I Regret Nothing Part 17

So, I'm dining at the Italian version of Bubba Gump Shrimp.

d.a.m.n it.

This restaurant has nothing to do with good food and everything to do with proximity and I vow to not make this mistake again.

Then, having given up on all things food-related at this particular little bistro, I decide that I can at least end the night with my first Italian coffee.

I order a cappuccino, which is apparently a crime against humanity, on par with the atrocities in the Sudan.

d.a.m.n it again.

My waiter literally winces in pain when I order, much as I winced when tasting his subpar prosciutto. I find out later that cappuccino's considered a breakfast drink and if you insist on having afternoon/evening coffee instead of wine-like a savage-then ordering a macchiato is de rigueur.

Listen, if I wanted to be scolded and dismissed and condescended to in English, I'd have just gone to Paris.

Equal parts discouraged and aggravated, I pay my bill and head to the cab stand. I tell the driver where I want to go. Of course his English is better than my Italian. However, he immediately recognizes me as having Sicilian ancestry, so we chat as he takes me back to the hotel. I relay my dinner experience and he cracks up.

"Ugh, terrible place. For tourists," he tells me. "Your thumb rule is 'if monument, then no you want.' Do not eat anywhere looking at anything pretty. They cut the corners and they charge too much money. How much you pay for dog's dinner?"

"About forty euro?" I say. I still can't grasp the conversion rate, so this could be twenty bucks American or sixty. (Their Wi-Fi didn't work, so I couldn't look it up.) He snorts. "Is the robbery of the highway, as you Americans say. Beautiful dinner is sixteen euro, eighteen euro maybe. I ladri. Crooks. You go back, get refund."

"I'm probably not going to do that," I admit.

"Next, you go to neighborhood, maybe Trastevere or Testaccio. Still tourists, but food is better. I promise."

"Well, thank G.o.d," I reply. "Because finding and then punching Julia Roberts really shouldn't be on my bucket list."

UGLY AMERICANS.

Rome redeems herself at breakfast.

Big-time.

I'm spending the morning at the Galleria Borghese and need to be properly fueled, so I head to the restaurant downstairs in the hope of some decent bread and maybe some fruit. The moment I take in the buffet spread, I feel like Charlie Bucket upon seeing the Chocolate Room for the first time. There's a towering display of gorgeous fruits and fresh juices right as I walk in. Then I spot a yogurt bar with a dozen varieties of European flavors, surrounded by heaping bowls of nuts and seeds and granolas for toppings.

The breakfast offerings are arranged in stations, and with each bend and curve in the room, I find new nooks of nirvana. Although the Italians aren't huge on eggs for breakfast, they are tremendous proponents of breakfast meats, with platters groaning under the weight of the salumi like sopresatta, bresaola, mortadella, and prosciutto. Ten kinds of braided, seeded, and swirled breads spill from baskets, buffeted by m.u.f.fins, scones, and croissants, with every type of jam and curd imaginable offered alongside. Across from the Bread Barge, there's a whole array of buffalo mozzarellas, including its milkier, even more delectable cousin burrata, alongside fresh ricotta.

Oh, my G.o.d-cheese for breakfast? Is that even legal?

And, wait, what is this? A whole section of the room filled with plate after plate of fifteen kinds of breakfast cake?

When I look back at the end of my life, I will least regret the day I ate cake with breakfast in Rome.

I do concentrate more on the meats and cheeses, however, because they are brilliant. Each bite of mortadella (a pistachio-studded type of bologna) is an aria, hitting every high note in the opera of my mouth. The tomatoes taste like they were picked five minutes ago and the multigrain roll I choose is so dense with the flavors of barley and malt and honey that to mask it with b.u.t.ter or jelly would be a travesty.

Cla.s.smates kept telling me to order the spremuto (fresh-squeezed) orange juice, so I pour myself a gla.s.s. I take a sip and it's the naturally sweetest thing I've ever tasted. I'm not sure if I can use words alone to describe the spectacular-ness of this experience-I think I need hand gestures, too. When Fletch arrives tomorrow, this is the first place I'm bringing him.

