Italy pt. 2: A Little Bit of Roma

Tuesday, June 26, 2007

Last time I talked about all the steps we took just to get to Italy. Today I pick up where I left off.

At Fumicino we made our way to the baggage claim, picked up our bags, and went through customs. We walked towards the Leonardo Express, the train that’ll take us into Rome. Proving my street savvy, I almost fell for the gypsy that claimed I had to buy train tickets off of him. Luckily Robin was there to smack me on the back of the head and we made our way to the real ticket counter where we purchased out tickets.

We validated them as our eyes darted around from one group of people to the next. We were warned of the gypsies in Italy and we were dead set on making it through this whole trip without anything being stolen. We were vigilant, watching each others back constantly and making sure that our backpacks were never susceptible to little gypsy hands.

It was thirty minutes on the Leonardo Express, taking in the country side which was

covered in graffiti and shanty towns – it was like being back in New York. Robin and I went through our phrase book and studied the map of Termini and its surrounding neighborhood. We charted a course to our hotel so we can simply plow through with our bags, protecting us from, you know, gypsies.

We got off at Termini and were overwhelmed with the size of the station and the amount of people in it. As we exited the station, we started walking in the direction we thought the hotel was in, looking for street signs but finding none. We didn’t slow down, however; we didn’t stop. We kept moving, suitcase dragged behind us, map in hand, screaming, “Where’re the street signs? Where are the fucking street signs!”

Ok, I’m exaggerating. There was no screaming. But it certainly took us a couple of blocks to realize that the street signs were integrated into the buildings. We got our bearing straight and realized we were only several blocks from the hotel.

The Hotel Diocleziano - our first stop. Friendly concierge, gorgeous little lobby, a

bar off to the side. The concierge spoke English (as most service people do in the big cities), and the bellhop showed us to our room. I honesty thought they made a mistake. This hotel was the second cheapest of the four we were staying at. I didn’t understand why we had a spacious,

gorgeous room with a fancy, fancy shower that seconded as a Jacuzzi, and a private patio that was about twice as big as our hotel room. We apparently got all of this because I paid a couple of extra bucks for the deluxe room combined with a little bit of luck as far as the large patio went.

At any rate, our trip was off to a great start.

We showered and rested for a little while, trying to decide where to go and how to get there. We decided to walk towards the Spanish Steps, get lost a little bit, and had to stop and get some dinner on the way.

We were amazed, while walking around, how much Rome was built on food. Restaurants and cafes everywhere and everyone wanted you to have a seat. We finally picked a restaurant with a name I forget in an area that I wasn’t familiar with. We sat outside, got our menus, and picked out what we wanted. The waitress came over and asked, “Antipasti?” I ordered the mozzarella in carrozza. She turned to Robin and said, “And for you?”

Robin ordered something off of the prima patti menu causing the waitress to ask, “And?” Robin told her that was all and I ordered off of the secondi patti menu. We each ordered a side. The waitress, a little annoyed now, asked us what we wanted for dessert. We were confused and said, “Nothing yet.” We ordered some wine (by the glass) and the waitress was off. Later on, we learned how you’re supposed to order at a restaurante.

Ideally, you’re each supposed to order an antipasti, prima patti, secondi patti, sides, and dessert. Now, no-one will get mad at you if you don’t order every course (which is good because, if you do, you’ll end up spending close to 70 euros per person). But each person should at least order 3 of the five courses. At any rate we got our food and enjoyed our meals and toasted Italy with every new glass of wine. With all of the wine we bought, it would have made more sense for each of us to purchase our own bottle. We enjoyed our first meal and we set off to get lost again…

We walked around Piazza di Spagna. Sat on the Spanish Steps. Ate some gelato. Window

shopped. Held hands, kissed, took pictures – we were falling in love with the city. We were also getting tired, the only sleep we had was on the plane to London. So we eventually started walking in the direction of the hotel. We decided to stop for another drink at this American bar.

Sat down, realized there was a table fee (along with the fact that we were in, you know, and American Bar), and left before ordering a drink. We made our way to a wine bar near the hotel, had a half-carafe each, and talked about how beautiful the city was.

We headed back to our hotel and feel asleep…eventually.

