“Next, you go to neighborhood, maybe Trastevere or Testaccio. Still tourists, but food is better. I promise.”
“Well, thank God,” I reply. “Because finding and then punching Julia Roberts really shouldn’t be on my bucket list.”
18.
UGLY AMERICANS
Rome redeems herself at breakfast.
Big-time.
I’m spending the morning at the Galleria Borghese and need to be properly fueled, so I head to the restaurant downstairs in the hope of some decent bread and maybe some fruit. The moment I take in the buffet spread, I feel like Charlie Bucket upon seeing the Chocolate Room for the first time. There’s a towering display of gorgeous fruits and fresh juices right as I walk in. Then I spot a yogurt bar with a dozen varieties of European flavors, surrounded by heaping bowls of nuts and seeds and granolas for toppings.
The breakfast offerings are arranged in stations, and with each bend and curve in the room, I find new nooks of nirvana. Although the Italians aren’t huge on eggs for breakfast, they are tremendous proponents of breakfast meats, with platters groaning under the weight of the salumi like sopresatta, bresaola, mortadella, and prosciutto. Ten kinds of braided, seeded, and swirled breads spill from baskets, buffeted by muffins, scones, and croissants, with every type of jam and curd imaginable offered alongside. Across from the Bread Barge, there’s a whole array of buffalo mozzarellas, including its milkier, even more delectable cousin burrata, alongside fresh ricotta.
Oh, my God—cheese for breakfast? Is that even legal?
And, wait, what is this? A whole section of the room filled with plate after plate of fifteen kinds of breakfast cake?
When I look back at the end of my life, I will least regret the day I ate cake with breakfast in Rome.
I do concentrate more on the meats and cheeses, however, because they are brilliant. Each bite of mortadella (a pistachio-studded type of bologna) is an aria, hitting every high note in the opera of my mouth. The tomatoes taste like they were picked five minutes ago and the multigrain roll I choose is so dense with the flavors of barley and malt and honey that to mask it with butter or jelly would be a travesty.
Classmates kept telling me to order the spremuto (fresh-squeezed) orange juice, so I pour myself a glass. I take a sip and it’s the naturally sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted. I’m not sure if I can use words alone to describe the spectacular-ness of this experience—I think I need hand gestures, too. When Fletch arrives tomorrow, this is the first place I’m bringing him.
I’d literally stay here and graze until the staff has to roll me out like Violet Beauregard, but it’s time for my first real excursion. Before I left for Rome, I was warned about the extensive lines to Roman attractions, so I preordered all my tickets and I’m due at the gallery by nine o’clock.
(Sidebar: If you ever come to Rome, please buy your tickets early/with the skip-the-line option, as it’s the difference between three hours in the Vatican Museum and three hours waiting to get into the Vatican Museum in the punishing sun.)
I decide that today’s an Immersion Day and I pledge to speak only Italian, which was why there was some confusion at breakfast when the host asked me for my room number and I told him I was well, thank you.
Hey, the Roman language wasn’t built in a day.
After a quick cab ride, I arrive at the Galleria. After I check in, the employees confiscate all bags, including purses. I immediately comply, not even thinking to place my wallet in my pocket, because I’m a dumbass. For all my safety concerns, for all my posturing and learning to spew insults, apparently all anyone in this country has to do to get my purse is hand me a chit.
(Sidebar: The purse thing turned out fine. Also, I don’t understand why everyone was so rabid about my being safe with my belongings. Rome’s no different from any other city: Don’t be stupid, have situational awareness, and you’ll be okay.)
The museum’s breathtaking, with massive portraits displayed in rooms illuminated by windows three stories tall. The ceilings are covered in trompe l’oeil clouds and angels, with a plethora of statues between the pictures. The statues are simply amazing due to the level of detail, right down to the veins running through forearms. Seems like the one area that gave sculptors difficulty was the hands, though. They’re all huge and out of proportion with the rest of the statues’ bodies.
Or is it possible all the ladies had man-hands back then?
