the plane, despite a liberal dosing of prescription pharmaceuticals, it’s all I can do not to fall face-first into bed before my luggage is even delivered. Stacey says the best way to fight jet lag is to take as brief a nap as possible and then go to sleep at what would be a normal bedtime there, so that’s the plan.
I can’t inspect the bathroom yet, as I’m not sure how to turn on the lights. I bash a bunch of buttons, with no luck. (Times I’ve bashed things = one hundred thousand; times bashing has produced the intended result = one.) (Figure this must have worked at some point; otherwise why would I continue to bash?) Then I realize that none of the lights function in the room, either. There has to be a trick here; I just have to figure it out. I’d call downstairs and ask, but imagine I’ll be annoyed when they reply in English.
When my luggage arrives, the bellman sticks my electronic key into a slot on the wall, which powers everything. Oh. I guess this is how they conserve electricity here, by not allowing the wasteful Americans to run the television and lights when they’re off walking the Forum. Makes sense. I’m an energy Nazi at home, perpetually following Fletch around to flip off switches, but when I travel, all bets are off because I hate coming back late to a dark, quiet room.
Still, if my hotel wants the lights off while I’m gone, that’s what I’ll do. My goal on this trip is to not be an Ugly American. I realize fellow countrymen don’t always have the best reputation overseas, so I feel like it’s my duty to be an ambassador of sorts.
Also, I’d prefer not to be mocked in Italian, particularly because I understand a lot of the derogatory terms.
I even tried to pack in a way that was more European, with non-tennis-shoe footwear and cotton skirts for the days we visit religious sites. Instead of my usual summer uniform of alligator shirts and khakis, I’ve brought lots of light, gauzy peasant tops and airy Capri pants. Right before I left, I watched Roman Holiday and asked myself, “Would Audrey wear this?” about every item I chose. I even went so far as to buy a colorful dress to sport over my swimsuit, instead of my everyday choice of paint-splatted cutoff sweatpants. (Fancy!) And I brought a bunch of long scarves. Thus far, every single woman I’ve seen on the street has been wearing something draped around her neck, so I’m pleased at having gotten it right.
Now that there’s light, I can finally see the bathroom and I’m thrilled that the horror stories of a hole cut in the floor are untrue. (I still have a purse full of Kleenex in anticipation of the “You won’t find toilet paper in any public Italian toilet” warnings, though.) Mine’s a standard-issue, made in ’Merica-type hotel bath with an updated toilet, sink, shower, and bonus bidet. The counter’s plenty wide for all my makeup and the hair dryer is powerful. I’m missing washcloths, but I can work around that.
(Sidebar: I receive a washcloth on the second day when I put my Italian to use to ask the housekeeper for a “tiny towel for my face.” For some reason, they don’t use them here. No idea why.)
I flip on the television as I unpack, and immediately become entranced by the show Guardia Costiera, which is an outstandingly cheesy program about the Coast Guard. I’m already making a rule to limit my time with the television, lest I waste the whole trip mesmerized by dubbed reruns of Friends, which I didn’t even watch in English.
Thus organized, I inspect the minibar, opening a package of shortbread cookies with big discs of chocolate baked in the middle. Is there anything more exciting than an exotic minibar? (No. No, there is not.) Then I put on my pajamas, draw the shades, and set my alarm for two hours later.
I figure if the rest of the city is as good as these cookies, then I’m in for a treat.
• • •
I’ve now been wandering around Rome for about two hours looking for the Trevi Fountain, finding myself utterly and completely lost because I’m incapable of reading a map. I’d ask Siri, except my cell phone won’t work because either I didn’t buy the right international data package or I don’t have the Wi-Fi set up properly.
Somehow I suspect this is all Rome’s way of paying me back for saying she reminded me of Houston.
I’m not stomping around angrily, though. I’m trying to take in everything I see and I keep bumping into unexpected landmarks, like the Spanish Steps. History exists on every corner here. I can’t go more than a few paces without discovering an ornate fountain or ancient church or a remnant of the old baths. And, my God, the people-watching! Every Roman woman is the physical embodiment of Sophia Loren, with elegance and confidence to spare. And Stacey was right—no one’s wearing shorts. They’re all in little sundresses or skirts or—please don’t let this be a thing—elastic-bottomed harem pants. The Roman men are equally dapper and completely gorgeous, but for some reason, they’re all shorter than the women.
When I was in my twenties, I was afraid of Rome after Joanna graduated and spent the summer with a Eurail pass. She said the Roman men were butt-pinchers, calling, “Bella, bella!” while they followed her down the street.
Clearly, that’s no longer going to be an issue, at least for me.
