Our Trip Blog

The Events of Wednesday, March 16, 2011

                In our lovely Cerqua Rosara residence, we slept soundly until 7:30, when our departure procedures began. Abby and Dad started immediately on a lavish breakfast while the rest of the girls rotated through the shower. The menu today included fried ham, toast with homemade peach preserves, blood oranges, leftover hash browns, and our special treat: our hostess Rosalba’s rocciata. The crust was slightly different from the rocciata we enjoyed in Assisi, but it added a crisp flakiness to the delicious filling.

                With our stomachs stuffed, we began the long process of cramming our suitcases, filling our backpacks, and ferrying luggage to the car. The Biconnes came out for a few minutes to say final goodbyes; it then was time to wish Cerqua Rosara, Valtopina, and the Umbria Valley goodbye as we headed through the rain towards Rome. The time was 9:30.

                The drive towards Italy’s capital was nothing spectacular. There were the same reckless drivers, the same blind curves, and similar scenery—nothing is quite like Valle Umbria. As we exited the autostrade, or Italy’s freeway system, towards Rome, we had to pay our toll. We were able to pay, but wanted to find the offices to clear up a misunderstanding. Almost a week ago, a toll booth machine, which sadly spoke no English, would not take Dad’s credit card. So we’ve been driving around with a toll ticket for €9.60 that we couldn’t pay. We’ve tried to pay it twice before without success. Now we had a place to pay the toll by visiting the toll booth office, but the person inside wouldn’t take Dad’s money! So what do we do now?

                Entering Rome was very interesting. For starters we were trying to follow two different GPS systems. One came with the car, but its operating instructions are in French so we were advised to bring our own GPS. We had done so and had a GPS programmed for Europe. For most of our route, the two GPS’s have worked together. Now, all of a sudden, they gave completely different directions. So we followed one, turned around, drove some more, and then *click* they agreed. As if finding accurate directions weren’t enough of a problem, we then had to deal with Roman drivers. They were maniacs! Swerving, changing lanes without any signals, and generally trying to make life miserable for us Americans, who try to drive legally. As if finding accurate directions and avoiding reckless driving wasn’t enough of a problem, we then had to deal with finding parking. Rome’s streets are set up pretty nicely. The main traffic flow stays in the center, while smaller roads running parallel on either side access parking areas.

                In the realm of parking spots, demand vastly exceeds supply, and the parking jobs are proof. There were cars double-parked, angled in on a skinny one-way street, parallel parked bumper-to-bumper, parked on sidewalks, parked crosswise near the median in the middle of an intersection, slanted with half the car on the median and half in the street, fully on the median, and those cars that were looping around the blocks aimlessly trying to find a few feet of curb in which to try to park using any of the aforementioned methods. Most of the spots were metered, most of the parking jobs were illegal, and most of the cars were not moving. Because of the horrendous parking jobs, drivers were left a skinny, swerving lane on which to try to navigate. Dad did a fabulous job looping and looping and looping and looping and looping around our block without a collision…or a parking spot. But eventually, luck prevailed and we found a spot. Sure, the sign said it was recommended for mopeds and those annoying little scooter/motorcycles/bikes buzzing around you at the speed of light. But it was a parking spot. And it was around the corner from our apartment complex. And it was free. The time: 12:30.

                As if finding accurate directions, avoiding reckless driving, and parking difficulties weren’t enough of a problem, we then had to deal with getting in to our apartment. Since Mom didn’t want Dad wandering the streets of Rome alone, I was chosen to accompany him. I pulled on my raincoat and we started off. Just as we headed off the skies opened up and Mom pushed an umbrella out of the car window for us to use. Finding the apartment building was easy enough, but the person we had rented the apartment from was nowhere in sight. Dad had arranged for a noon check-in time, but we had no internet access or phone number to confirm this. We were let into the complex by a nice medical student who worked on the first floor, and proceeded to ring every doorbell and knock on every door in the structure. Those who answered and spoke English or Spanish helped as they could, but no one seemed to know of Stefano Landolfi (the owner), that we were coming to rent his apartment, or that there was even a vacation rental in the building.

