BY FAR THE WORST PART OF BEING IN ROME ...is having
The Vatican Rag stuck in your head 24 hours a day.
Possibly the best part is the ice cream and fantastic coffee.
Anyway, we were going to come here with Mike's parents, but there was a baggage strike, and their flight was cancelled. Ours went through, and so here we are. I'm sad they couldn't make it, especially as it's his dad's birthday.
The flight over was fairly uneventful, which was nice. I'm still trying to get over this irrational fear of flying, and I was really worried that I'd have a panic attack, which is, I am sure, the best way to get one. I was all right, though, so am feeling happy about that.
With the strike, traffic was heavier than usual, and it took us longer than expected to get to the hotel. Nobody, however, could accuse our taxi driver of not doing his part to pass all other cars on the road. In most countries, for example, those white-striped sections on the road mean "Do not drive here." Apparently, in Italy, they must mean, "Taxi Lane." Once again, I was reminded that people say "You are more likely to die in a car crash on the way to the airport than in a plane crash," for a reason. These people have visited Italy, Poland, or Mexico.
The Italians, being a fairly laid-back people in general, have an equally laid-back approach to lanes. Sure, sure, that exit ramp over there appears to be one lane, but with a little creativity and a whole lot of chutzpa, it can be turned into two lanes of cars (minimum!) and one of scooters, and the Italians are up to the job.
Gratefully, we are now ensconced safely and happily in our hotel.
We are taking today a bit easy, as we had to get up at 3 am to get to the airport. So we went down to the Spanish Steps, and did a little bit of walking around, looking at shops and getting coffee and ice cream. Scratch that--getting possibly the best coffee and definitely the best ice cream I've ever had. People kept running up to Mike and saying, "Ey, Ey, Inglesa! Steven Gerrard!" which I found to be more funny than he did. Most of these people were trying to hawk these little bracelets made out of string, which they make on your wrist right there. Sure, they try to sell them for a fat lot of cash, but the thing is that if you pay for one, then the rest of them leave you alone. On the down side, I'm pretty sure they also mark you as, uh, well, an easy mark.
One of the first things Mike said to me was, "Let's try to make sure this time that not all of our holiday photos are of funny signs." A bold request! A bold request made bolder by the fact that almost immediately after saying this, Mike started to point out funny signs to me. I will post them eventally, of course.
Anyway, so far I really like Rome. I think before I moved over to this side of the pond, I somewhat subconsciously thought that most cities in other countries--even "first world" countries--didn't have the same feel as American ones do. And they don't to a certain extent. There are buildings all over that are significantly older than my country. But the thing is that you still have the big industrial outskirts near the airports that could be anywhere, including London and Detroit. We passed an Ikea on the way in, and if you'd just shown me a photo of it out of context, I'd believe it was the one in Emeryville. And the freeways were freeways, although people, as I mentioned, had that lackadaisical attitude about "lanes" and "right of way."
The reason I mention this is that both here and in Paris I had moments when we came across something that basically pointed out "This country colluded with the Nazis." It's just so strange. That was only 60 years ago--when these places weren't really more primitive than they are now.
I know that this has been mentioned so many times in so many different ways, but I think that what made the Holocaust so different from other genocides was that it happened in countries that we considered to be "civilized."
Coming across something that reminds you of the reality of the Holocaust, here, right while you're looking at a bank, an upscale designer shop, or even a little convenience store...it gives you such a feeling of cognitive dissonance. Surely, surely, that was somewhere else. I just can't picture it all--holding down a bank teller job, driving on the freeway, going back to your home, and at the same time, Jewish people, gay people, all being carted away. Yes, I know, it's not that these things and places existed then exactly as they do now, but it still can't fit in my mind.
Then, of course, my mind goes immediately to America. I picture myself walking down the street in New York city, while there is a president who is approving putting a man in a 20" by 20" box for sixteen hours at a time, waiting for his confession. I can't believe we're even having conversations about whether or not waterboarding is considered torture--like the point is about what the dictionary says about it. I wonder how many people in Italy or Germany in the 1940s felt the way I do now--voting their little brains out, but still sitting there with a sense of despair and disbelief each time some new atrocity comes to light. Looking around, wondering how this can be happening. Slowly becoming more numb, but praying and putting their hopes on the next election. Please God, please hold things until then.
Don't get me wrong. I'm not sitting here depressed by any means! There are lots of little things that amuse me. It absolutely cracks me up that at every little kiosk selling tourist tchotchkes, in addition to the snow globes, thimbles, and spoons, they have rosary beads and crucifixes. The Pope jewellery case is optional in most cases, but who could pass it by? I know it's sacrilegious, but I have found myself repeatedly going through the list of all of my friends and acquaintances, trying to figure out who would be either the most or the least offended if I got one for them. And I'm not sure which would be better.
When we were in Krakow, we bought a Pope t-shirt for one of our friends, because we found the idea so hilarious. I was hoping to find one here as well so that he could have an entire set, but I guess the Italians are less tacky than the Poles. Or are they? I'm not quite sure where the rosary beads fall on the kitsch scale.
Our hotel isn't actually kitschy at all. We got it cheaply--one of those things where the hotel isn't fully booked so they give really good deals--and the staff is nice if just a tad on the obsequious side. What a change for me, too! Five years ago, I had nothing but flour fried in oil for two weeks because I was out of money. Granted, we got it cheaply, but it's still a four-star hotel with fluffy dressing gowns in the bathroom.
I shouldn't mention (or laugh at) the "intimate cleanser" packets on the little shelf next to the bidet. I applaud their commitment to clean bottoms.
Well, I think I hear the sleeper awakening, so I'll sign off now. I still have to find five new ways to fit "When in Rome, do as the Romans do" into my conversation before bedtime.
