When in Rome: Day 4

Compiled by: Alicia, Kari, Cori, and Danielle
Written by: Danielle
Photos by: Alicia, Kari, Cori and Danielle

I know that I had you on tenterhooks for Day 4. In case you were concerned, we narrowly missed being buried by volcanic ash by about 2000 years. Maybe I did lead you a bit astray… (Or, maybe you figured out we went to Pompeii?)





Yep, that's Mount Vesuvius. Rick Steves told us that the two peaks that we see here would have come up to a single point--that's how much of the volcano blew away. It helps to understand how a town 5 miles away could be covered in volcanic ash!

It's just that Day 4 wasn't nearly as eventful as Days 1-3, so I'm digging for material here...

On Day 4, we had a schism within our group—but not a theological one. Kari was going to spend the day with her brother and sister-in-law, and Alicia, Cori and I were going to Napoli and Pompeii for the day. We would be reunited at the end of the day.

Kari had her heart set on running in Rome, so she went with us to the train station to find a park we’d seen the day before, proudly sporting her new Brasilia jersey that she’d bought during the trip.

Props to her for running on vacation. (I mean, we’d clearly walked at least twenty-seven miles in the course of our travels, so she obviously didn’t need the exercise…)

Alicia, Cori and I went to McDonald’s for breakfast while we waited for our train. In Europe, almost all the McDonald’s are fancy—they all have espresso machines and you can get croissants and pain au chocolat and other nice pastries. Yes, once again, I am defending our choice of McDonald’s. It's not that I have any great love for McDonald's. I'm just trying to shut down McDonald's Naysayers.

Just look how happy my fancy McDonald's coffee makes me. And how nice my scarf is. Oh, we weren't talking about my scarf?


After McDonald’s it was time to catch our train, so we found the right track, and our train and had no problems. It was about an hour and half ride. Naples is south of Rome; as we traveled, we got to see the more Mediterranean parts of Italy—sunny vineyards and olive groves and houses with terracotta tiled roofs and whitewashed walls. The trip was mostly pleasant—except for the person who sat behind me who kicked my chair in time to her music the entire time. For about an hour, I thought it was a child—until she answered her phone and revealed herself as an adult who should know better.

When we got off the train in Naples, Alicia informed us that Rick Steves informed her that Naples is the worst city in Italy for pickpockets, and she told us to “Trust no one!” Anyone could be a pickpocket, any thing could be a ploy, any commotion a distraction. Trust no one.

Alicia then proceeded to have drills with Cori and I, and attempted to pickpocket our bags, declaring herself head of security.

I passed the drill. Cori, I’m afraid, did not."Trust no one." (Not even Alicia)


As we waited in line to buy tickets to Pompeii, we had our second Rick Steves sighting (oh, I got my Rick Steves mixed up in the previous post—this was the British Rick Steves, not the one from Da Francesco’s). He was going to Pompeii, too, which excited us. And by us, I do mean Head of Security, Alicia.

And so, we rode the train to Pompeii—it was pretty crowded, and we had to stand most of the time, during which we watched everyone closely—men, women, children, youths, old ladies, old men—trust no one.

When we got to Pompeii, we had to use the restroom. I didn’t want to, being a bathroom snob, but nature was calling strongly. We found the train station bathroom, which was tended by this ancient Italian woman. As we stood in line, Cori suddenly started laughing and pointing at the wall. It was a dusty red metal sheet and written on the wall it said: “Leafs suck. A lot.”

Apparently, this was offensive to Alicia, who is from Toronto, and Cori was delighted since she’s from Edmonton.

I think it’s a Canada thing.

Then, we needed lunch. There are several sandwich stands along the road as you head towards the official ruins of Pompeii. We were hungry. We were caught in a what Rick Steves would call a tourist trap. He (the vendor, not Rick Steves) enticed us with freshly squeezed orange juice and sandwiches and by reducing the price significantly.

The sandwiches were good. The orange juice was disappointing because it was a little juice, lots of pulp, and seeds. When you have to chew your orange juice, it takes away from some of the magic.

I am looking askance at Alicia. Oh, check out the lemons behind Alicia's head. Lemons the size of grapefruit! Will such wonders ever cease?






