The Beginning

As we near landing, Zoe and I peer out the window with excitement. We laugh eagerly as we watch the twig trees and red rooftops pass by. They look like toys; we’re visiting a play-city. Roaring, our plane finally lands, and then comes to a halt. Miraculously, we arrive at Fiumicino a half hour before expected. We marvel at the first time we have ever had a flight arrive early, let alone two consecutively. Excited, I hug Zoe and we bounce off the plane in anticipation of the day ahead. We are tired, and it is barely past eight in the morning in Rome, but even these facts cannot ruin our excitement; we want to see Rome, the historical city.

After some wandering, we find Concorda, and request a car ride to the city. A tall, skinny Italian woman tells us the flat fee to the Locanda Senatorum is seventy-five euro. I recall that my handout said sixty. Despite my reservations, and in our excitement, we agree to seventy-five and prepare to go. Then they tell us that if we wait for a few more passengers, we can split the costs. Ever the smart consumer, we agree to wait a few minutes. We sit down near the window, looking out at the cars weaving in and out through the busy airport. To our right, a father calms his child, who is yelling in Italian. The child’s baby voice discoursing in Italian is the sweetest thing I have ever witnessed. Zoe and I glance at each other and giggle; she was thinking the same. We begin to read our respective books to pass the time. A few minutes of waiting turns into nearly an hour, and our American impatience gains the upper hand. We tell them we’ll pay the seventy-five; we are too eager to reach the city. The woman behind the desk nods and sets off at a rapid pace as we struggle to follow her. Then again, it is hardly fair: she carries a single sheet of paper, while we lug our enormous baggage behind us. She yells out to a group of drivers who are standing in a circle, smoking. One of them shouts back and nods at us.

He leads us back to a spacious vehicle, and helps us store our luggage in the trunk. When Zoe asks, he tells us the ride will take thirty-five to forty minutes. Along the way, we marvel at the glorious statues and structures as we pass by. The buildings all look so ancient; I see not a single newly-built one. There is much construction, but the focus is all renovation of the old; none is creation of the new. Still yet, we are shocked at how proliferate the defacement of buildings is throughout the city: graffiti lines the ancient walls of every edifice in sight. Some look similar to the indecipherable experimentation of American block writing graffiti, only we assume they are in illegible Italian instead of illegible English; some are creative images of invented comic scenes and characters. Yet others are pure messages: bright red, no-nonsense characters without flourish. As we pass one, I wonder if it is a message of hatred, or to incite action or idea, or if it is merely a few innocent lines masquerading behind the intense paint, the shade of freshly spilled blood. At that moment, I wish I could read Italian.

As we marvel at the sites, our forty minutes pass quickly. The driver mutters something to himself, looking lost. After a few turns, we arrive at a tall, rustic stone building in a tiny alley with a string of motorcycles consorting in a line along the street. I see no sign of a hotel anywhere. No large fountain, no circle of bellhops, no grand entrance with an elegant Locanda Senatorum splayed overhead. I almost question the driver: maybe he is lost? But no, he is stopping, and then he opens the trunk and takes our luggage out. I stare at the building again, with a beautiful arch for a doorway. An archway, but of course: I smile. After all, we are in Rome.

Glancing above the archway, I notice a small sign with delicate cursive writing. Ah, we are at the right building after all. We pay the driver, who patiently waits as we count out our unfamiliar euros. I am reluctant to give up the colorful bills, so beautiful as they sway in the light breeze. I wonder if we are to tip. How does tipping work here? I wish for a moment to discuss it with Zoe, but no moment arrives. Praying we aren’t adding to the “rude American” stereotype, we hand him exactly seventy-five, and the driver nods politely before re-entering his car. He drives off, leaving us staring at the archway leading to our hotel. We are both enraptured and not quite sure how to act next. Luckily, two saviors arrive in the next moment.

An attractive, well-groomed young Italian man smiles at us, asking in light English, “need help?” His tone is so polite, so leisurely, that I am shocked into wordlessness. Zoe and I look at each other, unsure of how to react. A polished young lady next to him nods at us and gently repeats the question. Our American instincts take over. My father’s voice rings in my head, reminding me that in a city, when a man asks if you need help with your luggage, his intent is almost certainly theft. He asks again, with an amused twinkle in his eye, watching me struggle to lift two wheeled suitcases over the stone steps. I politely refuse again, unsure of what else to do. I would like to imagine that I am too headstrong to accept help. Patiently, they continue to follow us slowly, clearly not believing in our ability to handle the luggage on our own.

