The Italian Journals

Wednesday, September 10: Peter’s Version

We glided in over the terraced hills on the west coast of Italy, and I was about to wax rhapsodic over the view of the timeless hills and farms when, for the thirtieth time in three days, Carolyn asked if she packed the right clothes. Carolyn was concerned that Cathy’s flair and style would make Carolyn would look like a boring by comparison. I told her that boring people don’t pack a different pair of shoes for each course at dinner. I also predicted that Dino would wear shorts and sneakers everywhere. Carolyn said Cathy would make him dress nicely. I asked Carolyn if she’d ever met Dino.

We landed a couple of minutes ahead of schedule, and we could tell just by looking at the workers outside the terminal that it was hot and humid in Rome. We already had that up-all-night funk about us, so all I could think about was an air conditioned ride to a hotel with a shower. We got off the plane, and I texted Dino to let him know we had landed. They had gotten in just fifteen minutes ahead of us. We went through immigration, got our bags, and found Cathy and Dino.

They still didn’t have all their luggage when we met them, but just when I started to wonder how Dino would make this my fault, the bags showed up and we started looking for the driver who was supposed to take us to the hotel. I asked what we should look for, and Dino said, “An Italian guy with keys.” Fortunately, Cathy had a few more details. The transportation area was crowded, and I got my ass pinched about forty times. I was about to ask Cathy to stop or I would tell Dino, but we finally found our driver, Stefano.

We made our way out to Stefano’s ultra-mini minivan. It had plenty of room for the four of us, but unfortunately, we also had to squeeze Stefano and our luggage in, so we were crammed pretty tightly. Dino called shotgun, and as we drove, Stefano gave some commentary about the sites. It would have been nice to incorporate Stefano’s comments into my notes, but I couldn’t hear him over the sound of all four air conditioning vents blasting at Dino’s chest.

Stefano might have known a lot about the history of Rome—but he clearly knew nothing about the geography. One end of the street our hotel was on was blocked off, so he took us by another route—through Madrid. It took an hour and ten minutes for him to cover a stretch we covered on foot in about fifteen minutes the next afternoon. And he only got us within a block of the hotel at that: we had to get out and carry our bags the rest of the way.

We checked into the Hotel Artorius on Via Del Boschetto. It was on a narrow side street that would have been a little worrisome if half the streets in Rome weren’t little side streets. We entered the building and walked down a little hallway to a foyer not much bigger than a living room. To the right was the front desk, really more like a small counter. Behind the counter was a desk with a TV on the wall above it that was on at all times. I swear they watched the same soccer game for five days. In the middle of the foyer was an old elevator with an old-fashioned cage car with cables attached to the top. Suitcases were piled up inside it. As I walked over to it, an employee of the hotel told me, “It’s still an elevator, but it’s not safe for people anymore, only housekeepers.”

There was an atrium past the foyer where they served breakfast in the morning, and wine and pistachios at cocktail hour. The hotel was small, but it had exactly what the four of us wanted: good location, comfort, convenience, spacious rooms, and wine and pistachios in the atrium at cocktail hour. Oh, one other detail: every employee of the place was young and good-looking. There was the good-looking daytime front desk manager, the good-looking housekeeper, the good-looking girl who put out the food for breakfast. The only exception was the old man who sat behind the counter watching the marathon soccer game. Turns out he owned the place. The good-looking daytime front desk guy, Nicolo, gave us a map of the city and some recommendations on restaurants in the area. Our rooms wouldn’t be ready for a few hours. Evidently they were going to use the elevator to take our bags upstairs, and that could take a while depending on how many times the elevator crashed and they had to get medical attention for the housekeeper. So we decided to go for a walk, see a few sights, and ...

September 10: According to Dino

When we meet up with the Greco’s, Peter tells me how they “glided in over the Italian west coast blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.” Who’s he kidding? For all he knew, he was flying into Newark. I love it when he tries to get poetic and get in touch with his feminine side. Unfortunately, it’s his only side. Actually that’s not fair, he has two sides. Both feminine.

We meet Pete and Carolyn in the airport, and they’re all bubbly and wide awake. I’m bushed, my head’s pounding, and I really don’t feel like talking so when Pete asks me who we’re looking for I can’t stop the normal D’Adamo sarcastic response. Pete says that, unlike everyone else, I lack an internal editor in my head, and that anything that pops into my brain is immediately transformed into words. According to Pete, the only modification is the addition of numerous four-letter words. He’s wrong of course. I don’t add them. They’re actually part of the cognitive process. I even think in curses. To be honest, when I hear some people curse, I cringe because it sounds so bad. I just happen to be very good at it. In my case, the cursing merely provides an interesting backdrop of color commentary and, oddly enough, is never offensive. It’s just a talent I have. A gift really. Like the ability to bring out the worst in people.

Getting back to the story, I’m tired and I don’t feel like talking, so when Pete asks me what the driver looks like, I say, “An Italian guy with keys.” Now, anybody but Pete would get the point and just let it go, but not Pete. He’s very concerned that we might never find the guy and that we might have to spend the next two weeks at the airport. Then he starts bitching because he’s getting his ass pinched. If you ever saw Pete’s ass, you’d know that his ass getting pinched twenty times is the same as a normal sized ass getting pinched once. So even though we already have all our luggage, I make believe we have another piece and I have to go find it because I can’t seem to spot it on the conveyor belt. I find the nearest bar and order due sorso di (two shots of) grappa. I soon discover that drinking sufficient amounts of grappa dulls my senses, which makes certain aspects of the trip much easier to endure.

Anyway, sure enough, we spy an Italian guy with keys, and it’s Stefano, our driver. I can immediately tell that he has that “Italian” way about him. In America, when you meet a guy you are paying, he greets you with a smile and is very gracious. In Italy, he acts like you’re his unemployed brother-in-law who his wife made him pick up and will be sleeping on his sofa for the next two weeks.

We pass the Monumente Nazionale a Vittorio Emanuele three times, and unless there are three of them, I’m guessing that we’re lost. Stefano probably forgot that we were paying him a flat fee. When he remembers, he just stops the car right in the middle of the road and tells us the hotel is two blocks in that direction. That’s OK with me, I was getting carsick anyway. So I grab my luggage and let Stefano know how much I enjoyed the ride by giving him the appropriate American hand gesture. Pete tells the girls that I told him to give Stefano the finger because it’s a compliment in Italy. To set the record straight, I tell them I didn’t tell him to give Stefano the finger. In Italy it doesn’t mean anything. I told Pete to give him the American “OK” hand sign