I have no time for why's, only for cures, which is why I am in the bathroom of my hostel without any idea of what to do. It's already too late, the store is closed, and I haven't packed any soap. I have to wash myself, clean it to remove the salt, and use soap to dry the skin. With luck, I would be cured in the morning. But, to even give luck a chance, I would need to find some kind of soap.
While pondering what to do about the lack of soap, I peer into the shower, only to discover it is absolutely fetid. Not since the great Franco-Ukrainian "Whose Hair?" disputes had I seen a shower that was nearly as dirty. But whatever monstrosity had developed in my shower in Hyde Park, it was nothing in comparison to what I was now presented with. Literally mounds of dirt were caked all over the shower floor. I had to do something about it. I run water. Rather than carrying the dirt away, the shower floor turns to mud.
To recapitulate, at this point I'm in a dilapidated bathroom, with badly cracked pink-walls, the toilet has no toilet seat. I'm standing with my pants and underwear around my ankles, industrial LED lighting washes my face with incandescent blue rays as stare at a pile of mud in which I'm supposed to shower barefoot. I'm also wincing in pain the entire time.
I move into action. I take a sanitary bag that the management puts out to stop girls from throwing their tampons in the toilet, and fill it with hand soap. I strip off my clothes down to the socks, and I wade into the shower. Rivulets of lukewarm water course down my skin. I hold in my left hand the tampon bag. I plunge my hand into the bag, then pull it out covered completely in liquidy white hand soap, which I proceed to slather across my inner thighs. I repeat. I repeat. And then I stand waiting for it to wash clean.
I finish in the shower, the dirty job of cleaning myself finally finished. I pull back the curtain, and step down from the shower. Mud sprays across the floor and onto my clothes in particular. I have no towel, so have to stand there air drying in muddy socks. After five minutes of this, I take the t-shirt I had worn that day, and try to find the clean parts with which to dry myself. After forty-five minutes, I finally leave the bathroom, and go to bed.
I awake around 9:00 and wander out of the Hostel to look for breakfast. I head south, and find a kind of Tabac which serves a cappuccino and croissant for 1 euro 20. Expecting the traditional Tabac counter sock juice, I instead am surprised to taste a perfectly good cappuccino, certainly equal to anything Starbucks or Caribou produces. The croissant is a little mediocre, it's covered in sugar, which makes it seem more like a donut than a croissant, but it's certainly serviceable. All in all, this random place offers the best-value breakfasts I've had in Europe thus far.
After I have my breakfast, I go back to the Hostel, and begin phase two of my plan for assaulting Rome. Phase two calls for a great arc through the south of the city, culminating in dinner in the famed Jewish ghetto. I set to it, bearing southwest towards Termini station.
What I discover is that the immediate vicinity of Termini station is the city's immigrant quarter. Chinese, Indians, and North Africans all live amongst each other in that splendid harmony which can only be brought about by the utter inability of each person to effectively communicate with his fellow man.
Although harmonious, the neighborhood is nevertheless quite boring. The lack of a unified ethnic makeup prevents it from developing into a saleable commodity. Instead of being "Chinatown" or "Little Calcutta," it's just "Immigrant Town" and looks grimy and depressing. I forge ahead to my first real sight.
San Giovanni Laterano has a fascinating, wonderful history, which I know absolutely nothing about. But it was certainly the first major sight for me to see that day, I could tell this simply by looking at my map. For you see, the more important a sight is, the bigger its cartoon likeness on my map. Hence a picture of the coliseum occupies two third of my map's total surface area, while the other third is a picture of St. Peter's basilica. Between gaps in these two drawings, around the edges, and through the arches of the coliseum, one can see other relatively unimportant information like "street names" or "points of interest."
San Giovanni is the only drawing in the South East corner of the city, and its caricature is actually fairly big. When I get to the cathedral, I see why. The structure is enormous, certainly as large as Paris's St. Eustache, or any American cathedral I've been to. I go inside, and discover great paintings of Christian martyrs. I start trying to take a picture of myself imitating their forms, when I notice an old Italian couple scowling at me. As I put away my camera, an American woman, a Floridian by the looks of her, passes me and says, "Boy that looks like a funny picture. I think I'm going to take one like that with my kids."
