Who needs Twitter when you get to fly with Lionel Richie and Michael Jackson all the way to Venice thru Zurich? Yup. Swiss Air's got "Just Go," "Thriller," "Billie Jean," and "Beat It" downloaded into air tunes. America ala carte.
Brushing up on Italian after wimping on carting my chunky tome, mid-read, "Angels and Demons," a crash course, if you ask anyone, in Vatican art. Opted instead for Barron's "Italian at a Glance" and an LAX shop copy of "Julie and Julia."
It's not to be. Not with the yakky Ukrainian Sasha Baron Cohen likeness planted in the window seat next to my budget special aisle choice. I mean, the guy's got a bagful of prescription meds and he's blah blah blah blah blah blahing ... about absolutely nothing -- "The plane, it is flying ..." "hey, lady, we are in the air ..." "where is the foods and drinks ..." "is it hot or too cold in here ..."
But Lionel's trying his darnest to make it all good. And did I mention that Heath Ledger is alive and well in the form of a flight attendant on this junket? Seriously. Ledger's got a twin.
July 9 - Zurich airport:
One word: sterile.
Does everyone have perfect posture here?
Venice airport/Meistre hotel:
Greeted by French father of triplets married to Italian wife ... dinner at hotel. Ate all of 2 pieces of lettuce w/ radicchio and a couple strands of spaghetti. Hot tea. Briefed on the group, handed 1500 Euros, train schedules, an Italian cell phone.
Eight hours to figure out the Italian phone, alarm, and train depot.
July 10 - Enroute to Bologna/Roma:
Natives in the form of a student on her way to Remini are friendly; but the toilette, another story: water spraying up as I'm peeing ... it's like pissing myself! Need to bathe in hand sanitizer.
Bologna train station: Mauro delivers the Iraqis--six guys and a woman--onto the platform. He hands them over and our tickets for the returning connection to Ravenna, adding that there'll be a woman from Baghdad joining us in Rome.
Ride to Roma: Scenery of Italian countryside a beautiful blur as Iraqis discuss war, cultural attractions in Iraq, likes, dislikes, standard stuff. We swap stories, draw maps in my notebook, drink tea, chat.
Wasabi (names changed), Zi, Nat, Nial, Ali Baba, Ah-noori, and Lady Faraj.
Ali Baba tells me the story of David's son Absalom. Apparently, he hid genies throughout the Iraqi desert and to this day--his words--if you find a stone and break it open water flows ... well, these guys are allegedly water engineers. That's why they're here in fact. For hydrology training. I was hired to show them around and keep them out of trouble on off days. So, essentially, I'm on vacation (what? me on vacation? but I have no real job, how can this be?), well, working vacation, with these guys. In italy. Go figure.
Baba regales me further about their Arabian nights. So, I ask him where is his carpet? He laughs. Somehow that brings me great joy to make these war weary citizens of Iraq laugh! :) I like this mission.
I want to know more. How do they keep safe day to day? How did they learn how to speak English so well? What do they really think of Americans?
We're all the same. We have no problem with people like you. Just governments. People who run things badly and do nothing for our country. What was it like to grow up in Iraq? Baba says his boyhood was like anyone else's. He played ball in the streets. And he's very impressed how well I understand their English, that U.S. diplomats and service people don't take time to listen ... and learn. He wants to know how it is that I can understand them. And is amazed he catches on to every phrase I speak.
Wasabi orders a round of tea for everyone. I reach for those Euros for the first time. One of Baba's sons is a pediatrician. Zi has one kid. Nat's two boys live in Baghdad. Nial and Lady Faraq are Ninevites. I think of Jonah and that whale. Jonah didn't want God to forgive the Ninevites and Nineveh was the last place on Earth anyone wanted to visit. Back then Nineveh was Sodom and Gomorrah. Only worse. How could Nial and Faraq be from Nineveh?
Well, they're the Christians in the group. A lineage from the days of Jonah?
