Day 16 -- Lucerne to Rome

Well, I'm a bit heated up right now, so it's going to be difficult to type now without spitting a bit of fire. So bear with me – don't worry, Chad…this one is completely justified. I'm a little pissed off at a couple of Italian jackassess…so I feel I must vent a bit.

Started off a bit wrongly this morning – I'd had in my mind since yesterday that we were supposed to leave the Lucerne station at 8:34 AM. So we packed early, skipped the free breakfast, and hurried over to the station to get there around 8:15 AM or so.

Except, nowhere did the itinerary say "8:34 AM." In fact, that time does not exist at all on our Excel spreadsheet…it was, apparently, the invention of my poor fevered brain.

But it was a good thing our train didn't leave that early, because we ran into our good old friend "compulsory reservations" again. I had to go downstairs at the station to reserve two "first class" tickets to Rome. Our new train left at 9:21 AM. This gave us time for coffee, a hurried breakfast, and the impossible New York Times crossword puzzle.

Eventually our train arrived, and we boarded. It's funny, but the only difference I noticed between "first class" and "second class" was the name. And first class had a little doily on the headrest. But…hell…we were riding in style…high on the hog. So we enjoyed it.

We changed trains at Milan, and found out exactly what a real "first class" ticket was. It was like first class on an airplane – with a motorized, reclining seat, comfortable headrests, and actual, bona-fide free beverages. It was cool.

Except, unbeknownst to us, when we booked the tickets the ticket lady gave us seats that were separated by an aisle (as opposed to "next to each other," or "facing each other"), but since the train was only half-full (or empty), we cheated a bit and sat in the "facing each other" position.

This was working fine, until we got to Bologna. A big crowd of blustering Italians boarded, and started taking their seats. I noticed that a wealthily dressed woman and her vapid teenaged daughter sat down where my actual seat was located – which was fine…so long as the guy holding the ticket for my new seat arrived, and asked me to move.

But he did show up. He was a fashionable, 5 o'clock shadowed, greased hair Italian dude in his mid-20s. He boarded, double-checked his tickets, and gestured toward my seat.

Now at this point I should point out – we've neglected Italy…and, especially, Italian. We know "Thank you," "Welcome," "Good day," and "Good bye." We're pretty much screwed, for any actual conversation that would need to arise.

So, when greasy-hair points to my seat, I point to my actual seat and tell him (in muttered English) that the daughter were sitting in my seat. "No," says the mother, procuring a print-out that shows their seats together…where I'm supposed to be.

I look at my "official looking ticket," then at her "internet print-out." Something stinks. There's a random "two" floating around in the middle of my ticket (I found out later that it was the "section" of the car), and the lady tells me that I'm supposed to be in "Second class." She was wrong – there was a highlighted "1" under class. But I didn't see it until later. The people around her joined in the chorus, telling me that I was in the wrong section (even though they couldn't see our ticket). So…in the ultimate walk of shame, we packed our bags, and left the "richie riches" in first class to go to our slummy second-class seats.

Except, when we stopped in the galley, I saw the truth. "CL: 1" 1^st class. The little bastards were wrong. Dead frigging wrong. Not only had I been pushed out of my seat, but I'd been shamed in front of a full car of foreigners. I was the stupid, mumbling entitled American who didn't understand Italians, or their culture.

It was then that a "ticket counter" happened by the galley. I tried, in as simple an English as I could manage, to explain the situation. We had these tickets, and the people there would not leave. He kept repeating, "Coach 4," which was our coach. I told him that I understood the coach number, and asked him if he could come back to help me find my seat. He said, "Is okay. Is okay." No, "is" wasn't okay…a rich little twit was sitting smugly in my seat. I couldn't speak good enough Italian to tell them that, and no one seemed willing to translate for me (except for one guy who stepped in to help me speak with the ticket counter, but stopped short of helping me get my seat back).

So Erika and I sat in the dining car and stewed. The one guy who could help us could barely speak English, and the jag-off in my seat was unwilling to help or move. I contemplated standing in the dining car for the three hours remaining on the ride. But three hours is a long time to stand still.

Then, our savior. I went back to our seats to see if, maybe, I had been in the wrong car, when I saw the little Italian man who had punched our tickets the first time around. He was wending his way through the first-class coach, checking the tickets of the new arrivals. He was three rows from where I was supposed to be sitting. Perfect.

I hurried back to the dinner car, got our tickets from Erika and hustled up to the man.

"Hello. Can you help? I'm sorry…where are my seats?"

"Coach four."

"Here?" I pointed down.

"Yes."

"Thirty two and thirty four?"

He looked at the tickets again. "Yes." I went to the seats to show him someone was sitting there, but he had already turned his back, and was helping the next passenger.

"Hello. Grazie. Please, these are my seats?" I pointed at the younger twit.

"Yes, thirty two, and thirty four." He approached the women. The mother rolled her eyes with exasperation, and smugly handed him their stupid printout…and they cockily pointed to the "34/35" marked on their ticket.