The second day was more than just food and wine. We got up kind of early, got on a

bus, and went out to the Vatican. We weren’t sure where to buy our bus tickets and every time we asked someone they tried to sell us tickets to the tourist buses like the Christian Bus – a double-decker decorated with bright colors and images of Jesus. I heard rumors that

they hand out t-shirts on that bus that say, “Please rip me off,” but I doubt it – that would be overkill. We eventually discovered that you buy your bus tickets at the newsstands – we bought a day pass and were on our way.

The Vatican was overwhelming. You walk into St. Peter’s square and you instantly

appreciate how much history happened here, good or bad. The fountain, the statues lining the perimeter and, of course, the cathedral itself. Robin and I spent a half-hour just staring and taking pictures before heading into the cathedral. We walked through the tombs of the old

popes, first, saw the tomb of St. Peter and Pope John Paul II – he had a handful of mourners kneeling in front of his tomb, praying and crying.

Then we did the actual cathedral. The architecture and artwork were remarkable. An early Michelangelo piece, the tombs and statues of certain popes – the altars off to the side of the main altar where priests were going about their everyday business –

holding mass, baptizing babies, keeping confession. I asked Robin if she wanted to make confession at the Vatican and we both decided it was a very bad idea – we’d likely spend the rest of our vacation undergoing penance. We did stop off at a side alter to pray and reflect for a little

while, however, and we touched the feet of St. Peter like every good lapsed Catholic making a pilgrimage to the Holiest of Holies.

We hopped outside for some water and a slice of pizza before going to the Pope’s

blessing. I purchased some rosary beads for my mom so I can have them on me when the Pope does his blessing – that’s the kind of gift me mom would love. The Pope came out, said something in Latin, and then addressed the crowd in Italian, English, Spanish, German, Russian, and French. Every time he switched up his language the crowd went wild. He was calling out

parishes that were visiting from distant countries and the people attending would cheer and hoist their banners into the air – it was quite a sight. It’s just amazing how there can be so many people there, adoring this man that they’ve never met. I have to give it to the Pope, he was charming and funny. I can see how folks would get behind him.

After the blessing Robin and I walked to the Vatican Museum only to find that it’s closed on Sundays. At least I got to buy some sunglasses on the way up there. The guys selling illegal items in Italy are a trip. They have these cases that transform into tables – they can set up in seconds and leave just as quick. You see one guy running down the street, away from the police, and everyone picks up their gear and starts huffing after him. If you happen to be trying something on at the time, it’ll likely be yours, free of charge.

Robin and I quickly realized that it’s best to avoid eye contact when we hear one of the three pitches: “You want to know how much?” “Good price,” and, “On sale.” My absolute favorite moment was when Robin said she wanted a fake Coach bag. I walked up to the guy selling it, and he asked, “You want to know how much?”

I say, “How much?”

And he says, “Good price. On sale.” It’s like these guys are programmed to bring Americans to them. We did the barter thing. “Twenty.”

“Twenty? I can get a real one for thirty.”

“No…no. Twenty.”

“Ten – all I got.”

“No...twenty.”

I open my wallet. There’s ten euros in there. “Look – ten. All I got.”

He says 15, I walk away, and he calls me back and gives it to me for ten. I wish the

guys knew more English. I’d love to be able to call them out. “Is 20 the sale price or the retail price? Because if it’s the sale price I’d like to know what the retail price is. Or is there not a sale? Were you lying to me?”

We walked to Castel St. Angelo a medieval castle that used to be connected to the

Vatican via a series of underground tunnels. Admission was a bit steep but it was worth it for the view of the city and the statue of Michael the Archangel on top.

After the castle, we walked across the river and wound up near the alleys the surround Campo de Fiori. We walked around and got lost, ended up at a restaurant in a back alley because they had some musicians playing music out front. We were seated after ten minutes – fifteen minutes later no-one even asked us what kind of wine we

wanted and one of the waiters shooed away the musicians so we snuck out. We ended up finding a fabulous pizza shop with cheap Peroni and we had a seat outside, enjoyed the nice weather, and ate pizza and drank beer.

