Rome[ing]

We hopped our transfer rail to the Eternal City.  The train was packed so we were lucky to find a cabin with 3 empty seats and a skinny older Italian man.  We stuffed ourselves and our luggage in the room, sitting 2 by 2 across from one another, shoulder-to-shoulder.  I was running on empty and in desperate need of a nap, so I closed my eyes and drifted off.  Who knows how much time had passed before I was awoken by what I thought was a hand on my leg.  I looked around and checked my watch--1 hour to Rome.  Groggy and unable to think straight, I closed my eyes again.   I felt the man brush his hand against my thigh.  Was it an accident?  I looked up to see the girls distracted by their iPods and journals.  Either way, I was up and alert, adjusting my legs to give the guy as much room as our luggage would allow. 30 minutes later, the train began to slow--finally!  I started to gather my things when the dirty old man nonchalantly reached out and tickled my upper thigh.  Before I could even register what the hell had happened, the creep jumped up and out of our cart, my jaw left hanging open.

We checked into the Yellow Hostel, taking notice of how attractive the male staffers were.  
They mentioned nightly pub crawl tours with the hostel. For a small price we could drink for "free" at 5 bars.  The people seemed like a good time and we were ready to make friends in our age bracket, so the crawl seemed like the way to go.

We walked in to the first bar, noticing 2 valley girls lying on the bar surrounded by men.  “Ladies!”, a burley frat boy screamed to us, “Body shots?”


“Uh, I think we’re good, thanks! ...hopefully those a-holes are Canadian,” KB grumbled.  A few of the hostel workers came over to talk with us.   “I was worried you guys were going to say yes,” said the pub guide.  We had gained their respect!  KB spent the night dancing with the most entertaining, if not slightly off, hostel worker and  L had become the object of a beautiful blue eyed marine's affection, who was stationed in Rome.

One of the guys, whom I shall refer to as “sexy hostel worker,” and I talked all night.  He was a Harvard grad, living in his own apartment in Rome and working as a tour guide at The Vatican.  He could hold an actual conversation (even after 4 years of college, this was foreign and unfamiliar to me) and he talked about his interest in history and his work at the Vatican.  S.H.W. even offered to get me a job at the hostel; free lodging and food, measly pay and a ton of fun.  Had I not cared about having a future, I would have taken him up on it.


Giddy and tipsy, we walked back to the hostel gossiping about our men.  We took what I swore was a shortcut through a well-lit side street, despite L's protest.  Halfway down, behind 2 large dumpsters, appeared a dozen homeless men lying on the ground.  We spotted them; they spotted us, and so began the Italian cat calls and yelling.  “Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” I thought to myself, “we’re going to get gang raped.”   We looked straight ahead, avoiding further eye contact, and instinctively took flight at the same second. “You both know I have no sense of direction.  We’ll share the blame for that.”

The next morning afternoon we headed to the Vatican.  We were checking out the scenery when we noticed how crowded it was getting.  Apparently we had stumbled in on the Sunday Papal blessing.  People plan trips to Italy just to catch a glimpse of the Pope and we just happened to stumble in at the right moment.  I don’t consider myself religious, but I was taken aback by the whole scene.  The Vatican was packed, elbow-to-elbow.  When the Pope appeared in his window, I remember looking around and seeing all eyes on Benedict.  It was so quiet I think I heard Buca playing Creed on repeat all the way from Tarifa.  I am an emotionless robot, but I might have gotten choked up... if it weren’t for the car show going on in the center of the Vatican, which the Pope blessed.

Off to explore more of Roma, beyond the nightlife, with my faithful companions.  Miss you. 
Write soon!


xxKate

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