59 things tourists love about Rome

I'm heading to Johannesburg after three months in Rome and here are the things I've learned that tourists love when visiting one of the greatest cities in the world.

1.  Sleeping in the Jesuit Curia.

2.  Gelato. All tourists love gelato... All of them.

(Blessed gelato)

3.  Seeing nuns walking around like normal people.

4.  Looking like tourists

5.  Friendly nuns.

6.  Scary nuns. (click look closely)

7.  Attempting to discard of garbage in a way that would be pleasing to Pope Francis.

8.  Buying stuff from street vendors, even at political protests.

9.  Fiats.

10.  And Fiats' anti-theft systems.

11. taking pictures of disgusting stuff, just because you camera was there.

12. Buying underwear on the street.

13.  Paying 8.50 Euro for a hotdog and Coke in front of the Vatican.

14.  Photographing your lunches.

15.  Things that look like they used to maybe be important.

16.  Penis pasta.

17.  Getting lost.

18.  Drinking from the local fountains.

19.  Cannons.

20.  The Colosseum a.k.a. the gay district.

21.  Climbing on the ruins.

22.  Horse-drawn carriage tours that block traffic.

23.  Religious graffiti.

24.  Busses crowded with Jesuits.

25.  Bombs.

26.  Benny's door, which he installed to fit him and all of his Jets.

27.  Tabacchis. This giant T unlocks everything you need in Rome. Bus tickets? Smokes? Espressos? Those tiny, 5-packs of chewing gum? Yeah, just find a T and you're golden.

28.  Learning that pregnant women should not speak into microphones, eat Chicken McWraps or enjoy a Dasani...

29.  Drinking the local beer, no matter how bad it is.

30.  Paying like 30 cents less for gas behind the Vatican City walls. Tax free! (that's right, I got to hang out in VC!)

31.  Being arrested by Vatican Police. If you get cuffed and put into a Vatican cop car, you'll be sitting in the front seat, because it's a 2-seater Smart Car. Nerds.

32.  Swiss Guards

33.  Hot dogs.

34.  Going to an "authentic" Roman bar to hear people sing "Route 66" and "Blue Suede Shoes" and drink a Budweiser.

35.  Attempting to read Roman love notes all over the city.

36.  Taking a photo that you can find 5,000 different times on the Internet

37.  Taking a photo of something spectacular with your phone.

 38.  Pope Francis

39.  Security.

40.  Tour guides.

 41.  Blessings for communists.

42.  Seeing great works of art for free.

43.  Then paying to keep the lights on #42.

44. Buying little bottles of limoncello and then not declaring it at customs.

45. Maintaining your national identity.

46. Pope Shoes... Pope Benedict may be gone, but his fashion sense continues.

47.  The Vatican Seal, even if it's on a sewer or a light post, it's still cool.

48.  Posting things from a Vatican Post Office that doubles as a drug cartel mule.

49.  Cute graffiti.

50. Street performers who verbally harrass people just looking for a free show.

52.  Drinking Duff Beer. Don't ask me why this exists in real life, but it does. And it's in Rome of all places.

53. James Bond cop cars.

54. Happy communists.

55. Crappy HDR iPhone photography.

56. Eating at some place that makes you think of home. Yup, that is a Miller Light Super Bowl poster at an Italian Pizza shop. And no, they don't serve Miller Light.

57.  Eating at some place that reminds you of the Rome you've seen in the movies.

58. Taking the Metro in the wrong direction when it is about to close.

59. Drinking a beer so big it would be inappropriate if you weren't on holiday... or at Oktoberfest.

36 Hours in Paris Part Two: The Church of Bruce Springsteen

This doesn't actually start in Paris. This starts with a breakup, which is pretty fitting for a blog about Bruce.

I got dumped. And I wanted to see Bruce Springsteen with this guy in London. How lovely would it be to hear "Fire" or even "Dancing in the Dark" with your special someone's arms wrapped around you? Well, I'll never know.

So I had two choices. Wallow in my Rome apartment, crying when I would read reviews of Bruce shows around Europe. Or, pack my suitcase, buy tickets, and wrap myself in 40,000 voices singing along to great breakup songs like "You're Missing."

