Ryan Avery

The thing about maps is that getting from point A to point B always looks VERY simple. Just follow the black line from wherever you are to wherever you want to go. Compare that to standing on a busy Italian street corner after just emerging from an underground Metro with exits on all four corners of the intersection. Not only do the street names not correspond to the ones you were expecting according to the map, but you can't even see the Vatican to orient yourself (which according to the map, should only be 3 blocks away, save for all the buildings in between).

Because we took separate flights a day apart, both Tamarind and myself had to figure out the directions on our own. I feel very sorry for her. Though I gave her the best map we had in our posession, I had also given her directions that I had hand-crafted from supposedly valid sources. My mistake was not confirming the directions with the rental agency. Tamarind's mistake was believing that I actually knew what I was talking about.

The apartment we were staying at had a small map online, pegging its location 3 blocks from the Vatican. It located the apartment with a red dot but did not list street names, so I took it upon myself to correlate it with the map I had. From this, I gathered the directions as, “From the metro stop, take Via Candia to Via Leone IV, turn right, and walk 1 block. It should be right there.”

Problem was, Via Candia was actually Viale Giulio Cesare where the Metro emerged. And Via Telesio (the street the apartment was on) was in fact no where near where the online map suggested it was. And since Italian streets change names almost every 3 blocks. you could be a block away on the same street as where you want to go, but never know it. It was by pure luck that I stumbled across the apartment within 30 minutes of wandering. It took Tamarind over 3 hours to find it.

Even when I found the apartment and was standing right in front of it, I still was unsure whether I had the right place. With the help of the semi-patient apartment manager, I rang what she showed me was the intercom to the apartment. No answer, so I used the elevator and knocked on the door. Still not hearing anybody, my worst fears were bubbling to the surface. Was this even the right place? I had no idea where else it might be. Was the internet rental agency a scam, and there was never an actual apartment for rent? Perhaps Tamarind missed her flight connection in Newark, and was stranded waiting on standby for who knows how long. Perhaps she got lost just like me, and ended up being kidnapped by a roving band of Italian gypsies, forced to sell roses to unsuspecting tourists and dance the Tarantella with people named Maria and Massimo.

But no, as soon as I got off the elevator on the ground floor, set on finding a pay phone to let the police know about yet another missing American woman selling roses, I open the front door only to find her just putting the key into the lock, a bag of groceries in one hand and a bouquet of flowers for the apartment in the other. That was a very happy sight, indeed.

So there I was, bags in hand, standing dumbfounded in the middle of the arrival lounge in the Fiuminico airport in Rome. I was hot, tired, and dirty – 12-hour layovers on international connections tend to do that to you.

The first thing on my agenda was finding an ATM. I had read the horror stories of travellers checks these days, such as outrageous fees and the lack of acceptance at all but the largest banks, so I had arrived with no currency whatsoever – except for the $50 USD I had in my money clip, which I'm sure would convert to about 10 Euro after fees.

So I relegated myself to the luck of the draw whether either my debit card or my credit card would work overseas. Not like I didn't have other options: Begging for loose change wouldn't be the ideal way to spend a vacation, but I suppose there are worse places for it than Rome.

Fortunately for me (unfortunately for you as the reader), I get cash without a problem and get a ticket for a train into the center of town. Never mind the fact that in my daze, I forgot to validate my ticket. Though I previously read numerous times about the fines for getting caught travelling on an unvalidated ticket, my readings failed me in the moment.

So there I was, watching over my eye like a paranoid delusional, looking out for the conductor who was sure to come and slap my butt with a sky-high fine. Not like I had any clue as to what I'd do should he appear – run to the safety of the next cabin? Or muster up my best "dog ate my validated ticket" excuse .. in Italian? No, I realized that I better just enjoy the ride either way, and started enjoying the sights whizzing by me.

Riding the train, you might assume that the first thing I noticed about the Roman countryside was the ancient monuments littering the landscape. Or the itty-bitty golf carts they try to pass off as automobiles. Or the hundred of vineyards dotting the landscape. But to be honest, what struck me first was very simple and trivial – there were clotheslines everywhere, in every yard, on every building. Hell, my mom used to hang wet clothes out in the backyard during the summer, so this was nothing foreign to me. But the fact that the clotheslines were on every window, ran between every neighboring building, and were all PACKED with clothes – that was what struck me.

Over the next few days, I half expected the windows of President's House or the Vatican to be filled with clothes – after all, even the Pope has to dry his boxers.

The wonderful thing about traveling with someone who is up for almost anything, anytime, is that you have the option of ordering foods you normally would shy away from. Not only are you more willing to try exotic items in general, but if you end up getting something you're not too keen on, odds are your companion will like it enough to finish it.

So when Tamarind and I decided to stop at a little trattoria near our apartment late one night, we decided to do a mixed appetizer dish, under the seemingly-innocent name of “Antipasti misti”. I had previously read about how to stretch a budget by ordering dinner “una per due”, meaning shared portions, so when the waiter responded to my ordering by asking “Per due?”, I promptly said “Si.” We then finished by ordering a pizza each for our entrée.

