Day One—September 30, 2007
No, strike that, let’s go back a bit in time for a little back story here.
In April 1993 I was traveling around Europe for a month during Spring Break. (I was an exchange student in England during my junior year in college, and I figured since I was already in the general area I might as well take a looksee at Europe, since I might never get another chance.) One of the places I planned on visiting was Rome. But, as fate or whatever would have it, my passport and money were stolen soon after I boarded an overnight train from Vienna to Rome. So, without a passport I wouldn’t be able to legally leave Austria nor enter Italy. A train attendant put me on a train returning to Vienna, and the next day I found myself in the American Consulate’s office trying to get my situation straightened out.
As I was traveling solo, this particular experience…was less than fun, shall we say. After finally getting things in order, I opted for spending the remainder of my vacation on the French Riviera rather than trying to shoehorn in a trip to Rome. (My flight back to England was going to be out of Nice anyway, and since a chunk of money had been stolen I couldn’t really afford to go to Rome anymore…besides, lazing about on the beach gave me an excuse to experiment with just how dark a tan I could get…I believe I managed to get darker than Halle Berry.)
So, no Rome for me during my month of wanderlust in 1993.
Jump forward 12-odd years. My Mom decides she’s reached that point in her life where she wants to see a little bit of the world. After months of indecision, she decides she wants to take a two-week trip to Italy.
However, there’s a fly in her ointment. Namely, me. I can’t take that much time off from work at once (I mean, I theoretically could, but if I don’t spread out my vacation days over the year…take an extended weekend every once in a while…I’d go crazy).
So, after a little more searching, she finds a vacation package offering an 8-day trip covering 3 major Italian cities. That, I could swing.
Over the next year, pennies are pinched and saved, awkward passport photos are taken, and disaster is nearly avoided (family drama which could have put the kibosh on the whole trip…unfortunately, a car chase was not involved). Arrangements were made to get some of that there funny-lookin’ foreign money and, before you know it, it’s vacation time.
My Mom flew from California into Memphis on the 28th (since Memphis, while not quite the closest international airport to me, does have a commuter flight service that I can use to reach it). We met up the next morning and, since it had been more than a year since we’d last seen each other, it was pretty good all around.
What wasn’t so good was the Airplane Funtime that would take up the rest of the day. About an hour flight from Memphis to Atlanta (my Mom’s first trip in a commuter-sized plane…I don’t think she cottoned much to the experience), and then a couple of hours of layover time in Atlanta before catching a 9-hour flight to Rome. A couple of hours that stretched out a little more, due to a couple of mechanical delays with the plane. But, during that time, I had ample opportunity to notice the...well, there’s really no polite way to refer to the fact that most of the people booked on this flight were elderly. At 35, I was actually one of the youngest passengers on the flight.
At any rate, the flight itself wasn’t too bad (although, if I’d had my druthers, I would not have chosen either the chick flick or the Disney movie as in flight entertainment). Sore butt and a little sleep deprivation, but that’s part of the traveling experience, no?
So, finally, Rome. The Fulmincino International Airport in Rome, also known as the Leonardo Da Vinci Airport. Fourteen years after my initial attempt to make it to the Eternal City, I finally made it.
Now, for a couple of weeks before the trip my Mom had been checking weather predictions for Italy. She was slightly bummed that overcast skies and rain were predicted, but as it turned out there was a bit of an Indian Summer going on, as it was what most people would call lovely weather. (I, having a cold, black heart, prefer cooler weather, like, say, low to mid-70s or so. And if it’s overcast, so much the better. Then again, that’s just me.)
Now, the reason for the diversion to grousing about the weather is that, after finally getting to the baggage claim area (after a surprisingly cursory passport examination), we had to wait about an hour for our luggage to show up. And it was hot and stuffy in there. (We were told in advance that European standards of A/C are not quite what we spoiled Americans are accustomed to.) At any rate, both of our pieces of luggage made it through relatively unscathed.
And customs? Ha, we just walked through.
After finding the designated meeting place for our tour company, we were separated into smaller groups, depending on which package tour we were on.
Next stop, our hotel and our initial meeting with our tour guide, Antonella, who would take care of us over the next week. We checked in, were given a time to meet for a general orientation in one of the hotel's conference rooms (other members of the tour were coming in on different flights so not everybody had arrived yet), and, after making it up to our room, we passed out for a few hours.
Ah, to be caressed in the arms of Morpheus…and be able to stretch out…bliss, sweet bliss.
The last time I was in Europe, many years ago, I stayed exclusively in youth hostels. (Well, apart from the night my money and passport were stolen.) So, to me, the room was very nice, although a bit smaller than you’d find in most American hotels. (And, no, I couldn’t get the A/C to work just right.)
There are some things a child should never have to explain to her mother. The purpose of a bidet (which all the hotels over there had) is one of them.
We were able to pass out for about an hour or so before we’d have to meet for our general orientation and dinner. This particular tour group had roughly 40 people, and there were maybe 4 of us in the entire group who weren’t over 40 years old.
Antonella, our tour guide, told us that even though our tour package was sweetly named the “Italian Holiday” it would be more like an “Italian Nightmare,” because of the fast pace that would be involved. (And, boy, she wasn’t kidding.) Rome was not built in a day, but we’d try to see it in a day. And the same would go for Venice and Florence.
Relaxation vacation? Oh, I think not. Because of itty bitty European streets, most of the tour would be a walking tour.
Since a lot of us were jetlagged, nothing was planned for our first night other than a group dinner. (Pasta, butofcourse. Oddly enough, we didn’t have a single plate of spaghetti the entire time we were there.) On the way back from dinner, we had a brief stop at St. Peter’s Square, which, since this was nighttime, was pretty much deserted. St. Peter’s Basilica and the Vaticano Obelisk were nicely lit, but the pictures I took were truly craptastic. (Guess who forgot to set her camera to the night setting? It may not have mattered anyway, since I ultimately learned that all photos I took at night and/or with a flash were pretty much teh suck.)
Then back to the hotel, for some much needed sleep. Because we’d have to get up really early the next morning for our See-Rome-In-A-Day experiment...
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