That's how I wound up in Milan, screaming and crying in my nose-bleed seats. And that's how I ended up buying tickets to see him again in Paris last weekend. I talked my two friends from India, Andy and Nastasia into coming along for their first Bruce experience.

We all got off at different metros, not knowing how to find each other. I kept saying, "Find the beer tent that is blasting Bruce Springsteen." Well, there are dozens of those. Eventually we met at the gate, celebrated our reunion outside, Andy lost his deodorant in the frisking at the gate, and we made it to our seats.

But I made a pretty bad mistake. I bought great seats. The best I could get at last minute. First tier, north side of the stadium. And I was so happy about the wonderful seats, that I planned on enjoying them.

My two friends and I got beers, then more beers. We danced and jumped and laughed and took a million photos. Enough to the point that the upper middle class old people surrounding us found us to be pretty bothersome.

At one point, Bruce broke into "Pay Me My Money Down", arguably one of his most fun songs to sing and dance around to. So I did. And the guy behind me waved his finger at me like, "no, no, no, young lady..." Now, I don't speak a lot of French, but rather than ignoring him I should have turned around and yelled, "Est-ce que vous me comprenez rock n' roll?"

The night went on. The sun began setting. He played Little Richard's "Lucille" and a bunch of stuff from "Wrecking Ball," not to mention the entire "Born in the USA" album cover to cover. He killed it, and killed me with "Thunder Road."



And then it was over. And we stumbled from the stadium, trying to find a Metro back to Central Paris, the whole time practicing our French. "Nastasia, Nastasia, how do you say, 'the cat is under the table?' How do you say, 'the mice do not like the shower?'"

She told us that we would never have to use those sentences. And low and belhold, the next morning, enjoying our hangover Croque Monsieurs in a side-street café near the cemetery, what did we see? Le chat est sur la table.

36 Hours in Paris: Jim Morrison's Grave

Well, I am proud to say that my visit to Jim Morrison's grave ended with the police asking me to cease and desist (or at least, I assume, since he was speaking French). 

I first heard about people's fascination with Jim's grave in high school when one of my teachers visited Paris over the summer. She said there were bottles and syringes and used condoms everywhere (I went to public school, and this is how teachers talked). So I was excited to see the seedy-ness for myself.

So last week I decided on a whim to spend the weekend in Paris to See Bruce Springsteen and (what is left) of Jim Morrison. As I wrote on Facebook, I stayed out too late the night before my flight, slept through my alarm and woke up in a panic. Without any time to pack, I threw a portable record player and a Doors album in my bag, a toothbrush and a shirt.

Arriving at the cemetery on Sunday with two great friends I met in India, we wandered around for an hour trying to find him because my friend who had been there before "would know it when I see it." We eventually found it by asking people with tattoos or band t-shirts, who all had come for the same reason.

We found his modest plot covered in photos and flowers, with a gate so no one could "disturb" his resting place.

I got out my record player, put in the batteries, took out the LP (live set) and dropped the needle. We cracked a beer and lit some cigarettes. Here's to you, Jim!

People took photos of his grave and of our little set-up. People thanked us, and talked to us about music. Then, I got a little too courageous and played Light My Fire at full volume.

Eventually the police drove by and told me to cut it out. Nastasia asked in French why we would have to stop if it was making people happy. Rules are rules, he said... good thing he didn't spot the beers.

So the party was over. But now I can say, I went to Jim Morrison's grave and had the 5-0 called on me. 

Don't Be Mean

My sister gave me a song a few years ago. And I play it on my bike or in the car and yell it when I need to yell. And I don't know how many blogs compare an 80's chick punk band to Saint Augustine, but here goes.

Augustine once described the Bible as a document that grows with us; as children it's lessons and interesting stories, as young adults it's a moral compass, as adults it's something for us to study critically and question and discuss.

Well, music can be the same.

"Don't Be Mean" by the Raincoats is a breakup song. And it's a bleeding-heart woman asking why the person is ignoring her a year later. "Even when we're old grey, I think you'll see me and look the other way, just like you did, dear, only the other day." What a jerk. No breakup can be that bad, I thought.

