when in rome....

so here's some things i've learned while in Rome...

Giuseppe, my host, is an amazing meteorologist. He told me it would rain at 11 on Saturday, and it started raining at 1030, and pouring by 11. He had given me an umbrella, so I was prepared.

There are such things as miracles.  I dropped my 18-135mm lens while at St Peter's Basilica in the Vatican; and it's still working. I mean, it hit the ground hard; I expected shattered lens or a bad dent; and so far, it's all good. I gave my change to the nuns at the souvenir shop as a thank you.

No only means No if he speaks the same language. I met an Italian last night who did not speak much English other than "oh my god" and "oooh baby". Trying to get him to understand that I did not want to go home with him, or want him to come home with me was the biggest linguistic challenge I have ever experienced.

Prego is not just a spaghetti sauce.

When in doubt, follow the gays. I was on the metro, going to a new neighborhood to try and find "discotheque" to go do some dancing. I saw some gays and a girl get off at my stop, so I followed them; I second guessed my gaydar and decided to turn left when they turned right, and I got lost; when I tried to backtrack they were gone. Later in the evening, I found the club; it was down the street the gays had been on; I will never doubt my gaydar again...

Italian coffee and a kebab wrap at 4 a.m. is better than any bran muffin you've ever eaten. No wonder there's so many skinny Italians here...

Rome should be called the City of Love, La citta di amore, because it is just like love: dirty, beautiful, old, and modern. I haven't seen or heard any fighting between all the couples I've seen, and I have yet to see any parents yell at their children....la dolce vita indeed.

I realized I like tight jeans on men. I'm just saying, when they fit, they fit nice. And I wish more American men would wear clothes that fit, instead of the oversized Sean John crap...but it does make me ask that age old question: gay or european?

does this overweight bag make my butt look big?

The word of the day seemed to be "delay". My checked in luggage was overweight by 8 pounds, and I had to rearrange my carryon to accomodate the heaviest items; I was already cutting it close with check-in time for an international flight. Then I drop my bags at TSA, and they were completely inundated with suitcases; their system of organizing the bags for scan didn't appear to have any rhyme or reason but luckily my bag was placed in the pile nearest the scanner conveyer belt, so I said a prayer to St Anthony Bourdain (my travel guru) and headed to security.

Arriving in LAX at 6 a.m., a bit ahead of schedule actually, everything moving along as it should, I ate my cheese danish and enjoyed my decaf Starbucks (I wanted to sleep on the next leg of the journey.)  As I was sitting on the ground in the airport charging my phone, a woman walks by and says "nice thong". She was smiling as she said it, so I smiled sheepishly back at her; yep, my pink lacethong was hanging out the back of my jeans, full display of tacky for the early morning travelers in LAX Terminal C. You know me, anything I can do to make your travel experience more pleasant and memorable.

I was already down the jetway, about to step on the plane to Dulles, when a steward came out and informed me and the passengers behind me that unless we wanted to sit on the plane for 2 more hours, we should return to the terminal; the weather was bad in DC and we were being held at the gate.  A cute Israeli boy told me he was heading to customer service at B terminal because his flight to Rome (yes! he's on my flight!) was going to be affected by this delay; i followed him, and hoped for the best. After we waited in line for 20 minutes, he got to the customer service agent first, and was told that "oh, your flight's leaving now, the delay was lifted". So we sprinted back together across the terminals to arrive at our gate (in the movie version of this moment he would be played by one of those guys from "Y Tu Mama Tambien" and grab my hand, running with me, shouting "we're gonna make it baby!", and right at the door of the plane he would stop, turn to me, put his hands on either side of my face, and purr "what are you doing for the next 8 hours" right before kissing me.) But alas, this is reality,  I am not a new member of the mile high club, (that one will have to stay on my bucket list) and he moved to his seat without turning back to say goodbye.

Just as I'm settling in to my seat, the co-pilot comes over the PA to say "folks, we're in a holding pattern here, the tower's not clearing us to go, we've got some weather issues out there, we should know something in 20 minutes."  He repeated this same announcement TWICE after that. Just then I received an facebook  comment from my girlfriend who lives in the DC area: "Dude, we've got tornadoes and lightning storms; bet your plane's delayed...."  I email my Italian host, Giuseppe, to let him know I'll be late, and pray that he gets the message and doesn't rent out my "cute room in central Roma" to someone else.

