When in Rome... Avoid the Grappa

I'm now in Rome, which, with its cobble stone roads, ancient buildings and piazzas a-plenty, is perhaps the most beautiful city i have ever seen. My travel efficiency is also at its peak, as i pretty much covered the classic sites of Rome (e.g. the Collesseum, the Pantheon, St. Peters Church and Guido's Fun-Time Pizzeria and Gelato Stand) by mid-afternoon of my first day here.

Upon arrival though, my first priority was to do laundry, as i arrived from Africa with a backpack full of clothes that were not fit for human contact. I had paid a whopping $18 in Western Uganda for laundry service of boxers, t-shirts and socks and received them still completely wet, accompanied by a rather perplexing explanation, "sorry, but the sun was not very hot today". Consequently, my clean, albeit wet, clothes went through a metamorphis over the subsequent three days (including long hot bus rides and two flights) and transformed into a frightening mass that was beginning to come to life while emitting amonia-like gases capable of powering a medium-sized developing country (let's say, Madagascar). I realized that my strategy of ignoring the situation was not working, so i promptly changed strategy and stopped off at laundry service immediately upon arrival in Rome, resulting in laundry service fees for my boxers and t-shirts double their actual value.

After the first several hours and having already seen the important Roman sites and having already eaten a mango, lemon and banana gelato purchased from someone whose name very well could have been Guido, i logically proceded to a travel agency to look into transportation options to Greece. Unfortunately, the travel agency was out of my prefered mode of transportation (bright yellow Ducati 996). Upon befriending travel agent extraordinaire, Stephano, i decided to stick around Rome for a bit longer and headed to the beach the next day with new friends Stephano, Alesandro, Camella, Divi and Carolina. Our friendships nearly collapsed, though, when we hit an impasse and could not come reach a compromise on the color coordination of our hypothetical group motorcycle tour to Greece. (I could accept the pink sidecars but wouldn't budge an inch from there.) Stephano, whose Volkswagon Cabriolet convertible secretly doubles as an amphibious assualt and super-flying vehicle, demonstrated exceptional driving skills, including a nimble aptitude for driving on the correct side of the road most of the time. His skills don't end there though, as he demonstrated exceptional Italian hospitality, generously purchasing for me "Italian women magnets" such as a giant pink beach towell and a Bacardi breezer. Proudly displaying my new pink towell, my barcardi breezer, my bright red Crocs, my NY Yankees cap and the pastiest white skin ever recorded on any Italian beach, i inexplicably felt a strange yearning to sing the "The Star Spangled Banner" to Italian beach goers. Surprisingly, the women magnets failed to produce their intended results, making me wonder how the national anthem approach would have fared in comparison.

Contrary to previous expectations, Romans have been, for the most part, extremely hospital and friendly, even to an obvious Yankee. For example, I went to a nice Italian restaurant the other night. (Although I don't remember the name or exact location, i can narrow it down by saying the word "ristorante" was in the name, they served pasta, pizza and red wine and it was on a cobble-stone road, surrounded by ancient buildings and near a piazza.) Surrounded by couples left and right (many of whom had no hestitations to display their affections publicly), I was the only solo diner at the restaurant, if not Rome generally. The restaurant owner, either intrigued by my presence or sympathic to a solo traveler, was soon heaping extra portions, free food and, increasingly free drink, in my direction. In response to his frequent question "how do you like?", i didn't have the heart to say anything except "this is the best Italian food i have ever had". (Technically it was, as it was the first real meal i had had in Italy, but the cold ravioli, complete with a thick black hair and the vile, hard-alcohol he served up, "grappa", would have otherwise not received any awards or accolades.) After he invited me to try the grappa, i responded with, "When in Rome...!", a response that, especially after several glasses of Italian wine, I concluded was the wittiest comment humanly conceivable (albeit seemingly unappreciated by the restaurant owner). It was a nice meal, though, that prompted me to want to give a heart-felt "thanks" to the guy (also possibly named Guido) and to promise a return to the seat that he insisted would be reserved for me indefinitely. I think it was the grappa talking, though, when i went too far and think i promised my first born son.

My experience in Rome has been great, but, alas, has not been without casualties. My faithful Nikon camera, loyally at my side for the past 60 days, died on me yesterday, reducing my traveling entourage to just me and Pocket Wookie. My heart goes out to the camera though, as it endured several continents and the jungles of Congo, not to mention the fact that it has snapped over 5000 pictures of gorillas, sharks, lions and Canadians. Moreover, perhaps another example of divine intervention (the miracle mullet in Argentina being the obvious first example), the camera made it through all of the major sites of Rome before taking its last shot of me at the magnificent St. Peters church in the Vatican. With my head solemnly down, I will soon send it to meets its maker for ultimate judgment (i.e. Nikon North America).