Excavations from the Roman Memory Hole

For weeks you tortured me mercilessly, but I am madly in love with you Rome. Despite my febrile swooning in a Vatican Museum mob, and a near-death experience in a medieval hospital, my romance with you flowers exponentially each day I that I awake to the shrieking swarms of swallows careening through the courtyard outside my fourth story window and I remember where I am.

As I enter my sixth week in the arms of the Eternal City I am finally at ease. And boy, do I have some stories to tell. Oddly enough it was my severe allergic reaction to a sulfa drug (Bactrim) that prompted this blog. Alone, covered literally head to toe in massive quarter to half-inch inflamed, angry welts, eyes swollen shut, one hundred degrees fever, and my heart in tachycardia, I lay prone with my boots still on (I was disfigured, but at least I would die in my Fluevogs!), attached to an IV in a dingy emergency room wondering if those were to be my last moments on this planet. Some aspect of my psyche was eerily resigned to the possibility of passing away in Rome (how tragic! how poetic!) but I was nonetheless extremely frightened. I prayed and pleaded with the cosmos to let me out of Santo Spirito Ospedale alive. I fancy myself a writer so I figure it must have been the promise I made to chronicle my experiences that gave me some leverage because the gods were propitiated, and my story begins here.

This blog opens in medias res. That means there are five or so weeks of my trip I will need to recap in order to try and correct this Homeric nod. After only three days mom and I were puzzled by the fact that we were having trouble recalling what we had done since arriving in Rome. Our hostess Marisa told us Italians have a phrase for this condition: something like "your first week in Rome disappears into a memory hole". So as I spelunk my memory cave the various flashbacks I excavate will undoubtedly feel fragmented, but that I hope will only add to their allure.

Lufthansa is the only airline I will ever use to cross the Atlantic. The Germans have turned what could very easily be a nightmare (ten hours in the air) into a rather pleasant experience. Our vegan (eggplant/spinach/basmati rice) and vegetarian (saag paneer) meals were excellent! When we grew tired of watching movies on our personal screens (me: Jane Goodall doc; mom: everything) we could check out the trajectory of our polar flight, which was digitally projected on screens throughout the cabin. What we could not see however, was the volcano Eyjafjallajokull erupting below us as we flew over Iceland. Looking back I see this as a very un-auspicious beginning to my tumultuous first weeks in Rome. As far as my memory is concerned three hour layover in Frankfurt is as blurry as the ink of the stamp their customs officer left in my passport. The two hour flight to the Fiumicino airport in Rome was a roller-coaster ride. Not fun. I think I left bruises on mom's right arm.

Fiumicino is where the adventure in Italian chicanery began. Back in Seattle Mom was told by the gracious Lufthansa staff to be sure to request a wheelchair upon arriving at each point along the journey so as to make the connections easier, as the distance between gates could be formidable for a woman with no knee cartilage. SO upon arriving in Rome Mom was wheeled into the baggage claim area while I was sent five blocks away to get change to tip the porter assisting us. Finally, we gathered our baggage and began heading toward the main exit. We explained to the porter that we needed to get a taxi, but before we could make it out the front doors to the taxi stands we were pounced on by a predator taxi driver who was most surely in cahoots with the porter. Despite the fact that I displayed to this group of taxi Nazis that had surrounded us, an official document stating that by law no taxi service can charge more than forty euro for a trip to or from Rome to the airport, we were told we had "too much luggage for a regular taxi" and that we would have to take a "limo-style" vehicle that ended up costing Mom EIGHTY euro. It gets better. When we arrived at our B&B the taxi driver had the gall to ASK Mom for a tip! He said "What? No tip? I did the driving."!!! Lesson learned. From now on when shoved, we will shove back.