When in Rome, one must see the Colosseum, the Trevi Fountain, and when coming out of the Termini, the main train station in Rome, head straight for the tourist information office and get into a confrontation with an employee.
As an outtake that didn’t make the final edition to ‘Rick Steves: Europe Through the Backdoor’, I highly recommend it.
It is especially cathartic after 2 weeks’ culmination of mild stress, odd odors, and culture shock.
When I got off the train in Rome, I was inaudated with people, like the first scene from Saving Private Ryan except the bullets weren’t bullets, they were well-groomed, well-dressed Italians and international tourists rushing to their connection or final destinations.
I felt as if I had to find a safe haven as a student would go underneath their desk and cover their head in case a nuclear bomb was headed towards their way.
After about 10 metres of swimming upstream, I found a garbage can and bench combo to lay my bag on as streams of commuters and travelers hurried their way in the direction of whereever.
If Florence SMN was Newark airport, Rome Termini was definitely JFK.
When things slowed down and bearings were gathered, I thought it a good idea to actually visit the tourist information booth instead of attempting to navigate to my hotel by myself.
With plazas being so popular in Europe, it wasn’t as simple as making a right or left, or looking for a street sign, it was much more complicated than that.
Well, at least, it is for me.
In Florence, I had left the correct exit of the train station however I turned the wrong way, and it was quite frustrating doing a 359 degree roundabout with the equivalent of Frodo Baggins on your back.
This ain’t Lord Of The Rings, Rome ain’t Helm’s Deep, and I ain’t Sam Gamgee. Elijahs Wood on my back isn’t very comfortable.
Hmmm.
I digress. When in Rome, I located the ‘Informazione Turistica’ rather quickly considering my track record and known genetic defect that renders me directionally challenged.
And even though I took a number when I entered, there was nary a person waiting in line for tourist assistance.
I found that odd but was happy to see that I could take my time with them. I approached the two employees and as I got closer, I saw that they were in a midst of a conversation.
Though they were web aware that I was standing there waiting on them, they continued about their gossip/discussion as if I wasn’t.
This is nothing new, this kind of thing happens often, not just in Italy, but innumerable times in the US.
So I waited for them to finish their sentences, at which point, I expect a little better service for making me wait in a line when there was really no line at all.
Again with the expectations.
When in Rome, or in any other foreign land for that matter, I want you to know that my patience goes up and my anger gauge goes down. I want to be as polite as possible, I have this subconscious urge to be a good representative of my country… China.
(It doesn’t work, when asked where I am from, I guess saying “Oh, I am totally from Hong Kong” in a perfect midwestern accent red flags something)
Anyways, when they finished, one looked at me without saying anything, I guess that was my cue.
I had a few questions to ask and I started with
“Hi, um… ¿parla ingles?”
She nods her head and says “A little…”
“Um, where are the buses to get to Ciampino airport?” I asked, hoping to prepare a little for when I would leave Rome in 5 days.
She points her pen and says in her dry, raspy voice “Outside, I don’t know, other companies handle that”
Ok, that was helpful information.
Especially for tourists.
“Um, could I have a map?” pointing at her pad of maps she had on her desk
She tore a map from the pad and handed it over.
She seemed annoyed by my common request as if I was asking for her overtanned first born.
Her attitude bothered me.
Keep in mind, there is no one waiting behind me.
(I find out soon enough that there is a reason for this)
After glancing at the map for a moment, I go back for thirds.
I pointed to the nearest exit, right outside the tourist information office
“So, uh, which exit is that?”
Without saying one word, she grabbed the map from me, marks two “x”s with her pen and handed it back to me in one motion.
Now, I was getting angry.
My shirt began to tear at the shoulder and there was a hint of green jaundice coming over me.
Without looking at it, I said immediately in a decidedly less-happy tone
“UH What does that mean!?”
Raspella gave me a not-so-nice look, then replied in an unmistakably condescending voice-
“It’s really not that difficult.”
Seeing nothing but red, the Lakers, and Martin Lawrence, I fell to my knees as my anger took hold of my body. I covered my face with both hands as my shirt tore in several places, revealing my bubbling green skin…
“I’m sorry, I thought this was the information desk, you fucking scumbag!”
I think she said something back, but I couldn’t hear her over the voices in my head that insisted I jump over the desk and strangle her.
I crumpled up my ticket and threw it at her.
The ticket missed, but it landed on her desk.
As I bent down to pick up my bags and storm off, I saw the ticket fly back down in a velocity that could only mean she threw it back at me.
At this point, I had half a mind (the half that doesn’t use the 10%) to take Frodo off my back and throw him at the woman.
And as she laid there with hobbit on her, I would then swing Gollum (my messenger bag) relentlessly at her knees, all the while screaming
“YOU… NEED… RE-… TRAINING! RRARAAAGGH!!!!”
Of course I wouldn’t do such a thing, but the thought was satisfactory enough at the time.
So with two marks on my map, tattered clothing and veins popping out of my forehead, I took a deep breath and said
“I’ll do it my fucking self”
Before exiting, I took a second to take calm myself.
I walked out of Termini, looked at the map, turned it right, scrutinized the “X´s” that the Miami Vice reject had made, and matched up the streets.
“Hmm. That wasn’t that hard.”
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