Off the plane we were herded into a bus just small enough that you knew if would never fit all the passengers on the plane, but large enough that everyone tried anyway. After a few minutes of jostling, they finally sent over another, and we were shipped like cattle from the tarmac to the terminal. As the bus doors opened, a torrent of people rushed to the line for customs. We took a short detour to the lavatory, which proved to be a fatal mistake, and we ended up waiting in line for customs for just under an hour by my guess. After finally making it to the front, where four customs officers worked to process at least 400 people (other flights had then arrived), we grabbed our bags and sped off to Avis (or “Anus” as it is now known) Car Rental for our chariot. At Avis the scene was familiar: hordes of people milled about while two or three workers leisurely doled out the cars. We took a number and got in line, and spent the next three hours walking aimlessly up and down the airport moving sidewalks and watching a southern mother sip Budweiser. At some point, we actually managed to get our car (reserved weeks in advance in order to avoid any hassles, ha) and tried to get as far away from the airport as fast as possible.
Our destination was our rented villa in Velletri, about an hour’s drive south of Rome, and we made our way in a state of near panic. The check-in deadline for the villa was 7:00 PM, which should have been fine considering we landed at 1:00, but our detour to the rectum of the car rental industry gave us an hour to get there, and no more. Of course, naively thinking that everything would be fine now that we were on our own, we set off with a sense of optimism. Then we drove on Italian roads. Small, winding, and crowded, the Italian road network is poorly marked and a nightmare to drive. At wit’s end and with only five minutes to 7:00, we made a frantic phone call on our international cell phone (which we weren’t actually certain would work) to the villa’s owner, Antonio. Luckily he answered and managed to meet up with us and lead us to the villa by a completely different route.
The villa, at least, was gorgeous. We pulled up to discover that ours was a walled paradise, with a gated driveway and everything. The house was surrounded by a lush garden of flowers and olive trees and was hemmed in by an eight-foot hedge. The villa was built in 1600 (a year so ancient as to be beyond the grasp of my New World mind) and consisted of three separate areas: the main quarters with kitchen, sitting room, master bedroom, etc; an elevated area with two bedrooms and another kitchen; and an apartment for the owner’s parents, who stay at the villa on weekends. Needless to say, we were awed. Over the course of a week we ate every meal outside, lounged about the ample patio space, and relaxed in the Jacuzzi. Perhaps the most refreshing thing about the villa was the complete integration of indoor and outdoor spaces; doors and windows were not shut here, the inside was merely an extension of the outdoor space, albeit with walls.Paradisiacal though our villa was, outside of our gates was another story.
The average journey for us consisted of getting lost within five minutes of leaving the villa, usually due to poor road markings, winding roads, and general incompetence. After arriving at our destination, we would probably have to wait for several minutes or hours for whatever service we were hoping to use, after which we would discover that it was either broken or nonexistent. After that, we would cut our losses and try something new and equally unsatisfactory before driving home and getting lost again. Thrilling.
One of our more exciting adventures was a trip to Anzio to go to the beach. Predictably, we were lost within five minutes of leaving the house and then drove in circles for an hour or two before finally arriving at the coast. At this point starving, we thought it would be nice to drop in at Emma’s Trattoria and grab some lunch. At the door we were greeted by a young guy who informed us in English that the restaurant served “fish, only fish.” Being ocean-friendly and adventurous eaters, we dove in. Seated, we were quickly asked whether we wanted any antipasti, a ten-second interaction that ended in our affirmative response of, “Si, cinque, per favore.” What a mistake this was. Thinking we were getting a few light snacks before seeing the menu, we were obviously surprised to see a dish of fish salad come out, with chunks of squid, crab, and God knows what else. This was followed by a plate of anchovy-type fish, which was in turn followed by a dish of haddock in tomato sauce. These two were soon joined by a plate of mussels, before the piece de resistance, three purple, boiled octopi on a plate, just chillin’.