Not sure if I should celebrate the victory of becoming invisible or mourn the loss of what made me visible. But at least I don’t have to bust out the Italian insults, so perhaps it’s a draw.
The saying is that all roads lead to Rome. While this may be true for others, for me, all roads apparently lead to snacks. As lost as I’ve been in this magnificent city, I find myself standing in front of the Gelateria della Palma, which is the exact gelato shop my Italian teacher told me to visit because they have something like one hundred and fif
ty flavors. Never one to ignore serendipity, I step inside and order a cone topped with almond tiramisu mousse and pistachio gelato. And with my first bite, I can already determine that this trip has been worth it.
Real Italian gelato is both heavier and lighter than American ice cream due to being made with milk and eggs instead of cream. (Kind of like our version of frozen custard.) Gelato’s also distinctive because there’s less air pumped in while it’s being made and it’s served a few degrees warmer than ice cream. The amount of sugar seems different, too, as I taste more of the actual nut and coffee flavors rather than an overwhelming cloying sweetness. But none of the specifics matter as I plant myself on the bench in the middle of the shop, trying not to make om-nom-nom noises as I watch a tour group shuffle in, each wearing earphones and receivers in order to hear their tour leader.
As I’ve marched around the city, I’ve seen lots of groups being led here and there (wait, why didn’t I follow any of them?) but this is the first time encountering a pack of Americans. Although the loud English is a heavy clue, I could have quickly identified them as fellow citizens by their fanny packs, cargo shorts, cowboy hats, and logo tees alone.
I make a mental note to tell Fletch not to pack like a jackass. I said this before I left, too, but it bears repeating.
I’m not sure why I believe I’m all EuroJen after having staked my flag in the gelato shop no more than five minutes prior to this group’s arrival, yet here we are. But these people aren’t following their tour guide’s instructions on how to order and I’m bothered. Instead, they’re barking commands at the nice employee who suddenly . . . doesn’t seem to speak any English, despite our having the very conversation where I learned the difference between gelato and ice cream moments earlier.
Well played, gelato shop kid. Well played.
But I guess the Americans receive their just desserts (pun intended) when the tour leader apologizes for not turning off his mike while he used the restroom.
Ten euros says this was deliberate.
Before I exit the gelato shop, having finally figured out my location on the map, I buy the greatest possible Italian souvenir anyone could ever purchase. My new prize possession is a giant rainbow sucker with a picture of Pope Francis on it.
I call it a Lolli-Pope.
I walk for hours and for miles, trying to figure out where all the points of interest are because I don’t want the city to feel confusing for Fletch. Even after I bought the plane ticket, I had to sell him on the idea of leaving his comfort zone. Right before I left, he spotted a note my friend Jenny sent me about places to eat. Her husband, Jason, recommended we try the restaurant Il Pagliaccio, saying:
The food was tremendous, service awesome, and the setting was in a pretty sunken room with domed ceilings. They also serve an overpriced coffee that uses a bean that was partially digested and shit out by a rat. Not kidding. Of course I tried it. And, yes, it was delicious.
“Are you going to try to make me drink rat-shit coffee?” Fletch demanded, pointing at that line in the e-mail. “Because those are exactly the kind of stunts they pull over there to make Americans uneasy.”
Wearily, I replied, “No one’s making you drink rat-shit coffee.” Although that was exactly my plan, had I not been busted. Now he doesn’t entirely trust me, with good reason, so I want to smooth the way for his arrival as much as possible.
Anyway, what surprises me most so far is how these tiny cars drive everywhere, even down the alleys that are filled with sidewalk cafés and in no way resemble roads. For years, I thought my Sicilian grandfather was a menace behind the wheel and only now do I realize that he was simply an Italian driver.
Around dusk I decide I’m hungry, so I find a picturesque outdoor café right around the corner from the Spanish Steps. I’m as intrigued by their menu as I am by the promise of free Wi-Fi, as I’ve been radio silent for the past six hours. But because I’m not online I have no way to check out whatever the Italian version of Yelp is, so I take my chances.
I start with a glass of wine and ask for the prosciutto and buffalo mozzarella dish as my primi piatti (first plate), followed by the spaghetti carbonara, which is a creamy pasta dish—similar to an alfredo—made with pancetta. Years ago, when I worked at the Olive Garden, they occasionally had carbonara as a special and I was apeshit for it. I’d spend the whole shift annoying the cooks, making sure they’d have enough ingredients left over for my order at the end of the night. Magically delicious as carbonara was in Fort Wayne, Indiana, in 1992, I can’t even imagine the majesty about to appear on a plate here where pasta was born.
