For about half an hour today, I sat in the passenger seat of the trusty Fiat Scudo staring at Google Maps calling out things like, "In 70 meters turn left, it will be the second left, after the light -- no not that one -- oh man, this is hard -- wait! it doesn't know where we are! it's rerouting! I think you actually need to go straight!" while Mark made high-pitched whimpering noises and gripped the steering wheel.
That's right, folks: we had elected to return the rental car to the Avis location that, despite being called the location associated with the Roma Termini train station, isn't actually at the station, but buried in a parking garage at the end of a dead end street in the middle of Central Rome. And we had elected to do so at 4:30 pm on a Monday.
Theoretically, the people on the motorcycles and the pedestrians must know how this all works. The double white line that serves as the center divider on major Roman streets seems to have an oddly wide gap down the middle; I theorized that it actually serves as a skinny motorcycle lane.
"In both directions," observed Mark through clenched teeth.
What can I say? There was a traffic jam caused by fresh asphalt being laid right at the merge of an off ramp. There was a bus on the left and a motorcycle on the right. There were pedestrians who stepped right out in front of us. There was the obligatory stalling-of-the-car-on-an-uphill and the frantic shifting and key-turning and clutch-stomping. There were roundabouts.
Mark later told me that he hadn't had such a high level of continuous anxiety for twenty straight minutes in years.
+ + +
But we did it, and we split up into two cabs -- Mark with the 10- and 8-yos, me with the baby and the 4yo and the 14yo -- and I messed up the address ("dieci-sei" instead of "sedici" -- it's the French) but the cabbie corrected me ("uno-zero-sei? o uno-sei? Alora, sedici") so we got where we were going. Mark told me later that he found the cab ride nearly as troubling as the driving, but not me -- I trust the Roman cabbies know what they are doing. The only scary bit was the giant piazza where all the cars appeared to be going in random directions, witn pedestrians weaving among them, a huge fraction of them too busy taking pictures to watch where they stepped.
The advent of handheld mobile devices has not made Rome any less frightening.
+ + +
Alora, we came to our apartment, met the landlady, received instruction on how to separate the recyclables and how often to empty the pots of condensate from the different air conditioners and which appliances not to run at the same time. She showed Mark the washer and dishwasher and said, "I will show your wife how to use them."
Mark said, "You could just show me how to use them."
"I forgot," sne said, "you are American. Italian men do not do laundry or dishes."
She complimented me on my Italian, which since she spoke pretty good English consisted mostly of my spitting out isolated words and phrases if they happen to come to mind at the right time: solamente, non ci sono, adesso, píu buono, and lots of numbers because (despite the earlier "dieci-sei" faux pas) I am fairly handy with those. I explained that I had been working on it for about six months but that it wasn't so hard because I speak pretty good French and also some Spanish and Latin. "Where are you from?"
"Minnesota. È nel nord degli Stati Uniti --"
"No, originally. Australia, maybe?"
No... born in the States. Because Americans don't ever learn any Italian, she explained, they aren't very interested in languages. So, thanks, I guess?
+ + +
There is a grocery store literally across the street, thank goodness, and the 14yo and I went there right away, bought cured meat and bread and cheese and fruit and some token greens and milk and yogurtand chocolate and cereal. The family sat down and ate, and then we sent the younger kids off to watch Horrible Histories DVDs in the living room while we did laundry, drank wine, and caught up with social media.
Oh, and put away all the breakable stuff. Why do apartments we rent insist on having nice things? Really? A basket of porcelain spheres? A set of ceramic horses? Glass vases everywhere?
+ + +
My daughter is homesick.
My four-year-old is too, I think; he is more obstinate than usual. We have had to separate him from his sister; instead of them sharing a room, she is on the couch in the living room (by her choice) and he is with Mark. I just have the baby with me.
My two big boys are doing better. They are used to sharing a room. The 14yo is tired of having to have his siblings with him wherever he goes; he is a little bit bitter that we couldn't finish either of our long hikes because of small children's limitations, but he truly appreciates the chances he had to go climbing three times. He doesn't quite believe that Rome requires as much caution as we have been stressing we need to take. In Cham he could walk all over town by himself. Here in Rome we will be sticking together more, and need to check out the neighborhood before letting them go look around.
My 10yo is just raring to go. No complaints from him, except that I snagged his USB charger and haven't given it back yet.
And the baby is asleep. And so should I be. We shall see what tomorrow brings.
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