We talk religion. And politics. More than anything, they want peace and no bombs. It was that first leader after Sadaam, they say, who made such a mess of things. Letting anyone cross the borders. Asking enemies to help.
Mauro warned me about the quiet one, Ah-noori. Just that he doesn't speak much. Ever. Seated away from the group he appears as Baba parks his carpet ride. He wants to know if we're there yet.
I ask him to tell me something about himself. I've never seen lips curl shut like that. Is this man turning inside out. He vanishes. Into thin train air.
I brief the rest of them about gypsies in the Roma Termini - we make a plan -- stick by me and rush through to the taxis.
Stick by me? Let me explain. According to DK Eyewitness Travel's "Top 10 Rome" under "Security and Health," Rome is riddled with pickpockets, young muggers and scams. "Keep your wits about you and keep your passport, credit cards, plane or train tickets, and all money ... either around the waist or on a string around the neck."
The handy guidebook further warns: "Packs of small children will lift your valuables in a flash, and have been known to use force."
Remove your fanny packs and cameras - put those in your suitbags! Bossy, ain't I? As for me, I drop my flat purse inside my dress - prego! Gypsies, young slamming muggers and pickpocketers won't mess with someone expecting, eh? Follow the lady w/ the bambino! Andiamo! Yella (Arabic)! Let's go!
Ah, Roma!
What can I say? I'm in Roma. There's that air of a fallen empire yet all roads inevitably and irrevocably lead here. Birthplace of the West. Peter and Paul, Da Vinci and Raphael, Michelangelo and Caravaggio. Gladiators. Russell Crowe. Audrey Hepburn and Gregory Peck. They all preceded. It's in the air. Colossal statues, fountains galore--a tour alone, so much art that streets and arteries act as canvases anew, plopping travelers through porticos the world's greats once stood in and perhaps yet haunt.
Hotel de Veneto
The glass door entrance reminds me of New York and I'm instantly revolving through a familiar threshold. I'm home. At least for the next three days.
All checked in. No easy feat. Initially, there's a lot of room switching, myself included, and general settling in. Apparently, the woman enroute from Baghdad needs a room next door to Lady Faraq.
By now everyone's starving. Hotel guy says Romans are in lock down for siesta. Suddenly missing Chronic Tacos but looking forward to thin-crisp pizza, fresh fruits, greens.
Hotel guy maps open eateries - four blocks one way or another - pizza or chicken & fish? Those Iraqis vote me down - we head left for fish. Branzini, potatoes, coke.
LUNCHING IN ROMA - July 10
La Lampada on via Sella is a small bright restaurant, moderately priced, filled with small perfectly square tables, filling up fast as the seven of us enter.
The owner, we'll call him Mr. La Lampada, is a robust and jolly Roman, who eagerly greets us, flapping his arms for immediate assistance.
Hot from the four-block jaunt I head for the long quiet table under the air conditioner duct to the right side of the front door.
But Mr. La Lampada has dibs for us on the opposite side of the trattoria, where his staff are frantically shuffling and fitting tables together as though piecing together a 3-D floor puzzle.
We're sweaty, hungry and wanting to sit down and order.
Fish or chicken, they offer. I search for menus. Chicken or fish?
Every other of us order one of the two and some order salad. Newly baked rolls in baskets are flung onto the table. So many hands reaching for the disappearing bread.
Colas. Hot tea. More bread. Salads.
Whole branzini'd (salted) fish or half roasted chickens with frites and asparagus sit on wide white luncheon plates clattering and falling like dominos before they land in front of everyone but me and Nial, seated to my right.
For some reason my fish and his chicken are taking forever.
Nial shares his salad. Please. Eat some. Please.
Mr. Ah's placemat is empty, too, only it's because he's refusing to order. Curling his lips. Turning insideout again but with major fidgeting and head twisting.