A Cori Ibsen action shot.


After the tourist trap lunch, we headed to the sight of the Pompeii ruins. It’s a fascinating place—very well preserved. The volcano didn’t cover the city in lava, or anything (Vesuvius is 5 miles away from the city)—the volcanic ash and flying rocks caused the damage. Rick Steves also informed us that there were 20,000 people who lived in Pompeii, and that of the 20,000, only 2000 died—not the entire town (I was always under the impression that everyone was caught unaware, and died). The city is in good shape, and gives a clear picture of what life in ancient Roman times might have been like. If you ever go to Italy, I recommend Pompeii—it’s worth it.

One of the first things I noticed was a dog lying on the side of the road. I took a picture of it, because I thought it looked well preserved. Then there were many more “well preserved dogs” all around the entire site (we probably saw ten or more different dogs) so I took pictures of them, too, because I thought my joke was funny. It’s always important to find yourself funny, because that guarantees at least one person will laugh at you.



Ruins as you walk up the steep hill into the city. Apparently the water used to come right up to the city gates ("according to Rick Steves.")


A temple, I think.


I thought the stone work of this wall was beautiful.


Alicia tour guides, Cori listens.


Alicia took some time off from tour guiding to be a statue. I don't really know.






McDonald's of Pompeii--this would have been the fast food stands of the city (and in fact, all over the Roman empire)--the holes were for clay pots that kept food cold or hot. Most people didn't have kitchens, so they ate "out" a lot. I think they could take bread to be baked in the bakery, or take meat somewhere to be cooked, as well.


This is the interior of one of the houses--someone wealthy lived here.


Alicia pretending to be like the tour guides we saw, who held up a flag or an umbrella to herd their tours. Except, apparently Cori's the only one in the group...


After Pompeii, we had a few hours before our train, so we decided to find a restaurant in Naples recommended by Rick Steves. It was pretty close to the train station, and we set off into Napoli (trusting no one, of course). I didn’t love Naples, or at least the part that we saw. It was crowded and grungy. A strange thing happened—all of the sudden, there was a deafening noise that sounded like gunfire (but we later identified as fireworks) going off in the middle of the city. Cori, Alicia and I all looked around in dismay and concern, but no one else reacted at all. It was rather peculiar.

A scary dark street in Naples.


As we walked down the road that we thought that the restaurant was on, we sensed that we were lost. It was getting dark, there were many, many people, and it was cold. We walked for several blocks, looking at each cross street, trying to find the right street. In Italy, they don’t have street signs like in North America—all the names of the streets are posted on marble plaques on the sides of the building. Sometimes they get covered by scaffolding, or laundry, or trees. This makes finding places…challenging. Finally, we thought we were lost, we were ready to turn around, and, there we were, just like that.

The pizzeria we had selected was called Da Michele. It felt authentic…but it was very touristic, actually. They had 2 options: Margarita, and Marinara. Nothing else.

The menu, wood oven, and the pizza makers themselves.







We ordered Margarita Pizzas, and settled down to wait, enjoying watching the waiters interact with the clientele. Alicia pulled out her Kindle to do some more reading on Naples, and the waiters were all impressed with her fancy technology. When we took out our cameras, one of them jumped in the picture with us.




Delicious brick oven baked pizza!


Now, I was feeling a bit miffed because there were pictures on the wall of Julia Roberts with the whole wait staff, and a picture of her eating the pizza, a lot like Alicia’s picture below.


Here is why I felt miffed: my middle name is Marguerite, and I didn’t think it was right that Julia Roberts had her picture on the wall (you can see it over Cori's shoulder in the first pizzeria pic) when surely she didn’t share her name with the national pizza of Italy. Cori started calling her Julia Marguerite Roberts.

It turns out that Da Michele is the same pizzeria from Eat, Pray, Love, a book I've never read and movie I’ve never seen—but Julia Roberts stars in the movie, and they filmed the scene on location. I guess that’s a good enough excuse to have her picture on the wall, but I’m still skeptical and a bit hurt.