Well…

As it turns out, I'm the jerk, so to speak. I went from being her in that song, to being the person she's singing to. See, I kept getting emails from my ex-boyfriend that I wouldn't respond to. I mean, if you can't say something nice… right? I told him to stop emailing.

Another lyric, "Now it's been well over a year and there's no more time for shedding a tear." Well, it has been about a year, and I'm still upset. 

The point I'm trying to make is this. The Raincoats were wrong. The best thing I can see in my life between myself and this person is if I were to run into him, would be to turn around and walk the other way. Because God knows every fiber in my being would be begging me to scream or cry or light his shirt on fire.

So, the Raincoats are wrong. And frankly, I'm not to happy with Augustine right now either. I feel like he partially ruined this song too. Thanks a lot.

international dating is for suckers

This is the third time I've returned home and told my friends about some new guy I've met in some crazy place and fallen in love with. And it's the third time they've scoffed it off, no one caring enough to ask about it because they "knew" it wouldn't last. Some said it out loud, which drove me crazy.

We all want to believe it is going to work out, no matter what country or what circumstances. Love conquers all, right?

Well, it doesn't work. If I were more rational or less masochistic, I would stop trying. But, unfortunately, there is nothing better than those moments when it is working. Everything Roy Orbison ever said was right.

So here I am, eating one of a million meals alone, letting Chuck Berry and Joni Mitchell try to convince me that it's all worth it. Well, I'm not listening today, Joni. What the hell do you know anyway?

If there is one thing I can say about dating while globetrotting, it's this – you're still alone. And you're going to wind up feeling more alone.

With that, here are the songs I'm listening to today. Call it a "wallow mix."

Can't You See - Marshall Tucker Band

Rye Whiskey - As sung by Pete Seeger

Save Me - Amy Mann

When I'm feeling sad, I just have to remember this quote

. . .
I was down in the hen house on my knees
I thought I heard a chicken sneeze
Only a rooster sayin' his prayers
Thankin' his God for the hens upstairs
. . .

~Woody Guthrie

She’s leaving home

I’m in Rome running on my eighth day without a full night of sleep. So my rose-colored glasses are on while I am writing this blog summing up my last weeks in Omaha. I didn’t post for awhile because I replaced all of my self-reflection time with socializing and living what was the last of my Omaha life for the next several months.

Walking the streets of Rome with my only friend in the city, he asked me if I could ever move back to Omaha. Of course, I said. He was surprised, as many ex-pats are. Most left home and could never foresee themselves returning. You change, the longer you’re gone. And you start to feel like an outsider more when you return. People want to hear less and less about your life abroad–who you’re dating, what you saw, how you felt. And eventually, you are leading two separate lives and you have to choose to live one fully, rather than living both fragmented.

I try not to let this happen. I want to keep the people I love in my life. I want to maintain my Omaha identity. But I also want to travel the world and meet new people. So don’t wonder why I post 200 photos on Facebook of Omaha. Don’t wonder why, in some manor house in England, you’ll find me telling people about Warren Buffet and the Dust Bowl and Saddle Creek Records. It’s because I am trying to take you all with me, trying to take home with me.

My last night in Omaha, a small dive bar in South O was filled with love. I can’t remember the last time I had so many friends in one place. My brother Kyle got to meet my best friend Ricky; Fr Doll got to discuss theology with Duffy; I got to dance with nearly everyone to the Pulp Fiction soundtrack in the jukebox.

I stayed up all night, and then had to say my goodbyes again, walk through the revolving doors of the Omaha Eppley Airport again, and hug my dad again, always trying not to cry until I’m alone. I had to find my gate again and capture the skyline in my mind again.

And I have to burn all this into my brain. That I am saying “bon voyage” not “goodbye”. I have to remember that no matter how long I leave, that this is my home. Because without all of you guys, who am I? Travel is only so meaningful if I don’t have family and friends to relay it to later. This blog offers me only so much comfort if I’m the only one reading it.

I need my home. And I need to travel. And I’ll find a way to make it work.

(Thanks, Fr Doll, for all the great photos. ©2013 Don Doll, S.J.)