Arriving Roma

Arriving Roma. Somehow the more long plane rides I take, the shorter they feel, and the more I enjoy the time alone, with reading material and music. The flights to Rome were painless, thanks in part to me new headphones that cancel out sound – yay – and to the new music I bought in the weeks before the flight. Shout outs to Cee-Lo Green and Rufus Wainwright for getting me through.

The London airport has mightily comfortable places to sleep if you can nab one of them. Big comfy modern-esque couches and flat couches with no arm rests. I’m not sure why, but it feels funny to fall asleep in public most of the time, but in parks and airports there are different norms. Having slept not a minute on the flight to London (too much to think about, and really, it was way before my bedtime) I wrapped myself around my bag, laid my head on my backpack and slept about three hours. Woke miraculously in perfect time to go brush my teeth and make it to my flight with about 20 minutes to spare.

The flight to Rome was about 2.5 hours, much of it spent reorganizing and clearing out all of the music in iTunes that I never listen to. Not sure why I feel like I’m wasting a resource by ejecting unused albums from my library, perhaps it’s the lingering pack-rattiness I jettisoned years ago from my personality still clinging to my neurons for one last hot second. Bye bye!

There could not have been a more perfect welcome to Rome than the gaggle, or should I say “warren,” of 5 burly men in full pink bunny costumes running noisily past me through the baggage claim and out into the wild. I laughed out loud, feeling like I’d brought a tiny piece of SF, okay, Burningman, with me to Italy.

The train ride and Metro to my host’s neighborhood were relatively uneventful. I did notice that every single person on the Metro had nice shoes. Apparently that is one way Italians fit the stereotype. Very nice shoes. Fortunately, I am rocking a new pair of swanky boots, and did not feel out of place.

My host, Giuseppe, had been waiting for some time when I arrived – plane and train late – but was game for going out. We scarfed some pasta he’d just made, dressed up and went to a small-ish club in the Triangle, where most of the nightlife lives.

Driving past ruins, Colosseum, and down near the center of town, G says, “Oh, I’ve got an old uncle who lives down here, I think we should call him. I take the phone, not thinking about the fact that it’s 11pm, and he says “Look under ‘P”, and I’m scrolling through his phone like, uh huh, “P”, then? And he says, “O”... and I look over to see the Vatican as we pull around the corner. Haha. Very funny this guy. We pull into a neighborhood not far from the Houses of the Holy to go dancing. Huh. Perfect irony?

Parking. According to Giuseppe, we don’t “park” we just leave the car somewhere. That’s how the Romans do it. Maybe you get a ticket, maybe not. We pulled alongside some dumpsters and “left” the car there. Clearly not a parking spot, but hey, that’s how we roll.

In the club: everyone having a great time together. Dorking out. Singing. No drunken sloppiness. Pure fun. American 70’s-80’s funk and disco covers. Awesome band. Diverse crowd of older and younger. I really admire the way Romans party. They really connect with each other. There were folks across the room from each other all doing dance moves mirroring each other, singing to each other. Hilarious and charming.

Pizza at “The Cemetery” afterward – classic Roma. Fried rice ball with mozzerella. Fried squash blossom. Flat, crispy pizza. The place is called the “Cemetery” or something close to that in Italian because the table tops are all heavy marble slabs. Tasty yet macabre. Loved it. Up next: Seeing the sights....