Written by: Danielle
Photos by: Alicia, Kari, Cori and Danielle
On the third day, we decided to go and find coffee and pastries for breakfast instead of making our own, so we headed out to a local bakery around the corner from our flat. We realized how utterly ripped off we’d been at the coffee shop from the day before—but, live and learn. While eating, we planned our day. Somehow we always seemed to be planning our day the day of—again, much to Alicia’s dismay. I think it was partly because we were in break mode, and therefore not entirely willing to move at full speed. Lingering over caffe lattes was far too delightful . Eventually we decided that we would go to the Pantheon, one of the Roman Baths, one of the Catacombs, and hopefully the tombs of the Cappuchin monks—mostly because the name of cappuchinos comes from these monks (“According to Rick Steves”). So, we headed off on our adventures once more.
We had to figure out how to get to the Pantheon, which was easier said than done, since the transportation system in Rome isn’t exactly convenient. We learned that there are 2 metro lines only: A and B. They kind of criss-cross the city, but then there are all these Famous Things in-between that aren’t on the metro, requiring one to take a bus. And the buses are not easy to figure out. We finally worked out what bus to take, found the stop for the bus, and were on our way to the Pantheon. I kept saying how excited I was to go the Parthenon. Yeah. Wrong country and civilization, I know. It’s just that the words are just so similar.
The Parthenon—I mean, Pantheon—is another one of the BAM sights—like the Coliseum and the Trevi Fountain: it’s just right there in the middle of things. It’s a massive structure, like most ancient structures still standing in Rome, and it’s actually still whole and in use as a church now. It’s in the middle of this piazza that looks like any other piazza in Rome—sidewalk cafes, a fountain, tourists, pickpockets, etc—but there just happens to be an enormous structure on one end of it. Inside, it’s simply amazing—it has an enormous domed roof that’s open to the sky and all the elements. It was originally a temple to the gods (“pan” theon”), but as I said, now it’s a church. There are several important people buried there—the most famous being Raphael (“according to Rick Steves”).
I tried to capture the bigness with my "museum piece" of a camera, but I just don't think I could.
Here it is: the Pantheon. It's big. I told you so. The people look so small next to it. The obelisk in the middle is an original Egyptian obelisk dedicated to Isis--and now to Jesus. Lots of things worked out that way in Ancient Rome.
After the Pantheon, our next stop was one of the Roman Baths. So, we had to figure out how to get to the Baths. We checked the guide books, headed for the bus stop, and waited for Bus 81. Eight. One.
Which never came. We waited. We waited. We waited. We waited.
For an hour, we waited. Bus after bus after bus after bus came and went, but 81 never came.
I hate Bus 81.
Finally, we took another bus, that would take us to a metro stop, that would then take us to where we needed to go. Bus 81 would have taken us straight there. But it never came.
We made it to the Baths, and wandered around another enormous structure, but one that is not so well preserved as the Coliseum or the Pantheon. It was hard to really figure out what was what—where was Dana the lying tour guide when we needed her? I’m afraid to say we weren’t terribly…awed by the Baths, but oh well. Rick Steves failed us—but actually, we failed Rick Steves, because he said that the Baths weren’t that impressive, but we went anyway, and paid the price.
Ancient Romans would have showered here, somewhere. We're not sure where. But we liked the grass.
We left the Baths, and at this point we started to get hungry—it was about 1:00 or, so, logically, yes, it was lunch time. But, we didn’t eat, because we wanted to get to the Catacombs, which were supposed to be just around the corner, according to the map. Now, I guess if we had stopped and thought about it, we would have thought that the Catacombs were placed outside the city, and the Baths were public baths, so surely they would be in the city: so how could the Catacombs be just around the corner? We didn’t stop and think about it, but decided to walk.
We started walking up this cobblestone road. At first, it was okay. The air was crisp and clear, it wasn’t too cold, there was a nice breeze. We even took off our jackets and scarves.
Then, the cars started coming extremely fast, and we suddenly noticed just how narrow the road was, and how we were actually walking on the road, and not a sidewalk or a shoulder. We walked and we walked and we walked, but there were no catacombs in sight yet. We found a gate that looked open to the public, walked in, and found ourselves in a park that took us to another very similar cobblestone road. So, we walked and we walked and walked some more, hoping to find a bus stop for the bus we should have taken (which, incidentally, was the 116). We debated if we should go home, or keep going to the catacombs. This was the start of our journey along the Appian Way of Doom. We eventually found the bus stop that we needed, so we decided to carry on to the Catacombs. More like continue on to our death.
Here’s the thing about the bus stop: it was on the side of another treacherous cobblestone road—a road that cars whizzed down with no heed for the lives of pedestrians. To stand at the bus stop, we would be risking our very lives. We ended up standing on a little curb or stoop that was at the intersection of four roads, waiting for the bus to come—we then planned to rush to the little stop, and line up against the wall when we saw it coming. Kari went to look at the times for the bus, and a tour bus passed while she was looking and whipped some of the hair off her head as it passed—it was that close. We finally saw the bus, so we went and lined up against the wall in a row, and ended up waiting five minutes because it was actually stopped at a red light. It came, we got on, thankful for our lives, and the bus continued on at a breakneck speed rattling over the cobblestones with apparently no regard for its shocks or its passengers.