We went back to the hotel afterwards. Robin napped as I sat on the patio with a bottle of Chianti, reading Rick Veitch’s Maximortal. I didn’t really get into it, sadly.

That evening Robin and I went to the Pantheon and Piazza Navona – we got off the bus near these excavated ruins that have been turned into a cat sanctuary – that was

instantly added to our site-seeing agenda for the next day. We walked up to the Pantheon, got dinner at this nice little place with a view. Cheaper food than the night before and nice, big portions. Seafood, too, and it was real good. Half-liter of wine for me and a liter of Peroni for Robin.

We just sat and ate and drank and talked – two people in love, watching the people

walk by. We went to a famous

gelati place afterwards; we each got a three scoop, and then took side streets to Piazza Navona where we found an American bar with a table outside. We were both amazed by the waiter’s flawless English – he claimed to be born and raised in Italy. Some of the people at the bar

seemed to know him, and their conversations led us to believe that the waiter was, indeed, Italian, and that he just happened to learn accent-less English somehow.

A flower guy came around, like they always do, and I tried to convince him that I can’t buy a flower because Robin’s allergic. And, yes, I tried to do that in Italian. We got into a conversation with some other Americans afterwards about the best way to chase off flower guys. Afterwards we hailed a cab and got RIPPED OFF like mad. I don’t know what that guy was doing but we certainly paid way too much.

Went to bed…eventually. We tried out the jacuzzi, first.

I’ll continue with Rome and start up Venice next time.

Labels: italy, travel

posted by Jason at 11:17 PM 0 Comments

This is the End

Monday, March 19, 2007

The whole purpose of this blog, when I first started it, was to tell stories about growing up in Brooklyn and going to school in Boston. January 2006 I extended that mission to include stories about moving to DC/starting a life with Robin. The year before January 2006, I wrote 260 stories. A new story every Monday through Friday. The year since, I wrote about thirty. I admit – this blog became a tenth priority, at best.

But I want to kick it up a bit more. With the first year, I had a definitive ending in sight. I graduated BU – I moved out of Boston. The End. I always felt that, by including DC stories, I really never had anywhere to go with them.

Well, now I do. And I’m going to start at the ending and tell you all about my recent engagement to Robin.

Robin and I have been together for almost eight full years. This June, by our calculation, will mark the start of our ninth year together. And we just got engaged two weeks ago. It’s not like I never considered getting engaged before. Robin and I were both resistant to marriage at different times. A collection of reasons. We’re too young, our commitment to each other without legal obligations says more than anything else, we don’t want to have kids yet, anyway – we always had excuses on hand.

Not like the excuses ever really satisfied anyone. My parents would occasionally rib us a little – Robin’s mom would occasionally have too many drinks and flat out ask me when I was going to propose. This was usually funny, unless she did it in front of Robin’s father. Then it became uncomfortable.

Internally, I kept setting deadlines for myself. The first one was: “I’ll propose once we get out of debt.” Well, we got out of debt. Robin and I were having some issues incorporating our families into our lives and I said to myself, “Well, after we get the family stuff ironed out.” Well, we all get along fine now. It became a joke; I’d laughingly tell my friends, “We’ll get married after I get my first helicopter.”

The final deadline I set for myself was, “We’ll get married after I sell my first book.” As someone who wanted to write his whole life, I knew the odds of me ever selling a book were slim-to-none. And then I sell Postcards to Random House, biggest publisher in America, a literal dream-come-true.

And I said to myself, “Fuck, maybe I should propose.”

I decided to do it in Italy. Of course, I wrestled with my decision for several months. I kept finding reasons why Robin and I will never work in the long term. Important stuff like “she doesn’t like comics” and “we can never share a bottle of wine because she doesn’t like reds.” I fought through all of these issues and picked out the perfect ring…

…and the ring was well into the five-figures. And just like that I had another excuse – I needed to be able to afford this ring. Cash. I convinced myself that this was the only ring for Robin, the only one she deserved. I was being a good boyfriend. There was another, more affordable, ring I liked but I would not settle for second best.

For my birthday Robin took me out to this wonderful Italian restaurant in Georgetown. After several glasses of wine (I was drinking Chianti, she was drinking chardonnay, of course) Robin says, “You know – I heard Venice is a great city to get engaged in.”

