Cindy and I traveled to Italy on a red eye flight out of Newark. We arrive in Rome’s Leonardo Da Vinci Airport in the early morning fog. Once we maneuvered through the passport check point, we located the train station and boarded a local line into the city. As we fumbled through our papers studying directions and trying to determine how far we would go before transferring to a city bus, gypsy women and children wandered through our train car begging for money. Some gave them coins. Others stared at them in disgust. Some shooed them away. Most people ignored them. We looked at them like we didn’t understand a word they were saying, which was true.
After a thirty minute ride, we disembarked at a small outdoor platform covered with graffiti and littered with trash. There were steps leading off the platform in one direction and a tunnel under the tracks going the other way. The few people populating the station did not look like the type to offer helpful directions. A couple loitering young men stood smoking and appearing readying to sell something if asked. I noticed only a man and woman engrossed in conversation who looked like they were actually waiting for a train. I stood by awaiting a break in their conversation for an opportunity to seek directions to the bus stop. Thankfully they understood me and spoke enough English to direct us into the tunnel to the city street on the other side.
A vacant tunnel in a strange and foreign way station on the other side of the world is not the most comfortable of passages. We took a deep breath and crossed under the tracks with a swift clip. I welcomed the sight of the busy street on the other side. A ray of sun poured through the clouds and shined on the shops lining the street. Groups of young people were hustling to schools. Workers were headed to jobs. A pleasant middle aged woman dressed nicely for work pointed us in the direction of the bus stop and told us we would need to first purchase bus tickets at a tobacco shop. After paying a Euro a piece for tickets, we proceeded to the bus stop, oriented ourselves in the right direction, determined the bus we needed to take, and then pack aboard with the local morning commuters.
We road the crowded bus for twenty minutes to an old section of Rome called Travestevere. The last leg of our journey to the hotel was on foot. We followed directions on our map along narrow cobblestone streets towards our hotel. After numerous twists and turns through ancient alleyways lined with trashy modern graffiti, our narrow path opened into the courtyard for Trastevere’s Church of Santa Maria. Breaking into this opening was like coming up for air after swimming through an under water tunnel. The charming church looking down upon the courtyard is one of the oldest in Rome. It was the location of a house-church around AD 220 and has gone through various reconstructions and expansions over the years. The bells ring every fifteen minutes. From the church we reentered the street maze for one more block until we arrived at L’Hotel Santa Maria. We passed through a gate off the side of the street and walked down a path to an inner court filled with several orange trees and lined with charming little rooms. Since it was still breakfast time, we were invited to eat.
After eating, Cindy laid down for a short nap, but I stayed up, chomping at the bit to head out into the heart of the city. Within Thirty minutes, Cindy had completed a power nap, and we were once again working our way through the labyrinth of ancient streets. We came out of the graffiti lined cobblestone maze by the River Tiber, and crossed over the Ponte Sistro, a foot bridge leading to streets with a more manageable grid pattern. An unshaven man in filthy clothes sat in the middle of the bridge like a Troll guard with a threatening canine by his side. Like the tunnel earlier in the day, we passed without incident.
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