A Theiving Day in Rome

I stole today. I have become a grappa drinking, cigarette smoking (even if its just a little bit), italian cursing, criminal. Rome has corrupted me to the core. Let me explain...

Today was an early day...ok maybe not that early...I woke up to a refreshing cold shower at 8am. We drove with the boys into the heart of Rome, Sandro late for his friends funeral mass. Side note-Sandro never onced referred to the mass as a funeral but rather a celebration, which I thought was quite accurate. (Since when did we stop rejoicing the lives of those who have passed, remembering them with smiles-even if bittersweet-that they deserve. Would our dead loved ones really want to see us in such immense grief?) He dropped me at our usual meeting point, the street that leads up to the Vatican, and I proceeded down the Via Della Conzilliazone among crowds of religios people hoping to find themselves one step closer to God and those just hoping to lay their eyes upon the centuries old masterpeice of Michaelangelo. Wearing cotton shorts that were about 1 inch longer than "booty shorts" and a sleeveless tanktop, I really had no intention of entering the smallest country in the world. But then I met a skinny man with an accent I couldnt quite place (who would later scrawl his telephone number and email address on the tour brochure so I could call him the next time I was in Rome). I was skeptical at first when he told me that I could skip the line to see the Vatican that stretched around corners and corners of streets-hundreds of people standing in the hot sun. Now is that really fair for me to walk by all those feet aching and sweat soaked shirted tourists? But the man was adorable, talking to me about school and Fara Sabina, so I decided to follow him through the crowds to the already waiting tour group. The tour was waiting in a little cafe on a side street where I mete my adorable tour guide who was excited that I was Italian and applauded my courage to travel alone. I was given a headset and shawls to cover my naked knees and shoulders and although I saw people paying the 45E fee, for some reason I did not feel compelled to get into line. We left the cafe after I enjoyed a croissant and cafe and we made our way to the entrance of the Vatican Museum. We walked by people, impatient in the hot sun, and arrived at the entrance in less than 5 minutes. I have never seen more history first hand in my entire life. Everything was art. Everything was hundreds, if not thousands of years old-the frescoes, floors, ceilings, tapestries and statue upon statue, upon statue.. I was feet away from ancient Greek carvings, could almost touch the tapestries woven in the 16th century, depicting Jesus' life, and I stood beneath the ceiling that took three years to complete. I have to be honest, staring up at such incredible paintings, on a ceiling none the less, it was difficult to fully comprehend that one man alone had the imagination ,the skill and the patience to devise such an enormous work of art. I took puictures of everything, so you can all enjoy it...almost as if you were there with me. We made it to the end of the tour and I shamedly walked away, not a penny poorer, having seen one of the most famous chapels for free.

I was famished after two hours of walking and listening so I made my way towards the center of Rome with the sole purpose of finding delicious Italian food to fill my belly. I searched down tiny side streets, aware that the best food is always hidden, and I stumbled upon an enticing jewelry shop before I found my resturant of choice. There, I met Joseph, a graying man in his 50s who told me of his days in Boston when he was much younger and spry than he is now. I reminisced with him for a few minutes and he then directed me to the best resturaunt in the area, complete with air drawn maps and violent hand gestures. Suffice it to say, Joseph was right. This resturaunt was really good. I sat on the edge of the street, drinking a large glass of red wine as always, and eating fresh baked bread. For antipasto I dined on a platter of four different kinds of fish, drizzled in lemon and oil, none of which I recognized except the light pink salmon. But no matter, it was all delicious. I then enjoyed a fettucine dish with eggplant and zuchini and an orange sauce that I couldnt place. To finish, I was christened with a foamy, white mustache, as I slowly drank a creamy cappucino. I think Ill be full (sta gonfia) for the rest of my life.

Tradgedy strikes at the most inoportune times. We were waiting in a bar for our drinks, and all of a sudden my eye starts to throb and ooze gooey goo. Awesome. So thankfully I had my glasses with me and I was able to take out my contacts. But alas, not even that worked. While Sandro talked with his friends, worrying about my pained state, I lay in the car crying over my gooey goo. When we picked up Sandro's father, Sandro returned with a vial of chamomile that resembled a withes potion. I dabbed my eyes with chamomile soaked cotton and of course this resulted in a scratched eye. Perche Dio! So I lay in bed, unable to open one eye, no exaggertion, when Sandro appears with yet another home remedy. He presents with a halved, raw potato which he instructs me to place over my eyes, while I blink continously. I dont know hoe, but the eye which I could barely open moments before, now felt good as new, (even if I still looked like a vampire). O the magic of potatoes! So now Ive been healed, like the blind by Jesus, and the testimony to this miracle lies on my dresser-two mascara stained, good laden raw potatoes. Amazing!

Buona Notte,
Bella