I’m awed to be standing in the presence of all this history. But I’m reminded of my friend who’s a high-up in a museum in Chicago, where she’s responsible for keeping the art safe. She once even worked on a film set where her job was to prevent the actors from bringing beverages or pens within fifty feet of the paintings. (FYI, she and Hugh Grant in a fight.) So while I stroll from room to room, I imagine the hair on the back of my friend’s neck rising from an ocean away as visitors put their grubby fingers on everything.
Every damn thing.
To be clear, this is not an interactive exhibit. All the statues I pass have something broken on them, which I imagine is because no one here’s being told to keep their mitts to themselves. Please explain to me why it’s okay for patrons to run around with Sharpies and sketchbooks and water bottles and I’m not allowed to carry a tiny handbag. How, exactly, would I steal a Caravaggio painting that’s two stories tall? I mean, (a) I’m honest, and (b) even if I weren’t, I don’t speak the kind of Italian I’d need to get myself out of Roman jail.
I learn that being drawn or sculpted nude was among the highest honors in the 1600s. Only the wealthiest citizens and most important politicians were allowed to be captured in the buff. Judging from the naked ladies, gravity was not a factor, so, good for them. And maybe big hands on the statues were a sign of virility/fertility?
Because I’m clearly a Philistine, the art isn’t what moves me most. Instead, I’m entranced by the walls’ faux finishes and the gilding on the furniture, so essentially I’m the kid who cares less about the expensive toy and more about the big cardboard box it came in.
After a few hours in the museum, I head to the snack bar to order an iced cappuccino and I sit outside in the sun to drink it. There’s a lion-headed fountain with a basin to the left of me and people keep filling their water bottles from it. This city seems to have a one-to-one ratio of fountains to citizens because they are everywhere. The thing is? I can’t tell which ones are for drinking and which ones have been shat in by pigeons for the last three hundred years, so for now, I’m buying my water.
I hop in a cab and in my best accent ask to go to the Campo de’ Fiore, an open-air market, where I haggle for scarves to bring home to my friends. By “haggle,” I mean “pay full price” because I’m clearly not just the worst negotiator in America, but also in Europe. Still, I conducted the transaction entirely in Italian, so this feels like a win.
Rome quiets down between two and five p.m., with many shops closing. How does this make any sort of business sense? However, as it’s very hot and I’ve completed my day’s itinerary, I decide to spend some time at the pool.
My plans for Italian immersion are shot when I discover that the only people up on the roof are either from New York or Texas. One of the Texan women has an actual paw print from her now-dead dog tattooed on her shoulder. Let’s just say it’s a good thing I didn’t know this was an option when Maisy was still alive.
The New Yorkers at the pool are mad at the father of one of the Texas clans, as he’d earlier admonished them for using profanity in front of his sixteen-year-old daughter. The New Yorkers’ stance is, she’s sixteen and these are not the first f-bombs she’s heard, and if they are, then the family should probably subscribe to HBO. So, every time the Texas dad turns his back, the New Yorkers flip him off and mouth, “We hate him.” I don’t think the New Yorkers give a shit whether or not they’re being good American ambassadors, so the whole scene’s actually pretty funny.
The view from the top of the hotel is spectacular, with vistas of tiled roofs and little courtyards in every direction. Building restrictions prohibit historical sites from being blocked, so there are no skyscrapers in this part of the city. Save for the satellite dishes and tiny cars, the view can’t be much different from when this outdoor deck was part of an actual palace.
Unlike a Bachelor contestant, I actually am here to make friends, so I talk with the other Americans. When I ask the other (temporary) ex-pats where they’ve been eating, one of the women says her family’s had dinner at the Scottish pub around the corner for the past few nights, a statement that seems so illogical all I can do is smile and nod.
Why would . . .
How could . . .
Does not compute.
The New Yorkers said they saw a sign for an American breakfast yesterday, so they went inside to order and were served twelve partially cooked scrambled eggs, which then caused the wife to barf.