Here we are, scared for our lives. I am not exaggerating. I am actually scared for my life at the Bus Stop of Doom. Notice how the sign is turned sideways--normally they are perpendicular to the road, but this sign is parallel to the road.
Afterwards, we learned (“according to Rick Steves”) that we had been standing on the Appian way, the famous road that leads into the ancient city of Rome. I kept saying: “We’re going to meet our death on the Appian Way, and then, they’ll just bury us in the catacombs with all the other Christians.”
We got off the bus when we saw the sign for the Catacombs on the side of the wall, and we were relieved to find a little snack shop on by the road. We decided to stop and have some chips and crackers and something to drink, because we were famished at this time. It was a cute little shop, with nice ladies who spoke no English. Kari needed postage stamps, so Alicia went through an elaborate pantomime to indicate what they needed. They didn’t have stamps, but everyone enjoyed the charades, including the Italian ladies. Alicia is apparently really good at them, and this prompted her to try to get us to play charades sometime. I’ll let you know how that turns out…
We looked at our watches, and realized that it was past 3:30, and that the Catacombs probably closed at 5:00, and we still had to get to them. We wanted enough time to see them (not knowing if it was a tour, or a self-guided walk), so we started to head for them. Foolishly, we had thought that they were just around the corner.
The gate was just around the corner, but the actual Catacombs were not. There were 2 signs for 2 different Catacombs—900 meters or 1500 meters. We took the 900 meter option, since the gate was just in front of us. (Alicia almost died when a giant tour bus came careening out of the gate, by the way). At first, we thought we were trespassing, because all the signs posted said in big letters: “Private Property!” We found ourselves on a long, straight road through a grassy meadow that disappeared over the horizon. I was sure that by the time we reached the Catacombs, if indeed there were Catacombs, we would be dead, and they would bury us in the Catacombs with the other Christians. I know I already said that, but it still felt like we would probably die in the attempt to reach them.
So, we walked and we walked and we walked and we walked. 900 meters is less than a kilometer, but we’d already walked a great deal that day (and the day before), and we were tired. At last we reached them, rushed to buy tickets, and rushed over to make sure we were in line for the next tour.
I asked the man: “When’s the next tour.” He said (in an Indian accent, because apparently he was Indian, not Italian): “Tomorrow morning.” I half believed him, but then he said he was joking—which was good, because I think I would have slept on one of the benches at that point to wait for the next tour.
We were divided into language groups for the tour, and the English group was pretty small. Our tour guide was an Italian woman with a strong, strong accent. Everything ended on “uh”—Every-uh-thing-uh ended-uh on-uh uh-uh. She-uh took-uh us-uh down-uh a-uh long-uh stair-uh case-uh—many, many feet down, to the second level of the Catacombs (by the way, we were at the St. Sebastian’s catacombs, which, “according to Rick Steves” are the best). The Catacombs were an eery, fascinating place. She told us that there are actually 60 catacombs in Rome—and that the Catacomb system of burial was used by both pagans and Christians, contrary to popular belief. Of the 60, only 5 or 6 have been excavated. The catacombs that we were in had 4 levels. It was kind of an awkward tour, because it was such a small group, so anytime she would stop talking, we’d all look anywhere but at her, or the others in the group. Everyone would look up and bob their heads.
We emerged from the dark catacombs blinking in the afternoon sunshine, and made our way to the bus stop. It was about 5:00 when we go there. Once again, the bus stop was on the side of a treacherous road. I don’t know if it was another part of the Appian Way, or just another cobblestone road that the Romans built, but it was a narrow two lane road with quickly moving traffic. There was a bit of a shoulder, but not much.
And we waited and we waited and we waited and we waited. Again. For the bus. To come.
I was at this point rather furious with the Roman transportation system. I was thinking up evil things to write about it on my blog. I was composing eloquent letters to the transportation authorities to tell them exactly what I thought of their system. It was frustrating simply because of the lack of information—none of the bus stops had any kind of sign stating how often the buses came. The only information on the sign was of the hours the bus ran and the bus stops. I suppose we should be grateful they bothered to post the bus stops. It wasn’t a holiday, so surely the bus had to come?
We talked amongst ourselves how perhaps this was simply a joke that Rome played on its tourists—place “bus stops” near key tourist sights that actually aren’t bus stops. At this point, we’d waited half an hour in the growing cold, and still there was no bus. As we discussed this, out of no where, a priest appeared, and stood against the wall, waiting with us. We thought: “Surely, surely the bus must be coming, if this priest has shown up. First of all, he’s a priest, and second of all, he must know the bus schedule.” We still waited and waited, till finally we decided that the “priest” must be part of the joke—Rome would send a fake priest to the fake bus stops to fake out the tourists waiting for the fake bus, and laugh and laugh and laugh at our naiveté, and then probably use the footage of our waiting on candid camera reels for showing on Alitalia Airlines.