I'd literally stay here and graze until the staff has to roll me out like Violet Beauregard, but it's time for my first real excursion. Before I left for Rome, I was warned about the extensive lines to Roman attractions, so I preordered all my tickets and I'm due at the gallery by nine o'clock.

(Sidebar: If you ever come to Rome, please buy your tickets early/with the skip-the-line option, as it's the difference between three hours in the Vatican Museum and three hours waiting to get into the Vatican Museum in the punishing sun.) I decide that today's an Immersion Day and I pledge to speak only Italian, which was why there was some confusion at breakfast when the host asked me for my room number and I told him I was well, thank you.

Hey, the Roman language wasn't built in a day.

After a quick cab ride, I arrive at the Galleria. After I check in, the employees confiscate all bags, including purses. I immediately comply, not even thinking to place my wallet in my pocket, because I'm a dumba.s.s. For all my safety concerns, for all my posturing and learning to spew insults, apparently all anyone in this country has to do to get my purse is hand me a chit.

(Sidebar: The purse thing turned out fine. Also, I don't understand why everyone was so rabid about my being safe with my belongings. Rome's no different from any other city: Don't be stupid, have situational awareness, and you'll be okay.) The museum's breathtaking, with ma.s.sive portraits displayed in rooms illuminated by windows three stories tall. The ceilings are covered in trompe l'oeil clouds and angels, with a plethora of statues between the pictures. The statues are simply amazing due to the level of detail, right down to the veins running through forearms. Seems like the one area that gave sculptors difficulty was the hands, though. They're all huge and out of proportion with the rest of the statues' bodies.

Or is it possible all the ladies had man-hands back then?

I'm awed to be standing in the presence of all this history. But I'm reminded of my friend who's a high-up in a museum in Chicago, where she's responsible for keeping the art safe. She once even worked on a film set where her job was to prevent the actors from bringing beverages or pens within fifty feet of the paintings. (FYI, she and Hugh Grant in a fight.) So while I stroll from room to room, I imagine the hair on the back of my friend's neck rising from an ocean away as visitors put their grubby fingers on everything.

Every d.a.m.n thing.

To be clear, this is not an interactive exhibit. All the statues I pa.s.s have something broken on them, which I imagine is because no one here's being told to keep their mitts to themselves. Please explain to me why it's okay for patrons to run around with Sharpies and sketchbooks and water bottles and I'm not allowed to carry a tiny handbag. How, exactly, would I steal a Caravaggio painting that's two stories tall? I mean, (a) I'm honest, and (b) even if I weren't, I don't speak the kind of Italian I'd need to get myself out of Roman jail.

I learn that being drawn or sculpted nude was among the highest honors in the 1600s. Only the wealthiest citizens and most important politicians were allowed to be captured in the buff. Judging from the naked ladies, gravity was not a factor, so, good for them. And maybe big hands on the statues were a sign of virility/fertility?

Because I'm clearly a Philistine, the art isn't what moves me most. Instead, I'm entranced by the walls' faux finishes and the gilding on the furniture, so essentially I'm the kid who cares less about the expensive toy and more about the big cardboard box it came in.

After a few hours in the museum, I head to the snack bar to order an iced cappuccino and I sit outside in the sun to drink it. There's a lion-headed fountain with a basin to the left of me and people keep filling their water bottles from it. This city seems to have a one-to-one ratio of fountains to citizens because they are everywhere. The thing is? I can't tell which ones are for drinking and which ones have been shat in by pigeons for the last three hundred years, so for now, I'm buying my water.

I hop in a cab and in my best accent ask to go to the Campo de' Fiore, an open-air market, where I haggle for scarves to bring home to my friends. By "haggle," I mean "pay full price" because I'm clearly not just the worst negotiator in America, but also in Europe. Still, I conducted the transaction entirely in Italian, so this feels like a win.

Rome quiets down between two and five p.m., with many shops closing. How does this make any sort of business sense? However, as it's very hot and I've completed my day's itinerary, I decide to spend some time at the pool.

My plans for Italian immersion are shot when I discover that the only people up on the roof are either from New York or Texas. One of the Texan women has an actual paw print from her now-dead dog tattooed on her shoulder. Let's just say it's a good thing I didn't know this was an option when Maisy was still alive.

