After I get off the airplane, I head for the custom's gate. Since I have no checked luggage I expect to zoom through, but am halted by the unexpectedly thoughtless design of customs check. The terminal which I go into immediately after leaving the plane has only one exit which has a sign over it that says "E.U. Passports ONLY." Seeing as I have no E.U. passport, my gut reaction is to look for another exit. But I look and look, and find nothing. Finally frustrated, I decide to stomach whatever humiliation will result from being a confused tourist who can't follow even the most basic directions, and go through the E.U. passport only exit.
And then I walk through the exit, and I've already left the terminal. No customs to deal with, no security screen, I'm literally already out in the street. This was the first of what was to be many indications that Italy is something like a set of movie Western. Presumably, if there was an exit for non-E.U. citizens then they would have to go through customs of some kind. But rather than deal with this problem, they've cut straight to the easiest answer: We'll only have an exit for E.U. citizens, and whatever happens, happens.
I buy a ticket to go to the nearest station of the Rome metro and go wait for the bus that will take me. While waiting, I decide to reorganize my bags so as to maximize comfort for carrying as opposed to discreteness of size. While carrying out this reorganization I realize that I can't find my iPod. I check through everything a second time, come up with nothing. I say to myself – it's only been twenty minutes, the plane probably hasn't left yet, maybe I have a chance to catch it before it leaves. I go back through the E.U. only exit, hoping to run into one of my friendly Australian stewards, to whom I could explain clearly my situation.
Immediately, however, I am picked up by the Italian airport security officer as having broken the golden rule of Italian Airports, "If you're in, get out, and if you're out, stay out." He approaches me.
What to do when one is approached by the force of law? In civilized parts of the world, it is best to meet that force directly, so as to show you have nothing to hide. They will question you whether you want it or not, what they're looking for is guilt that will revel there is something to be found. If you have done something wrong, or if you haven't, act without guilt, and you'll sail through fine. This was the great mistake of Josef K, whose immediate defensiveness lead to a presumption of guilt which he never was able to shake off. On the other hand, in some parts of the world, the law's main concern is not protecting the public, rather it's fucking you up. Such is the nature of law in Saudi Arabia, the Belgian Congo, and South of 62nd Street in Chicago. The best approach with these officers is to get away as quickly as possible. What was it to be with my dear Italian, who was coming onto me so rapidly – I decided to take the chance, give Italy the benefit of the doubt, and assume that this brute was of the civil variety.
But as it turns out there is a third genre of police, possibly to be found elsewhere in the Mediterranean countries, probably to be found in Jamaica: the Joker Cop. His goal is not to enforce law, or to force the law down your throat, rather he's in the business for the laughs.
The cop assumes I am Italian, and says something to me like, "What're you doing you know you can't come back in once you're already out." I think what to say back, and of course come up desperately short. The look of confusion must have registered on my face, for the cop noticed it, and I saw his light blue eyes chuckle up a laugh, the light glinting off his irises took on a new humorous character, as a word flashed through his head, which I could read on his mind in the black ink of his pupils: "Touristo!"
I, sensing the charade lost, ask, "Speak English?"
The police man's soul squirmed with joy, a grin tugged at his lips as he desperately struggled to suppress a full-on smile. He says,
"No."
My proud crest falls, as the police shifts his Italian directly from first gear into fifth. His hands start gesticulating, moving through all possible constellations: One minute he's wagging his index finger back and forth to a scherzo; the next he's making a "left, then left"-motion at a presto. I genuflect, just to make sure he knows I'm following the conversation. All the while his mouth moves con gusto; his eyes fixed on mine revealing an insuppressible merriment.
I try to explain myself further, only to find myself inadvertently singing in a baritone, to what sounds to me like a Verdi Opera.
"Io-Podo Mio, in Air-Plano." I lilt
"No capis-co!" He responds at a basso, accompanied by the sound of strings furiously descending through a scale.
I try again, this time joined by a flute and clarinet duo, "Io-Podo Mio, in Airplano."
"No capis-co!" This time two other basso cops join his song, in addition to the strings and cop from before.
I try again, joined by all the lighter instruments in the orchestra, "Voglio Andare . . . Andare a . . . a Airplano."
"Inter-dit-o!" The cops intone, accompanied by dramatic upwards progression of the entire orchestra.
"Inter-dit-o?"
"Ho ditto!"
"Inter-dit-o?"
"Ho ditto!"
"INTERDITO!" I say, and am joined by the entire ensemble cast for the refrain, "Andare a Airplano Interdito, Andare a Airplano Interdito, IO-PODO MIO, IO-PODO MIO, NO PRENDO! NO PRENDO! Dios Mio!"
We take our bow amidst wild applause in baggage claim, and after the curtain falls, the cop says to me, "You have to go to information, that's a left and then a left, tell them that Mario sends you." And now the reason for the laughter had been revealed, he spoke fine English all along, and had merely been pretending. Best police practices? Only in Italy.
I go back out to the left and left, following the advice of Officer Mario. I find the information desk easily, and ask if I can get back on the plane since I left something.
"Ryana Aira, or EasyJette?" The woman behind the counter asks. "EasyJette" I say, looking through the bag once more just to be sure. Sure enough, I of course now find my iPod, and have to sheepishly tell the information woman I'm a moron who can't even search through the contents of his own bag properly.
I get on the bus for town, muttering "Bongiorno" to the driver, a rotund and sweaty man in sunglasses. He immediately stops me. "No, no, you say it like an Italian" and then in a proud rumble the words "Bongiorno" come tumbling out. His belly undulates under the powerful sonic force of the greeting. The rest of the bus trip and then metro passes without incidence.
