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Italy: Why I Went, What I Did, and Why Everyone Should Go Somewhere Far Away, Alone (or Almost Alone), at Least Once in Their Lives
Part 1 (Rome)
by Robin C. Bonner
Timing Is Everything
Sometimes you have an opportunity that seems like a miracle, like the planets have aligned. You dismiss the idea as impossible, and then somehow, suddenly, things fall into place. It’s as if you’re meant to do it, and once  that thought occurs to you, you just go with it, and it happens.
That’s how I came to find myself in Italy for two weeks last fall.
My college roommate, Tammy, an airline industry veteran, arranges and leads trips abroad for friends and friends of friends. One of her favorite destinations is Italy (see the article she penned for the spring 2009 issue of Empty Nest.) I’ve known about these trips for years. And, for years, Tammy has been bugging me to come along. Right! With a demanding job, kids’ tuition loans, and myriad other excellent excuses, I felt it would never happen. Then, in early January 2012, Tammy’s New Year’s greeting arrived, and with it, the invitation.
“October 4 to 20, 2012” were the dates indicated on the invite. Just for fun, I checked my calendar. All clear! Ah, but it would cost a fortune. Then I reviewed my “finances” spreadsheet: Our loans—the culmination of getting two kids through private high school and pricey colleges—would be paid off soon. Completely. In September. One month before the trip. It was hard to fathom; it always seemed like those loans would go on forever.
Wow—I could actually do this!
I talked to Gary. He’s not a big fan of art museums or old churches, he doesn’t drink wine, and Italian food upsets his stomach. In essence, Italy is about #10 on his list of places he’d ever care to visit. So, if I waited for him, I might never get there. “Do you mind?” I asked. “Uh, no,” he replied, shrugging. I don’t think he believed I would actually do it. We had been married more than 30 years, and except for my annual jaunt to California each winter to visit our daughter while he mentors a high-school robotics team, I had always vacationed with Gary. This was a new thought for both of us. Hmmm . . .
Later that evening, I wrote to Tammy. “Count me in, Roomie!” (our term of endearment for each other since college) I said. “I’m going to be your Roomie in Italy!”
Yowza! I was really going to do this.
I’d like to say I spent months networking and researching traveling in Italy, learning to speak the language, and so on, but it wasn’t true. Although I did some homework, with the demands of my job, publishing this magazine, family obligations, and other plans already in the works for 2012, I figured I would be lucky if I made the flight without forgetting anything I couldn’t live without. (My passport and boarding pass were among the first things I packed.) I knew Tammy would be helpful, but I'd have to figure out the rest of it when I got there.
And that was pretty much the way it went.
The Plan, the Journey
Tammy really planned two trips back to back. She took a group of couples to the Tuscany region first, then traveled south with them for a weekend in Rome. I and another traveler from Philly would meet up with everyone there. We would all spend the weekend together. Then, when the rest of the group left Rome to head home, the three of us would make our way to Tuscany. Tammy's second group would join us there. We’d go on to visit Cinque Terre and Lake Como, flying back to the U.S. from Milan at the end of the trip. When Tammy described the agenda, asking if it worked for me, I had to get out a map, so ignorant was I about the geography of Italy. Boy, did that change quickly!
Travel day—Thursday, October 4th—arrived. I finally tore myself away from my desk, delegating as much as I could to others (nothing worked out the way I needed it to that week, of course), and I threw the rest of my luggage together. Anything I couldn't decide about came along. (Gary loaded my electronics gear—chargers, adapters, etc.—what a guy!) I tried to pack light, but while I was away, summer would turn to fall, and my clothing would have to run the gamut. What would I actually need? It was hard to tell. What kind of look did I want? Comfy but stylish, I figured—after all, I’d be in Italy! Yikes!
Finally, my “Just Do It” credo took over, I closed the suitcase (yes, it still closed), and we were out the door. The drive to the airport was one hair-raising experience, as Gary weaved in and out of traffic to make time. Somehow I made my flight. I barely made it through security and to the gate when the flight began to board. I was relieved when we began to taxi down the runway.