Except they'd screwed up. They were looking at seats for their connecting train, not the current train. The conductor informed them (in flawless Italian) of their error, and they all shared a laugh.

I hurried back to the dinner car to get Erika, and the rest of our bags. "The bitches were in the wrong place," I said out loud…in the half-empty dining car (ah…pessimism). My forceful language disturbed my wife, but I was mad as all hell at this point…as was she…so she let it slide.

We returned to our seats, and the dumbos were slowly packing up their stupid, expensive bags. We stood in the aisle, waiting for them to pass. I don't know…maybe waiting for an apology?

Of course none was forthcoming. They were the equivalent of "spoiled Beverly Hills Bitches," and we've had plenty of time dealing with their type back in the states. No manners…no intelligence…and an infuriating sense of entitlement. Nothing was ever their fault, and if they're ever proven to be wrong, they blame anything other than their own incompetence. So the two nitwits stood up, speaking in Italian with their fellow passengers and laughing about something. Probably us. Who cares. We had our seats back. They felt our shame now…which was sweetly unsatisfying. We did not move as they approached, and they had to squeeze past us to get down the aisle. Jackasses.

At the next stop (Firenze), many of the passengers exited – including the grease-hair. Seizing my opportunity, I jumped into the seat across from my wife, again.

But like clockwork, a man entered…and he mentioned that he was holding a ticket for my seat. This time my "real" seat was unoccupied. I asked him, in simple English, if he wouldn't mind sitting in my seat, so I could sit across from my wife. He smiled widely.

"Of course, of course! Is no problem."

He looked like the stereotypical Italian businessman – striped grey pants, pointy shoes, shiny forehead nursing receding salt & pepper hair that was slicked back, and a skinny black tie. His kindness was met with a chorus of "grazie's" from me and my wife. And he restored our faith in the good Italian people.

Now, sitting here in the Italian Businessman's seat, the younger one keeps glaring at me from across the coach. Which is making my mind go into overdrive – are they going to call a couple of Guidos to meet us at the Termini when we arrive? Is she going to walk by and spill coffee on my head as she passes? Is she just going to stare daggers at me from across the train until we arrive in Rome in an hour-and-a-half? Is she secretly attracted to me, and just mad that I'm a happily married man? Is she just trying to figure out which team is on my baseball hat?

Don't know…but already Rome has been a sullied. Compare this to the nice man who offered to help us in Lucerne…or the overly-friendly faces we saw every day at Hotel Uhland…and…I dunno'...all the other pleasant folks we've met in our two weeks here.

I'd been secretly dreading this part of the trip for a while now…and we've already decided to break convention (we're not going to walk to our hotel from the train station!?!?! We're taking a cab!?!?!). Now that we've gotten a little slice of the old "Italian Hospitality," my dread-o-meter is just starting to climb…and climb…

(later that night)

Of course, nothing happened when we got off the train. There were approximately a million billion people crowding the platform, and even if there had been an elite Italian hit squad sent to break our kneecaps, they would never have seen two ordinary white folk pulling oversized bags in that gigantic train station.

Our first order of business on getting off the train – find an ATM (our primary source of income, as Europe seems to be resisting the "credit card for any purchase" movement that's sweeping the US). Second order of business: find a cab. Final order of business: get into our hotel room.

The first order went pretty well. In that big, terrifying station, as night was falling, I found an ATM machine and withdrew some cash. No biggie there.

The second order was a little more sketchy. We walked to the line-up of cabs in front of the building, but on our way a random person stopped us.

Man: You need cab?

Me: Huh? (looking out at the line of cabs) Yes, yes we do.

Man: Where are you going?

Erika: The Piazza Mattei?

Man: Okay. I take you for 20 euro.

Me (pointing to the line of parked cabs): Is that your car over there?

Man: Okay, 25 euro.

Me (not understanding who this man is, or exactly why his price went up): Um…I'm sorry, but are you parked over here? (I point to the parked cabs)

The man does not respond, and kinda' wanders away from the conversation…muttering to himself. If I'm not mistaken, he probably was one of those fraudulent "freelance cab drivers" who take you to your location, then demand outrageous sums of money. Or something like that – either way, dude was not to be trusted.

But the other cab drivers were…and we made our way over to a group of them (who were holding court outside the nearest cab). A tall guy with a long, braided ponytail asked us where we were headed. We told him, he spoke briefly to his other cabbie buddies, and he loaded us into his cab…parked in the front row of the four-wide and twenty-deep line of cabs.

I must say – if you're ever in Rome, I highly suggest you take a cab at some point in your trip – preferably at the beginning. It's a great introduction, because you get to see first-hand what it's like to be a driver (and, more importantly, a pedestrian) in that crazy city.

The ride started out a little freaky – our driver was approached by a man who didn't have the "burden" of a home (that's me coming up with a cumbersome, politically correct way of saying "homeless"). He was waving two packs of Kleenex (one in each hand) and speaking excitedly in Italian. Mr. Braided Ponytail responded laconically in Italian, and handed the man a couple of coins (coins which range, interestingly enough, from 1 cent to two euro…much like our dear neighbors to the north). The man gushed some grazies, and our light turned green.

