I'd gladly pay you Tuesday for an umbrella today

I have been to Rome before, in October 2001. I remembered it being loud, busy, and a little too fast. My first trip out for a walk proved that my recollection was indeed right on. It started to rain as soon as I left the apartment. I don’t have an umbrella because I live in Colorado and can barely remember rain much less prepare for it. So I’m getting soaked. One of those nice (read: creepy?) Italian men appears to sell me an umbrella, but I demure. Ten minutes later I regret my decision.

I am on my way back to Via dei Cisterna 22 to dry off and regroup, and I run into a man looking for directions. Of course, I don’t have any idea how to get to Via Trastevere, but my iphone does. I know you are all shaking your heads at me now, but I was trying to be helpful. I find our current location using my new 3GS GPS and Compass stuff (so cool) and then locate Via Trastevere. Meanwhile, he is chatting me up. I ask him, “del caffe aberto?” I know my Italian is beyond terrible and I was a little flustered. What I wanted to know is whether coffee shops were open at this hour and where one might be. Italy, like all European countries, is much more rigid about when and where we indulge in Americans’ favorite past time, stuffing our faces. Of course, he thinks I’m asking him out for coffee. I realize this and say no, I must go to my apartment, since this is the only thing I can say in Italian. He then says no problem, I’ll go with you. Ugh! I say no, grazi. He then says (and this is loosely interpreted) my eyes are beautiful, like fire. Those of you that know me also know that I have green eyes. Possibly the exact opposite of fire really, but I do have a ring of yellow around my pupils so I’m going to believe that he looked at my eyeballs before saying such a thing. He asks one more time if he can come to my apartment. No. Then it’s OK, Goodbye. He gives me a kiss on the cheek, which I allow because I am still trying to salvage this interaction as something positive. Then, of course, say it with me now, he tries to stick his tongue down my throat. I wrestle away from him and take off, causing some poor woman to stall her stick shift economy car on a hill to avoid hitting me. (I’m sure she was a tourist as well.)

Now it is definitely time to go home and regroup. The next umbrella salesman has me hooked for 5 euro. I open my purse to get the money and realize I’ve forgotten my wallet. Frankly, I don’t have any euro anyway. The exchange rate at the airport was terrible so I only got 100 euro, which I used to purchase the train (5.5 euro) and trolley (a bargain at 1 euro) tickets required to get to Trastevere. I quickly surrendered the rest of my stash to Stefano, the lovely man who is renting the apartment. I am actually 10 euro short, but he seems cool with getting it tomorrow morning.

I run into Stefano outside my apartment and he asks me how long I am staying in Italy. I tell him in my broken Italian - until the end of October. The rest is too much to explain right now. He asks if I speak Italian and I say un poco (which is Spanish, but I haven’t gotten that far in Italian Rosetta Stone). He then asks me a rather astute question. “Why are you here if you don’t speak Italian?” My answer, “because I want to learn.” I believe my answer endeared me to him and his question to me so he introduces me to his friend (in the passenger seat of his car), the police officer who lives in Firenze. He doesn’t speak English but I take his card anyway.
I ask Stefano where I can get a caffe (or at this point a vino) and he leads me through the door across the street from my apartment. It is deserted, and I still don’t have any money, credit, or debt. I’m hoping I’ll find my wallet sitting on the bed. Stefano says no problem, he knows Roberto very well and he doesn’t pay for anything here. OK. Where are we exactly? The Hotel Cistern. OK, I relax. Roberto pours me a glass of vino bianco. I “talk” to the police officer from Florence who doesn’t speak English then head back to my apartment. The wallet is sitting on the bed. Stefano says he’ll knock at 8AM and we will go to breakfast. I’m not sure if he’s sweet or smarmy so I’ve decided to go with sweet until otherwise disavowed of this notion.

A word about the “apartment”. It is a room directly off of Via dei Cisterna. There are no windows, but I can leave the door open for light. (Don’t worry Mom. There is a second set of glass doors for protection.) There is no kitchen, only a hot plate and cheap espresso maker, but really, I am not in Rome to make my own meals. It is clean and the shower pressure is fantastic so I am happy.

It is now 7:30. The shops have closed, but the restaurants don’t really open until 9:00 so I’m not sure what the Romans do during these witching hours. I guess I’m going to dry off, bundle up, and go find out.