Mamma Mia, It's Italia!

Rome, Day 3

            You can always tell when Mike starts to get bored. He becomes shifty, runs around in circles a lot, and pulls out his Iphone to play games, call random people, or take spontaneous videos. As we were waiting in the 30-minute queue to get inside the Coliseum, Mike chose the latter. So Mom, you can thank me now for the 15 videos I will be sending you of Mike narrating his own history of the great Gladitorial Monument.

            Despite Mike’s initial boredom, we were both astonished by the detail and craftsmanship of the ancient stadium. The Coliseum has layers upon layers of maze-like alleys underground, which can be seen clearly when viewed from overhead. I stood over one of the ledges where the Emperor himself would have been seated and, drowning out the noise of the tourists, I tried to imagine Rome in its prime and the heat of battle directly in front of me.

            The Romans had quite the taste for gory entertainment. While gladiators fought other gladiators, they also fought wild beasts and exotic creatures. One plaque described a day when hundreds of ostriches were set loose on the stage, and surrounding archers shot them all for the crowd’s entertainment. Bets were taken on beasts fighting other beasts, and the entire setup was quite theatrical. The gladiator wore extremely overdramatic costumes with bright feathers and shiny metal armor. It is hard to imagine such spectacles today, however. The closest similarity I can think of is a bullfight, but even those are tame in comparison.

Tour Guide Mike discusses Roman Culture

            After the Coliseum we made our way over to the Forums, which are an impressive amount of ruins of the Emperor’s palace, marketplace, and more. Essentially, it was the hub of central Rome. It still amazes me that many parts of these buildings are still standing and preserved 2,000 years later. As an American, anything past 50 years is considered ancient; anything beyond a few hundred years is simply incomprehensible. I would say more about the Forums, but by that time we had been in the sun for hours and were exhausted. We made our way back to the hotel, but had about an hour to kill before catching the bus to the airport.

         “I still have 15 euro left,” Mike announced, which meant 15 euros were about to be set loose on several gelato counters. We decided that we would help humanity by taste testing every gelato shop around the Trevi Fountain to find the best one. To this day we cannot give a definite answer, though we did put in our best effort. Mike worked so hard, in fact, that he needed to give his scientific testing some thought, so he rested his eyes on the edge of the Trevi Fountain for an hour to think it over. I watched as the walking policia blew their whistles at anyone misbehaving near the fountain. My particular favorite was when a French woman tried to give her naked baby a bath in the not-so-clean water of the fountain. After being persistently whistled, she decided to stand next to the fountain in the crowded area and wash her baby with a bottle of water for all to see. She wasn’t bothered, and neither was I. What can you say but, “when in Rome…”

Sunny Coliseum

My gladiator face (I even scare myself)

Mamma Mia, It's Italia!

Rome, Day 2

The sound of a loud foghorn interrupted my dream of Italian men on vespas. “EEEEE-OOOOOOOO!” Sirens began to follow, and the smiling Italian men in my dreams disappeared. It was 7:30am, and my alarm was on full volume.

Those of you who know me know that I am not a morning person – I still consider 10AM to be the wee hours of the morning. However, when I’m on vacation I become a drill sergeant. “Seven hundred hours – rise from the cots! Eight hundred precisely – march to site!” I don’t think Mike was properly warned.

An hour later, I dragged Mike out of the hotel and we made our way to the shining Vatican City. We started with the Vatican museums, and I felt a bit in awe to be standing inches away from a Bernini model, a Michelangelo statue, Laocoon, and a million other pieces I have studied since high school. Knowing that Mike gets antsy in museums (“too many people and too many old things”), we quickly made our way through the Apostolic Palace. Inside was beyond one’s imagination. Every inch of every room was covered in the most minute details. Sculptures, paintings, frescoes, tapestries, woodwork – every available space was used as a canvas. The colors were bold and bright – deep reds and blues were as bright today as they were 500 years ago. The sun streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows made the abundant gold flecks throughout the room flicker and shine. In a word, it was stunning. And then we entered the famous Sistine Chapel.

When you step into the chapel by the altar, your eyes immediately jump upwards, and what you see will amaze you. Michelangelo has never ceased to astonish me, but I was speechless as I stood under The Last Judgment. The countless characters on the wall are not simply painted – they come alive. You can almost see them moving, their robes shifting as they point and their eyes shining as they speak. What’s more, they seem to be coming out of the walls. Repeatedly I kept rubbing my eyes and saying to Mike, “They look 3-D!” I’m still amazed how Michelangelo managed to make each character come alive, all leading to the climatic centerpiece in “The Creation of Adam”.

It took Mike leading me by the hand and pulling me out to continue onward. I had no idea I was about to see something even grander, even more profound and impacting.