We headed back to the train station (and saw a lot of Senegalese vendors along the way), had some gelato for dessert while we waited for our train, made our connection, dozed most of the way back to Rome, found the right bus eventually (I had taken a picture of the bus sign near our flat so that we could figure out our connection), and made our way home. Kari wasn’t home yet, and she had the keys, so we stopped at the gelato stand near our flat and Alicia had more gelato while we waited.

Eventually Kari came home, we headed back upstairs, and some of us went to bed. I, however, did not, because I had far too much caffeine, and this kept me up to past 3:00 AM. This did not make me happy at all (but at least I had a good book to read!).

When in Rome: Day 3

Compiled by: Alicia, Kari, Cori, and Danielle
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...

When in Rome: Day 2

Compiled by: Alicia, Kari, Cori, and Danielle
Written by: Danielle
Photos by: Alicia, Kari, Cori and Danielle

The next day dawned bright and early and we did not get up bright and early. We got up around 9:00. We were looking forward to hot showers, breakfast, and hitting the tourist traps.

Did I mention Hot Showers?

Well, well, well.

When we got up, there was no hot water. Only cold. And when I say cold, I mean mountain stream cold. I mean snow melting cold. Bracing.

Kari and I were brave, and took the cold showers. I cried out in pain during mine. Except, I’m the kind of person who laughs when they’re in pain, so I laughed throughout the entire painful episode. Cori was a wimp, and just washed her head in the sink, and we all know Alicia had already had 2 showers and all the hot water.

We tried not to hold it against her. Much.

We needed to get started on whatever it was that we were going to do that day, so we set off for Termini station, the main train station in Rome. We took the metro to Termini, and planned to get a Roma Pass (museum passes that also covered transportation) there.

Termini station isn’t exactly the most clearly marked train station. We wandered around the station for a least 2 hours, if not more. We had to get the Roma Pass, and train tickets for Venice, and possibly Naples, but we still spent more time than necessary in the station. Rick Steves told us we could get Roma Passes at the tourist information booth—which meant that we had to find the tourist information booth. Fortunately, Rick Steves could tell us where that was, too. What he couldn’t tell us was how to find the ticket office to buy train tickets, but we eventually found that, after getting turned around several times, and going up and down stairs several times.

After buying our Venice tickets, we were starving, so we wandered out of the station in search of lunch. We finally settled on this little hole-in-the-wall “authentic” looking restaurant which ended up being a restaurant that went deep, deep back into the city block, and was probably not the most authentic Italian restaurant in the world—although we did have another little old Italian waiter who spoke no English. Or pretended he spoke no English for the sake of authenticity…We’ll never know.

So, we decided that our first sight would be the Coliseum. We took the metro to the Coliseum stop, walked out of the station, and BAM! There it was. The coliseum is right across the street from the metro stop. I mean right across the street. You could practically touch it. It’s a remarkable sight, and it’s just set in the middle of ordinary Roman traffic and bus stops and metro lines.



We crossed the street to the Coliseum, and approached the entrance, when we heard someone ask us: “Hey, do you guys speak English?” It was a young woman with a very American accent trying to get us to sign up for a tour of the Coliseum and of the Forum (they are kind of combined sights)—only 10 euro, she said. She stood there, pressuring us, really—telling us a tour was about to start, and how great it was, and how there are no signs or anything in the Coliseum itself—just a bunch of rocks and stuff, she said.

We were debating whether or not to do it—I was half for it—why not? I thought, but others didn’t want to, so we said no. Besides, we had Rick Steves and Alicia, and why did we need a tour guide? We told her no, and she said: “Well, if you get bored inside, my name is Dana—I can still sign you up for a tour.” By the way, she was a total liar, because there were plenty of signs in the Coliseum about the Coliseum. Plenty.

I don’t know, but I find it hard to believe that we would find the Coliseum boring. Maybe that’s just me, since I like history, but still—boring? Hardly.

We were not bored.

It’s incredible, horrific place, the Coliseum. It’s huge—not as big as a modern stadium, of course, but still huge. There are no seats any more, no marble—it’s mostly just the remaining brick work, but the sense of the place is still there. The middle of the Coliseum is the area where the gladiators and others would have fought. There’s no stage an more—it’s now an open space with the tunnels beneath the Coliseum showing. What they did in that place is sickening, revolting, and deeply fascinating. It still holds a repulsive charm, I think, for anyone who goes to visit—a “fascination of the abomination” to quote Heart of Darkness.