None of them seems terribly intent on experiencing what Rome has to offer. They’re all more well-traveled than I am; is this all old hat to them? They’re spending all day at the pool and their nights trying to find food that’s familiar, so really, they may as well be in Vegas. Personally, I didn’t want to take a vacation so much as I wanted to experience Rome, so I eventually excuse myself; even though the pool is lovely and the company affable, I have homemade pasta to find and Italian to parlo.
• • •
“So, the Pantheon is over there and the gelato shop’s back that way. Which would you rather hit first?” I ask. Fletch arrived this morning in high spirits, despite not being able to sleep on the plane either.
So far, I’ve taken him for breakfast and coffee and a brief detour to Testaccio instead of Sant’Eustachio, as the Senegalese cabbie spoke neither Italian nor English, which reminds me of the time at home when the taxi driver had never heard of Wrigley Field. Anyway, now we’re trying to determine what to do next as we loiter in the piazza halfway between the grand Corinthian columns of the Pantheon and the less historic palm trees on the sign for the gelato shop.
“Well,” Fletch says, “the Pantheon’s been standing for thousands of years, so it can probably wait a few more minutes while we eat gelato.”
The Pantheon does, indeed, wait for us. The ancient Roman temple is amazing and guess what—it’s free! What a gift that is for anyone with an interest in history, religion, or architecture.
We take our time to explore, gawping up at the oculus—a central opening up at the top that floods the room with light. We learn that the oculus is the world’s largest unreinforced concrete dome, commissioned by Marcus Agrippa in the time before Christ. We’re floored by what Man could accomplish long before benefit of machine.
The longer I’m here, the more I feel a connection with Italy, and I marvel at having come from such industrious people. Until now, I always identified more with the English side of my heritage, mostly because of the history behind my last name. Rumor has it we’re descended from the Lancasters who date back to the War of the Roses. Then again, my paternal grandfather used to swear that every time any toilet flushed, the contents went to Moon Island, so it’s possible he wasn’t the most accurate steward of family lore.
We tool around the city with no particular agenda, taking pictures of fountains and browsing in shops for a few hours until Fletch tires and needs to rest.
I want Fletch to have the best meal tonight, so we decide to visit the Trastevere neighborhood across the Tiber. I dress and touch up my makeup quickly and am halfway through an episode of The Good Wife in Italian (screaming with glee when Julianna Margulies says the name of the town where I live) when Fletch begins to pace between the closet and his suitcase.
“I don’t have anything to wear.”
“How do you not have anything to wear? You brought two huge suitcases. For four days. You have stuff to wear. I’m sure of it,” I reply.
He begins to pull inappropriate choice after inappropriate choice out of his bag. For some reason, he brought nothing but ratty old polos and weird T-shirts.
“Seriously? Seriously? You brought your El Pollo Loco shirt? You thought, ‘Hey, I’m going to one of the most elegant cities in the world, so I’ll be sure to bring my chicken T-shirt.’” I’m shaking my head as I dig through his baggage. I hold up a faded gray offering. “Johnny Cash? You brought a Johnny Cash shirt? What part of ‘Don’t pack like a jackass’ was problematic for you?”
“I was confused. I didn’t know what they wore here,” he argued.
“So you erred on the side of Johnny Cash? Where are all those nice polished cotton oxfords I bought you last summer?”
“I didn’t think they’d be appropriate.”
“But a chicken shirt would be?”
“Shit. I don’t know. We probably need to go shopping. It’s still early so I’m sure the stores are still open,” he says.
And just like that, for the very first time in our relationship, Fletch actually Tom Sawyers me.
• • •
“You look very handsome.”
“I do, don’t I?” Fletch admires himself in the hotel room mirror because over the past couple of days, he’s learned that European-cut shirts fit him as though custom-made.
“You Tom Sawyered me. You packed like a jackass on purpose.” Much like Tom suckered his friends into whitewashing the fence, I have a rather unfortunate history of doing tasks wrong in front of Fletch so that his impulse is to jump in and take over, which is often my endgame.
“I didn’t pack badly on purpose,” he lies. (Such lies.) “Fitting so well in the shirts here is a happy accident.”
