Spizzico
This is incredible. I can't believe that it has taken me 22 years to find a restaurant that serves French fries and PIZZA! I only wish we had one of these nearer to where I lived, like in New York.
Friday, January 26, 2007
Thursday, January 25, 2007
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
So, at this point I should say that if I continue at this rate, I'll be writing this blog well into my forties. But, the first day was probably the most eventful and most shocking, so don't be surprised if the rest of the entries are just blurbs about this and that.
At 15:50 Gordon and I found the studio and came in with our bags. We briefly greeted our friends and quickly asked the director of the program where we could exchange money. He said that there were some banks that might be open, but I would have to hurry. I jetted out of the studio and headed to the main conduit of traffic in Trastevere, Viale Trastevere. There, I found a Banco di Roma. I looked inside and was met by a locked door. I looked at the wall, and the hours clearly stated that the bank closed at 15:45. I ran to one more bank and found the same results. Failure.
Still no sign of Joaquin.
Back at the studio Gordon had waited for me to depart. As I shared the results of my brief journey, Gordon recalled that the broker said not to come without Euros. We were going without Euros.
Guiding ourselves with a crappy printout of a GoogleMap, we ran through the cobblestone alleys. Making decisions on the fly, we eventually found our way to one gigantic stairwell which we would later come to know very well. In the old city, there are no street signs like there are in most modern cities, so I frantically searched for some kind of indicator to tell me where on the printout we actually were. Finally we realized that the streets were in fact communicated through stone plaques mortared into the actual surfaces of buildings and walls.
We passed through a large set of arches which announced that we were moving from Trastevere into Monteverde, or in other words, from the old city to the new. The roads were paved with asphalt, the sidewalks were wider, and the streets were straight. Via O. Regnoli, at last.
This is about the point where our hunger, jet lag, and sheer exhaustion from running up what will henceforth be known as the 'Stairway to Heaven' (seen on the right) really began weighing down on our shoulders. Unfortunately we had no way of knowing or predicting what could be waiting for us in the apartment we were hoping to make our new home.
We rang the buzzer and the female voice of an English speaker with an Italian accent informed us to go to the 4th floor. We went to the 4th floor. Couldn't find the right apartment, so we ran back down to the buzzer and asked where the apartment was. The voice then said that the door was open. We ran to the 4th floor again. No open doors. At this point I remembered that in Europe, the convention is to name what Americans call the 1st floor, the ground floor. We were only on the 3rd floor. We ran up one more set of stairs and saw the open door.
Due to events that have transpired recently, I may not be very kind in describing our broker. Thus I will henceforth refer to our broker as the broker.
Gordon and I entered the apartment. We were an hour late and didn't have the money. We heard two ladies chatting in Italian. We would soon learn that one of the Ladies, Marcella, was the owner of the land, and the other was the broker. The voice on the buzzer belonged to the broker as she would continue to be our translator and liaison with Marcella. Marcella was a short woman who looked in her late 60's but could easily have been in her late 40's at the rate she was chain smoking. She had dyed blond hair that and spoke with a raspy smoker voice reminiscent of Marge Simpson's twin sisters. However, beneath the rough first impression, I could still discern a sweetness that spoke the universal language of grandmothers.
The taller of the two was the broker who had wiry red hair, a kind smile, and a tired voice. She introduced herself and Marcella. We then proceeded to describe our predicament. Our broker, visibly frustrated translated our situation to Marcella who responded in brisk Italian. There was a verbal exchange which concluded with the ubiquitous phrase, "va bene."
Immediately after, Gordon and I found ourselves being escorted around the apartment with Marcella describing how to use everything from the teacups to the television. Granted there were many things we didn't know how to use, but for the most part she was merely being "old-ladyish." This continued for the better part of the next hour, Marcella speaking fast and our broker translating for us. Her translations were much briefer.
Finally, we sat down to discuss money. We spent another hour or so devising plans to exchange and meeting later on in the week and how to organize how much to pay in what currency. Gordon and I were stalling in order to give Joaquin more time, and not a moment too soon, our broker received a phone call from Joaquin who had arrived at the studio safely. Joaquin made his way to the apartment after another 15 minutes and bailed us out. We secured the deal and reached an agreement that didn't require any money exchanging at all!
Joaquin saved the day.
At 15:50 Gordon and I found the studio and came in with our bags. We briefly greeted our friends and quickly asked the director of the program where we could exchange money. He said that there were some banks that might be open, but I would have to hurry. I jetted out of the studio and headed to the main conduit of traffic in Trastevere, Viale Trastevere. There, I found a Banco di Roma. I looked inside and was met by a locked door. I looked at the wall, and the hours clearly stated that the bank closed at 15:45. I ran to one more bank and found the same results. Failure.
Still no sign of Joaquin.