The whole time we wandered through the Coliseum, Alicia listened to Rick Steves on her iPod—because he has free podcasts for different famous sights—and then she would tell us about what she had just learned. This was the beginning of Alicia’s official role as tour guide.

I was instructed by one of my students that we had to stage a battle at the Coliseum (and take pictures), so we did.





The Coliseum had a really cool cross that was placed there by the Church at some point to honor the Christians who died at the Coliseum. We thought it was cool, and since we’re Christians and missionaries and everything, we took a picture in front of it.





After the Coliseum, Rick Steves told us to go to the Roman Forum and Palantine Hill (these are sort of the same sight). We wandered the wrong direction from the Rick Steves tour, which got us a little bit turned around, but Alicia got us back on track, eventually. We even prepared a readers theater presentation of a Rick Steves introduction to the sights for Cori and Kari. I’m not sure they were terribly impressed with our efforts.

We had a scare when Kari lost her camera—because we had all stopped to take a picture in some grass that we found, and it fell out of her pocket. Fortunately, she found it. She lost it again a bit later—but it was in her pocket the whole time.



Rick Steves continued to guide us, through Alicia.


We finally saw almost every sight of the forum, staged a picture of Julius Caesar being killed...

(The one with the puffy hair is Caesar...)

...when we wanted to find the shrine of the Vestal Virgins. The Vestal Virgins were 6 virgins (duh) who were in charge of keeping the undying flame of Rome from dying. If they ever let it die, Rome would die. And, “according to Rick Steves,” if they ever had a boyfriend, they would be burned at the stake, or something gruesome like that.

So, we though it’d be fitting to get a picture of 4 DA Virgins (or, “Singulars” as Gloria calls us!) in front of the temple of the Vestal Virgins. But, as we found it, the guards started whistling—no, not because we were in trouble, or because we were very good looking (although I thought we were), but because the sight was closing. So, we took a very fast picture, and didn’t even manage to get the Vestal Virgin temple-thing in the picture. Oh well.



After being booted out of the Roman Forum (that’s not a sentence you get to say every day, eh?), we sort of wandered aimlessly down the road, and we were headed toward this massive white building, which some thought must be the Pantheon, since it was so big. We finally got to the front of the building, and it was the Italian Tomb of the Unknown Soldier—and a modern structure.



By this point, we were utterly foot weary, and needed cappuccino, even though in Italy, it’s considered gauche to drink cappuccino after eating anything with tomato in it—but we did not care and threw social custom to the wind, once more. While drinking our coffee, Kari noticed that the ladies at the café next door had gelato, and decided that she wanted gelato—or else. So, she got her gelato—and I also had some. Now, Rick Steves claimed that the Gelato stand near our flat was the best gelato in Rome, but Kari claims that this café had the best. I am still on the fence. Perhaps we can send a note to Rick next time he goes to Rome to try this place.

Alicia's cappucunio:


After coffee and gelato, we decided to try to find the Trevi Fountain. Rick Steves had a walking tour in the area that included the Trevi Fountain, and ended with the Spanish steps. So, we set off for the Trevi Fountain, and got lost. It’s quite simple to get lost in Rome—there’s nothing to it. We had to stop and check maps again and again. And by we, mostly I mean Alicia and Kari, because I lagged far, far behind the group (eating my gelato) and Cori was somewhere in the middle. We’d stop, I’d catch up, they’d decide on a direction to go in, we’d go in that direction, and then, get lost again. I wasn’t worried, Cori wasn’t worried, but I think Alicia and Kari were feeling frustrated—which was understandable, because it’s frustrating to get lost. Eventually, we decided in a direction that would take us to the fountain, and it did.

We walked down an alleyway (of course, nearly every road that isn’t a main road in Rome is an alleyway), and there it was: The Trevi Fountain. There were hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of people. And who did we see? Barb and Fran, teachers at DA who were also traveling in Europe! We had no plans to meet up with them—we just happened up on them, and they upon us! It was so exciting—A DA reunion in the middle of Rome, unplanned. We had to take a picture, of course, to document the occasion.