“Right. Like me convincing you to ‘teach me’ to paint the trim in my office was a ‘happy accident.’”
“Yeah. So now we’re even.”
Because we did budget for shopping here, I’m not mad. Instead I’m charmed—who’d have guessed the old dog had a few new tricks in him?
(Sidebar: You know who didn’t anticipate me shopping here? My credit card company. Despite calling card services before leaving, and verifying all purchases via their app, every single charge I attempt is declined, to the point it becomes comical. I return from Italy having purchased only a new lipstick and a pair of sunglasses for myself, whereas Fletch comes home with a veritable trousseau because there’s no problem with his card.)
(Additional sidebar: I guess the lesson here is to pack like a jackass.)
We take a taxi across to our new favorite place. Trastevere is only a mile away from the center of Rome, but must somehow be the difference between Brooklyn and New York. It’s blocks away, yet oceans apart. The buildings are smaller and closer together and it’s much more of a hotspot. Tons of bars ring the square and all the European kids in their twenties are drinking beer in the courtyards, while the older generations are sitting in overlooking cafés with their bottles of wine. The whole place feels like a polite fraternity party,
We pass by the street vendors and they all try to catch our attention as they hawk their wares. We walk up to a display of woven leather bracelets and the vendor says to Fletch, “Hey, British guy, you like?” At the next table, he’s mistaken for French. Fletch decided to go Euro on his first day here, so he’s been buying bracelets, saying that they’ll remind him of the feeling of being relaxed and on vacation once he’s back in the States.
I can’t argue with his logic, yet this is so out of character. He is not a man who wears jewelry. He also isn’t one to roll with the punches or enjoy adapting to his surroundings, but there’s something magical about this place that’s making him loosen up.
(Sidebar: Cute as he looks in his new accessories, my only regret is that I can’t mock him by saying, “Hey, Johnny Depp, nice arm party,” having already used that line in Twisted Sisters.)
Another table vendor starts speaking to Fletch in Spanish, assu
ming he’s a Spaniard. Argh. No one’s assuming I’m from anywhere but the US of A, I assume because there are no fat women here. I can’t buy any clothes because no one sells plus-sized items, so I decide to pick up the aforementioned sunglasses. I head into a nice designer optical boutique off the square and begin to peruse the selection. I want something Fendi because I’d like to support their efforts to repair the Trevi Fountain. Also, anything Fendi costs half as much here, so, when in Rome . . .
The owner’s helping me select the right pair. At least, I assume she’s the owner as she’s the one in all the pictures on the wall. In each shot, she’s posed with a celebrity, some of whom I recognize. Those who aren’t familiar are likely European movie stars. I’m really taken by how service-oriented shopkeepers are here, and not in a way that’s pushy. Employees everywhere really take the time to figure out what’s best for the customer, offering honest critique on what works and what doesn’t.
After we find an extra-cute pair, I’m in the middle of paying (yes, in cash because my credit card company has somehow decided they’re my parents now) when an American kid wearing cargo shorts, a fraternity shirt, and a backward baseball cap bursts in the store.
“Y’all got Ray-Bans here?”
No buona sera, no hello, just a blatant interruption delivered with the absolute confidence that not only does the store owner speak his language, but that she’s simply dying to stop what she’s doing to assist him.
Far more politely than the situation merits, the shop owner points him to their selection and offers to assist the moment we complete our business.
The kid says, “Yeah, but how do I know they’re real Ray-Bans. How do I know you’re not trying to cheat me? See, I bought some Ray-Bans before in another place and they were fake. I still wear ’em, but I don’t like being faked out. I don’t want you faking me, you feel me?”
I want to shake this kid, saying, STOP BEING A CLUELESS ASSBAG; YOU’RE MAKING OUR ENTIRE COUNTRY LOOK BAD. Though he appears to be college-aged, he’s acting like he just downed fifteen Pixy Stix before breaking away from the rest of his class on a field trip to the Children’s Museum.
I Regret Nothing: A Memoir Page 22