Stuff started going wrong right at that first intersection. Rome does not seem to be interested in "lanes," so we swerved across the road with impunity. Our good chauffeur, at one point, made a plea to the driver next to him, asking him (I believe – my Italian is infantile) if he could cut in front of him and take his cab screaming down a narrow alley. The neighboring driver shrugged in approval, and Braid (a better name, methinks) did as I hoped he would – he shot in front of a line of cars and went screaming down a narrow alleyway, nearly clipping several pedestrians with his side-view mirrors.

Note to those walking in Rome – you're not safe in an alley. If it's possible, you're in much more danger than you would be on a main street. Especially from cab drivers. I mean, they're probably not going to hit you, but they'll get as close as possible, given the chance. And I noticed several suspicious dents on cabs that I saw in the city.

Anyhow, twenty minutes later, we arrived at the Pizza Mattei. "I never heard of a hotel here," our driver cautions us.

"Very small," I say, affecting an Italian accent, though speaking English. Erika makes fun of me for it, but I figure, they'd think that's how all people speak English…and it's (therefore) easier for them to understand. Erika thinks I'm just making fun of them. Maybe she's right…but they're too STUPID TO KNOW BETTER!!! HA HA HAA!!!!

Kidding. Partially. Where was I? Ah…so Braid drops us off, and we wait. We're supposed to meet our hosts outside of the front door at 8:00 PM. It's a Bed & Breakfast, and there's no front desk…meaning there is no "on-site assistance." This arrangement is fine, so long as we're able to get all the amenities that we'd normally receive at a hotel (clean towels, clean sheets, and a fully-made bed every day). I checked my phone and noticed that it's 7:45 PM local time. We were right on time.

8:00 rolls around…and there's still no sign of our hosts. We double-check our print-out, and look around anxiously. 8:10. Still nothing. I need to use the bathroom, and Erika needs food and coffee. 8:15. Time to call the number on our print-out. After fudging around with the "international" calling rules, we get through. We speak to "Allesandra," who informs us that her husband is upstairs, waiting for us...and that we just need to take the elevator upstairs to meet him. We tell her that the door to the building is locked, and we can't get inside…so she says that her husband will be "right down." 8:20 rolls around, still no sign of husband or wife. We look at the phone (which is dying quickly; down to one bar), and wait. 8:25. Still no husband. Must be a lot of steps. 8:30, there's a call from a number in Italy. It's Allesandra. Apparently her husband is at the wrong B&B (duh), and he'll be there as soon as he can.

Finally, at 8:50, a guy shows up to let us inside.

This hotel is…well…it's more of what I imagined a European hotel room would be – cramped, dirty, and completely jury-rigged at every turn. It doesn't bother me too much – I'm kinda' happy that there's food out anytime we need it…including milk, juice, croissants, bread, cereal…

Erika is…well…is there a single word for "incredibly annoyed?" Not exactly "apoplectic," because that is more active…but…let's just say the "frustrated-sigh-o-meter" was off the charts. In the red.

I'll try to give just due to my wife's point of view here…because, while I don't share it, I understand it. The ceiling was barely over six feet. Maybe six foot one. The little bathroom was fairly dirty, and two beams on the ceiling required even little Erika to crouch down to enter (I had to practically squat to use the mirror). The floor had obviously not been vacuumed before arrival…which boded ill for the sheets. The decorations were "cluttered." Any floor space was taken up by the low double-bed…which was topped by a mattress that was quite stiff. Did I get it all, Erika? Don't worry…I'll get into it more later in the week. The hotel room will get what's coming to it.

Regardless of the status of our room, after dusting ourselves off, we bounced downstairs to one of the Piazza Mattei eateries, where we were seated by a young, overly-friendly young Italian man. We ate some overly-friendly Italian food, drank some overly-friendly Italian wine, and paid an overly-friendlily (wow…what an adverb) small amount for the meal (compared to the blasting our pocketbook had received in Lucerne).

We decided to scout around the perimeter of our hotel, and we discovered (to our surprise) that there were some 2000 year old ruins one block north of our room. These were the Largo Argentina Ruins, and they contain (most famously) the exact spot where Julius Caesar was murdered in the first century, on the steps of the Theatre of Pompey.

There is no foot access to the ruins (which sit about 20 feet down from the street level), but they are definitely occupied...by hundreds of modern residents. As it turns out, the ruins had been reserved for use as the biggest Kitty Jungle Gym in the world – we could see dozens of cats strewn about the ruins…sleeping, cleaning themselves, stalking about, and generally acting kitty-like in the ruins of four giant, ruined temples.

This was a cool little slice of Rome. It's a bustling, modern city…curved around a pit containing ancient ruins…that covered in kitties. This was a mystery to be fully explored later…for sure…

But we'd done enough exploring for our first night. Bellies full of fine Italian food and drink; we returned to our still-crappy room and settled into an exhausted sleep.