Solo in le Montagne: Don’t Trust Your Travel Book

Before our semester in Italy began, someone gave us a Rick Steves travel book of Italy. It turned out to be a great gift and we became big fans of Rick Steves, whose travel advice led us on many wonderful adventures. There were, however a few times when his guidance was lacking in some way or another–our trip to Rome being a prime example.

Our first few days in Rome were an absolute success with each of Steves’ recommendations turning out better than the last. In addition to the obvious destinations, (the Colosseum or the Roman Forum) his book led us to an off-the-beaten-path crypt of the capuchin monks lined with skulls of deceased monks (a momento mori– reminder of death). It took us to a spectacular cafe where we received free glasses of wine just for placing our book on the table. And, finally, on his recommendation, we planned to get dinner at a small pizzeria where he claimed the best pizza in Rome was produced.

He did mention that the service could be a little rude, but we thought the great pizza would be worth a little neglect in hospitality. 

 

Pizzeria Baffetto, Rome

We headed down a narrow, cobblestoned side street from the Pantheon. As Pizzaria Baffetto wasn’t due to open for another 15 minutes, we were surprised to see a line already forming in front of the hole-in-the-wall restaurant. Waiting in line, we noticed a strange sign on the door. Two stick figures, one wearing a backpack and one holding a backpack in front of it. A big red “X” over the one wearing the backpack and a big “OK” was next to the one holding the backpacks.

Okay, a little strange, but Italians never fail to raise the bar on strangeness. When the doors opened, we took off our backpacks and carried them inside.

This little joint could have been straight out of Jersey. A cramped room jammed full of tables, tiled walls you could barely see for the jumble of pictures and memorabilia that covered them, and a wood-fired oven in the back corner.

Two Italian men were shaping and throwing pizzas in the oven and pulling them out again minutes later, crisp, golden, cheesy.

We ordered our pizzas, one with eggplant and another with zucchini flowers (an Italian delicacy). While we waited for them to arrive we scanned the pictures covering the walls. A short, squat, old man with suspenders, glasses and a cane made so many appearances we could only assume he was the owner.

Even as we were taking all of this in, that same squat figure appeared in the doorway; complete with suspenders, glasses, and cane. He stared intently around the room with a slightly crazed glare and then began shouting at the staff in Italian.

We sort of chuckled to ourselves about this, remembering Rick Steves’ warning about the rude service.

A moment later, another flux of visitors came through the door and the owner stared at them, unwelcomingly, with those beady eyes. The last to come through the door were two young people–a guy and girl–clearly tourists, wearing backpacks.

As soon as he laid eyes on them, the owner began yelling in Italian and the two kids turned to stare in surprise and confusion. “NO! NO! Solo in le montagne! No zaini! NO!”

The kids were stunned and tried to ask what was the matter. These tourists clearly didn’t speak a word of Italian; they were completely lost.

We tried to help, calling across the room “Take off your backpacks! It’s your backpacks! Take them off!”

At this point, the owner began beating their backpacks with his cane, still shouting “NO! Solo in le montagne!” In case you didn’t catch that, it translates, “No backpacks! Only in the mountains!”

In desperation, the bewildered kids pleaded, “We don’t speak Italian!”
The owner, still delivering blows with his cane: “No Italinano? OUT! OUT!

At this point we were standing up, cupping our hands, and shouting, “TAKE YOUR BACKPACKS OFF!”

Finally, they got the message and pulled their backpacks off. Immediately, the shouting and beating stopped, and they were allowed to take their seats (in light of their first impression, it still amazes me that they chose to do so…).

The owner resumed his beady-eyed stance, neck forward, staring around the room.

Just then, our pizzas were unceremoniously deposited in front of us on tin plates. And, I have to say, Rick Steves was right: this was the best pizza I have ever eaten. Paper thin crust, burnt around the edges, sauce so hot it would scald you. The most incredible stringy, bubbling cheese.

 

Pizza with zucchini flowers.

 

But really, Rick Steves? Slightly rude service? A bit of an understatement.

That said, would I go back? Absolutely. Any authentic Italian experience should include a hefty helping of the absurd.

The Rose Man in Rome

Rome, Italy
Spring, 2012

It was our last night in Rome. It was one of those lovely spring evenings when the air is the perfect mixture of warm and cool which feels like a perpetual kiss to the cheek. We were sad to end our time in such a beautiful place and we had spent the evening stalling our goodbye. We wandered the quiet streets from the Trevi Fountain, to the Spanish Stairs, and through winding back streets until we finally found ourselves at the Colosseum.

The ancient structure was at full aesthetic advantage in the soft glow of the street lights; the crowds of the afternoon vanished–leaving open space to amplify its majestic stance. We made our way to a secluded bench where we could sit and bask in the beauty around us. As I sat there, under the walls of the Colosseum, with the arm of the man I loved around me, in one of the most beautiful, romantic cities in the world, I had one of those moments of utter surreality that sometimes overwhelm me. At these times I am simply in awe of the present beauty of my life and feel almost distant from myself–marveling at my own experiences as an outsider.

As I was processing all of this I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. I looked and saw a man carrying a bundle of roses walking in our general direction. He caught my eye. I looked away quickly; but it was too late–we had made eye contact. His trajectory changed from generally in our direction to straight for us. If you have ever been to Rome than you know why I was horrified with my mistake.

Most cities, especially tourist cities, have plenty of street vendors and peddlers continually trying to sell you their wares. But in Rome, more so than most cities I’ve been to, some of these peddlers can be particularly persistent and aggressive in their attempts to make a sale. And of all of these, the rose men are the worst. They prey on the unsuspecting tourist, offering a rose as if as a gift, when the victim accepts the rose the peddler then demands money, but refuses to take back the rose and, unless you throw the rose on the ground, the only way to get rid of the salesman is to give him the money.

Even those who are wise to this trick have a hard time escaping the rose man. Once you make eye contact you are doomed. He swoops in like a hawk, with a rose held out in your face, and when you dismiss it he follows with continuous cajoling and flattery–insisting you take the rose. I’m not exaggerating to say you either have to run away or curse him out to escape. It is a miserable interaction every time.

And now, in the middle of this perfect, romantic moment, I had drawn one toward us. I turned to Tyler, and thinking quickly, said, “Make-out with me, now!” We immediately embraced, eyes closed, pretending to be oblivious to the man’s approach–surely he wouldn’t want to harass a gross, sappy, couple. But with dread we heard the continued sound of footsteps on cobble stone approaching us. But we persisted–we were committed now. The footsteps grew closer, and closer, and then they stopped–right in front of us. I’m sure I blushed, feeling his eyes on us, even though mine were closed. But we clung to each other–determined to make him so uncomfortable that he would leave. Surely he would leave.

The silence continued for what felt like an eternity, but could only have been a moment’s pause before we heard, “Ah, romantico.” In complete surprise and indignation we broke apart and looked up at the man standing over us. He was looking down at us with a grin on his face, rose extended toward us.

Our mouths hung open for a moment in shock before we began the usual chastising dismissal. Finally, Tyler said, “GO AWAY.” The rose man shrugged, still grinning, and  walked away. Tyler and I looked at each other in utter amazement and horror and I said, “I was sure he would go away!”  Then we burst into uncontrolled laughter–the sheer ridiculousness of the situation overwhelming us.