Back at the studio Gordon had waited for me to depart. As I shared the results of my brief journey, Gordon recalled that the broker said not to come without Euros. We were going without Euros.
Guiding ourselves with a crappy printout of a GoogleMap, we ran through the cobblestone alleys. Making decisions on the fly, we eventually found our way to one gigantic stairwell which we would later come to know very well. In the old city, there are no street signs like there are in most modern cities, so I frantically searched for some kind of indicator to tell me where on the printout we actually were. Finally we realized that the streets were in fact communicated through stone plaques mortared into the actual surfaces of buildings and walls.
We passed through a large set of arches which announced that we were moving from Trastevere into Monteverde, or in other words, from the old city to the new. The roads were paved with asphalt, the sidewalks were wider, and the streets were straight. Via O. Regnoli, at last.
This is about the point where our hunger, jet lag, and sheer exhaustion from running up what will henceforth be known as the 'Stairway to Heaven' (seen on the right) really began weighing down on our shoulders. Unfortunately we had no way of knowing or predicting what could be waiting for us in the apartment we were hoping to make our new home.
We rang the buzzer and the female voice of an English speaker with an Italian accent informed us to go to the 4th floor. We went to the 4th floor. Couldn't find the right apartment, so we ran back down to the buzzer and asked where the apartment was. The voice then said that the door was open. We ran to the 4th floor again. No open doors. At this point I remembered that in Europe, the convention is to name what Americans call the 1st floor, the ground floor. We were only on the 3rd floor. We ran up one more set of stairs and saw the open door.
Due to events that have transpired recently, I may not be very kind in describing our broker. Thus I will henceforth refer to our broker as the broker.
Gordon and I entered the apartment. We were an hour late and didn't have the money. We heard two ladies chatting in Italian. We would soon learn that one of the Ladies, Marcella, was the owner of the land, and the other was the broker. The voice on the buzzer belonged to the broker as she would continue to be our translator and liaison with Marcella. Marcella was a short woman who looked in her late 60's but could easily have been in her late 40's at the rate she was chain smoking. She had dyed blond hair that and spoke with a raspy smoker voice reminiscent of Marge Simpson's twin sisters. However, beneath the rough first impression, I could still discern a sweetness that spoke the universal language of grandmothers.
The taller of the two was the broker who had wiry red hair, a kind smile, and a tired voice. She introduced herself and Marcella. We then proceeded to describe our predicament. Our broker, visibly frustrated translated our situation to Marcella who responded in brisk Italian. There was a verbal exchange which concluded with the ubiquitous phrase, "va bene."
Immediately after, Gordon and I found ourselves being escorted around the apartment with Marcella describing how to use everything from the teacups to the television. Granted there were many things we didn't know how to use, but for the most part she was merely being "old-ladyish." This continued for the better part of the next hour, Marcella speaking fast and our broker translating for us. Her translations were much briefer.
Finally, we sat down to discuss money. We spent another hour or so devising plans to exchange and meeting later on in the week and how to organize how much to pay in what currency. Gordon and I were stalling in order to give Joaquin more time, and not a moment too soon, our broker received a phone call from Joaquin who had arrived at the studio safely. Joaquin made his way to the apartment after another 15 minutes and bailed us out. We secured the deal and reached an agreement that didn't require any money exchanging at all!
Joaquin saved the day.
Sunday, January 21, 2007
Although today is 23 Jan, I intend to start this blog from the beginning, 16 Jan, 2007.
Flying out from New York, was a breeze. I got to Rome at 11:00, and had no problems getting through customs or picking up luggage. Roommate 1, Gordon Laplante, said he would arrive at 12:30. Roommate 2, Joaquin Fernandez Stearns, said he would arrive at 13:00. Our plan was as follows:
I, Roommate 3 would wait in the terminal until the three of us met up, which was estimated to be at around 14:00. Once our rendezvous was underway, we would meet the driver of a shuttle which was organized by Joaquin, who would then drive us to Rome by 16:00 where we could exchange the bulk of our cash which we would then use to pay for our deposit and first month's rent at our new apartment on Via O. Regnoli, in the Monteverde area adjacent to Trastevere.
The execution, however, unfolded quite differently. I arrived as planned, and waited for Gordon. Once I met up with Gordon, we waited for Joaquin. The information board told us that Joaquin's flight had landed and the waves of travelers exiting the "Arrivals" gate told us Joaquin should be out any second. After another hour we started getting worried. No sign of Joaquin, and no sign of the driver that was supposed to meet us. 14:30 rolled by without any sign of our third roommate. Our broker said she would meet us at 16:00, but we didn't know how long the drive would be. We decided to wait until 15:00 and if Joaquin didn't show up, we would find our own way there.
When 15:00 came around it was certain that something had gone wrong, and we had no choice but to cut our losses and make our way to Rome. Due to the inflated exchange rates at the airport, we thought we should go to studio and drop our stuff there while we find a better place to exchange currency in Rome. However, we only had one hour to get to Rome, do all this and then get to our apartment.