My fish is finally delivered, and as though botoxed, fixates on me. I stare back at the scaly sea creature I somehow ordered. Nial, noticing my grimace, orders the waitstaff to scale the stun-gunned fish for me. So she can eat it.
This new friend from the cradle of civilization grins as they move the fish to a nearby cart where he or she is greeted with a dagger. I can't watch as they re-kill my lunch. Sorry.
By the time I take my first bite of fish, dessert ordering is underway, and there's scattered chatter about the second lady joining us after lunch. You know, the one direct from Baghdad. We'll call her Rand McNally. I sense a shift in mood as a tiramisu, canole and dark chocolate sundae dripping in chocolate sauce graze by.
It's too sweet, declares Lady Faraq after one bite of the sundae. Too sweet. The guys rear up:Hey! She can't eat this. It's not what she ordered!
The jovial kitchen staff scramble to retrieve the drippy sundae.
No! Flailing hands defend the sundae as Lady Faraq, through reticent eating lips, continues consuming the melting ice cream mound. Waitstaff, heading back to the kitchen, throw up their arms, laughing. Everyone's laughing.
Mr. Ah whispers something to Baba about wanting to eat after all. They all talk at once into the doorway leading to the kitchen. Like magic, the owner and a server appear. Within minutes a fresh staring fish is delivered. Mr. Ah toys with the sea bass as though reeling it in from the Mesopotamian marshlands.
Baba tells the waitstaff Mr. Ah meant to order chicken. The others muster up belly laughs as waiters scurry to fill yet another order--va bene va bene.
A quarter chicken arrives but Mr. Ah, who's been gnawing at the fish, waves it away as though it's a fly. The others swat at the air that it's okay to leave the new bird.
Lunch lasts the full siesta what with desert changes and added winged and finned creatures - it's nearing 4:00 as we enter the hotel. McNally's in her room. Lady Faraq heads for the elevator with glee. Yes, glee. Or is it a dessert high?
McNally's in her room, the one they reserved next to Lady Faraq, and she's all smiles talking to someone about something - Roma? - on her cell. She's brushed up against a billowing suitcase. More like a trunk. Mascara, thick kohl eyeliner and some shade of shadow befitting Cleopatra accentuate her light blue eyes set in a tanned smiling face, her salon streaked hair upswept in an attractive adolescent knot. When she closes her mobile, the two women, decades apart, coo like school girls. They're in Rome! Maybe for the first time. Let's hope not the last.
McNally, who's a 20-something newlywed, requests a breather before we head for the Spanish Steps and the evening's festivities: shopping, strolling and cuisine at the Trevi Fountain, my plan. Can't wait to have them throw pennies into Trevi -- Italians say this ritual ensures a return to Rome.
But for now I find the rest of the group in the lobby and inform them we'll be leaving within an hour. That the ladies need to re-group. Some scoff. We are not tired. We want to see Rome.Others head for the elevator.
EVENING TOUR
I try to shake off some jetlag in my room before we head for the Spanish Steps.
CNN World News is on as I toss and turn trying not to slip into REM. President Obama and Lady Michelle are in Rome, too, and in fact are down the street, probably at Hotel Eden, where I stayed in 2004, when I was last in town. It's somehow comforting that the President of the USA is a couple blocks up.
I drift. This spills into an exact hour later.
Jarred by the ring of the phone, I stagger to. Gold curtains billowing from the a/c cirulates cool--not cold--air into the room, lightly slapping my sleepy face.
Back aches from exhaustion. Pop some Aleve. Take five to stretch. Grab a water bottle and my travel pouch full of Euros, passport, a disposable heating pad, and personal effects. Head for the lobby.
Some of the group loiters the front desk while others are noticeably absent. Maybe they needed more than an hour. It's nearing 6:00 p.m., Roma time.
Ready for those Spanish Steps? They mull.
Others sit in the waiting area on a rather large round leather hassock, two matching uprights, and a settee. As I enter the waiting area, the mullers follow.