I disembark at Rome's termini station, and am standing outside its front entrance. Truly now, I have arrived at the heart of Rome, I gaze out at the expanse before me. A great semi-truck was being followed by an enormous crowd of a thousand gyrating youths, music blasting from the truck, as musicians performed live music from a band stage at the rear of the truck itself. I watch the procession, all the more incredulous when I realized it was only 4 O'clock in the afternoon. I finally depart.
My hostel is conveniently located next to the train station, and various other institutions of sin. My check-in goes smoothly, I leave behind the desk only items which individually I estimate to have worth less than 12 dollars. I head out into the city.
I think it's probably pointless to describe to you the sites of Rome, I instead only attempt to describe my experience of them.
In the center of the city there is an enormous old roman building, larger than any building of the classical style that I've ever seen. The immense grandeur of the building once again made me feel that the expanse of my spirit could have only found a home in the age of the roman ancients, my only true peers the likes of Cicero and Marcus Aurelius. I imagined myself walking along the halls of that building in toga spun by early Christian martyrs and sandals made from the skin of Visigoths, holding forth discussion with the two, chiding them for weaknesses in their Stoicism, while eating the most choice dates in the World, offered to Rome by Hannibal as terms for appeasement. But soon that familiar melancholy seizes me, the one which recognizes that this life will never be mine, no matter how I try -and I must part.
I decide to make for the expansive hills on the west side of Rome, hopefully to make it there before Sunset, in order to get from on high a view of Rome before day bid sweet night farewell. I arrive at precisely the apex of the days beauty, and see my first sunset in Italy as a statue of Garibaldi views it every night. I say now that I have never seen a more beautiful sunset upon a city than the one I glimpsed from that high-hill.
As I descend the mountain I discover that there is no ready means of descent. Finally I find what looks to be a scenic path through the woods down the hill. I take it, only to find that the path becomes slighter and slighter, until I'm essentially walking over unbeaten path down the hill, at night, in a strange place, wherein any kind of old homosexual bog man could take me by surprise. On edge, I finally find myself at the perimeter of a road through a park, which is protected by a high fenced wall. I continue along the wall, hoping to find an entrance that would allow me to pass through the park and hopefully back to Rome proper. The path near this wall starts climbing up the hill, and I climb with it, until finally I end up back up at the top of the hill, only a few yards from where I started descending from in the first place.
I decide to continue along the top of the hill, until an easy point of descent. Why didn't I turn back, "You could always go back the way you came from," some might offer. No, no I couldn't go back the way I come from – so long as the undiscovered country exists, I, I must seek it.
I finally come to the end of the hill, and an old church on a small plaza, which had a beautiful fountain illuminated by soft blue lights. A staircase was now in sight, and I took it, descending onto possibly the only untouristic neighborhood in old Rome. I walk through the neighborhood, pausing to look over the menu of several restaurants. I pass them all by, and end up in slightly more touristic environs. I decide to make camp at a wonderful and cheap pizza place, four Euro for a delicious personal pizza with mushrooms and spinach.
The people sitting next to me at dinner were of unidentifiable Eastern European extraction, I could tell this by their dress and the timber of their foreign tongue. I could also tell that they were laughing at me as I struggled to order my food, something about how silly it was for Americans to come to a restaurant and order in English. I pulled out my copy of "Les Justes by Albert Camus" and the Eastern Europeans were noticeably taken a back – suddenly the person sitting before them had been turned from "Idiotic Young American Tourist" to "Young Frenchman" – a substantially more intimidating type, for in the part of the world this sort comes from, the Gaul is viewed as the wellspring of all culture and civilization.
I read my book, and got within striking distance to finish, when I suddenly noticed that these people were not just Eastern Europeans of unidentifiable extraction – but rather that they were speaking in Russian. Their accent was very strange however, which helps explain why I didn't at least recognize what they were speaking. I debate saying something to them, but then decide after listening to their discussion that they aren't the most friendly types, and probably better not to. I promise myself to eventually make contact with some Russians on the trip, if I find them.
And so I finish my meal, and start to wind my way home. I cross the river Tiber and start heading East, and stumble upon a long, broad street, with some kind of structure at its end. I walk along the street for a block, appreciating the clear night and full-moon, when it dawns on me that the structure in front of my eyes is the Coliseum. I quicken my pace until finally the full glory of the building is upon me, illuminated by a great full moon, I walk around the building for a full fifteen minutes. And then I depart.
I end up going up some high road that looks as if it will take me in a good direction, but the streets are deserted, the neighborhood is quite residential. I walk for a mile on this street, alone at night, not exactly appreciating the choice of route. But eventually it terminates, a bit further south than I thought it would. But fortune is my friend, on the first corner after leaving the long uneventful passage, I find a café serving beautiful cannoli, and I have one for my desert.
I wander into much busier neighborhoods, strolling leisurely and enjoying the sights and sounds of night-time Rome. Finally I call it a night, and head back to my Hostel.
When I open the door to my room, it is completely dark, except for a night lamp next to the bed two over from mine. An emaciated Asian is sitting half-naked in the bed, reading his blackberry. He looks up at me, seems to find me to be without interest, and returns to his blackberry. Nice guy. I can't tell who the other occupants of my room are, they are shrouded in the darkness, but they speak in Spanish, and have women's voices. I lie down in my bed, the soft sound of feminine-voiced Spanish stroke my ears and serve as a lullaby to put me immediately to sleep.
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