How Aria Enjoying Rome?

Sorry about the interruption.  We had company for a couple of days.

So, my wife and I visited Italy for a month and it was the best trip we ever had, anywhere.  We only moved five times -- Rome to Orvieto, to Sienna, to Sorrento to Rome to Athens -- and stayed in each location for about a week.  Keep in mind that, for me, a real vacation is spending the WHOLE time on ONE beach and all other kinds of travel -- particularly the kinds that take you out of the country -- are like going to the

 "Interesting Periods of Freedom from the Drone of Regular Existence Work Camp."  

I mean, really.  Sometimes you spend time driving, hauling luggage, negotiating your exit and entrance to each country with the appropriate authorities, and translating; and then there's the "interesting" part.  That's all about learning.  Now, I don't have a problem doing any of those things.  I actually enjoy most of them; but when you put them all on a schedule, it becomes a form, albeit a somewhat gentler form, of "work."  And I think of work and vacation as two very different things.

Here's a simple quiz: 

Would you rather walk off a warm, sandy beach full of barely dressed people and into the ocean, body surf for an hour, then go back to your umbrella, drink a cool drink and stare out at the ocean or get up to the screaming alarm at 5:00 AM, quickly pack everything you own like a convict on the run, drag a large bag and two small bags from the second floor apartment, which in Italy and all of Europe for that matter, is actually on the third floor, to the street below, which is strangely at street level, where you have to help the taxi driver cram that luggage into a trunk the size of your navel and then pry it free at the train station (or stazione ferroviaria – a phrase that I have found particularly annoying during midnight fits of OCD that I have too frequently and which cause me to repeat names, foreign phrases and bits of song lyrics over and over and over and over until I think my head will pop), drag them onto and off of the train, into the trunk of another roller skate-sized vehicle, and then up to the second floor -- no, actually third, remember -- without the aid of an elevator?

Well, that's just another day of traveling, unless you’re on a cruise. And who wants to cruise around Italy these days?

And then there's the flying.   It's almost not worth commenting about because everyone knows how horrible it is.  I once saw a short, barrel-shaped woman -- not grossly obese, but thick in the middle like a lot of old women get where their belly is just a little bit bigger than their tits.  She was seated on the aisle and the person in front of her had leaned his seat back the full four centimeters of its range, which put it on an incline that ran parallel to her nose, her chest, her belly and her knees.  Once during the flight, she appeared to want to rise to go to the restroom.  She kept trying to stand up, but each time she found herself losing the battle with gravity, the seat in front of her, and the arm rest.  She bounced against the reclined seat back about five times, then just gave up.  She never moved from her seat during the twelve-hour flight.  How's that for bladder control?


We were anxious to be in Rome, but apparently our luggage was not. I ended up wearing the same clothes, including socks and underwear, for three days before the checked baggage arrived. I would have bought some underwear and socks, at least, but the luggage Nazis kept promising us that the baggage would be delivered to our apartment "soon."  We came to believe that the English word, "soon," translates into Italian as "whenever."


Despite that little initial hiccup, our time in Rome was generally peasant, give or take a cinematic presentation called the "Time Elevator," which purported to answer all your questions about the history of the city of Rome, but was actually some kind of cheap, half-assed amusement ride that bounced up and down on bad hydraulics and sprayed water in your face at each mention of a fountain, and an evening of opera to which I was dragged kicking and screaming.

A note: 

Imagine you are a boy of ten, the only remaining male child of your family -- the older, more belligerent male juvenile of your little tribe, already deemed mediocre and a great disappointment, having made his escape from the firm Teutonic grasp of a manic-depressive, multiple personality mother and a German immigrant father with obsessions for perfection, obedience, his personal appearance, and opera. 

 (You can almost hear Mahler playing in the background, can't you?) 

It's Saturday morning and the sun is shining outside the little suburban ranch house in which you're imprisoned.  Beyond the walls, there are  open flat streets and bicycles, swimming pools, fields, creeks, and other ten-year-olds.

(Cue the sounds of children romping, birds chirping and let's make that a slow-motion montage.) 

You're struggling to formulate the question, but want to get the phrasing just right:

Would it be possible for me . . .?    (No.  Anything is possible.  Took much focus on self.)

Don't you think it would be a good idea if I took the day and . . .?  (I can't take a whole day. Who do I think I am?)

. . . if I got some exercise?   (Yeah, exercise is good.  But he'll just have me doing calisthenics in the house.)

Your brain is a pinball machine.  Confusion reigns.  Suddenly, you hear the call.

Bobby, it's time for the "Texaco International Metropolitan Opera Radio Show."

You go immediately mute.  All you can think about is sitting cross-legged on the floor for two hours while women shriek and men yodel through their noses lyrics you can't understand.

Your head falls forward onto your chest in defeat.  You slump off, like my boxer when I order her into the shower, toward the family room, from which a thick British Radio voice announces that "today, we will see this season's premiere presentation of Der Fliegende Holländer -- the legend of the Flying Dutchman."

Noooooooo!  Not GERMAN opera!  God, why are you doing this to me?

Today, I don't go to the opera without a fight.