1.5 hours later, we're in the air and on our way to Roma....Arriving 2 hours late in Rome, my bag arriving 1 hour later, and my phone dead, I manage to make my way with my incredibly heavy suitcase through the metro and train stations (with help from two chilvarous Italian men who I'm pretty sure asked in Italian "what's in there, rocks?" after lugging my bag up several steps to street level) and get to the metro station closest to where my apartment is supposed to be. In true Kelli fashion, however, I turn left instead of right, and have to backtrack 4 extra blocks to the Via Luigi Luzzatti apartmento.

No one answers the buzzer; but the gate is open, so I enter the courtyard just as i hear "Kelli?" from the 3rd floor window; Giuseppe is waiting for me still! He comes downstairs and kisses me on both cheeks; he immediately takes my bag, but he's only a little bit bigger than my suitcase so I'm worried he's going to hurt himself. But he carries it up the stairs to his apartment with no complaints. (I think I heard the word "rocks" uttered once or twice though...)

The apartment is fabulous; old and classic and sweet and spacious, high ceilings and paint peeling in just enough places to make me feel right at home; Giuseppe had music on in my room, grapes and cookies laid out, and the room looked just like the pictures he had posted; bright colored linens on the bed, big windows with wood shutters open to the Roman skyline, and my own vintage-blue tiled bathroom.  His flatmate, Rachel, came out to greet me, a gorgeous curly-haired girl from Monterey; she translated for me when Giuseppe's limited English failed him. Giuseppe is a ISL teacher to Persian immigrants; that's Italian as a Second Language; he's fluent in Arabic, Persian and Italian, and speaks a little French; originally from Naples he's lived in his current flat for 3 months. He's been dating the same girl, long distance, for over 11 years, and is looking for work in France (apparently there is a bigger immigrant population, and more needs for teachers there.) Rachel just graduated from University, and is "trying to live in Roma for a year". She's fluent in Italian, and seemed right at home already.

We chatted for a few, and then I went to unpack and freshen up; I laid down for a moment, and woke up 2 hours later. Giuseppe called my name, and I went out to the kitchen to find lunch waiting for me: some type of canned fish (which was better than any Chicken of the Sea I'd ever had), tomatoes, fresh mozarella and fresh rolls. It was perfect. I asked him where would be a good spot to watch the sunset (I had to use Google Translate App on my phone, though; he didn't understand my question at first). After giving me directions to an area that overlooked of the city, G decided he would go with me; he packed a 40 of Budweiser and off we went.

Gianicolo is a hillside just Southwest of the Vatican, and it's truly breathtaking; Rome is laid out below, a panoramic of city and ruins that stretches as far as you can see. Along the walls of the overlook area there is a great amount of what I will call "amore graffiti":  messages of unrequited love and heartbreak and admissions of great romance. Most of the graffiti was standard Joanie loves Chachi statements like  "Tony loves Melissa" and "Eva and Carlos 2010" but then there'd be a heart-twister of  "il mio amore e piu grande oggi piu di teri" ("my love is greater today than yesterday") for everyone to see. Giuseppe and I shared the budweiser like two old friends as we watched the sunset bathe Rome in a beautiful pink haze. It was calm, and peaceful, and I couldn't help but feel the energy of Gianicolo; it's the ultimate Lovers Lane,  assisted to this title by the Eastern Indian street peddlers guilting every male into buying their wilting roses for their wife or mistress. Giuseppe even bought me one as an ultimate gesture of hospitality and welcome. Ah bella Roma!

We walked home, and ordered take out pizza, and joined Rachel in the kitchen for ensalata and wine; the pizza was excellent and the company tremendous. I introduced them to Li Hing Mui-rimmed beer glasses and Caramac candies I had brought from Hawaii. I nearly fell asleep at the table, so I excused myself at midnight; Giuseppe/Rachel said he would have breakfast ready for me at 730, and it would take one hour. I set my alarm so I would not be late. I was asleep before my head hit the pillow.