Meticulously, we proceed. “Locanda Senatorum?” the lady asks. We nod. Less patient than he, she hoists Zoe’s suitcase over her shoulder and heads up the stone steps. Zoe follows. I drag my suitcases behind me, and stare up at the imposing stairway. Reason informs me that I cannot possibly drag the gargantuan suitcases up the stairs alone. At this point, I have already refused his help five or six times, and it would be almost ridiculous to ask. He has foreseen this. If smiles could tease people, his would be the one to do so. With a laughing yet still polite grin, he lifts my large blue suitcase and heads up the stairs. In wonderment, I follow, trying not to trip on the crooked stone steps. Are people truly that kind here? I know never to stereotype based on such a small sample size, but it is hard to believe otherwise. Even my stomach ceases its persistent growling for this city. Hunger is forgotten, drifting away in the slow air. As I climb the staircase, I am acutely aware of the loud sound my flip-flops make when they hit the steps, in contrast to the absolute silence of the two natives as they walk up. They set a brisk pace: it is impossible to both keep up and silence my shoes. No matter. I stare at the walls around me; the building is so beautiful. The whole city is a gorgeous antique.

We climb far more stories than one would expect to reach the second floor, and pause at a small doorway. The lady and man enter, and she goes behind the desk while he disappears around the corner, down a hallway, before I can thank him. Whether he is an employee or a guest, I cannot tell. We wait while she sets the desk up, and then she tells us to come back in an hour, when our room will be clean. We nod, and drop off our luggage near a quaint little end table, before heading back out the doorway. Before leaving, the lady suggests we take a business card with us. I laugh: it is a wise decision, as we have no idea where we are, or how to pronounce our hotel name. Pausing at a balcony window before we venture outside, Zoe and I wonder at the beauty of the building. Everything here seems so incredible.

Heading back down the stairs, I nearly trip on an uneven step. We exit back out the archway, and step onto the cobblestone. We pause there for a second, just to stare at our area: to soak in the luster of the ancient city, to bathe in the comforting warmth of the Italian sun, and simply to familiarize ourselves with the narrow alleyway, that we may find our way back in an hour or two.

We wander, with no specific destination in mind, until Zoe recalls the proximity of a beautiful fountain we saw from the van. It is but a few blocks away. Along the way, we notice a grand, open archway leading into some sort of courtyard. Zoe pauses to peer in, and I halt abruptly right behind her. Frustrated, an Italian man behind me mutters something, but the atmosphere and my inability to understand his words relax me more than usual. I do not know how to react, so I simply move out of the way, and he carries on. Even his tone does not seem too angry, and my offense is quickly forgotten. Staring back at the archway, we wander in and discover a small sign, indicating a tourist site, perhaps. Of course, we cannot read it, but Zoe pulls out her camera to take a photo of the courtyard and building, and our role as tourists begins. We stop and enter our first Italian store: it is a shop of four rooms, all filled with delightful figurines and toys. I pick up a cute green stuffed dragon. Everything seems so charming, like a storybook.

We stumble across the fountain, and are astonished to discover an identical fountain across the elliptical plaza. Later, we discover that this is in fact the Piazza Navona, a site we would have eventually visited, had we not stumbled upon it first. Tiny shops and restaurants line one side of the street. It looks like a movie setting: canopies cover the outdoor portion of each caffé or ristorante. Under each canopy, tiny square tables covered in adorable tablecloths are surrounded by inviting white chairs, offering a relaxing lunch. We pass by to take a look at the tiny booths in the square, like a sparse outdoor marketplace. Each booth boasts of racks of paintings in every imaginable size. They are delightfully colorful, and we wonder at the intricate detail involved in each painting. We conclude that we absolutely must purchase some paintings for ourselves before we leave. Perhaps we will fill an entire wall with paintings at our apartment next year.

Once we have passed the paintings, we reach the fountain. We proceed to capture images of one another in front of the strange stone figures bathing in the fountain. Camera-happy, Zoe turns around and takes a photo of one wall of a vendor’s paintings. The vendor quickly shouts out, telling her “no photo.” She nods in apology, but his tone is not harsh. Anger has no place here. We move along.

All we have had to eat for the last day was the few snacks we brought with us, and atrocious meals both on the plane and in the airport. The restaurants here call to us sweetly, and we answer by reading the large menus posted in the street. Having skimmed five menus, we choose the least expensive venue to satisfy our appetites. A waiter waves at us to sit at a tiny table with a yellow-and-white checkered tablecloth draped across. Our colorful map guide to the city is more expansive than this tabletop. Still, the effect is enchanting. He hands us a menu that looks more like a small novel. It lists drinks, lots of drinks, and then first courses, second courses, and dessert. Thankfully, small English descriptions appear alongside the Italian dish names, though we had discussed how it would be fun to order something without any clue what it might be. Our mystery menu will have to be postponed for another day.