We also threw our coins into the fountain. I was the only one who made a wish—but I can’t tell you what that wish was, of course. (Alicia said she made her wish after the fact—not sure if that counts, though.)





Then, we had find something to eat. We were famished—famished! But, of course, we had to find the perfect restaurant—not too expensive, but nothing like McDonalds (gosh, who would eat there?). This took some time. While wandering to find the Perfect Restaurant, we managed to find The Spanish Steps.



At this point, it was about 8:30 at night. We climbed the Spanish Steps (Oh my word. Stretch before climbing the Spanish Steps. Stretch well.), and still didn’t have any place to eat. Someone mentioned that the metro might close at 9:00—we had seen a sign somewhere, sometime. There was a metro stop just below the Spanish Steps, so we took the elevator down to check and see. Don’t judge us until you too climb the Spanish steps after walking miles and miles and miles that day. Don’t judge.

We walked into the metro tunnel, but saw no signs. We looked at a map of the metro, and it said 12:00 AM. It looked like an old sign—but not too old—and so we decided to “risk” that the Metro wouldn’t close at 9:00, and continued on our search for the Perfect Restaurant.

Finally, finally, finally we found the Perfect Restaurant. We were nearly at the end of our ropes, our stomachs were completely empty, but we found it.

It was kind of a strangely decorated restaurant—it was decorated like a boudoir, I thought. But, the food. Oh the food.

Alicia ordered pumpkin ravioli with truffle sauce, and she found the Best Pasta in Italy. (Later, Alicia commented that it was slightly anticlimactic to find the best pasta in Italy on the second night of our stay, but oh well—she does not regret it one bit, despite the narrative flaws). Everything else was very good, as well, but oh, that pumpkin ravioli. We are all still drooling over it.



After The Best Pasta in Italy, we were ready to go home, so we headed back to the metro stop. We traveled under many, many miles of tunnels, and found the official sign that told us that the metro was closed—and had been closed at 9:00, as suspected.

Blast.

So, we followed the signs that led us through many more miles and miles of tunnels till we finally came to the end of the tunnels, and a bus stop in a place we had never seen before. We were ejected from the tunnels with a group of equally confused looking people—other tourists, as well, surely (who else pulls out maps at strange bus stops—not the locals). The four of us stood in a clump, and wondered what to do. By this point, I was extremely tired, and extremely cranky. I’m sure the others were, too, but I think I may have been the most tired and cranky.

Anyway, as we stood in a clump, a man asked us: “Do you need help?”

I’m so used to “helpful” people in Africa that I automatically said: “No, thank you.” Cori, however, is not so skeptical as I, and walked over to him.

This man was like something out of a movie. He was of a heavier build, had a long black pony tail, a top hat, and a coat with tails, and a cane. I think he looked like either someone in the mafia, or an opera singer.

"Where are you trying to go?” He asked [please insert Italian accent here].

“We trying to get to the Vatican,” Cori said.

The man dramatically put his head into his hands, and rocked his head back and forth: “Oh no!” he cried, “It’s too late. You can’t go. It’s closed.” He told us.

Cori managed to keep a straight face, but the other three were having trouble holding it together while we listened.

“No, no, we’re staying near the Vatican.” She explained.

“Ooohh!” He cried again. “Okay, you have to take the 116 bus to [insert Italian name here that we didn’t understand], get off and take the 64.”

“The 116, then the 64?” Cori repeated.

“Yes. One. One. Six.” He repeated.

And then, he walked off into the night. He turned around one more time, held his cane out into the air: “One. One. Six.” He called. Then, he disappeared under an arch, never to be seen again.

We never found the stupid good for nothing One. One. Six. We searched and searched for the stop, we started stopping buses as the passed to see if they went near the Vatican, and none of them did. Someone suggested we just try walking, but everything in my being did not want to walk, and I think in other people’s being, as well, so we finally hailed a cab, and he took us home. It was about five miles away, so we were quite glad we didn’t walk.

We finally got home around midnight, and collapsed into bed.

This little adventure with the Roman transportation system was the first of many frustrations with the Roman transportation system.

But that’s for Day 3.