On one side of the church is an entrance to a private garden. I go towards the entrance, but read a sign which I think says, "Entrance costs 3 Euro." I'm about to turn away from it, when I see someone pick up an audio guide from the table and drop three Euro into a basket. Oh, the charge must just be for the electronic tour. I proceed to walk through the entrance. As I'm crossing the doorway, a man sitting near the door says, "Hey-o!" He points two fingers at his eyes, and then turns his hand toward the sign which said something about paying 3 Euro. I nod my head at him. He shows me three fingers, and then points at me accusingly. I knew then and there that if I started communicating effectively, there could be no telling how bad this encounter might go. Thinking quickly, I lift my left arm and cock my hand, as if I was about to do the Egyptian dance. I then shake my hand left to right several time. The man looks at me blankly. I start nodding my head yes and slowly backing away. Not understanding what was going on, the man sits down, and eventually loses interest.
At this point I was pretty much ready to be done with my church sight-seeing, so I exit the building on the side opposite the one I entered. In fact, this was the church's front entrance; I'd accidently come in the back way before.
As I look around the church, admiring its front plaza, and also enjoying the nicely warm weather, an overweight Australian woman comes up to me. From a distance of fifteen feet or so, she shouts, "Excuse me, do you speak any English?" "Yes." I say, and we approach each other.
She begins by asking me a question of where we are on her map. I start saying, "Well let's see, I have my map here, and the place on my map here corresponds to . . . this place on your map here." It seems, however, that neither of us was very interested in what I was saying, but both were intensely interested in how I was saying it, and each for completely different reasons. In fact I almost couldn't finish my sentence, so surprised was I to hear the sound of my voice. It had been 3 days since I had said more than two sentences to anyone, and apparently the lack of activity had affected my voicebox. My voice was much deeper than usual, and cracked unpredictably in places. As those few who have had the priviledge of meeting me know, I have a very melodic, sotto sounding voice, without any hint of nasality or unpleasant cracks. Usually when I talk it's like listening to an opera recording, which is why it was so strange to hear my voice as it was: as if the record being played was warped, bent, and covered in dust.
Of course the woman was surprised by my tone for more predictable reasons, "Oh God, you're an American aren't you? [Starts laughing] You're rather dark so I took you for a native."
"Well, I have been out in the sun a lot."
"Yes, well, clearly it fits you. I've been out in the sun a lot too, but all it's done is to turn me into a lobster." I laugh. In fact she was rather burned, but no more than any of the beet-red Anglophones running around Rome.
What happened afterwards completely surprises me even to this day, and I say it with diffidence, only out of the spirit of total honesty and frankness with the reader: I proceed to make an effort to continue the conversation.
If she had been an attractive young woman, this would not have been such a surprise. But as it was, she was more dumpling than waif, more bamboozled than naïf, and in fact something of a boor. Nevertheless, I prod the conversation along, asking typical small-talk conversations like, how long are you staying, how long have you been here. You see, one of my great gifts in life is to make small talk. But the paradox of the gift, in accordance with the Aristotelian theory of drama, is that I hate making small talk, it utterly bores me. I don't know how, I don't know why, but at that moment there was a metaphysical suspension of that most dramatic irony, and I found that I was perfectly content to talk with this completely average seeming Australian for an indefinite period of time. In fact the conversation went on for fifteen full minutes.
What lesson did I draw from this? That I needed this vacation very badly. You see, you know me as a writer, an adventure, a statesman, and the foremost defender of all that is right and true. My enemies count me as a scoundrel and a fiend. My friends consider my enemies as cretins and plebes, and believe themselves to be more God's chosen than if they were Jews - which they are certainly not. My most true vocation, however, is to be an anthroposophist. At all times, I must work at that blessed intersection of sophistry and anthropology.
As an anthroposophist one has to love people, and to a lesser extent sophistry. But lately I'd found that only sophistry captured my interest, I was growing weary of the anthros. What I realized then and there is that there is a cure for boredom with everyone, that most stupefying form of ennui – just don't talk to anybody. After a short while, only a three day respite, I found that I was willing and glad to suffer whatever kind of fool might present himself.
