When in Rome … and when to keep roaming

And they’re off!

The 22 Mustangs (ponies?) penned up in Paris emerged frommidterm week battered but not broken. I for one made a quickgetaway. After a grueling final Friday midterm (and okay, fine, aleisurely visit to a Van Gogh exhibit) I was home free for anine-day fall break. By 10:15 that evening, I was snug in anItaly-bound couchette train.

My head nestled on a bookbag containing the week’s barenecessities—underwear, toothbrush, camera and Zola—and20 hours later I disembarked.

Rome greeted me with wreaths of laurel and Olympian nymphssinging as they bestowed copious fruits of vine and earth upon mytravel-weary self. I was accompanied by vestal virgins to thepublic baths, we chortled and laughed and splashed together in thename of discovering truth.

I woke up just in time to dimly perceive that the aforementioned20 hours had indeed waned and, perking up, elbowed my arbitrarilydesignated travel companion (whose quasi-anonymity I shall preserveby referencing him, henceforth, only as Deesus) into equalenthusiasm.

We stumbled off the train, I judiciously performed myfirst-time-on-virgin-soil ritual—i.e., hone in on nearestrestroom facility—and tramped around looking for our hostel.It should be noted, we stupid foreigners found one with relativeease.

The next morning, we embarked our perambulation well fed, wellrested, and well cleansed but not well shorn. When in Rome, afterall, one does as the Romans, and thus the Great Razor Boycott’03 duly commenced.

The twofold remarkability of the situation presented itself:firstly, it happened to be the last Sunday of the month, meaningthat not only was entry to the Sistine Chapel and Vatican museumfree but also that the Pope would be giving his address after 10:30Mass at St. Peter’s Basilica.

Secondly, it was the first day of non-daylight-savings’time, meaning that we were actually up and dressed in time for saidMass.

Although the entire European Catholic community seemed to seizethe same situation, the experience was nonetheless remarkable.

Between the very tall and flame-haired Deesus’scharacteristic ability to part the seas of pilgrims and my patentedrodent-inspired crowd burrowing technique, we convened beneath theenormous portal of Vatican City.

Being unscathed in the aftermath after Mass, we headed off inthe vague direction of the Coliseum.

Meanwhile, various conversations with hostel roommates and trainpassengers gradually birthed a new idea in my wanderlustful brain:I was going to hike the Cinque Terre during my stay in Italy. These”five lands” are actually five tiny towns on thenorthwestern Italian coastline. One can move by a network of trailsthrough mountainous woods and expansive vineyards.

Deesus, slightly apprehensive about the hike but good-naturedlygame for adventure, was offered no alternative.

Anyway, we left Rome for La Spezia one early morning aiming tocomplete the hike before nightfall. (I figured the Cinque Terrewould be a good warm-up for the four hundred miles of trailtraversing the Swiss Bernese Oberland, which was to be our nextstop.)

We found the trail’s humble beginnings and set off hikingwith healthy Germanic grunts. I won’t get into the topaz ofthe Mediterranean or the cliffsides jutting out into the air likesculpted Roman noses. Nor will I recall for you the terracedvalleys lacquered with golden grape vines—oh, no.

I’ll just say that I had difficulty wrapping my mindaround the fact that this place was a physical reality. Which maybemakes the following situation easier to understand. Besides,physical reality is way overrated anyway.

Okay, see, the word “lost” is so frequently misused.And so often terminology exists that is more exact and lesssuggestive of utter panic that applies better. For example, onecould say, “taking an alternative route” or”deviating slightly from planned locus” or the simplebut much preferred “exploring nature’smajesties.”

People are so quick to slap the “LOST!” label ontosituations that they freeze up with unfamiliarity and ultimatelyfail to enjoy the terrain before them.

Instead of spending precious life trying to beat your way backto the beaten path, why not apprize the novelty of whereyou’re at and keep moving?

I explicated this theory to Deesus as we hit hour four and rain.The trail, which bore no evidence of recent human presencewhatsoever, went utterly vertical. The enmity I was beginning tosense from my flame-headed friend seemed to increaseproportionately with altitude despite the mollifying serenity ofthe woods and streams, but Deesus is a trooper.

Unfortunately for him, though, he’s also a clarinetist. Imust say that if he were to park me in an orchestra with aclarinet, I wouldn’t have gotten as far through a symphony ashe had through those mountains. But in any case, Deesus is atrooper.

And so we trooped on through nightfall, meeting an elderlyGerman couple vacationing at a vintner’s cottage who directedus through a particularly circuitous portion of trail toward thenearest tiny settlement of sorts.

We hunted down the single bus stop and collapsed, wet with aday’s worth of rain and sweat, shivering silently. Envelopedby the absolute dark one finds amidst Alpine countryside, wekilometers and kilometers away from anything familiar. And very,very happy about that.

[Stay tuned for The Phatness of Fall Break, Part Deux: TheMaking of a Swiss Miss, in which our heroine braves Funny Farming,the war on snore and further Alpine conquests.]