Gordon and I jumped into a shuttle and told the driver the address of our studio. Our driver, obviously on a different schedule, decided to take his time and find one more passenger. My stomach began to turn.
Finally at 15:15 we left the airport with one more passenger bound for the capital of the world of antiquity. The other passenger looked like a business man, possibly Italian American or British, spoke English to the driver at first but switched to Italian later. The shuttle, a large European van, careened out of Fiumicino Airport and sped down a wide freeway flanked by Goodyear factories, fields and Cyprus trees. The sky was overcast, but there was no rain. At this point I finally tried to embrace the situation I found myself in.
I AM IN EUROPE. I AM IN ITALY. I AM IN ROME.
We didn't pass through any large gates. There was no sign that announced the arrival into the infamous historical city. Instead Rome sort of trickled into view. What was at first a large freeway, transformed into a smaller boulevard which funneled into a street which then became a winding path cutting through walls of plaster and brick with dense foliage overflowing from the tops. Our van was soon joined by fleets of SmartCars, Matizes, and mopeds as we navigated the labyrinthine network of cobblestone paths.
We turned one corner and then turned another. I looked out my window and there it was. Rome, a sea of peach colored roofs punctuated by the most celebrated domes in the world and enormous bronze statues of chariots and goddesses. And just as soon as the incredible vista appeared, it was gone as we dived right back into the city. With some deft maneuvering by our driver, Gordon and I found ourselves in the Piazza Santa Maria in Trastevere. With our bags in hand we ran to the studio to see where we could transfer money. It was 15:50.
More soon...
Flying out from New York, was a breeze. I got to Rome at 11:00, and had no problems getting through customs or picking up luggage. Roommate 1, Gordon Laplante, said he would arrive at 12:30. Roommate 2, Joaquin Fernandez Stearns, said he would arrive at 13:00. Our plan was as follows:
I, Roommate 3 would wait in the terminal until the three of us met up, which was estimated to be at around 14:00. Once our rendezvous was underway, we would meet the driver of a shuttle which was organized by Joaquin, who would then drive us to Rome by 16:00 where we could exchange the bulk of our cash which we would then use to pay for our deposit and first month's rent at our new apartment on Via O. Regnoli, in the Monteverde area adjacent to Trastevere.
The execution, however, unfolded quite differently. I arrived as planned, and waited for Gordon. Once I met up with Gordon, we waited for Joaquin. The information board told us that Joaquin's flight had landed and the waves of travelers exiting the "Arrivals" gate told us Joaquin should be out any second. After another hour we started getting worried. No sign of Joaquin, and no sign of the driver that was supposed to meet us. 14:30 rolled by without any sign of our third roommate. Our broker said she would meet us at 16:00, but we didn't know how long the drive would be. We decided to wait until 15:00 and if Joaquin didn't show up, we would find our own way there.
When 15:00 came around it was certain that something had gone wrong, and we had no choice but to cut our losses and make our way to Rome. Due to the inflated exchange rates at the airport, we thought we should go to studio and drop our stuff there while we find a better place to exchange currency in Rome. However, we only had one hour to get to Rome, do all this and then get to our apartment.
Gordon and I jumped into a shuttle and told the driver the address of our studio. Our driver, obviously on a different schedule, decided to take his time and find one more passenger. My stomach began to turn.
Finally at 15:15 we left the airport with one more passenger bound for the capital of the world of antiquity. The other passenger looked like a business man, possibly Italian American or British, spoke English to the driver at first but switched to Italian later. The shuttle, a large European van, careened out of Fiumicino Airport and sped down a wide freeway flanked by Goodyear factories, fields and Cyprus trees. The sky was overcast, but there was no rain. At this point I finally tried to embrace the situation I found myself in.
I AM IN EUROPE. I AM IN ITALY. I AM IN ROME.
We didn't pass through any large gates. There was no sign that announced the arrival into the infamous historical city. Instead Rome sort of trickled into view. What was at first a large freeway, transformed into a smaller boulevard which funneled into a street which then became a winding path cutting through walls of plaster and brick with dense foliage overflowing from the tops. Our van was soon joined by fleets of SmartCars, Matizes, and mopeds as we navigated the labyrinthine network of cobblestone paths.
We turned one corner and then turned another. I looked out my window and there it was. Rome, a sea of peach colored roofs punctuated by the most celebrated domes in the world and enormous bronze statues of chariots and goddesses. And just as soon as the incredible vista appeared, it was gone as we dived right back into the city. With some deft maneuvering by our driver, Gordon and I found ourselves in the Piazza Santa Maria in Trastevere. With our bags in hand we ran to the studio to see where we could transfer money. It was 15:50.
More soon...
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