After the Australian departs, I find a map of Rome and particularly its south. What I discover disconcerts me. It appears that my bogus-seeming map of Rome has in fact excluded a number of important sites in Rome, including the gravesites of many Saints, a Pyramid, and the world-famous Appian Way. I decide I must visit these things, but worry about how to proceed without a map. What I decide to do is copy the directions for a route very carefully, triple checking to be sure I have made no error. In total the route amounted to about three pages in my moleskine. I set off, and plunge into a mapless abyss.
It is at about this time that I began experiencing a terribly fierce need to urinate. In Paris, peeing can often pose a problem. In the city of lights, however, there is always hope: public toilets do exist, and where they don't exist, there's always plenty of hearty Parisian men willing to create impromptu public toilets wherever they see fit. In Italy, I hadn't yet seen anyone peeing in broad daylight, so thought best not to risk it. I begin looking for a place to eat, perhaps to solve my two problems in one shot.
I stop into a pizza place, and order a couple slices. I ask the lady at the counter where the bathroom is. She says it's out of order. The worst possible non-solution has now been found; I've bought pizza already, so can't use my lunch patron status as a means to bathroom access, and at the same time have to pee so bad, that I can't eat my pizza. So I'm now carrying around an enormous pizza box, looking for a place to pee, while the hot sun bares down on me. Never forget dear reader that I am also forbidden from deviating in my route since I have no map, only names of streets, so if I left whatever road I was on I chanced becoming immediately lost. Appropriate enough that I was carrying a Sartre play, for from this situation there was clearly no exit.
I continue following my directions, looking everywhere for a place with a bathroom. Finally a tobacco shop appears; I buy a Fanta, and head to the bain de sale. What follows is a terribly awkward whipping-out my dick experience, as I have to balance a pizza box in my left hand, a fanta in my right, and a backpack on my back. There weren't not a whole lot of options. I don't know how, but somehow I managed to get myself out of my pants without dropping any of these items or peeing on myself.
Much relieved, I resume my trail, only to discover after a few steps that the road I was supposed to follow actually was a set of train tracks guarded by a massive barb-wire fence. Clearly, I needed to regroup. I wander towards a big road that I see has a sign pointing towards one of my sites, the famous Via Appia. Hopefully back on track, I hold before pressing onwards, and begin eating my pizza.
In my youth, it was considered high strategy to pair pizza with Orange crush as a lunch meal. Since then, such a move has fallen into disuse. However, I report that the European variation on our old American gambit has met with great success, Pizza Napoli and Orange Fanta reprises all the best motifs of our old favorite, but with a higher quality of execution.
For lunch-entertainment, I had the privilege of being permitted by a pair of pigeons to watch them as they shared with me the physical act of love, as the pigeons interpret it. The first thing that happens is the male pigeon dances around, fluffing his neck. After this, the pigeons have a make-out session, where the two lock beaks and shake each other by the mouth, rather violently I might add. After this, the female pigeon turns around, the male pigeon hops on her back, and begins flapping his wings rapidly, so that he can stand upright on top of her. After several seconds of this, he hops off. Without looking at each other, they say "See Ya!" and move in opposite directions, continuing on their day.
Resuming my route, I run into the old City wall, this time the Southern wall, which I know will take me to the Appian Way. While walking towards the Appian way, I see a sign for the Italian Communist party, which is running for office in the elections of European Parliament. The leader of the Italian Communist party is named Diliberto. Ironically, he does in fact bear some resemblance to Dilbert, the disgruntled office worker who serves as protagonist of an American comic of the same.
At last I am finally there, at Via Appia, the main entrance to Rome in the bygone days of the Republic. I thought back to when I was a young lad at Lycee, reading about this street while my tutor, the eminent Count Chocola, wowed me and my fellow young nobles with countless comic tales of cowardly slaves receiving rightful beatings from their aristocratic masters. I thought back more somberly to his tale of Rome's destruction thanks to loose morals and an excess of democracy.
One of the things Chocola never mentioned was how disastrously thin the road was. As is, it could barely support two lanes of traffic, let alone a walking lane on the side. As I walked, cars sped by me at fifty miles an hour, mirrors nearly grazing me. At some points, I found myself literally hugging the wall, inching sideways. I was also the only one walking down the street.
