My trip to Rome

I woke up early Saturday morning. The sky was dark and the snow was still on the ground. Yep, that’s right, it snows in Bologna, and it snows a lot. I pulled my pants on over my pajamas. I put one four pairs of socks. I layered up my jackets—three in total. Pulled on my rain boots, which unfortunately DO NOT fit with that many socks on, and thus create massive foot cramps (in fact, I could easily understand why the Grinch would be so grinchy if his shoes were two sizes too small). Then with my hat, my gloves, my scarf, my exceedingly full backpack, and my two bags, I began my journey to the train station.

 I wanted to catch a train to Siena at 6:45am. I was hoping to get my Permesso di Soggiorno and the office of immigration closes at 11am, which meant that I had to get there early! Last time I got there in time, but I accidently forgot the important information, such as the recite, and so they turned me away. I did not even get the chance to be turned away this time. I missed the train. But, that turned out to be all for the better, because if I had made the train, I would have had less time in Rome and Katy, who was going to go with me, would have missed her appointment. Well, I bought a ticket to Rome. I was in the station at 7am and my train was supposed to leave at 9:18. To avoid waiting in the cold, I went back to Katy’s place, napped, and then hauled all my stuff back to the station. Remember, this was in the snow, though not up-hill, and in incredibly cold weather. 

When I got back to the station, the trains were all delayed. SNOW. All the fast trains were slowed down to normal speeds. Well, my friend in Rome was expecting me to arrive around 1:30 that afternoon, and so was I. After about five minutes waiting I realized that the station in Florence had been inaccessible for a good portion of the morning, so all trains were delayed, mine by about twenty-five minutes. I was prepared to stand in the cold, though it was a beautiful cold, as the sun was coming up, the snow was shinning, and families were standing around getting ready to travel for Christmas. As I stood on the platform awaiting my train, I marveled at the fact that I had passed an entire half year in Italy. I also realized how glad I was that I was staying for a year. There was no way I could have been getting on a plane to go back to California that day, not even if I missed my family that much. I was (and am still not) read to end this journey. It feels as though it has barely begun. 

As I stood there musing, it occurred to me that my train was arriving, and luckily it was not quite as late as I had anticipated. Perhaps, if I had been listening to the announcements instead of musing, I might have understood what was going on. But I was not listening to the announcements. So, I climbed on the train, deposited my bags of luggage, and found an empty seat. The train was completely full of people and energy. I put on my headphones, and for the next hour or so tuned in and out of life around me. I had not slept much for the last week and so my ability to stay awake on such a warm, relaxing train, was minimal.

The parts of the trip I did see were fascinating. I looked out the window to see my train zooming past winter wonderlands: trees covered in snow; houses with snow on the roofs; little towns with Christmas lights glowing; the Florence train station at least a foot deep in snow. We would enter a tunnel and each time come out upon a new landscape, filled with snow—sometimes foggy, sometimes snowing, sometimes sunny—but always SNOW. And then, we came out of a tunnel, and it was obvious that we had passed into the South. The snow was gone. There was not even a hint of it. It was almost as though we had taken a train into spring—rolling hills of trees with green leaves, green grass, some blue skies. Nothing really looked dead. It even looked pleasantly warm outside. 

As we came out of the last tunnel, I realized that people were picking up their items and chattering with energy. I looked around confused, asked the girl next to me where we were: “almost in Rome,” she said. I looked at my watch—11. How could this possibly be? I was certain the trains were supposed to be behind schedule, not two hours ahead. 

The way I figure it, I probably ended up on one of the fast trains to Rome that was supposed to leave at about 8am. Well, I think what they decided to do, seeing as all the trains were behind schedule, was to just put people on the trains, even if it was not necessarily their train, because it was the one that came in and the one that was leaving closest to their trains departure time. That, or I just got lucky and the person checking tickets never came by (or was instructed not to worry due to the confusion likely to be caused by delayed trains) and so I was never told that I was on the wrong train. Whatever the case may be, I woke up in Rome at 11am, drowsy and bewildered. 

I called Marcello to tell him I had arrived. Needless to say he was as shocked as I was. He was not at the station yet, he had not even left his house. He was rather flustered. I told him not to worry. I would happily wait. He gave me directions as to where to meet him. I hopped on the metro and headed out to the end of the line. His family lives out in Tivoli, which is a ways out of the center of Rome, but beautiful and worth seeing.

After getting of the metro at the end of the line, I headed up the stairs and found myself, quite happily, bathed in a warm, Roman afternoon. Marcello had not yet arrived, so I found a piece of wall to sit on, turned my face to the sun—rather like a sunflower might—unbuttoned my overcoat, and began to solar charge my spent batteries. I am pretty sure that after about ten minutes, if you had been sitting next to me, you would have heard a “bing” signifying that I had recharged. This did not stop me from soaking up as much sun as I possibly could. The warmth was wonderful and sorely missed. 

Marcello showed up maybe twenty minutes after I had arrived. We walked over to the bus stop, and took a much too crowded bus up the hill to Tivoli. Then, we walked up a hill, one that could easily rival the Merrill hill, and back to his family’s house. I had asked him if we could stop at a store so I could grab something to bring his family. I had obviously not had time that morning and could not find anything at the train station that I thought would be suitable. He told me not to worry, but I said that I felt rude not bringing something. He told me that he would take me past a market on the way to his place. Well, he lied.

Before I knew it, we were walking up the stairs to his home. I was rather disgruntled, walking into his home, meeting his family, and having nothing to offer them. But Marcello was already explaining the trick he had played one me and they were chuckling about it.