By "fish, only fish" I guess I didn't realize that all other ingredients were banned. I imagine their insalata must consist of fish lettuce, fish tomato, and squid dressing. Lovely. Overwhelmed by our questionable eating options, we frantically leafed through our Italian phrasebook, looking for the section, “When people start throwing fish at you.” Alas, that section only appeared in later editions. Luckily, we were able to communicate to our waitress that we would like the fishy barrage to end. We ate what we could (no tentacles), paid, and left.One of the things about Italy is that everyone expects everything to be gorgeous, and, from afar, that is mostly true. Pictures of Rome, the coastline, etc. are all scenic and historic and a host of other adjectives, but upon closer inspection, they are almost universally disappointing. The problem, by my observation, is just that no one in Italy cares. The streets are filthy and full of trash, and stray dogs wander about uninhibited. One day I saw one lying out in the middle of the steps of the police station. Italians just don’t seem to worry too much about graffiti and litter in the streets and environmental degradation and stuff like that. I walked past a pile of human feces in Rome. The beaches are gross (but the ocean looks nice 100 yards out), just like everything else. The appeal of Italy is its antiquity, its age, and its aesthetics, but in reality, it’s just fucking old. This works well for buildings of charm like the Pantheon and a villa, but otherwise it is wildly inconvenient. This is Italy.
Halfway into our trip, I began joking that the official motto of the Italian tourist bureau is, charmingly, “Welcome to Italy, fuck you!” This attitude seems to prevail. Whether it is through vast inconveniences in every sector of society or general attitudes, this sentiment gets across. Italian drivers weave in and out and cut each other (and you) off without a second thought. Sometimes they just stop their cars in the road and get out, because even though they couldn’t find a parking spot, they have somewhere to go and obviously you don’t. Pedestrians often step right in front of cars, as if to say, “I am Italian, fuck you.” Our trip to the beach in Anzio was marked by a lifeguard’s whistle when we actually tried to get into the water. It’s high-pitched shriek carried friendly tones of “This is Italy, no fun for you. Fuck you!” As the grievances piled up, we began to look forward to our complementary punch in the face before leaving the country.A few observations worth mentioning:
1) On the train one day we saw a fat girl wearing a t-shirt with the unfortunate grammatical error, “Kiss Me Ass.” I would have taken a picture, but wouldn’t have wanted to anger someone with such obvious good taste.
2) Also on the train one day, we sat next to a woman who thought it would be a good idea to bring her dog on, a hairy guy who solved the hot weather problem by opening his shirt and letting his hairy pot belly breath, and some young adults who thought that making pig noises was the height of comedy.
3) Contrary to what you may have heard, Italian women are not at all attractive. Under 20 years of age, they maintain a level of beauty comparable to any other nation, but above that it drops off steadily. Most older Italian women were overweight, sported butch haircuts, and clad themselves in faded canvas frocks.
Despite my complaints (many), our Italian adventure was ultimately successful. Seeing the country was, at the least, an eye-opening experience, but also had moments of real contentment. Living around the villa was an uncommonly luxurious existence, and seeing the sights of Rome and Italy satisfied beyond any measure. When it all comes down to it, I went to Italy, which is satisfying enough in itself.
One final anecdote: Our flight out of the country went predictably. We arrived the airport (got lost on the way) only to find an enormous horde of people gathering in what was supposed to resemble a line. After more than an hour in this teeming mass, we got our tickets, fought our way through two more lines sporting several-minute waits, and finally boarded our flight (delayed). On the plane, we were informed that for whatever reason, we were not given clearance to take off and would have to wait on the plane for two hours or so. It was fun. On our nine-hour flight, we ate some questionable meals and witnessed the frolicking of horny Italian youth, as a school group headed to the states flirted wildly. Groping is the best in-flight entertainment. We touched down finally, received our punch in the face, and stepped back into the secure confines of the US of A. I have never been happier.
The feeling of being back in the US was quite unexpected; the only way to describe it would be euphoric. I actually felt a tangible rush as I walked through our clean and uncrowded airport, moved quickly through customs, and stepped into the bright sunshine of an unpolluted sky. As a pretty consistent US-basher, it was a strange feeling, patriotism.
I found that one of my fellow travelers said it best, when, leaving the airplane, another kid about my age joyfully breathed:
“America is AWESOME.”
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