                                                *****

No matter what perspective you see it from, a simple glimpse of St. Peter’s Basilica will give you chills. It possesses both beauty and a determined power that instantly earns your deepest respect. Seeing how Mike and I always do everything backwards we started touring the Basilica not from the ground level but from the roof. I highly recommend this, though. We climbed the 551 stairs (Mike counted each one) up to the cupola. From there, you are standing on the inside rim of the dome, miles above the crowded Basilica below. As we looked at the beauty beneath us, we could hear the faint singing from Mass being said just below us. One of the most overpowering moments was closing my eyes on the cupola and listening to the beautiful Alleluia being sung. Standing so high in the air, it felt more like we were listening to the angels in Heaven singing a joyous praise. I did not think St. Peter’s could surprise me anymore. And then it did.

When we actually entered the Basilica through the ground level entrance, I was in awe. Like the Palace, every single inch of space, floor to ceiling, was an artistic tribute to the power and beauty of God. But every fresco, every ounce of gold, every detail was lost when you looked upon the huge wooden altar in the center of the church. It is simple, in comparison to the jewel-encrusted walls surrounding it, and yet it stands over something infinitely more valuable – St. Peter’s tomb. As I slowly approached this striking feature, I heard a voice, loud and distinct: “Upon this rock, I will build my Church.” This Scripture echoed repeatedly in my head: “Upon this rock, I will build my Church; upon this rock, I will build my Church.” How many times had I heard this spoken in Church before? Countless times, but never had it become more real than in that very moment, when I stood face to face with that Rock, protected in that Church. There, right in front of me, was the heart of the Church, the same Church that Jesus began and the same Church that continues today. It was beautiful – magnificent – so beautiful that it brought me to my knees in that very spot. And as I was falling, I noticed that I was not the only one so impacted. All around me, people had heard the same call and had fallen to their knees. It was one of the most profound experiences of my life, if not the most profound. I knew, beyond a doubt, that I was in the presence of God.

After that climatic experience, I walked out with a deeper sense of self and my place in the world. Mike and I walked out of Vatican City slowly, allowing the powerful experience to linger as long as possible. But, hunger eventually swung our minds in a new direction, and when Mike saw a stand full of sweets, the silence was broken. We took our bountiful feast into the shadows of Castel Sant’Angelo and ate in what was the old moat surrounding the castle. Our sightseeing was not over yet, though. After our rest, we hit the Piazza Navona, which holds Bernini’s famous “Four Rivers” fountain (which plays an important role in Dan Brown’s book/movie Angels and Demons). The water in the fountain is ice cold, which felt amazing in the 90-degree heat. We put our feet in the fountain and ate what is considered the best gelato in Italy. This is also where I discovered granita, which is like a snow-cone but a hundred times better.

After hitting the Pantheon, which is nestled randomly in the middle of an intersection, we went back to the hotel for a much-needed rest, and decided to call it a day for sight-seeing. We had seen a surprisingly large amount of sights in one day, and I was very impressed with us (especially with Mike, who typically despises sight-seeing of any kind. I suspect he was tagging along just for my sake, but I appreciated his tolerance all the same). I let him off the hook for the rest of the day, as I secretly had another day of sight-seeing planned tomorrow.

The Vatican

Spanish Steps

Below the Spanish Steps

Mamma Mia, It's Italia!

Rome, Day 1
They told us it couldn’t be done. They told us we were crazy. But ladies and gentlemen, we have proven the impossible – you CAN do Rome in 48 hours! You will also be exhausted beyond relief, but every ounce of energy drained is well worth it.

Our schedule was unconventional, to say the least; we left Wednesday evening from Glasgow, Prestwick (which isn’t actually in Glasgow, but an hour outside the city, on the coast) and arrived in Ciampino, which is a good 40 minutes away from central Rome via shuttlebus. All of the airports we flew from were out of the way because we flew Ryanair, and I should stop here to make a few comments about this often evil airline. Ryanair is famous for cheap flights and proof of humanity’s desperation. We are willing to give up all comforts on a flight, such as free food and drink and reclining seats, for cheap airfare. To be fair, if you can buy a $20 ticket to Paris, you won’t complain much. But if you don’t follow the rules exactly, they will charge you extortionate amounts. We forgot to check-in online. The penalty for not printing out 2 pieces of paper? £80, or about $150, which, I should point out, was twice the amount of our actual plane ticket!  We fought and argued this for over an hour, but to no avail. After this kink, though, our trip was perfect, even in its mistakes.

