Misadventures in Rome - pt 2

BANG – SMASH – CRASH – INTERLUDE – 12 hours pass…

And here I am, once again, at Rome’s Ciampino airport. Slightly wearier, more frumpy, with a mere 5 hours of sleep and a full day ahead of me. No grappa to power me through this time! Then again, it’s not even noon… on the other hand, this type of spirit is really more of a medicine, ask the locals!
No, no grappa. And as I sit on the floor of the line-up for Easyjet’s make-up flight to Paris, my mind wanders bemusedly once more over the last few days. Sunday – two days ago now – I thoroughly enjoyed taking in Rome, but at an Italian expresso pace, not that of a tourist’s ladle. Starting to learn about la dolce vita, or so I thought. Taking it easy, buying good raw ham from the supermarket like the locals, local cheese, Italian tomatoes, a panino bun. Sitting in a park eating and resting. Not rushing around town trying to fit in as many monuments as possible. Meeting my friend at a leisurely, utterly civilized hour – 5 pm – and going shopping on the Italian fashion high-streets. And, amazingly, finding the right pair of black leather shoes on the first try! Incredible! It didn’t even take an hour! Then a little leisurely sight-seeing. The Spanish steps are over-rated and crowded. You can hardly see them for the tourists. The Traian column, the Pantheon and especially the Trevi fountain on the other hand are lovely, despite the waves of tourists milling around, their ebb and flow almost a force of nature. Finally, after a minor bus issue – the bus won’t start, another leaves without us, finally we have to get off and switch as the power goes out on it entirely. But then, a lovely dinner with friends, old and new, a nice mojito at a cute little bar in Trastevere. And back to the hotel – the Elysee hotel, no less! How perfect for a Parisian!

Misadventures in Rome - pt 1

I sit in Ciampino airport, with all the time I need to wallow and wail at my own ineptitude. The flies stare at me, crawl over me, taunt me as I try to frighten them away. But flies are stalwart, daring, enterprising. Ciampino airport is an awful place. There are flies everywhere. This must be close to hell – or a garbage heap. On the bright side – there is always a bright side, even in the bright orange glow of hellfire – I am pleasantly drunk off an extremely inexpensive but mostly generous portion of grappa. B less Italians for inventing grappa. And bless the serving girl who so kindly kept on pouring when common sense and fiscal responsibility were screaming for her to stop. And curse my utter idiocy and uselessness. The blond Italian mother beside me is feeding her children sandwiches. Prosciutto Cotto. Grandissimo. Meanwhile, I have the minor consolation that I packed enough food to feed a family of four. And provolone is excellent with grappa. And dry Italian buns are better with good – I guess, the grappa may be in … and now the blond Italian sandwich-eating child beside me is speaking to me. In Italian. And now so is his grandmother. How lovely! So, food. Italian tomatoes – which are juicy and taste like tomato juice in an environmentally friendly, biodegradable container. Here the boy goes again, asking “why do you speak English?” in Italian, of course. Such existential questions from a 6 year-old. Tomatoes and provolone, Italian bread and grappa. So many diversions from dwelling on my complete and total stupidity. And now the p.a. is announcing something incromprehensible that might be for me. .. nope, Berlin. And I’m heading to Paris. Fully 3 hours too late, and from the wrong airport. I will soon find out whether my fate is to remain in Rome. Only 20 minutes til the Easyjet plane is scheduled to take off. And still no sign of a call to board. The previous flight, leaving from FUCK OFF YOU FLY! SHOO! GET THE HELL OFF OF ME! the same queue has yet to board. Hope is a fragile thing on such a day as this.

Nice...

The sign says: "Memorial of the deportation". In the very heart of Paris. Yes, it's a port-o-potty.

Hungarian tourist in Paris

Paris via Velib is wunderbar. I managed to ride past Louis Kossuth square, and up through Ferenc Liszt square. In the process, I also saw yet another contender for the title of "The world's most posh McDonalds" and a bus full of a military brass band, getting off, one at a time (imagine a clown car), holding up traffic for a few kilometers.

Le Jet-lag reborn

So... plane food sucks, this is a well-known fact. But what about plane drink? I set out to find out. The brief summary:

1. Ow, my head hurts.
2. I can't remember much about what I drank.
3. I see my wallet is empty.
4. It doesn't help with jet-lag.
5. And yet I remember the cute steward serving the drinks.

So, in conclusion, alcohol on planes is like alcohol on not-so-dry land. Overpriced, of uncertain quality, but if it comes with a hot server who cares?

A little poetry

The Little Rock

One day there lay a little rock
Up high upon a hill,
So far it saw from its high nest,
It thought it was a bird at rest,
And every day it took to say
'One day I'll fly, I will!'

The days went by, the suns and moons,
And still the rock lay still,
Determined with a sure resolve
To one day soar uphill.
The rains came down, the thunder struck,
The rock it bore it all,
Until that is a boulder rolled,
It rolled downhill, and smashed, and smote,
And crushed it in its fall.

The rock then knew itself no more,
For dust it had become,
Yet blown aloft by winds galore,
It met the heaven's call.

In production...

A hit new musical show will begin production over the next months. The title of the new musical is still under wraps, but a call has been put out for some user content. Websurfers are invited to write their own lyrics for a song titled:

"If you were on facebook..."

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Or put lyrics in the comments!