After dinner, I tried to sleep, but about 1 a.m., I found myself staring out the portal at the stars above and clouds below. I was too excited, and the view from the air was too beautiful, too surreal, for me to nod off. I’m no fan of flying, but that night I was strangely calm. Finally, after hours of seeing only ocean, I glimpsed a landmass through the clouds. Flight tracker showed we were over the British Isles, specifically Northern Ireland. We soon turned to starboard and began to head south, over Eastern Europe. Rugged mountains came into view. The Alps! The sun began to rise and make its way up into the sky. Then, for the first time in my life, I saw the Mediterranean Sea. Chills ran down my spine. I knew we’d soon be landing, in Rome!
There’s something about a trip like this that triggers the recording mechanism in one's memory. Every detail is crystal-clear. This was the first time I would see Italy. And I was doing it without my family. After many years of marriage, I was essentially traveling alone to a foreign country, where English is not the native language. The thought, while exhilarating, also struck a chord of fear. How would this turn out? Would things go well, or was it a hair-brained scheme? Would I wish, in the end, that I hadn’t gone?
Rome: Day One
I realize I’m not the first person to visit Italy, so I won’t bore you with the minutiae of our days. You can pull most of it off the Internet. Let it suffice to say that after hitting a few speed bumps after landing Friday morning, things went fine. The flight was late, and when we arrived, the hotel’s driver was nowhere in sight. But, I was able to call the hotel. (Thank God the concierge spoke some English!) I even remembered to begin the conversation with “Buongiorno!”—a polite gesture that is a must in Italy—and the driver, who was waiting in a nearby parking lot, was called. The ATMs (called “Bancomats” there) proved obstinate if you chose the English-language screen. The driver, who by then had met up with us, was helpful (even turning his back while I entered my password), and I eventually retrieved the euros I would need to pay the “limo” fare to the hotel.
Hotel Bramante, near St. Peter's Square, Rome. After a 20-minute drive, the car turned onto a tiny side street, bumping along the ancient cobblestones, just blocks from St. Peter’s Square. The young children playing stickball were none too happy about having to make way for us. As we climbed out of the car and collected our luggage, I was sure I had stepped into a novel. Moving through a fog that only a red-eye flight can induce, I stumbled up the steps of Hotel Bramante, pushing open the heavy door. Checking in, I stumbled through a fragmented conversation with the desk clerk then dragged my luggage to the second floor. As I unpacked, I untangled the myriad chargers and converters, trying to make sense of it all, wondering, “Where am I?” I might as well have been on another planet.
With Internet only (really) available in the lobby, I headed down to check email and to let everyone at home—family and work colleagues—know I had arrived safely. (You learn quickly that, in Italy, there is no such thing as “high-speed” Internet.) Keeping in touch with work—oh, didn’t I tell you that was part of the deal?—wasn’t going to be easy. Sitting on the couch in the lobby at that moment, though, fighting with the slow connection (I was trying to upload work files), I thought that if I sat for too long, I’d be asleep before I knew it. So, I scrolled through my emails quickly. I would have to worry about work issues later.
We ventured outside, furtively at first, to explore the environs. Not scheduled to meet up with Tammy and the rest of the group until dinnertime, we had several hours to kill. Though it was October and back home there was a chill in the air, in Rome, the sun still burned hot. However, despite 80-degree temperatures, at Tammy’s recommendation, I wore slacks. (Evidently, Italians are offended by shorts—an idea I had a problem with during much of the trip, as I like to be comfortable, and sweaty jeans just didn’t fill the bill. I eventually switched to skirts, which proved to be both airy and socially acceptable.)
Castel Sant'Angelo.
Ordering a café lunch of tomato and mozzarella salad, smoked salmon, and cappuccino was a big step. Roaming the area—crossing the Tiber (Tivere) River, glancing upward at Castel Sant’Angelo—set the tone of exploration. The fortress was the hideout of choice for medieval popes who found themselves in a Rome under siege. After more than a few photos and a jaunt several blocks in the opposite direction to glimpse St. Peter’s Square, we found the hotel again—a welcome sight! (Google maps on my iPhone proved invaluable on this trip. I can become disoriented in a new place, and the layout of the old windy cobblestone streets didn’t help.) Tammy and the gang had arrived from Tuscany, and we’d all be leaving together for dinner at 6:00—in 15 minutes! It was time now for comrades and schedules, while still fighting to stay awake.
