Roaming in Roma

Friday, April 26, 2024

Greetings from Italy. Well. . . I mean Switzerland.

Thus far, my job as budget travel agent is not threatened. I managed to get us here with our luggage. One 12 hour flight. One nine hour train trip. Mind you, “la giornata e´giovane” (“the day is young”), and there is plenty of time for something to go wrong, but I remain, despite my record, curiously optimistic.

As I write this first segment, we are racing at 190mph on the Trentitalia Frecciaroso 9624 bullet train from Roma to Milano. Destination Locarno, Switzerland.

Just north of Montepulciano. Cathy’s snoozing, so I’ve fired up the ol’ laptop to report to my faithful readers on yesterday’s earth-shattering discoveries, the kind that come only with world travel.

Discovery No. 1 Your Italian Cypress tree.  

In the taxi from the airport to Rome, Cathy, who recently planted three in her front yard, was struck by how many Italian Cypress there are here in . . . uhhh . . . Italy Everywhere we looked, there they were.  The place is littered with them. It’s almost as if . . . Oh, never mind.

Discovery No. 2: Your Tomato

Say “it ain’t so, Joe”, but Rob Jackson has decided it’s Italy where finally, after a lifetime of belittling BLT lovers, picking tomatoes off anything and everything from pizzas to salads,  and rolling my eyes at Chef Boy-Are-Dese-Good fanatics gushing over a “fresh from the garden” Early Girl, it’s time to give up the fight and learn to enjoy a fresh tomato.

And what better way to start such a life changing practice than with an appetizer at Il Vicola Nel Corso Ristorante, a charming hole in the wall we discovered in an alley on our way from the Spanish Steps to the Trevi Fountain. That’s right, Big Boys, we’re talking bruschetta.

That’s “broo-skee-ay-tah” my friends. Not “bruh-sheh-tuh.” Not, “broo-skeh-tuh.” It’s “broo-skee-ay tah.” This little jewel. It was deliziosa.

Discovery No. 3

Naturally at ease amongst her people, sporting a Neapolitan striped blouse like she just stepped out of The Pirates of Penzance, tight pants and stylish shoes, Cathy fits in here like Audrey Hepburn in Roman Holiday.

That’s her at the top of the steps.

Me? Not so much. I should be a training dummy for entry level pre-teen Roman pickpockets.

I start with a wide eyed, slack jawed, “will ya look at that, Martha” expression. I add to that my  21-zippered pocket travel vest, the new and improved SCOTTeVEST, and I top it all off glued to Google Maps on my iPhone trying to figure out in which direction the little blue dot is moving relative to our targeted destination. 

I’m pretty sure it was this undercover demeanor that prompted the enterprising man on the Spanish Steps to offer Cathy four roses and then turn to me for remuneration. We had bivouacked for the night half way up the steps, when he caught me wheezing and unable to waive Cathy off of his classic “create the obligation” move. Oh well. My legal negotiating skills proved too much for him and five euros later I was the one getting my picture taken with Audrey Hepburn kissing me.

Discovery No. 4

Children, no matter what their language, speak the same.  Whether it was the toddler dancing with the street musicians at the Piazza del Popolo or the two small girls on the train just now running up and down the length of the train car, they sound alike. It’s a joyous sound.