Excited, we choose our dishes and close the shared menu. After awhile, it becomes clear that the waiter will not ask our orders without prompting. We signal him. I order mushroom pasta, and Zoe asks for spaghetti with bacon sauce and a cold cappuccino. Neither of us is a fan of coffee, but we hear Italian coffee must be tried. Having no clue how to pronounce my dish name, I merely point. He offers a pronunciation, but I cannot even begin to repeat it. Zoe’s is simpler: we can at least discern the word “spaghetti.” She makes an attempt to pronounce her dish name, and he gives us an amused laugh before departing to put our orders in. The food arrives, in far smaller portions than would be acceptable in America, but it is absolutely delicious.

The ambiance is so comforting. It is our first day, and we are tired, for naps on a plane do not do justice to true sleep. Still, any stress and pent-up energy built up by traveling has dissipated from my body, drifting off like steam with a destination tag far from Italy. We relax, watching groups of people float through the Piazza. We play a game: spot the foreigner without listening to their speech. It is not a difficult game, and I wonder how much we, two English-speaking American girls of Chinese descent, must stand out in this crowd.

Though small in proportion, our food takes a long time to enjoy. The very breeze smells of relaxation. By this time, we have discovered that waiters do not arrive unless requested. We signal the waiter, who winks at us before collecting our plates. We ask for a dessert menu, and order a crushed lemon ice to split. It is sour to the point where my lips sting, yet it is delicious, and nothing like any dessert I have tried previously. We ask for the check, and the waiter winks at us again as he mysteriously pulls receipts out from under a vase of flowers atop the table. “When did he slip the receipts there?” Zoe wonders aloud. I shrug. “Thirty-one,” he tells us. We pay him and he makes change and thanks us. Do we tip? The eternal question plagues us. Zoe recalls her guidebook informing her that a ten percent tip is typical here. We don’t have exact change, so we leave five euros under the vase, then excuse ourselves. Still unsure of protocol, we watch to make sure the waiter has received his tip, but quickly become too self-conscious and return to the hotel instead.

Heading back up the stone steps is tedious: we are tired, and the steps seem taller than the ones we are accustomed to. When we arrive at the hotel doorway, it is shut off: first by a door, then by a barred gate. Zoe rings the doorbell, and the same lady promptly answers. She shows us into our room, and I stare at the cozy décor as we pass through the short hallway.

Our room is not large, though you would never guess from the size of the keys. They jangle against one another as she turns them in the keyhole. We enter. The white, hardwood floors are pristine; for the first time since I was a child, I press my bare feet against the ground of a hotel floor. To even think of being near the usual grimy, spotted hotel carpets curdles my blood. This time, there is nothing to cringe at. This simple detail amazes me: why does no one else think to line hotel room floors with wood?

Two twin beds lay against a mahogany panel on the wall, and two small shelves jut out, covered by lamps, one with a telephone. Above the beds lie our guardian angels: little cherubs with dark, fluffy wings, lamenting their sad fate for being trapped inside, destined to remain in a painting as lifetimes of Italians and visitors enjoys the sites and sunshine. Zoe picks a bed, and then tells me her guardian angel trumps mine. I laugh, and my angel winks at me: she is deceived by his appearance.

The tall ceilings give the room an illusion of grandeur. We have a small armoire, a tiny television, and a full-length mirror. Drawing back the curtains reveals a large window, looking into the alleyway. The air coming through the window is clean and refreshing. We encounter the bathroom, questioning the presence of three seemingly unnecessary stools. The sink is lined with complimentary toiletries, each packaged in a tiny, lovely black or orange box, with the opposite color for a ribbon. The whole room is inviting.

We change out of our musty traveling clothes, and begin to make plans for the rest of the day. Zoe uses her camcorder to make a record of our hotel room. Soon, however, the promise of a relaxed sleep takes over and we find ourselves napping until 8:30 at night, when nothing is open. When we finally awake, we take turns looking out the window into the little alley. I feel the cool breeze kiss my face, and I brush the outside walls of the building with a soft palm. It is perfectly uneven, with little knolls of paint reaching out to hug my fingertips. Contented, I go back inside and lay down on the pure white sheets, masking a firm mattress. Zoe and I discuss. Regretfully, we decide that our tour of the city must start tomorrow, and that we will be better about our sleeping schedule next time. Thus, we return to a state of unconsciousness, smiling in our dreams of our plans for when we awake.