We arrived at the Hotel Trevi around 11:30 at night, exhausted and a bit stressed after the initial hassles from lovely Ryanair. At that point we had been travelling by car, bus, and plane pushing nine hours. All I wanted was a massive glass of fine Italian wine and a big plushy bed to collapse into. I also wouldn’t have said no to some chocolate gelato…. Mmmmm. When we arrived at the hotel, were no rooms. Luckily, they drove us to another hotel for free, and even though it was not in the city center, the rooms were very nice and the staff was friendly. Even though it was late (just past midnight), I somehow persuaded Mike to go out and explore the city (which is saying a lot, since Mike’s normal bedtime is 9:30).

Our new hotel (optimistically named Hotel Stylish) was right off of Via Condotti, the Rodeo Drive of Rome. Even though it was late, Rome was in full swing. Every restaurant we passed was open – and full! After a short walk we found a place to eat just off Condotti in one of the countless winding alleyways. Four older Italian men were standing outside, and when we gave an interested look they pounced.

“Ah, si, come-uh and sit-uh down-na! Dees is the finest Sicilian food in EEETtaly! No one else make-ah Sicilian food uh-like-ah dees!”

Well, how could we argue with that? It was 1AM, we had not eaten in ages, and on the candlelit table was my beacon of hope– a huge bottle of “dee best Sicilian wine in dee world!”

After the long, arduous day of traveling, we ended on a high note. The food was amazing, as was the wine, and of course we had to end with heaps of “Sicilian gelato”.

What's Cookin'?

When announcing a visit to Britain, one of the first comments an American will make is a grave warning of the many dangers the unprepared visitor will encounter. This may include, but not be limited to: rain, fog, knives, NEDs, socialism, and black pudding. While these dangers all exist, I knew Britain had more to offer than perils to my dry clothes and capitalistic upbringing. Consequently, I went on a mission to unearth this jewel of a culture and decided to tackle one of Britain’s most negative stereotypes: its food. (I will admit – I was also trying to disprove my fiancé’s negative stereotype of my culinary capabilities following a recent smoky upset in my own kitchen. The fire detectors only went off twice, and despite the small flames, not even worth mentioning, the oven still works. Needless to say, however, I had a reputation to save). I found my chance after a girls’ night out with my friend Christina, who lives in Glasgow. The following morning I discovered Christina in a rush to get ready for her cousin’s wedding.

In an effort to help and to reclaim dignity, I begged, “Please, let me cook breakfast!” But apparently local fire reports had reached international tabloids, and Christina hesitated.

“Oh, no… no, you don’t need to cook! We could have a professional make it… and not have the Glasgow Fire Deputies on standby.”

With time pressing for Christina to get ready, however, I managed to successfully convince her that my culinary skills had only flourished from every failed experience. (Isn’t it funny how, in a girl’s mind, makeup always trumps food?). Rushing down to the Tesco Express, we grabbed what Christina told me were the bare essentials of a “small Scottish fry-up”: eggs, bacon, sausage, toast, beans, and haggis (a lovely blend of sheep innards and herbs, mashed to a pulp and served with just about anything fried in pounds of cooking oil).

The mountain of food and the pressure to impress a native was a bit alarming, but the challenge had been set. I couldn’t have argued anyways because Christina had long since run away to start the arduous hair and makeup duties. I was on my own in a kitchen with zero adult supervision. It only took 10 minutes to discover that the stovetops were gas and required matches to be lit, and another 5 adrenaline-pumping minutes of discovering the “whoosh!” sound of starting a gas stovetop, to my ever-growing amusement. (There’s something exciting about the small element of danger in starting a gas fire. If you turn the ignition on full, the flame could be too small to matter or big enough to singe your eyebrows off. I liked living on the edge of the unknown).

It took another 30 minutes to open a can of beans. Can openers here, it should be stated, are made by the devil. They start off working wonderfully, and then after 3 cm of opening, they completely stop working. I cannot explain this phenomenon, but it happens every time I try opening any can in the UK. (May I say I am quite the expert can-opener back in the States). The small hole taunts you, being not even large enough to fit one small bean through.

As I was fuming about this, Christina walked into the kitchen to check on my progress. What she found was a crazed American screaming at a tin can with scissors in one hand and a sharp paring knife in the other, desperately banging on the lid and denting it into a pathetic, hole-less, blob. Giving a big, annoyed sigh, Christina in one fell swoop reclaimed the sharp weapons in my epic battle against The Beans. She flipped the can over, made 3 sharp clicks with the opener, and rushed back to finish her hair.

Another half hour later, the bountiful brunch was complete. The bacon was crackling, the teapot was whistling, and the sausage was brown (if not a bit black, in some places). However, the encouraging discovery was that it was edible; in fact, it tasted quite good. In that shining moment of triumph, amidst the scattered remnants of my gastronomic battle, I learned a valuable lesson: you will never appreciate British food until you have personally put your sweat and blood (and various metal objects) into a home cooked fry-up of your own.