The New Yorkers at the pool are mad at the father of one of the Texas clans, as he'd earlier admonished them for using profanity in front of his sixteen-year-old daughter. The New Yorkers' stance is, she's sixteen and these are not the first f-bombs she's heard, and if they are, then the family should probably subscribe to HBO. So, every time the Texas dad turns his back, the New Yorkers flip him off and mouth, "We hate him." I don't think the New Yorkers give a s.h.i.t whether or not they're being good American amba.s.sadors, so the whole scene's actually pretty funny.

The view from the top of the hotel is spectacular, with vistas of tiled roofs and little courtyards in every direction. Building restrictions prohibit historical sites from being blocked, so there are no skysc.r.a.pers in this part of the city. Save for the satellite dishes and tiny cars, the view can't be much different from when this outdoor deck was part of an actual palace.

Unlike a Bachelor contestant, I actually am here to make friends, so I talk with the other Americans. When I ask the other (temporary) ex-pats where they've been eating, one of the women says her family's had dinner at the Scottish pub around the corner for the past few nights, a statement that seems so illogical all I can do is smile and nod.

Why would . . .

How could . . .

Does not compute.

The New Yorkers said they saw a sign for an American breakfast yesterday, so they went inside to order and were served twelve partially cooked scrambled eggs, which then caused the wife to barf.

None of them seems terribly intent on experiencing what Rome has to offer. They're all more well-traveled than I am; is this all old hat to them? They're spending all day at the pool and their nights trying to find food that's familiar, so really, they may as well be in Vegas. Personally, I didn't want to take a vacation so much as I wanted to experience Rome, so I eventually excuse myself; even though the pool is lovely and the company affable, I have homemade pasta to find and Italian to parlo.

"So, the Pantheon is over there and the gelato shop's back that way. Which would you rather hit first?" I ask. Fletch arrived this morning in high spirits, despite not being able to sleep on the plane either.

So far, I've taken him for breakfast and coffee and a brief detour to Testaccio instead of Sant'Eustachio, as the Senegalese cabbie spoke neither Italian nor English, which reminds me of the time at home when the taxi driver had never heard of Wrigley Field. Anyway, now we're trying to determine what to do next as we loiter in the piazza halfway between the grand Corinthian columns of the Pantheon and the less historic palm trees on the sign for the gelato shop.

"Well," Fletch says, "the Pantheon's been standing for thousands of years, so it can probably wait a few more minutes while we eat gelato."

The Pantheon does, indeed, wait for us. The ancient Roman temple is amazing and guess what-it's free! What a gift that is for anyone with an interest in history, religion, or architecture.

We take our time to explore, gawping up at the oculus-a central opening up at the top that floods the room with light. We learn that the oculus is the world's largest unreinforced concrete dome, commissioned by Marcus Agrippa in the time before Christ. We're floored by what Man could accomplish long before benefit of machine.

The longer I'm here, the more I feel a connection with Italy, and I marvel at having come from such industrious people. Until now, I always identified more with the English side of my heritage, mostly because of the history behind my last name. Rumor has it we're descended from the Lancasters who date back to the War of the Roses. Then again, my paternal grandfather used to swear that every time any toilet flushed, the contents went to Moon Island, so it's possible he wasn't the most accurate steward of family lore.

We tool around the city with no particular agenda, taking pictures of fountains and browsing in shops for a few hours until Fletch tires and needs to rest.

I want Fletch to have the best meal tonight, so we decide to visit the Trastevere neighborhood across the Tiber. I dress and touch up my makeup quickly and am halfway through an episode of The Good Wife in Italian (screaming with glee when Julianna Margulies says the name of the town where I live) when Fletch begins to pace between the closet and his suitcase.

"I don't have anything to wear."

"How do you not have anything to wear? You brought two huge suitcases. For four days. You have stuff to wear. I'm sure of it," I reply.

He begins to pull inappropriate choice after inappropriate choice out of his bag. For some reason, he brought nothing but ratty old polos and weird T-shirts.

"Seriously? Seriously? You brought your El Pollo Loco shirt? You thought, 'Hey, I'm going to one of the most elegant cities in the world, so I'll be sure to bring my chicken T-shirt.'" I'm shaking my head as I dig through his baggage. I hold up a faded gray offering. "Johnny Cash? You brought a Johnny Cash shirt? What part of 'Don't pack like a jacka.s.s' was problematic for you?"