In unison: The tour tomorrow morning is leaving too late. It is unacceptable. We must leave first thing or not go at all.
My head spins. What do they mean they're not going on the pre-arranged tour? I tell them about the circle bus tour they can take early in the morning before the tour departs. Or, I can arrange for us to take a walking tour to shop and sight-see things that won't be on the tour.
But they repeat: You must change the time. It is Ali Baba who chirps: We must see all of Rome for when we return home we could be blown up and then we would not have seen all of Rome.
I manage to come up with a cliche: Rome wasn't built in a day and cannot possibly be seen in a day - except maybe by reading through my guidebook, which you are more than welcome to browse.
I urge them to go with the program flow and ask that they get the rest of their friends to come downstairs so we can make our way to the Spanish Steps.
Seemingly epoxyed to the giant Roman hassock, Nial and Lady Faraq motion for me to join them while we wait for the others who have moseyed off to retrieve the rest of the group.
Small talk leads to me asking them what they'd like to see while in Rome. The ruins? Seven Hills? Fountains? Art? These two're mostly interested in visiting the Vatican. Because they're Christians this is the most important part of the trip for them. I ask them if they've always been Christians from birth.
This question is strange. They revert to Arabic and then resurface. We have never heard this expression. Please explain. I give them the Reader's Digest of my conversion to Christianity. That it was my choice and not my parents. How my Catholic mother and Protestant (Church of England) father, after exploring options for baptism at both denominations, decided their baby was perfect and should decide her spirituality for herself when she's of age. We have never heard this story before. We swap favorite scriptures after I tell them it was the story of David and his love for Absalom that planted the seed that led me to God.
Hmm. The same Absalom in Ali Baba's accounting on the train.
Nial tells me his best Bible passage: "What does it profit a man if he gains the whole world but loses his soul?" I'm impressed. And this must mean so much more in a country that's at its wit's end in battle.
As we swap more scriptures, I hear the shuffle of feet round the corner by the front desk. Hotel guy leans over the counter to give me a heads up.
Are we ready to stroll to the Spanish Steps? Armed with a hotel fold-out map I lead the group through the glass doors. Left, right and straight, then left at the wall.
What? No Cab? We're walking? I assure them we're not adventuring so far away and we'll take cabs home. Those Spanish steps are closer than you think.
Up two blocks. They're jabbering away in Arabic. While I'm taking in the ancient landmarks at every turn I imagine their view is of a very modern city. McNally walks alongside me and abruptly whispers that I must arrange for her to shop and that I must assure her that the tour tomorrow leaves no later than 8:00 a.m. I tell her it's arranged for 11:00 am and that we can shop or go on another tour before then, that in Rome, there's plenty to see and do.
She drops back into the group and they stop in the middle of block three. At once they demand that we return to the hotel to change the tour! While they make a spectacle, McNally slips into a boutique. I offer to return to the hotel to grab the tour guide's information so I can call her to see if we can change the time while they shop on this block.
On my way to the hotel, I call Francesca, my contact at the home office in Padua, and fill her in, asking that she contact the tour guide for the group and have her call me, that way it's two of us working on the switcheroo.
We proceed to the Spanish Steps but not without lip from McNally. You must be sure that we leave at 8 and not 11 tomorrow! The others chime in agreement. You must. You must.
We cross through Veneto, the boulevard famous for drawing celebrities during the 50s and 60s. Enclosed cafes and fancy boutiques line the wide street that stretches from the Trevi Fountain area and up several tree-lined blocks.
The last time I saw Veneto was with a "forever" boyfriend. We broke up that next year. One of life's little tragedies that seemed larger than life while it was unraveling.
The Eden looms ahead of us on the right. I wonder if the Obamas have checked out yet.
McNally wants to know how much farther she must walk. I motion for everyone to follow me across the street but notice several beggars on that side of the street so I steer them back to the other side of the street. This irritates McNally.
But it's good times at the Spanish Steps. They like-ee.
From there we descend into hell.