It’s funny how one sentence can get you to instantly stop playing games. For the first time in our eight years together, Robin and I jibed. We both wanted to get married at the same time. I got real serious, real fast – so serious that I got angry at her for “ruining my plans” – and I managed to convince her that I feel we’re simply not ready for marriage yet. I laid out some issues we still need to work through. And, since it was my birthday, she couldn’t get mad about them.

It was perfect – and she left that restaurant convinced that I had no intentions of proposing.

I ordered the ring that night. It was from a jeweler in Florida specializing in antiques and replications that a broker found for me. It was a replica 1910 Edwardian inspired platinum ring. A good rock in the middle and a crown of smaller diamonds clasping it into place. The crown was an important feature, one that I was specifically looking for. Robin’s my princess, she knows it, and she always tells me to buy her a tiara one day. I made sure that her engagement ring had a tiara embedded into it.

Getting the ring was a bit of a nightmare. I wanted it fast because, if it sucked, I could return it and get a new one. I paid extra for rush-resizing (I sized it by using one of her existing rings) and rush-delivery. That was on a Wednesday. I should have received shipping notification, at least, by that Friday. I was in New York that weekend and decided to call the jeweler. I got some lady on the line that was telling me to calm down and if there was a problem, they’d call me. I reiterated that I needed the ring by next Thursday at the latest and she said she understands that.

Now it’s the following Wednesday. I leave for Italy on Friday. I still don’t have a ring. I still don’t have a tracking number. So I call the jeweler again and get the same chick on the line. She “remembers me” and tells me, once again, that if there’s a problem they’ll call me. I ask to speak to shipping. She transfers me, I’m on hold for five minutes, and then a guy gets on the line, probably not from shipping, and says, “Mr. Rodriguez, we’re so sorry. We’re sending the ring overnight right now.”

I got the ring at my office the next day.

I also ordered this crystal/Faberge Egg looking ring box. For some reason, I got it in my head that Venice was known for their Faberge Eggs. The plan was to go to some market, put this ring box amongst a sea of Faberge Eggs, and say, “Hey, we should get one while we’re here – how about this one?” She grabs it, opens it up – surprise! Engagement ring!

Imagine my surprise when I get to Venice and I don’t see a solitary Faberge Egg.

My improvised plan was essentially, “Fuck it – we’re in Venice.” Because, honestly, being in Venice, in-and-of-itself, makes for a great engagement story.

We went to dinner at a place called Trattoria alla Madonna. It was off the beaten path a bit. Nothing flashy – the place where the gondoliers went to eat after getting off of their shift. There was an American there, Mike. He asked us how we knew about this place and I told him it came highly recommended. Mike comes to Italy twice a year and he proceeded to give us recommendations for restaurants in Florence while helping us with the food choices on our menu.

I played football in high school; I realize when someone’s throwing a block. As Robin’s back is turned towards Mike I pull the Faberge Egg out of the pocket and put it on the table. Robin turns back around, sees the egg, and asks, “What’s this?” She opens it up, sees the engagement ring, and asks, “What’s this?” I ask her to marry me. She says, “Really?” I say, “Yes.” She says, “Are you sure?” I say, “You know, you’re freaking me out a bit.” She starts to cry and says yes, I put the ring on her.

I apparently convinced her that I was never going to propose to her. Also, she thought the Faberge Egg had sugar packets in it.

The ring doesn’t fit. I resized it at least a size too big, I gather. She has to wear it on her middle finger.

After dinner we walked over the Rialto Bridge to a wine bar situated right at the base and called our parents and siblings. Everyone was excited. Everyone probably knew about it, too.

My family certainly knew. I had to call Robin’s brother to get her father’s cell phone number so I can ask permission, so Robin’s family probably knew. I also told a lot of my family and friends as well as a bunch of coworkers at my day job and in comics that I was going to propose. So, it probably wasn’t much of a surprise to anyone.

At any rate – we’re engaged. I want to get married next Spring, Robin wants to finish school first before she even starts planning the wedding so she’s thinking the following Spring. At any rate, it’s going to be one hell of a party.

Labels: dc, engagement, italy, robin