"I was confused. I didn't know what they wore here," he argued.

"So you erred on the side of Johnny Cash? Where are all those nice polished cotton oxfords I bought you last summer?"

"I didn't think they'd be appropriate."

"But a chicken shirt would be?"

"s.h.i.t. I don't know. We probably need to go shopping. It's still early so I'm sure the stores are still open," he says.

And just like that, for the very first time in our relationship, Fletch actually Tom Sawyers me.

"You look very handsome."

"I do, don't I?" Fletch admires himself in the hotel room mirror because over the past couple of days, he's learned that European-cut shirts fit him as though custom-made.

"You Tom Sawyered me. You packed like a jacka.s.s on purpose." Much like Tom suckered his friends into whitewashing the fence, I have a rather unfortunate history of doing tasks wrong in front of Fletch so that his impulse is to jump in and take over, which is often my endgame.

"I didn't pack badly on purpose," he lies. (Such lies.) "Fitting so well in the shirts here is a happy accident."

"Right. Like me convincing you to 'teach me' to paint the trim in my office was a 'happy accident.'"

"Yeah. So now we're even."

Because we did budget for shopping here, I'm not mad. Instead I'm charmed-who'd have guessed the old dog had a few new tricks in him?

(Sidebar: You know who didn't antic.i.p.ate me shopping here? My credit card company. Despite calling card services before leaving, and verifying all purchases via their app, every single charge I attempt is declined, to the point it becomes comical. I return from Italy having purchased only a new lipstick and a pair of sungla.s.ses for myself, whereas Fletch comes home with a veritable trousseau because there's no problem with his card.) (Additional sidebar: I guess the lesson here is to pack like a jacka.s.s.) We take a taxi across to our new favorite place. Trastevere is only a mile away from the center of Rome, but must somehow be the difference between Brooklyn and New York. It's blocks away, yet oceans apart. The buildings are smaller and closer together and it's much more of a hotspot. Tons of bars ring the square and all the European kids in their twenties are drinking beer in the courtyards, while the older generations are sitting in overlooking cafes with their bottles of wine. The whole place feels like a polite fraternity party, We pa.s.s by the street vendors and they all try to catch our attention as they hawk their wares. We walk up to a display of woven leather bracelets and the vendor says to Fletch, "Hey, British guy, you like?" At the next table, he's mistaken for French. Fletch decided to go Euro on his first day here, so he's been buying bracelets, saying that they'll remind him of the feeling of being relaxed and on vacation once he's back in the States.

I can't argue with his logic, yet this is so out of character. He is not a man who wears jewelry. He also isn't one to roll with the punches or enjoy adapting to his surroundings, but there's something magical about this place that's making him loosen up.

(Sidebar: Cute as he looks in his new accessories, my only regret is that I can't mock him by saying, "Hey, Johnny Depp, nice arm party," having already used that line in Twisted Sisters.) Another table vendor starts speaking to Fletch in Spanish, a.s.suming he's a Spaniard. Argh. No one's a.s.suming I'm from anywhere but the US of A, I a.s.sume because there are no fat women here. I can't buy any clothes because no one sells plus-sized items, so I decide to pick up the aforementioned sungla.s.ses. I head into a nice designer optical boutique off the square and begin to peruse the selection. I want something Fendi because I'd like to support their efforts to repair the Trevi Fountain. Also, anything Fendi costs half as much here, so, when in Rome . . .

The owner's helping me select the right pair. At least, I a.s.sume she's the owner as she's the one in all the pictures on the wall. In each shot, she's posed with a celebrity, some of whom I recognize. Those who aren't familiar are likely European movie stars. I'm really taken by how service-oriented shopkeepers are here, and not in a way that's pushy. Employees everywhere really take the time to figure out what's best for the customer, offering honest critique on what works and what doesn't.

After we find an extra-cute pair, I'm in the middle of paying (yes, in cash because my credit card company has somehow decided they're my parents now) when an American kid wearing cargo shorts, a fraternity shirt, and a backward baseball cap bursts in the store.

"Y'all got Ray-Bans here?"