After a quick shower and change, we were out the door again. Back over the Tiber and onward, we walked to the Pantheon for a quick tour before dinner. The impressive, circular, stone edifice was once an ancient temple dedicated to “all gods,” but it has been a Catholic church since the seventh century. Renowned Renaissance artist Raphael is buried there. Our true touring thus begun, we trekked over to Piazza Navona for dinner. My new travel companions were a friendly group, and the liveliness of the dinner conversation increased in proportion to the amount of wine we consumed. Later that evening on the way back to the hotel, we enjoyed the cooler air (I carried a sweater, but my dress was sleeveless). A stop under the lights in St. Peter’s Square for photos rounded out a perfect first day in Rome.
Rome: Day Two
Breakfast at Hotel Bramante.
On Saturday, I discovered the true treasure of Hotel Bramante: breakfast! Quiche, quail eggs, prosciutto, pancetta, croissants, fresh fruit, pastries, homemade granola, yogurt, assorted juices, and cappuccino, all served in a lovely dining area opening onto a sunlit patio. Real estate is at a premium in Rome, so this view was unexpected. It struck me that even this tiny hotel had found a way to make the most of what it had—something Europeans seem to do with ease. The sun was warm and relaxing. We didn’t know it then, but the three breakfasts at Hotel Bramante would be the most elaborate we would experience the entire trip. Other hotels would offer variations on the theme, but only Hotel Bramante had it all.
The Pietà, by Michelangelo.
On that, our first full day in Rome, we crammed in a lot. First, Tammy led us on a tour of Saint Peter's Basilica. (It was especially important that we dressed “appropriately” for this tour. Anyone—either man or woman— entering the basilica in shorts or miniskirt, or with bare shoulders, would be asked to leave if they couldn’t cover up.) As we entered, and my eyes grew accustomed to the dimness, Tammy pointed to the right. I gasped as I realized I was face to face with the Pietà, by Michelangelo! This celebrated work, completed in 1499, depicts Mary holding the body of Jesus after the crucifixion. The statue has always haunted me. How could a mother survive her child meeting such a terrible fate? My eyes filled with tears.
The basilica’s size is astounding, with side chapel upon side chapel, going on for what seems to be forever. You could get lost in there! Even the main altar area was minuscule compared to, say, the height of the ceiling. Tammy pointed out a “yardstick” etched onto the floor inside the main doors that showed a size comparison of the basilica to other churches. St. Peters is, in fact, the largest Catholic church in the world.
Emerging into the sunlight again, we opted to climb the stairs to the dome of the basilica but took a shortcut via an elevator to eliminate half of the 700 or so steps. The view from the catwalk around the top of the dome is truly spectacular. We looked down at the nearby Vatican gardens and museum, but we could also see clear across Rome. Descending the long, painfully old and winding staircase, we headed for the Vatican Museum. Before leaving home, we had purchased tickets online for a 2:00 p.m. entry. Early, we were admitted immediately, as there was no line. This was just as well, because the audio tour of the 20-odd rooms is lengthy. We were exhausted when we finally reached the famed Sistine Chapel, Michelangelo’s masterpiece. Craning our necks to view it—we and what seemed to be about 5,000 other tourists—was just about all we could tolerate.
Gelato and cappuccino.
It was time for a snack of gelato and cappuccino, before heading back to St. Peters for the 5:00 p.m. mass. Although the priest said the mass in Latin, it was held on the main altar (off-limits during our visit that morning), so we were able to alternately participate in the mass and gawk at the elaborate features, carvings, and side altars of the basilica. The music for that mass was provided, interestingly, by a traveling choral group and its accompanist. They were from Denver, CO, Tammy's home town. I noticed someone recording the choir and after mass asked her if she would mind mailing me a copy of the video. The woman enthusiastically agreed. I offered her a few euros, but she refused to take anything from me. I gave her a business card with my address, but alas, I never heard from her.
Mass in the Basilica of Sts. Peter and Paul.
