Photo credit: Carol Madigan

Once in awhile, the Travel God (I call mine Claude) inserts themselves (yes, he is a trannie) to point out the narrow mindedness of my travel philosophy. This time it was to show me that all of Rome was not suffocatingly overrun by tourists dutifully checking off their “things to see” lists.

   Carol and I began our second St. Patrick’s Day abroad with a tram back to the train station for some souvenir hunting for the grandkids, and to pre-purchase our tickets for the Frescati pasta making and wine tour tomorrow. 

 “I tap those zippered pockets constantly throughout the day like I’m a third base coach giving signals to the runner on first to steal second.”

   We jammed ourselves into an overcrowded metro bound toward the Spanish Steps and Trevi Fountain. Both sites were crammed with tourists, and somewhere along the way, I had my pocket picked in Europe for a second time. It was possibly on that sardine express of a metro, and once again, it was my American naivete. I keep passports, cards and main cash stashed in multiple zippered pockets on my coat. I carry a small amount of cash in a front pants pocket for convenience and small purchases. I tap those zippered pockets constantly throughout the day like I’m a third base coach giving signals to the runner on first to steal second. But not the same with my pants pocket, and when I got home that night the almost 50 euros I had foolishly allowed to accumulate in my pocket was no doubt being used to fund a party at the gypsy camp that night.

   Needless to say, by the time we found an Irish pub to celebrate the day, I’m in a slow roll over crowds, and ready for another eruption of Vesuvius to finish the job it had started at Pompeii. That’s when Claude intervened in the person of Carol’s niece Ginger. I poured out my liver about the crowds ruining it for me in the Eternal City, and she knew just what to show me. 
   On a walk back to her and husband Mark’s apartment, we met up with Mark at the Colosseum. It was nightfall, and still the place was teeming with people taking selfies in the dark. Ginger heard my disdain, and patiently herded me and my bad attitude to a park just across from their apartment. It was quiet, bucolic and quite safe, she said. I had to admit, it was the first positive contradistinction to my blackened view of Rome.

   At the apartment Mark put together an impromptu pasta dish that was delicious, and the evening filled out with elevated conversations about food and the restaurant business. (Did you know, for instance, that the high end wine (those $300 bottles) on the menu generate almost no profit for the restaurant? They’re there mostly to add an upscale flair to the eatery.)
   When we got back home, I noticed my pocket had been picked, and I was back to hoping for active volcanic activity to ensue. I don’t want anyone to die. I just want the pyroclastic cloud to cover everything to a depth of about 20 feet, and let Vegas take over preserving the glory that was Rome. I’m never going to Vegas anyway.