No buona sera, no h.e.l.lo, just a blatant interruption delivered with the absolute confidence that not only does the store owner speak his language, but that she's simply dying to stop what she's doing to a.s.sist him.

Far more politely than the situation merits, the shop owner points him to their selection and offers to a.s.sist the moment we complete our business.

The kid says, "Yeah, but how do I know they're real Ray-Bans. How do I know you're not trying to cheat me? See, I bought some Ray-Bans before in another place and they were fake. I still wear 'em, but I don't like being faked out. I don't want you faking me, you feel me?"

I want to shake this kid, saying, STOP BEING A CLUELESS a.s.sBAG; YOU'RE MAKING OUR ENTIRE COUNTRY LOOK BAD. Though he appears to be college-aged, he's acting like he just downed fifteen Pixy Stix before breaking away from the rest of his cla.s.s on a field trip to the Children's Museum.

"I a.s.sure you, sir, I am not a street vendor and I only sell authentic designer sungla.s.ses," the owner says. Never will I be able to muster similar amounts of forbearance, but something tells me this isn't the first a.s.sbag in her night, let alone her career.

"I don't knoooooow," he singsongs, crossing his arms over his Theta Chi shirt. "How can I be sure? You guys can be pretty sneaky over here. Like, oily and stuff."

I hold up my bag, glare at the kid, and tell the shop owner, "Thank you for including this certificate of authenticity. I really appreciate your service and I'll surely enjoy my authentic Fendi product for many years to come."

My words fly right over the kid's head. He pokes around at the Ray-Ban selection, smudging up a whole row of lenses as his fingers are damp from holding his beer. "Your prices are kinda high. I can get these for a lot less outside."

The owner shoots Fletch and me a resigned look, like, can you believe this s.h.i.t, while in Italian, I promise the owner that we aren't all this stupid.

We step outdoors, both of us incredulous, and Fletch says, "So that's why they call us Ugly Americans."

"I never knew it could be like this," Fletch moans through a mouthful of pasta. "I want to bury every other spaghetti I've ever had in the backyard."

We're sitting outside at an una.s.suming pasta place somewhere in the Santa Maria area of Trastevere, eating one of the best meals of our lives. My driver from the first night has been spot on with his recommendation to cross the Tiber to find restaurants. Our whole dinner, including two courses each and a bottle of wine, will run a couple euros north of what my first terrible meal did. Our pastas have been simply prepared, his with tomatoes, basil, and pancetta, and mine with Parmesan and pepper. What takes this repast from a meal to a memory is the quality of preparation and the freshness of the ingredients-that's a theme we're finding over and over in Rome. Nothing is complicated or overwrought, topped with foam or served with att.i.tude. Instead, the food truly speaks for itself.

I've already inhaled my first course and I'm fighting the urge to lick my plate. I've always heard the term al dente in regard to making pasta, but I've never sampled an actual example of it before Rome. The firmness of true al dente is way chewier than I would ever imagine serving, but it really is perfection. The next time I make spaghetti at home, I'll have to remind myself that what seems wrong is actually right.

After the waiter brings our second course, Fletch says, "How nice is it to finally have a meal without dogs staring up at us?" He slices off a piece of his steak, fragrant with garlic, oregano, and rosemary. When the waiter carried the still-sizzling dish out, we could smell it from halfway across the patio.

The universe must have heard us because at this exact moment, I notice a rustling in the bushes next to me and a pointy face appears on the other side of the fencing. "Oh!" I exclaim. "Look at you!"

A little fox dog is panting up at us in the way that almost seems like a smile.

"Clearly I spoke too soon." Fletch laughs.

"Well, of course he smelled your steak. There's a meat cloud of deliciousness hovering over our table. I'm surprised hungry people aren't lining up at the fence, too." I turn my attention to the dog. "How cute are you?" I ask. Fox Dog bats his long lashes in response, giving me that nose-down, eyes-up look that slays me every time.

I've noticed that the Italians have a different relationship with their dogs than I do with mine. At home, and like many Americans, our dogs are our babies, our sweeties, our little girl or our big man. We hug them and kiss them and love them and never quite let them grow up. Over here, no one seems to infantilize their pets; dogs are treated more like companions and pets act much more independent.