I feel like I have to pinch myself, sitting at an outdoor table on a Roman side street, Vespas zipping by, with accordion music in the background, about to try the authentic versions of the cuisine I already love so much. I congratulate myself on having made travel part of my bucket list; otherwise I might never have come here.
My appetizer’s served and I can’t stop staring at my plate, trying to figure it out. Even though prosciutto and buffalo mozzarella appear to be exactly the same as the stuff I buy at the grocery store at home, I’m sure that the looks must be deceiving. Maybe Italy’s more about the local, rustic ingredients and doesn’t get all wrapped around the axle about the presentation like in American restaurants. This plain white plate, the same you’d find in any greasy spoon, is neither twee nor artisan. Maybe food in Italy is all substance, and who cares about style?
I slice off a tiny bite of the mozzarella, wrapping it in a bit of prosciutto before popping the delectable morsel in my mouth. I follow Michelle the Nutritionist’s advice, chewing slowly and deliberately for maximum impact.
Turns out the looks are actually not deceiving.
In fact, what I buy at the Sunset grocery store is actually a lot better than what’s in front of me. The dried ham lacks any discernable flavor and has the consistency of old Bubble Yum, while the buffalo mozzarella is a lump of bland, served on a plate of apathy.
I take a bite of the bread, which is grainy and stale and ever so slightly pungent.
WTF, Italy?
But afraid of seeming like an Ugly American, I don’t want to complain. Maybe prosciutto is supposed to taste like under-salted shoe leather and I’ve just been eating candy-coated, super-spiced American versions at home. I have a few more bites before giving up. Doesn’t matter if this is the authentic Italian way—I simply don’t like it.
My carbonara arrives and it’s . . . not a color I’ve ever been served before. Sometimes carbonara contains an egg stirred in at the end, so the dish can be a pale golden hue. But what’s in front of me is the bright yellow of a bottle of French’s mustard. I poke at the pasta, searching for the pancetta, wondering if I’ve been served the wrong item. When the waiter comes to check, I explain that I don’t see any pancetta and he points to something the size of a micro-grain smeared on the side of the bowl, rolling his eyes as he saunters off.
I take a bite and taste what’s absolutely, positively, without a shadow of a doubt boxed pasta mixed with canned cheese . . . and now I’m mad because this means I’ve literally had better meals at the Olive Garden, especially because back in 1992 they made their pasta from scratch.
How is this my luck? Not only did I have the one Italian nonna who couldn’t cook, but now I’ve apparently stumbled into the place that taught her everything she knew.
I feel like Julia Roberts lied to me.
Did she not run around Italy in that movie, eating in places exactly like this, right in front of the perfect photo op, losing her mind over all the food?
This is the exact moment I realize what I’ve done wrong. I’m sure Julia Roberts (really, author Elizabeth Gilbert) didn’t go to restaurants a stone’s throw from a massive tourist attraction, because her phone probably worked and she could pull up Italian Yelp. You know what you get in Chicago when you eat by the Ferris wheel at Navy Pier?
Bubb
a Gump Shrimp.
So, I’m dining at the Italian version of Bubba Gump Shrimp.
Damn it.
This restaurant has nothing to do with good food and everything to do with proximity and I vow to not make this mistake again.
Then, having given up on all things food-related at this particular little bistro, I decide that I can at least end the night with my first Italian coffee.
I order a cappuccino, which is apparently a crime against humanity, on par with the atrocities in the Sudan.
Damn it again.
My waiter literally winces in pain when I order, much as I winced when tasting his subpar prosciutto. I find out later that cappuccino’s considered a breakfast drink and if you insist on having afternoon/evening coffee instead of wine—like a savage—then ordering a macchiato is de rigueur.
Listen, if I wanted to be scolded and dismissed and condescended to in English, I’d have just gone to Paris.
Equal parts discouraged and aggravated, I pay my bill and head to the cab stand. I tell the driver where I want to go. Of course his English is better than my Italian. However, he immediately recognizes me as having Sicilian ancestry, so we chat as he takes me back to the hotel. I relay my dinner experience and he cracks up.
“Ugh, terrible place. For tourists,” he tells me. “Your thumb rule is ‘if monument, then no you want.’ Do not eat anywhere looking at anything pretty. They cut the corners and they charge too much money. How much you pay for dog’s dinner?”
“About forty euro?” I say. I still can’t grasp the conversion rate, so this could be twenty bucks American or sixty. (Their Wi-Fi didn’t work, so I couldn’t look it up.)
He snorts. “Is the robbery of the highway, as you Americans say. Beautiful dinner is sixteen euro, eighteen euro maybe. I ladri. Crooks. You go back, get refund.”
“I’m probably not going to do that,” I admit.
I Regret Nothing: A Memoir Page 21