The Everywhereist

Rand, walking down the street of the town in which he was born.

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I married a boy from New Jersey.

There is no state more unfairly maligned. Tell folks you are from anywhere else, no matter how abused and run-down, and the response will be better than if you say you are from Jersey. Detroit will get you sympathetic comments about the state of America’s heartland, and praises of Motown. Salt Lake City yields images of brick-red canyons and cloudless skies. Even Tacoma, Seattle’s much ridiculed neighbor to the south, has a song written for it (it’s soulful and lovely and I’ve never been able to look at that dusty old jewel in the south Puget Sound the same way).

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I was looking through my photos of Rome from my trip last spring, and I realized something: it is impossible to look cool while tossing coins into the Trevi Fountain. Behold:

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I have a confession.

Remember yesterday? I mean, if you don’t, that’s fine (but we should probably address that, because it means that you either need to have your hippocampus checked, or you’ve been having way too much fun without me). Anyway, yesterday I made some rather bold statements about how Covent Garden was just a cheap rip-off of Pike Place Market, and how Londoners were just Seattle wannabes.

I might not have entirely meant all those things. It might be that a few of those words were uttered in jealousy. Because while no place in the world will ever compare to the overcast paradise that is my hometown, London has one thing that Seattle lacks: a stellar underground public transportation system.

It’s not to say that Seattle hasn’t tried. We have. And we’re getting there. But still, deep down, I’ll know this: no matter what we come up with, it will always pale in comparison to London’s Underground.

Because the Underground is a thing of magic. Is it crowded? Sure. Hot? Absolutely. And in the past I might have been aggressively approached or cursed at by my fellow passengers. But those issues aside, it’s remarkably organized, efficient, and will get you anywhere you want to go in the city for a ridiculously low fee. Even a girl like me (who literally got lost on her way to the grocery store this morning) can navigate it with aplomb.

It is this deep rooted affection for the Underground that prompted me to visit the London Transport Museum. If you are a fan of public transportation (and come on, who isn’t?) or just city planning in general (Um, hell yeah!), or if you just love mannequins in bad 70s wigs (Guilty!),  I suggest you go. The museum has all of that, and more.

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During our last trip to Italy, we headed to the Pantheon (in the interest of full disclosure, I did not know the difference between the Parthenon and the Pantheon until rather recently. I also cannot tell the Olsen twins apart. Tell no one of my secret shame). It was at the suggestion of Jessica at WhyGoItaly (whose site was invaluable when trying to determine what we wanted to see in Rome), who declared it one of her favorite places. As she noted, most of the structures in Italy are shells of their former glory, but the Pantheon, having been in continuous use for thousands of years, looks almost exactly as it did back in its prime. It’s truly humbling.

Which is why I’m going to ruin it with yet another comic.

Sorry.  (more…)

There are parts of our Rome trip which I would like to share with you, but I can’t. I would like, for example, to share with you the name of the restaurant where Rand’s friend Fleur took us, but I swore to her that I would not. I willfully forgot its name and location. I remember only the food, which was fantastic.

Carpaccio with shaved truffles.

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Seafood pasta: the live lobster was actually shown, on a tray, to all the tables. Barbaric. And delicious.

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I saw this sketch in a little kiosk that sold old maps, postcards, and prints in the center of Rome:

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Lovely, right? I kind of wish I had bought it. But mostly, when I look at it, I can’t help but think of this:

My mind is warped.

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Still, those chariot drivers must have needed something to put on their mud flaps, right?

We're not in hell, I promise. Hell's flags are different.

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You know that old joke about heaven and hell? How in heaven, the police are British, the engineers are German, the cooks are Italian, the lovers are French? And how in hell, the roles are jumbled up? The police are German, the cooks are British, and, perhaps most cruelly of all, the bureaucrats are Italian.

And while the more culturally sensitive of you are rolling your eyes at the broad brush with which that joke paints Europeans, a few of you, like me, are knowingly nodding your head. If you’ve traveled at all, you know that the police in the U.K. are generally lovely, and you know the feeling of pure relaxation that comes after hearing your airplane pilot speak to the cabin in German-accented English. And if you are truly unfortunate, you know the hell of any organizational, governmental, or bureaucratic system in Italy.

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We are sitting in a restaurant in Rome. The Peroni Brewery Restaurant, to be exact. Shockingly, it is neither touristy, nor overpriced, nor terrible, but it is overrun with locals and the staff is gruff and rushed. My aunt, uncle, and cousin have come to meet us for a day in Rome, and my aunt suggested we eat there as it was on the way. Rand and I were hesitant, anticipating the Italian equivalent of Gordon Biersch, but once inside, we see that’s not the case. It’s locked in time in the 60s, serving an occasional kitschy German dish alongside traditional Italian ones.

The waiter comes by with the haughtiness and exasperation of someone who knows that the gratuity is included in the bill. My uncle will remind me that this isn’t just because we’re in Italy, but also because we’re in Rome. It’s somewhat like New York – people are rushed, people are busy, people are yelling. It isn’t because they are angry at you (or if they are, it isn’t because it’s personal). It’s simply what life in the city is like. As we rattle off our orders in Italian (yes, Rand included), our waiter seems less disgusted with our table. My uncle’s Roman accent surely helps, as do, I suspect, my cousin’s big green eyes.

My family laughs at my reaction to the service, but I tell them I’m just glad I haven’t been yelled at. It seems that I’m always getting yelled at in Italy … or by Italians (that is another post. I promise you).

I order cacio e pepe pasta – a dish so absurdly simple, I’m wondering why I’ve never ordered it, much less made it. Butter, pecorino, a tiny bit of pepper swirled over fresh pasta.

Carciofi romani in the background.

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