Eventually the traffic lets up, and I begin to see signs for the sites I'm looking for. Except, the signs say things like, "1.5 km up ahead!" or "So close, just 3 km!" I'd originally thought this detour was going to take an hour and a half, now what I was looking at was a hell of a lot of walking back and forth, and given the precautions one had to take when walking on Via Appia, it could end up taking over four hours to complete my route. But again, the damndest part of it was that I was trapped; I had to continue on my path otherwise I wouldn't know where I was going.
I press on, to the first grave. After an hour and a half of walking, I'm really ready to see something worth the walk. What I find, however, is a small cave in the midst of rolling hills that one has to pay 5 euros to enter. Also, it is overflowing with religious tourists. After a few moments, it quickly becomes apparent that this ridiculous cave's main purpose is to provide yet another way for the Catholic church to extract money from their most faithful adherents. I turn away from the cave without second thought.
This was the exact moment when I could mark my Southern Adventure on Via Appia a total disaster. It had taken an hour and a half to get here, would probably take an hour and a half to get back from where I was, and if I continued along my plan I'd probably find sites as bad or worse than the pointless cave. Part of knowing how to play is knowing when to fold, and though I hate to fold, I decided to capitulate my plans and accept that I would have to retrace my steps back to San Giovanni
An hour and a half passes uneventfully, and I arrive back at the southern gate. I recall, out of my robust knowledge of Latin History, that Via Appia connected to the Roman Forum, and hence downtown Rome, and that if I could track Via Appia I would reach salvation. But it would seem that at some point in the two-thousand year gap in my knowledge of Italian history, the portion of Via Appia contained inside the city walls had become a one way street. I could not go up Via Appia itself, lest I be crushed underneath an oncoming truck, or bus, or large motorcycle. I decide to take a street parallel to Via Appia, that goes north. I quickly arrive at the Southern tip of a great boulevard. I am back on the map, and now exactly how to get to the Circus Maximus.
The Circus Maximus, the Ruins of the Forum, and the Coloseum have nothing interesting to say to me. The view of them is very nice, but they're just fields and old ruins now. They inspire little in me that is profound.
I head off to the Jewish ghetto, where one can apparently find great food. What I find is lots of overpriced restraints, that don't look to be essentially different from other ones in Rome, except for large, somewhat dubious, signs that say "Kosher!" in Hebrew. I finally settle on one that looks good, tucked away in a little corner of the Ghetto, it has a nice patio, and a charming name: Jighetto.
I order the gnocchi, it's really delicious, perhaps not much better than what one can get at schuzzi, but it only cost 6 euro. After dinner, I have another charming cross city walk back to my hostel.
All the old gang is in the bedroom: the asian guy reading his blackberry , the Spanish women. I crawl into bed and open up my French existentialist play dejour. After a couple minutes of reading, a young Australian couple walks into the room and each says, "Halo" to the whole room. For a moment, no one responds. Deciding not to suck as badly as everyone else in the room, I say to them both "Howdy." They nod at me, and then take their beds, which happen to be next to mine. After settling in, the man turns to me and says, loud enough for the whole room to here, "Real friendly crowd huh?"
"You're telling me." I say.
"I suppose it's not their fault. They probably just act like bloody assholes because they're not too confident in English."
I look across him to the Asian, who the other night after sneezing had said "Excuse me, sorry" in what sounded to be standard American English. Sure enough, he was looking up from his blackberry, in my direction, bulbous eyes looking momentarily as if they might fill with water. But then his eyes are off mine, back to looking at his phone. I change the topic of conversation, asking the Australians about their travels, which appropriately kills fifteen minutes of time. After that, it's off to bed.
At five in the morning I am woken by the sound of a door opening. I turn around and see all one hundred seven pounds of my strange Asian bedfellow at the door, carrying a green camouflage backpack so big probably two or three men of his size could have fit in it. On his face he wears athletic glasses, the kind Horace Grant used to wear when he played for the Bulls. He gives me a salutary nod. I nod back. And then he leaves, and I go back to bed.
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