But, at long last, the bus did come, after waiting 40 minutes. The fake priest got on the bus, and so did we. Surely there should be some penalty for posing as a man of God in Rome of all places. He was probably headed to the Vatican on the fake 116.
So, filled with bitterness, once again hungry, and severely footsore, we eventually made our way back to the flat—and then decided to go out again for dinner.
I know, we’re crazy. But you only go to Rome once. Or, three times, if you’re Cori.
We got cleaned up, and set out for Da Francesco’s, a restaurant recommended by, you guessed it, Rick Steves. We actually found the restaurant without getting too turned around (by this point, we just expected to get turned around). It turned out to be a popular restaurant, and we had to wait. It was while we were waiting that we had our first Rick Steves sighting.
Yes, you heard me right. Alicia suddenly said: “See that guy over there? With the backpack? He looks like Rick Steves.” We all surreptitiously turned to look and see, and we saw a middle aged man with a dark jacket and back pack. So, Alicia pull out her Kindle and shows us a picture of Rick Steves—and the man did in fact resemble Rick. But, it wasn’t Rick, because he was English (I secretly wondered if it could be a “fake” accent to throw off the fans—and by fans, I mean Alicia). However, it was the first of many Rick Steves sightings for the rest of the trip.
We finally got into the restaurant after waiting an hour, and it was totally worth it. Thank you, Rick Steves. If you go to Rome, go to Da Francesco’s—it’s just a fun place. There were a lot of tourists, but there were enough “locals,” too, so you knew it was “authentic.” The food was great, the ambiance was great, and our waiter was a lot of fun. Cori and Kari had a little fight over who would “get” him, but Cori won because he was older. Oh, I should mention that each of us were supposed to find a “Mr. Rome” (not Marcello) during our trip. This waiter was the first of Cori’s many, many Mr. Rome’s. Cori and Kari had the highest count, Alicia had a few, and I had none. Apparently Italians don’t really go for the German-Irish look. Whatever. My barbaric ancestors totally took over Rome, so take that Roma.
I’m not bitter.
After Da Francesco’s, Alicia really wanted to go to the Piazza del Novono, (a famous piazza “recommended by Rick Steves”—his favorite piazza in Rome), so we went, even though it was after 10:00 pm at this point. For those of you who know me, I am usually in bed by 10:00 on weekend and school nights—it was pretty late for this pumpkin. We found the piazza, oohed and ahhed at the famous fountain in the middle (which was of 4 river gods, “according to Rick Steves”), walked around, and then we needed to find our bus to get home.
We found the bus stop with no troubles, and we knew it was going to be the right bus, and all we had to do was wait. At this point in our lives, we had reconciled ourselves to the fact that we were just going to have to wait for buses in Rome. We waited about 15 minutes, during which we got a bit punchy, especially Alicia who, after a brief conversation about Harry Potter started saying: “Butterbeer” in a high pitched voice over and over again (like a house elf, I imagine).
Maybe you just had to be there. But, next time you see her, just say: “Butterbeer” in a high pitched voice. She’ll find it funny.
Then, this Dutch couple (I’m going to say they were Dutch because they were tall, and weren’t Italian; yes, I’m stereotyping) walked up to us as we waited and said: “Waiting for the bus?” (Uh, no, we aren’t waiting for the bus. We just like to stand around on street corners at night in Rome under bus stop signs at 11:00 at night.) “Your bus isn’t going to come—it’s stuck at the corner.” So, we walked down to the corner, and there was our bus a little ways off (but not far at all), unable to turn because of cars that were blocking the street. For some reason, we didn’t go after the bus. We just watched it. We walked back to the stop, for some reason assuming that it would somehow make it. It didn’t. As we watched, it drove away, down the main street that was about fifty meters away. And then we watched another bus with the right number drive away about a minute later.
So, the plan, we decided, was to catch up with the bus further ahead at another stop. Do you see the flaw in the plan? We began walking very quickly forward, trying to find the next bus stop that the bus would probably stop at, trying to judge where it might come, since it couldn’t get up the street we were on. And we walked and we walked and we walked till finally we came to a large road that ran along the river that had a bus stop for our bus. Surely it would come?
We got there around 11:25, and we waited and we waited and we waited. Déjà vu? Oh, yes, indeed. We waited. We waited. We waited. It was cold. I was cranky. And tired. Finally, around 11:58, when we were just about to give up hope, and find a taxi, and man came out and waited at the bus stop with us. I could only think of the fake priest of earlier.
And it eventually came, a little after midnight. We weren’t sure if it was going to stop, so we stood as far out on the side of the road and waved our arms around. It did stop, we got on—rather, we collapsed onto the bus. We got home around 12:30, utterly exhausted—again—and collapsed into bed. (Except for Kari, who stayed up late every night after the rest of us got back and fell into our beds.)
Stay tuned for Day Four's adventures, and how we narrowly missed being buried alive in volcanic ash...
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