Arrivederci Roma

October 12, 2010, Rome, Italy. For two days we’ve been exploring Rome on foot, in groups of two, four or six. Among us we have seen all the major attractions including the Vatican, Coliseum, Pantheon, plus a brazilian churches, piazzas, fountains, arches and statues. According to Maggie’s pedometer, we were walking 12 to 18 miles a day. But despite this rigorous touring regimen, we still managed to spend most of our waking hours in restaurants, cafes and salumarias (Italian pizzeria/sandwich shops). And like everywhere else we visited, the food was wonderful. Our last evening in Italy was spent sipping, eh gulping wine on the hotel’s rooftop terrace, and then dinner in a private dining room in the lower level of the restaurant next door. Once again we were not disappointed. Course after course delivered new taste sensations. And we ended the satisfying evening with hugs and kisses as we prepared to leave Rome on three different flights.

Italian chefs really know how to infuse a myriad of delicate flavors in their dishes, without overpowering them with garlic and other heavy spices like American chefs. For this reason, they don’t put condiments on the table, or even grated cheese. You must ask for any of these items, and you will certainly draw sneers, headshaking, and derogatory comments. The same holds true of butter. Tom, whose preference for butter is only surpassed by chocolate and scotch, was warned every time he requested it (every meal) that it raises cholesterol. It was usually served only after his third request. (Note to John Younger: Better bring your own ketchup.)

The taxi drivers, except for the one who stranded me at the first hotel, were very helpful. When Sara and I took a cab to the Vatican to meet up with some of the crew, my phone holster slipped off my belt (probably because I had lost so much weight from lack of nourishment) and was left on the back seat. Ten minutes later, when I had the disastrous realization that the phone was gone, all I could think about was paying the cost of the phone ($250) and the bill for the finder’s calls to all his relatives in Indonesia. Tom, thinking clearly, started calling my cell number, which after the second try was answered by the taxi driver, who was on his way to drop the phone off at the hotel where he picked us up. Just like the cabbies in New York City.

The other of our fortunate connections was meeting a fascinating taxi driver named Valerio. He is a 36-year old, part-time semi-pro tennis player and instructor, married to a younger woman and has two children and five pets at home. He struggled with his broken English until Sara made a comment in Italian. He snapped around and said, “You make me get headache trying to talk English, and you speak Italian?” And the two of them proceeded to have a conversation in the native language.

We used him again on the ride to the airport and he proved to be very entertaining. He showed us a video of his daughter on his cell phone, and explained the pros and cons of being married to a younger woman. “She can be active, you know? And she also can, scuse, break a ball.”

Speeding along the Autostrada, Valerio suddenly turned down a ramp onto a deserted road that looked like something under the Westside Highway in Harlem. Sensing my concern, he started laughing, “Not to worry. It’s shortcut. I no have peestool to shoot you.” At the end of the trip, he guided us to the correct terminal, despite the confusing signage. This was a huge break, as Tom’s limo took them to the wrong terminal, despite his instructions. They then had to wait 20 minutes to fight their way onto a shuttle and compete for 40 seats against 100 angry travelers. But at 10:15 AM it was wheels up, and we were on our way home.

The flight was long, but uneventful. We arrived at Terminal B, but had to go to Terminal C for our connecting flight to Tampa. While standing on the platform as our shuttle pulled in, the shuttle coming the opposite way stopped, and who got off but the “Little People.” Three of Sara’s sisters and her niece Manuela had come to Newark to surprise us. And by a miracle of timing, we ended up on the same platform at the same time. One minute either way, and we would never have connected.

After hugs and kisses, we went downstairs to the Euro Café and had cappuccino (what else). While sipping our brew, I noticed that Continental added a nice touch to the terminal for its international passengers. There were pigeons everywhere, flying around and picking up crumbs off the floor, just like the piazzas of every city in Italy.