When in Rome: Day 1

Compiled by: Alicia, Kari, Cori, and Danielle
Written by: Danielle
Photos by: Alicia, Kari, Cori and Danielle

My three friends, Alicia, Kari, and Cori, and I (Danielle) decided to go to Italy for spring break. Kari had the brilliant idea several months ago when she found out her brother and sister-in-law would be in Italy around the same time as our break. She wanted to see them, but didn’t want to go by herself, so, she invited the three of us along, and we accepted, of course. We set off for Italy on the third day of our spring break, eager for pizza, adventure, Italian men, and a brief escape from Africa.

(Incidentally, we almost missed our flight, because we thought we were leaving Wednesday morning, but actually we left Tuesday morning. Fortunately, we checked our flight information...it’s always good to check your flight information.)

While on the trip, we decided to keep a group journal of our travels together. Alicia was the note taker, Cori was in charge of keeping us on task, I (Danielle) was responsible for writing up the journal after, and for some reason Kari didn’t have a job.

So, what follows is a day-to-day account of our travels in Italy—mostly Rome with a day in Naples (actually, Pompeii), and 2 days in Venice. To not overload poor BlogSpot with the-longest-blog-entry-in-the-world (because I cannot—nay, will not be concise: it’s the inner Dickensian in me), I’m going to divide it up day-by-day and also to keep the readers coming back for more, and to make my blog look incredibly popular. Maybe I’ll even get more than 9 followers on my blog.

But that’s just my selfishness coming out. It’s really not about how many followers, but who the followers are.

Whatever. I want as many followers as possible. I was on this other blog that had 40,000 followers, and I thought: “Well, I have 9. And I know every single one of them.”

I want 40,000 followers.

But, I digress.

So, I was elected to write the journal. I apologize to those who have tolerate the travels in Italy through the filter of my thoughts and sense of humor. However, this is a group journal, and all the experiences were contributed by the whole group. So. There you go. No more disclaimers.

Although, I do love disclaimers. I feel like they cover a whole multitude of irreverence—insurance from lightening bolts, or something.

But I digress.

Disclaimer: I tend to digress. Have you noticed? Get used to it. It’s the price you’ll have to pay for reading the group journal.

Okay, Day One:

Day One was a very, very long day. Actually, Day One started before Day One actually started, but I’m going to include going to the airport as a part of Day One, because we didn’t really sleep—especially Cori—more on that later.

Mr. McLane took us the airport that night. Apparently, the only reason he took us the airport was because Kari and Alicia brought him saffron from Spain at Christmas. Kari was slightly “offended” when he lifted her bag last, and let her know it was the heaviest. She felt like it was only the heaviest since it was sort of the biggest, and the last to be lifted. We’ll let heaven be the judge of whether or not it was the heaviest, since Alicia’s and Kari’s bag were weighed together at the check-in.

Mr. McLane gave us some advice as we drove to the airport. He told us that “The coliseum and the forum—they’re nothing.”

Right.



He also told us to beware of the pickpockets. Especially: “Watch out for the Gypsies. They’re everywhere.” And, he told us to go the catacombs, because they were awesome. And they were—Thank, Mr. McLane!

We arrived at the airport, checked in with no problems, and headed through security. I was indignant because some French people budged us in line at the check-in—I felt like they should know better (I mean, really, shouldn’t they?).



At passport control, the customs official asked me for a piece of gum. I didn’t hear him correctly, and thought he was offering gum, which I thought was weird, so I said: “No, merci” as sweetly as possible, because when talking to passport officials, always, always be sweet. Cori was next in line, and he asked her for some gum, and she did actually understand him, so she said yes, she had some. He asked for the whole box of her precious Canadian gum. She said: “How about two?” and went on her way. Fortunately, they did not put her in lock-up for her insolence. That would have been a bit inconvenient.

So, we waited in the lounge to leave and talked about the coming trip. Someone had to go the bathroom. This was the beginning of my little plan that I had all throughout the trip. See, as it turns out, I am a bathroom snob (one of the reasons why I’m a bad MK—that’s a whole other blog entry, though). So, my ploy was to let others go to the bathroom. If it was clean, I would go. If it wasn’t, well, I wouldn’t. But I’d let them scope out the place, or even clean it up a bit. I didn’t know this would turn into my ploy, but it ended up being that way.