I was pleasantly surprised to find his mother and father so friendly. His father was home for just a short period before going back to work. In fact, when I walked in, if I had not been walking in with Marcello, I would have guessed that the person sitting on the make-shift coach was Marcello: same laugh lines, same smile lines, same hair cut, same height, same dynamic personality. I was quite surprised. His mother was getting lunch ready. Her hair was long, strait and pulled back in a tight pony tail, only a few wisps of hair escaping here and there. Her smile was kind and her eyes welcoming.

I put my things down and was summoned to lunch.

Lunch was interesting. First I was warned that there would be no pasta. I said that there was no problem. They told me lunch would be very Romanian, which I took to mean entirely composed of meat and bread, because that is what we ate. They, as all good hosts do, offered me more than I could ever eat and were continually preoccupied that I did not have enough or that I did not have enough water, juice, or anything else my taste-buds desired. Marcello’s mom did not eat. She just served. Marcello and I ate meat. His father ate a fish head soup (which he offered me some of and I, as politely as I could, declined). Anything Marcello’s father desired, his mother brought him. It was such an interesting “house wife” kind of dynamic. It was clear who was head of the family the entirety of my stay. The language most used was Romanian, but when they addressed me they used Italian, or asked Marcello to help explain. It was pleasant, but distinctly different from any family I have lived in or stayed with thus far. 

Another peculiar thing about Marcello’s family, in particular his father, is the fact that he has a mistress. It is not that I ever saw her at the house, but when we were walking through town one day Marcello said “see that lady there, that is my dad’s mistress.” I looked at him so shocked and confused. Fist I did not know the word in Italian, and then when he explained it to me, I just gaped at him. All I could think was that if he and everyone else in his family knew this, how on earth did it continue. He told me that it was not normal and that the few times his father had been out with this “other woman” his mother had given him a what for. But, after seeing the eating dynamics, it became a lot more plausible that, though not accepted by his mother, it was also unwilling put up with. An incredibly different way of living life, with different standards of tolerance from those in an American family. 

While I was with Marcello, his friends, and his family, I practiced my Italian (my main form of communication) and I learned a few Romanian words: Multsumesk (thank you, an obviously helpful word), how to pronounce the names of a few friends and family, Buona Ziwa (good day, which I believe is spelled this way), manomesck (my name is, spelled the way I pronounce it), and a few others that at this time I cannot recall.

Marcello greatly loves to play tour guide. This means that I grab my camera and my purse and then follow him through all the places he thinks would be fun to show me—and naturally they are all beautiful and amazing. This time, we tried to see the fountains at Tivoli, but unfortunately, they were already closed. So, we walked about this Roman hill town, admiring the Christmas lights and cheer. He pointed out a cross on the top of the hill and told me that the next day he would take me up there to see all of Tivoli and Rome, and the cross up close. Of course, the next day we did just that. He, his younger brother Denuz, his friend Cucoasch who drove, and another older woman whose name I never really learned. We stayed up there in the wind and cold for at least an hour, romping and running around. We took photos and videos, enjoyed the view, collected rocks, climbed on rocks, turned cartwheels, and in general wrecked havoc. In all it was a beautiful afternoon. He showed me the fountains from afar and told me the next time I was there to see him, he would take me in to actually see the fountains up close. 

Marcello’s brother, Denuz, is probably one of the sweetest and cutest 14 year old boys you will ever meet. Aside from getting me a stuffed frog with a big heart that says “love you” on it as a Christmas gift, he was incredibly charming, kind, and welcoming. He enjoyed hanging out with Marcello and I and wanted to tell me all about his school, how he was learning English, the movies he liked, the games he played, the things he did. He was incredibly friendly. He was not shy and not judgmental. That is probably what I like most about tweens—they have a tendency to enjoy lively, funny, friendly people who want to listen to what they have to say and are often a lot less judgmental than people I meet who are my age. Granted, not all tweens are like this, but the ones I have met seem to be. For this reason, I can always relax and be me around them. I can laugh more freely, joke more easily, and not feel like an idiot when I do something a little too happily or a little too crazy, because someone like Denuz will just laugh and move on, where someone my age my become embarrassed. So, needless to say, Denuz and I connected well. We shared many stories, played a few games, had a few tag/tickle wars, and watched a few tv shows together. In general, he became an adopted little cousin for the weekend. From what I could tell, he greatly enjoyed being able to hang with Marcello and I, and enjoyed that I was more than willing to talk with him about life and things he liked to talk about. Of course, as all younger siblings do best, he annoyed Marcello a little, because Marcello felt as though his little brother was encroaching on some” hanging with his best friend” time. Obviously, I could understand this emotion of not wanting to share your friends with your younger siblings, because I too have a younger sibling, who on many occasions wanted to “steal” my best friends.   

Then, as many of you know, I got up much earlier than I am ever fain to get up, in order to call those I love most and sing a few Christmas carols with them. Then, much to my pleasure, despite the unholy hour, I talked with two wonderful friends and planned our travels through Europe with them! As you can imagine, much excitement.

Later that day, Marcello, his brother, and I went to the market, and I got yet another sweater to add to my collection. Also, I got another pair of boots, this time black, to help keep my feet warm, and in Italian fashion, in the cold months to come. Rain boots, as noted above, do not keep me warm, nor can I wear enough socks to do so. 

Also, later that day, I played a round of Rummycube (is that how this game is spelled?). But I played it the Romanian way. So, all the strategies I am used to using, well only about a quarter of them work. I had to mix the card game version with the tile version in order to serve the round we played. Good thing Marcello was there helping. In all, it was great fun. 

Then, after the round, we headed up the hill to romp around and admire the cross and the view.

On Monday, I headed back up Italy, through the rain and snow, and wound up in Cogoleto to stay with my cousins. Which is where I will spend Christmas, though I was asked many times by Marcello’s family to stay and celebrate Christmas the Romanian way. However, I already had plans, and I want to celebrate Christmas in Italy, the ITALIAN way.