Oh, and can openers should be left to the professionals.

Say what?

The UK is well-loved for various reasons (food not being one of them). The very name of England inspires images of quaint towns along a lush, green countryside. While these images certainly exist in reality, the problem a tourist (or even many Britons, for that matter) will have is in getting there. That's right. You must be able to pronounce the name of that cute cottage inn first.


Town names in the UK are a mystery to foreigners. Humor me for a moment. In Wales, hidden along the northern railway, there lies a small town of a population around 3,000. The town does not publicize a famous history -- no war crimes or witch trials or mystical Celtic grave sites. The only attractions listed are a tourist shop and a climbable column. What makes this town so unique? Its name: 

Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch

Try saying that ten times fast. The town, locally called Llanfair PG, is the longest town name in Europe. The translation from Welsh is, "The church of St. Mary in the hollow of white hazel trees near the rapid whirlpool by St. Tysilio's of the red cave". Poetic, yes. Pronounceable, no.


Not to be outdone by the Welsh, unpronounceable town names are scattered across the rest of the UK as well. My fiancé, who is Scottish, likes to play the game "Make Me Laugh by Trying to Pronounce This." Somehow he always wins... Here are a few he's tried on me:
-Balluchullish 
-Milngavie
-Kirkcudbright


Say them out loud. Do you feel confident? 
-Balluchullish is pronounced "ball-a-HOOLlish"
-Milngavie is "Mill-GUY"
-Kirkcudbright is "Kirk-COO-bray"


During my student orientation at the University of Glasgow, the Scots decided to divide up all the international students and give each group a name to attempt to pronounce in front of everyone (public torment is still an acceptable form of punishment in the UK). Ours was "Isle of Islay." Needless to say, we were a bit off. It's pronounced "Isle of EYE-la", which, when said quickly in a Scottish accent, sounds like Isle of Isle. Very crafty, Glasgow Uni...


Great Britain has countless more difficult town names, but it could be worse. Thailand holds the record for the longest town name. Bangkok pronounced in Thai is a succinct 163-characters:

Krungthepmahanakornamornratanakosinmahintarayutthayamahadilokphopnopparatrajathaniburiromudomrajaniwesmahasatharnamornphimarnavatarnsathitsakkattiyavisanukamprasit

Try fitting THAT onto a railway sign!

Customs

Thousands of people suffer from Pteromechanophobia everyday. As serious as this sounds, the term is merely a synonym for aviophobia, or fear of flying. I am lucky enough not be one of these sufferers. I do, however, have a high anxiety of going through customs.

There is no rational reason for this fear (but then again, a phobia is an irrational fear). Customs officers in the UK are almost always friendly and simply want to keep the lines moving. It’s not unusual for an officer to tease me about coming from Texas (“How many oil wells are in your back garden?” “Do you get tired of riding horses back and forth to the grocery stores?” etc.), or even assert superior knowledge by challenging my familiarity with US state capitals (I have to study up before every trip now). So, besides lacking US geography skills, I have no real reason to dislike customs. But I do. Typically the lines wind around and around endlessly, and as you are lugging your heavy carry-on, completely jet-lagged in a zombie-like state, customs officials are shouting constant directions. “Passports out NOW! Be sure your landing cards are complete! No mobile phones or else you shall be quarantined and possibly drawn and quartered if we so choose!” At least, that seems to be the gist of the yelling. Thick accents plus exhaustion may lead to slight exaggerations.

Once you and the hundred in front of you have been herded to the front, you then must face the customs officer and suffer their interrogation. What entertains later and frustrates me then is the randomness of the questions. One occurrence a few months ago went like this:

“Where are you going?”

“Glasgow. As it says. Right there. On my ticket.”

“Business or pleasure?”

“Umm, pleasure then.”

“What are you planning to do in Scotland?”

“Just visiting friends.”

“How many?”

“Are you asking how many friends do I have?” By now I’m sure they’re just playing Taunt-the-American, a fun game for all Brits, I’ve discovered.

“Nevermind. Who are you staying with?”

“A friend.”

“Oh, right, a girlfriend then?” She arches her eyebrows and looks at me over her paper. I’m wearing a baggy t-shirt and a baseball cap, which in Texas means it’s Sunday afternoon, but apparently in London means lesbian.

“I’m visiting my boyfriend, actually.”

“Oh!” She actually seems surprised, and quickly stamps my card and shoos me away, lest I create anymore awkward situations.

When you’re pushing 24 hours without sleep, this long and arduous process is stressful every time. No amount of Starbucks helps. I’ve tried. Still, the anxiety is irrational, as I’ve said. When you look at it, going through UK customs is a learning experience. You define yourself to the world, and you often learn random information. What’s the capital of Florida, you ask? Tallahassee, and I can spell it, too.