I’m ashamed to admit it, but I feel like I need to be honest about my problems. I just mostly hate it when the floor is wet, and you’re wearing trousers, and then you have wet trousers that are wet from who knows what—but one can only guess.

(Sometimes I call pants trousers. A shout out to my British friends.)

The bathroom was pretty clean, much to my surprise, for I remember well the days when it wasn’t, and using it scarred you for life. Or infected you for life. (For anyone who uses the Dakar airport women’s restroom—watch out for the first stall, though, because the light bulb was burnt out, and it was very, very dark in there).

The flight wasn’t terribly eventful. Which is good, because this is already long enough, and we haven’t even arrived in Europe yet.

We got into Lisbon with no troubles, we didn’t have to wait in the longest line in the world, as one normally has to wait in, because our plane was actually on time (a rarity with Air Portugal), and we settled ourselves in the food court area to wait a couple of hours. We were happy to find McDonald's, and we indulged in the wonders of a fattening American breakfast.

Please don’t judge us. We live in Africa. We don’t usually eat McDonald’s in America.

I should say that we ended up eating at McDonald’s a lot throughout the trip, and I feel like there are food snobs out there that are going to judge us. Well, I really have nothing to say to you except for two words: “Festival de Glace.” Which is actually 3 words for the math snobs out there. And I don’t care.

Cori can’t sleep on planes, and by this time, she had been up for almost 24 hours, since our plane left in the middle of the night from Dakar. Cori is funny when she’s had no sleep. I’m just going to put that out there. Yes, we did mock her a little bit. But, actually, not because of the no sleeping, but because she attached her airplane travel pillow to her belt, and walked around with it in public.



We got our flight to Rome—no stories there. I don’t think any of us remember the flight to Rome because we were so wiped out. Oh, wait, the flight was delayed, but, we got there, eventually.

We wondered about the man who was coming to pick us up. See, we rented an apartment for the week, and Marcello (pronounced “March-ello” which Cori actually pronounced “Marshmallow” to be funny), the owner, was coming to pick us up. In our “planning” meetings (quotations to indicate that not much “planning” actually took place, much to poor Alicia’s dismay), Alicia called Marcello Mr. Rome. So, we wondered what Mr. Rome would look like—I guessed that he’d be an older man with a white handlebar mustache. We walked out the gate, and there was Mr. Rome—he was indeed an older man, probably over 60, but he did not have a handlebar mustache, and I was extremely disappointed..

But, oh, Marcello. He was a little old Italian man with tight pants, sunglasses (that he wore in the house) and a scarf. He was holding a sign that said: “Karin Ford”—the first time Kari’s ever had her name on a sign at an airport before—quite the rite of passage, I must say. So, pretty much Marcello had eyes only for Kari, since she had been the contact person. He greeted her, but not really the rest of us, took her suitcase, and let her out of the doors of the airport—we followed obediently and quickly. His car was right outside.

And it was a little, little two-door Ford Fiat. And we had 4 American-Canadian sized suitcases with us. He looked at our luggage with dismay:

“Karin—you said small luggage,” He chastised poor Karin.

“No, no—I said “good-sized luggage,” she pleaded.

Note to all travelers in Italy: “good-sized” in America does not mean large in Italy.

We piled two bags in the back, which still left 2 suitcases, our carry-ons, and 5 people to fit in the cab. He offered to take 2, and come back for 2—but we vehemently protested we would fit. So, three of us piled in the back, he passed the 2 “good-sized” suitcases in to our laps, and Cori, Alicia and I sat very, very closely and snuggly in the bag while Kari got the front seat and the awkwardness of talking to Marcello.



He told us that we could ask us any questions that we wanted. The three in the backseat were mostly silent, and so Kari was stuck with the questions and the talking. She handled it well, though. It was funny, because she’d ask him a question, like “What’s your favorite restaurant?” and he’d answer with “Well, the kitchen is fully stocked. You can make spaghetti, or whatever you would like, you can make. And you can go to restaurant and take out pizza, if you like.” Not quite what she’d asked—but still helpful!

We got to the apartment, which was in a building in a courtyard that looked just like Italy.