The wine and mineral water flowed freely in preparation for our meal to come. But when the waiter returned with not one, not two, but three plates of mixed sea creatures, we wondered exactly what we had gotten ourselves into. Turns out that there was two kinds of “Antipasti misti” on the menu, regular vegetable and meat plates (the one I thought I ordered), and “Antipasti misti dei mare”, meaning “from the sea”. Not what we were expecting, to say the least. Not only that, but by ordering “per due”, rather than “una per due”, we had inadvertently ordered two servings.

The three plates of baby octopus, anchovies and raw salmon looked quite imposing, considering we had expected one plate of spinach, zucchini, and other "simpler" fare. But always being up for a challenge, we dug in at breakneck pace. Though I would have never ordered it if I knew what I was getting, these little things were simply divine. The anchovies were seasoned perfectly and not too fishy, as I always expected anchovies to be. The baby octopus was cooked in a fabulous sauce to perfection. The raw salmon on toasted bread was wonderfully light and fresh.

As we were enjoying our already bountiful feast, the waiter brought out yet ANOTHER plate, this time with fabulous little tarts containing potatoes and who-knows-what else.

Finally, after gorging ourselves on appetizers, the waiter returned with two more plates. It was only then that we remembered the pizzas that we had ordered. So the pizzas were set before us, and slowly we attempted to do as much damage to them as possible. Needless to say, they were still mostly intact when we left, having already eaten an army's worth of Italian sea delicacies.

The bill was another story. Instead of the simple 10 Euro appetizer we ordered, the sea appetizers were 15 Euros each. Accounting for the pizzas, wine, water and coperto, we left with a damage of 65 Euros. Though we didn't plan on spending $80 on dinner that night, we definitely didn't expect to leave with a story we'd remember for years to come.

When T told me about her Roman adventures the night before I joined her, I was a bit skeptical. She mentioned eating at a random restaurant where the wait staff was incredibly friendly. In addition to having some wonderful food (and a lot of it), she had great conversation with the staff. She was having trouble finding the apartment we had booked, and they asked around to help her get directions. The waiter even told her he’d make a CD of tango music when she mentioned she was a dancer, as long as she’d promise to return.

It didn’t take me long to put two and two together: A single American woman who speaks almost no Italian dines at a random restaurant staffed by Italians. Of course they’re going to be incredibly nice to her, either to get some extra “American” tipping out of her or to try and put some of their Italian moves on her. So I was morbidly curious when she suggested we return later that week – I wanted to see this place for myself.

Much to my surprise, my thoughts about the place were completely wrong. This was the ultimate family pizzeria with a truly friendly staff, great wine, antipasti and wonderfully mouthwatering pizzas. We had a full multi-course meal with wine, and it was one of the cheapest dinners we had during our entire trip (21 euros, if I recall). Part of the reason was the fact that the owner, when asked for the check, just wrote a price down on a blank slip of paper that was obviously a lot less than the food we ordered. But the prices were cheap to begin with, even before our “frequent visitor” discount.

And yes, before we left at the end of the night, the owner laid on our table that tango CD he had promised. We returned the favor with some good old fashion American tipping.

Guidebooks are like rabbits. As soon as you book a trip, you get one for yourself. After a week, one more has appeared, given to you by a well-meaning friend. By the time you pack for the trip, you find yourself with no room for clothes among the dozens of guidebooks you’ve accumulated.

One such book we had in our possession was called Rome Secrets. A wonderful-looking book, it had an incredibly nice textured cover, and a minimalist page layout supposedly containing “secrets” pulled together from travel buffs from every walk of life. The problem was that the book was 6 years old, though we didn’t know that at the time.

One of the “secrets” it suggested was being one of the first in line for the Vatican Museum, and upon entering, running all the way to the end to visit the Sistine Chapel in absolute peace. So our second day in Rome, that’s what we did.

We woke at the crack of dawn, went and got cappuccino and some incredible danishes at a café called La Florentine, and got ourselves to the Vatican by 8am. We were one of the first 10 people in line for regular admission, though we saw across the way an ominously long line at the group tour entrance.

Turns out, groups can enter the museum an hour before regular admission. Still, we figured that no self-respecting group tour could take less than an hour browsing the massive collection of pieces leading up to the grand finale of the Sistine Chapel.

So when the doors opened, we bolted. We pushed our way past the crowds at the front stairs, slipped through the crowds looking at the statues and sculptures. Ran through the less-crowded Room of Maps, and finally slipped into complete silence in the Pius galleries. But still we hurried, through the empty and awe-inspiring Raphael Rooms, past the deserted Borgia Apartments.

Nearing the Sistine Chapel, we were beaming. We did it! We beat the crowds to the chapel and would have a good 30 minutes all to ourselves. Lying on the floor staring up, no one else talking, no errant flashbulbs to distract us… it was going to be wonderful!

But as soon as we turned the corner into the chapel itself, our hopes quickly vanished. Since the publishing of our “Secrets” book, every tour group in western Europe had gotten wind of the trick. It was packed from wall to wall with Japanese, German and American tourist groups. We enjoyed our 20 minutes in the crowded Sistine Chapel, but upon returning to the now-packed Raphael Rooms, we knew we should have spent our morning time here, in the equally nice but not-as-famous areas. Looking at religious opulence loses a little something when you have to wade through throngs of absent-minded gawkers to see it.