Wonderful short little trip into Rome and an overall good day yesterday...
Class this morning was quite good, though I sounded like an idiot in English class because I emoted too much without thinking (I hold
Hamlet as sacred, and sometimes the brain shuts down in sheer awe of the thing, which makes little sense, but shutup, this is my narrative! ;-)). After a lively discussion of Antony and Cleopatra in the following history class, I put my things down in my room and took off for Rome.
From our campus, the very centre of Rome is about a 45 minute or an hour trip, with 20 minutes of a bus ride from the Castelli Romani where we are, to the last stop on the metro line. Sometimes it can be a bit of a harrowing experience for a young lady going alone – Italian men are, for the most part, Really Nasty (and in general, it's not a good idea for a girl to go alone; don't try this at home, kids). Thence, I was very glad to discover a few of my UD friends at the stop, who accompanied me to the metro stop, but didn’t make it off the bus in time to make the waiting train.
I did, and I rode the line to the Barberini stop, where the American Embassy is. There I met
Zadok the Roman, who was so very kind to wait very patiently for me as I went through the beuracracy that is the American Embassy.
Time out to kvetch.
This morning I called the embassy to make sure it would be alright that I come down in person to drop off my fully complete absentee ballot. The first time I called, I said "Hello, my name is Lauren B, I am an American student studying in Rome and I have an absentee ballot. I was wondering if it would be--" at this point I was rudely interrupted by hold music. Er, okay... when the hold music ceased, I heard a recorded voice carefully giving me the instructions for the website where I would be able to get information on registering to vote, and reminding me that every state has different procedures and requirements.
Well, duh.
I called back. “Hello,” I said, “I just called. I have an absentee ballot. I’m already registered to vote. I just want to know if—“
“Hold please.”
Well, at least they warned me this time. :P Not as if I had a choice.
Fortunately, however, they did transfer me to a real actual person.
“Hi, all I want to know is if I can drop my absentee ballot of at the embassy today.”
“Yes yes yes,” he replied impatiently.
“Is 2:15 okay?”
“Yes yes yes.”
“Fine. Thank you, goodbye.”
Grr. How terribly rude.
When I reached the embassy, I was able to follow the lead of two ladies in front of me, one of whom spoke fairly fluent Italian. I stood in line to present my passport. I stood in line to have my bag searched. I stood in line to go into the embassy. I stood in line to go through security and have my bag searched again. After clumsily checking my camera and shoving the change back in my pocket, I proceeded through the embassy (*description withheld lest it violate some national security whatsit*) where I ... proceeded to take a number and wait in line again. Geeze.
The happy thing was that all I heard were regional American accents – that guy was from Pittsburgh, that lady from the Midwest, that one from around Maryland. That one has to be from Arizona, or California, or somewhere way out west. How cool! I felt vaguely like Henry Higgins, but with less contempt and more pride. Furthermore, a real American news network was on the internal television link. Most unfortunately, it was Communist News Network (CNN). Alas. Well, no one’s perfect.
Happily, I was not in line very long, and I was able to drop off my ballot and, with a feeling of great triumph, having voted for the first time ever in my life and, what’s more, that time was overseas and during one of the most important elections American history will see. Huzzah, I am an American citizen!
Meeting with my most patient Irish seminarian friend, he kindly acquiesced to my request for food as I skipped lunch to catch the bus in time. As providence would have it, we were directly across the street from the Hard Rock Café, and we were staring at a green crosswalk sign.
It was fated, the gods decreed it should be so.
And so, talking of Michaelangelo, we went into the café where we were greeted with Italians trying to be American. It was really funny, but I was more enthralled with the American rock and roll memorabilia all over the walls. “But,” Z reminded me, “the Beatles and Mick Jagger aren’t American.”
This is true.
I argued that the Beatles first accidental experience of LSD was in America, and therefore 50% of the Beatles music can be attributed to us.
Commenting further on the “peace, love and rock ‘n roll” mentality that dominated the slogans around the restaurant, I noted one of the “save the planet” sayings.
“I agree with the ‘save the planet’ idea,” said my illustrious friend, “seeing as we’d all be floating around in space without it.”
I reminded him that before the earth would be blown up, Zaphod Beeblebrox and the Heart of Gold would come and rescue us, so long as we had our towels with us. Z insisted that he was the sort of person who knows where is towel is.
Ah, such a hoopy frood.
“What about the baby humans? People tend to think of ‘save the baby seals’ but never ‘save the baby humans’.”
“But baby seals are cuuuuute!”
“So are baby humans!”
“Baby humans smell! Baby seals are cute.”
Ah, yes, Zadok, you go on thinking that ...
Then out waiter came and brought us our respective ethnic delights – a salmon burger for the Irishman and a veggie burger for the American vegetarian.
When I left my native soil, I was fairly certain that the other side of the pond had never heard of the culinary high treason that is the veggie burger. The veggie burger is generally for the very strange – the sort of frizzy-haired, save-the-baby-seals-type – or for the very desperate. Being a vegetarian strictly because I’m unable to eat meat, and doing so makes me ill, I belong to this latter category. Digging into said burger, I can close my eyes and pretend its meat. And darnit, when I haven’t touched the stuff in three years, and haven’t touched a veggie burger in four months, it’s pretty dang good to me!
That, and a huge plate of fries. I looked to my left after I had finished and realized I had just eaten an entire meal without touching my silverware. Score. (I would like to point out that Z has the most hysterical habit of eating french fries with a fork and spreading ketchup over them with a knife. *points and laughs* Yes, I realize that I am certainly more the heathen here. Silence! Stop interrupting my narrative.)
But but but. That was not enough. For weeks (or at least, hours) I had been craving some form of a brownie desert, preferably with vanilla ice cream and hot fudge. Ooooh, the Hard Rock had this in spades – not only ice cream and hot fudge, but also whipped cream, chocolate sprinkles and a cherry on top.
It was so beautiful. I wept. I laughed. I couldn’t finish half of it, with Z helping me.
It was so awesome. It was almost a religious experience.
Maybe it was a religious experience. I did lunch with a seminarian, after all. That’s got to count for something.
Either way, I left the Hard Rock Café a better person, and a better American.
Huzzah.
To quote the great Rogers and Hamerstein song from Flower Drum Song, “I Enjoy Being a Girl” :
I flit when a fella sends me flowers,
I drool over dresses made of lace,
I talk on the telephone for hours
With a pound and a half of cream upon my face.
And in this I did endulge (though I didn’t have the cucumber slices to go over the eyes to make it appropriately hideously picturesque) while listening to Enya and reading Thomas Aquinas’ Summa Contra Gentiles.
Ahhh! Does life get better? I submit that it cannot!