Tammy had planned some special activities for the evening: First, we'd climb the Spanish Steps, then have dinner nearby. Afterward, we'd visit the Trevi Fountain, for the traditional coin toss. Evening meals usually consisted of an interesting assortment of pasta dishes (tomato or blush, but also porcini or sage in cream-based sauces), with a mixed or arugula salad and a side dish, such as spinach or grilled vegetables. Selections of antipasto and bruschetta were also offered. Tammy recommended not ordering the second plates (meat entrees) because that with pasta, side dish, and dessert usually proved to be too much. We readily agreed. On this beautiful evening, we met up with an Italian family, friends of Tammy’s, for dinner. As an exchange student, the daughter had stayed with Tammy and her family in Denver. Since then, Tammy and family had been invited to the girl's wedding. It was a joyous reunion! Because the rest of us had limited ability to speak Italian, however, “Buongiorno” and “Buona sera” were about the extent of our conversation with these lovely people. Tammy, making up for our linguistic ineptitude, sat the the middle of the table and chatted with them in Italian throughout the evening.
Rome: Day Three
The Spanish Steps.
On Sunday morning, a few of us decided to take a short jaunt to the Compo de’ Fiori piazza (Flower Market). On the way, I stopped every 50 feet or so to photograph a doorway or window. Old buildings abound in Rome, and their juxtaposition with the new fascinated me. In retrospect, perhaps the streets and doorways represented my personal journey through Italy. At no time during the two weeks did I know exactly where a path would take me, or what things would look like around the next corner. At noon, we met the others in St. Peter’s Square, presumably to receive the blessing of Pope Benedict. He had just said mass, however, so instead of appearing on the balcony outside his apartments to give the papal blessing, he cruised around the mass-going crowd in his “Pope-mobile.” He would give his blessing to the onlookers later. Evidently the Vatican events schedule can change at the drop of a hat; Tammy had warned us not to be disappointed in such changes.
The Trevi Fountain.
In the afternoon, a couple of us decided we’d give up the rescheduled “papal blessing” to don sneakers (no white ones, please—you don’t want to advertise yourself as an “American Tourist” and thus be a target for pick-pockets) and hoof it the couple of miles to the Forum and Colosseum, ancient Roman ruins. It is unnerving how such stalwarts of ancient history rise up from the busy, modern city street, almost as if they’ve been Photoshopped into the picture. Vendors line the main street leading to the Colosseum—the Via dei Fori Imperiali—plying their wares, while street musicians provide a festive atmosphere. A lot of people were doing what we were doing that Sunday afternoon, but we were still able to get a combo ticket for the Colosseum and Forum fairly quickly at the less-busy Forum ticket kiosk (another great tip from Tammy), tour the Forum’s ruins, and then jump the line at the Colosseum because we already had a ticket.
Ruins of the Forum.
Surprisingly, because it was a community meeting place representing everyday life, we found the Forum the more appealing of the two antiquities. Facts we unearthed about the Colosseum (such as how 3,000 imported animals were killed there for sport the first week) were a bit of a turnoff. And, the stories of Christians being fed to the lions? Apparently they’re unsubstantiated, which was an interesting tidbit, as I had always thought they were fact. Finally, after an exhausting afternoon, we hailed a cab back to Hotel Bramante.
Piazza Navona.
We enjoyed another delectable dinner that evening, once again on the Piazza Navona, but this time al fresco. I came to love that walk, past the Basilica Sant’Angelo and across a bridge over the Tiber River. We sat outdoors, resting our elbows and wine glasses filled with Chianti on red-checkered tablecloths, in a cobblestone alleyway just off the square. It was the last night in Italy for most of our group. Everyone but Tammy, one other traveler, and I would head out to the airport obscenely early the next morning. Then, just hours later, the three of us would travel on to Tuscany. So, we were all saying good-bye to Rome that evening. However, while the others went back to the hotel to pack, several of us enjoyed Amaretto in a little outdoor café on the piazza. My mom had loved Amaretto, and the thought occurred to me. I offered a toast to Mom, who had never been fortunate enough to visit Italy. We raised our glasses, giggling, and our very charming waiters stood nearby, smiling—probably thinking, “these American women!”
Continued in Italy: Part 2,. . .
Robin Bonner is editor of Empty Nest. For more about Robin, see About Us.
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