                We then set out to find a Tourist Information office, which hopefully could point us to an internet café where we could check for an email from Stefano. But before we arrived there, Dad exchanged a few phone calls with our good friend Nate Bacon, who Mom and Dad know from college. Mr. Bacon was in Rome for a few days after visiting Assisi, where he met up with other leaders in Inner Change (his ministry) for a 25 year celebration and conference. A couple of years ago, Mr. Bacon and his family took their year sabbatical in Rome. Our paths happened to cross in Rome, so we wanted to see him and hear the latest news about his work in Guatemala where he and his family are presently ministering. On his way to meet us, Mr. Bacon was able to find an internet café, check our email for us, and see that no new instructions or a phone number had arrived from our landlord.

                So we had no means of communication, no apartment, and no safe spot to stow our luggage (Rome is not the safest city). Our next task was to bring back some milk and bread for a picnic lunch in the car. While following the GPS’s directions to a grocery, we noticed Carrefour. That name sounded familiar—we had visited a Carrefour in northern Italy to stock up on groceries. So we headed inside to shop. In addition to getting some bread and four liters of almost nonfat milk, we found some desserts and Nutella, the chocolate hazelnut spread that is the European equivalent of peanut butter. Successful in this small task, we headed back to the car to check in with the girls. The time: 1:30.

                As if finding accurate directions, avoiding reckless driving, parking difficulties, and finding our apartment weren’t enough of a problem, we then had to deal with our pangs of hunger. As we all piled in the crowded car, moved our backpacks to the back, and attempted to bring out the food. But then we found that the food, packed away, was inaccessible. Our hunger levels rose. Dad had a brilliant idea: go out for pizza. Mom volunteered to stay in the car as the rest of us ate, making sure no one tried to steal our luggage, if we brought back some pizza for her. Piling out of the car, armed with raincoats and umbrellas, we turned down the street and headed into three different restaurants. The first was too expensive, the second was too crowded, and the third was deemed acceptable.

                Mr. Bacon called, saying he would join us for lunch when he found the pizza spot. When he arrived, we ordered three pizzas and the Pasta Plate of the Day (some macaroni with zucchini and ham). These personal pizzas were quite large, so we split them all around. The three pizzas were Margherita (tomato and cheese), Salame, and a sort of “everything” pizza with artichoke hearts, mushrooms, olives, and hard-boiled eggs. They were all fabulous, especially with a special spicy pepper oil. Mr. Bacon enjoyed telling us about the sights in Rome dealing with Christian history. Since Mom was still out in the car starving to death, we packed up three of the leftover slices for Mom’s lunch. While Lindsey and Dad delivered it to Mom, Caitlin, Abby and I stayed and chatted with Mr. Bacon. After about half an hour, he received a phone call from Dad.

                Dad had run into a bit of luck. Remembering that the apartment was referred to as Residenza Angelico, he checked the list outside the apartment building. Sure enough, apartment #8 was listed “Angelico”. He rang the doorbell—and someone answered from inside. It was the cleaning crew. They let Dad in and phoned the owner. This was the apartment, but it was in the middle of being cleaned by two men from El Salvador. Mr. Bacon walked us back to the apartment from the pizza place and we headed upstairs. So now, as if finding accurate directions, avoiding reckless driving, parking difficulties, finding our apartment, and sating our hunger weren’t enough of a problem, we then had to deal with the apartment not being ready. The time: 4:00.

                So as the two men cleaned and Dad talked with the owner who had finally arrived (Mr. Bacon assisting with the translating), the rest of us ferried all our belongings through the pouring rain to the apartment on the third floor. Well, it is technically the third floor, as it is three floors above the ground, but in Europe it is the second floor. The first floor is the ground floor, then comes stories one, two, three…confusing. This building has a lift, or elevator—but it is very small, big enough for only two people and small suitcases.

                Eventually, the apartment was clean and all our suitcases were delivered and sorted. One more issue had to be resolved. When we arrived at Cerqua Rosaro, we found in our groceries a round, bulbous vegetable with five stalks (somewhat resembling celery stalks) on the top. We have been perplexed about this vegetable and its purposes, so, in Spanitalian (a mixture of Spanish and Italian), Mr. Bacon kindly asked one of the cleaning men what it was. He explained that it was finnochio, a sort of onion used in salads and soups. Problem solved. Now how will we use it? The time: 4:45.

                Mr. Bacon wanted to show us a great gelato place, so we hiked the couple of blocks through the rain to reach the small shop. Apparently, when ordering genuine Italian gelato, you are supposed to, even for just one scoop, ask for two or three different flavors and whipped cream, or penna, on top. We tried this strategy and enjoyed the treats immensely. After the gelatos were gone and our conversation ended, we bade Mr. Bacon farewell and headed home. The time: 5:30.