It was a tiny flat, but it worked for what we needed. Marcello continued to latch on to Kari, and Kari only, and he showed her everything—how the key worked, the doors, the cupboards, the bedrooms, the bathroom, everything with: “Karin, Karin, look—look,” he would say, over and over again. “You turn the key—look, Karin, look—you turn the key like this, Karin. Turn it twice. Not once, Karin, twice.”

He was a funny little man.

We were all exhausted, of course, so once he left, we sat and sort of stared at each other, figured out the room situations, and talked about what to do next. We were famished, so we wanted food, but we didn’t want to break social custom completely, and eat early. So, we went to the little grocery store across the way and bought some provolone cheese, ham (prosciutto in Italy) and bread for our snack and possibly breakfast.

We came back, ate our snack (which was yummy—provolone cheese is yumminess), and Alicia took a shower. Marcello warned us that the hot water didn’t last very long, and that we had to be careful, but it was okay, because no one else was going to shower yet. After eating our snack, we were ready to explore, so we set out on a walk around the neighborhood. It was a cool neighborhood—very European-city-ish, but close to the Vatican—it was almost literally right across the street, and we could see it’s walls as we walked through the streets. We stopped in a few stores, and eventually made our way to our first authentic Italian restaurant of the trip, Rustichella.

It’s important that I take a moment to talk about Rick Steves. No, no, don’t look at your watch. I know it’s been a long time since you started reading this blog post, but it’s just a little bit longer, and it’ll be worth it, I know.

So, at parent-teacher conferences, Mrs. Hampton (during a lull when there were no parents) told me about this awesome travel book writer and guide named Rick Steves. I’d never heard of him, but that's probably because I’ve never traveled using a guidebook before. So, I mentioned it to Alicia, who was the main mover and shaker on our trip to actually get us to plan to do things, and we found it on Amazon as a Kindle book, and Alicia downloaded Rick Steves Rome and Rick Steves Venice onto her Kindle. And thus began a journey between Rick Steves and Alicia, because Rick Steves became Alicia’s muse, and Alicia became our wonderful tour guide because of Rick Steves. Rick Steves was sort of…a 5th traveler with us, speaking wisdom into our trip and our decisions. We even adopted the motto at one point: “What would Rick do?”

He became our friend.

So, Rick Steves actually recommended the restaurant that was right around the corner from our flat, so we went the first night. We really didn’t know if we needed to follow all the social protocols of Italian dining—because that would mean ordering 4 courses of food, and spending a lot of money, so we didn’t follow social protocol, and if they judged us, well, we were willing to take it.

Cori, Kari and I ordered pizza—Cori got the “Funghi” pizza (mushrooms) and Kari and I both got the 4-cheese pizza. Alicia got ravioli. Alicia was on a quest for the best pasta in Italy. That ravioli, apparently, wasn’t.

Cori was so, so, so, so tired by this point—remember that she couldn’t sleep?—that by the time the pizza was delivered, Cori was barely holding herself together. We all were tired, but Cori was exceptionally so. She cut up her pizza, and then, for a long, long, long time held one piece in her hand while the rest of ate.



We were all pretty quiet, and I felt pleased that we were not being the stereotypical North Americans. Basically, we weren’t talking at all. We finally noticed that Cori wasn’t really eating. The rest of us were about half way through our pizzas, and we were almost full—but Cori had only taken 2 bites.

“I’m just…I just…I’m just so tired. And cold.” Cori said feebly.

“I hope they don’t think you don’t like it.” Kari commented.

That was all Cori needed. She finished the one piece like a big girl, and we asked for the check, for carry-out boxes, and went back to the flat.

Alicia was really cold, and so she decided to take another shower to warm up. I mention this as foreshadowing. You’ll have to read the next installment to find out why it mattered. Don’t you like how I am teasing you with little hints? I know, super exciting.

We all went to bed, utterly exhausted, but happy and eager for the next day, the first real day in Italy.

One more disclaimer: yes, yes, yes the name of these blog entries are cheesy. But, first of all, I poured all my creativity into writing the actual account, and secondly, how often in your life can you actually say "When in Rome?"
That's what I thought. Not too often. Unless you're Cori, because this was her third time to Rome.