5-15-06
Today I arrived in Rome. Disembarking from the plane was no adventure. Most of the passengers I was near were Americans traveling abroad, including a young married couple I would guess to have been on their honeymoon. Immigration was also uneventful. The agent, behind reflective sunglasses, fiddled with some papers on his desk, asked to see my passport, glanced briefly at my picture while flipping to the page upon which he arbitrarily decided to place his stamp. In a corner at an angle covering the writing, which was meant to instruct him to place the stamp neatly within one of the squares provided. In all, the process took less than two minutes. It did not include the questions I had expected based upon my earlier trips abroad, such as “what is the duration of your stay?” “What is the purpose of your stay?” and “Did you bring any plant or animal products with you?”
After immigration, I went to pick up my bags, which the attendant at my departure gate told me should be waiting for me in the baggage claim area, having arrived upon an earlier flight. I went to the passenger aid area for Contental and stood about for a few moments before realizing that preggo was the equivalent of “next” or “can I help you”. I stepped up to the line and asked if they had my bags, and the young woman behind the counter told me to check in the first door on my left when I left her booth. I don’t read Italian, but I’m pretty sure the sign on the door said that I was not supposed to be in there. So I went and looked at the little roped off section of the terminal that had some unclaimed baggage to see if my bag was there. It was not, so I went back to the help desk. I asked the young lady again if she knew where my bags might be, and she, rather forcefully, asked if I had looked in the first door on my left. I said that I had not, and she sighed a little bit, and told me to do so. I decided that if I weren't supposed to be in the little room, someone would yell at me as soon as I opened the door, so I braved it. The nice women sitting at their desks made little surprised noises when I first poked my head in, but when I showed them my baggage claim ticket they brightened a little and told me to “look around, and check over there.” Unfortunately my bag was nowhere to be seen. I decided to wait and see if it had, perchance, made it onto my flight before bothering the young woman at the counter again, mostly because I was afraid of trying to explain to her that I had not found my bag. I was just about to give up when I saw my black duffle, with a little ticket that said, “reroute” on it, slide down the chute onto the conveyer belt. I picked it up and hoisted it onto my shoulder and muscled my way out to the uscita to see if I could catch a cab.
All of these were minute adventures compared to the taxi ride that followed. Knowing no one from Penn State, and not having had time to make arrangements to meet anyone at the airport, I decided to go directly to the Sede to check in. As I made my way to the door, a gentleman in a sport coat looked at me as said, “taxi?” I said yes, and he pointed to a young man by the door that came over and asked me where I wanted to go. I said “Largo Anzani” as best I could, but had to resort to pointing to the space where I had written it in my little notebook. He led me out to his cab where he pulled out a street map and leafed through it for a few minutes before scratching his head and shrugging his shoulders, as if to say “you got me there.” So I asked him to take me to “Piazza di Collogeo Romano” and pointed to the address. He smiled and opened the trunk where I tossed my bags and then I got in the front seat. I’m not sure that I was supposed to do that, but he didn’t seem to mind. Rather, he didn’t yell at me and point to the back. Describing the ride to the Sede would take more time than I have in Rome, and more space than my feeble hundred gig hard drive provides. I shall do my best, but understand that the experience was so novel that it shall be locked in my memory forever, even if I am unable to ever express it in words.
First, I must say that I was not afraid. Traveling at 60 miles an hour two inches from the car in front of us while my driver was making a phone call would normally be cause for a quick change of pants. But I accepted that this was the way the Romans drove. I must admit I had some notion of how it would be because my Uncle Cessna, who studied for several years in Florence and other places in Italy, drives in a very Italian manner. That said I believe that the Roman drivers are better, and not worse, than their American counterparts. They have a great faith in their fellow man, a sense of trust, which we do not. I wonder if they view life as more transient than we do, and as a result are more accepting of death and accident, or if they view life as more permanent, thus conceiving of themselves as invincible and impervious to accident. In either case, they are far kinder than are we. When someone cut off my driver, he did not yell, or swear, or even flip them off. He sighed, shrugged his shoulders, and clicked his tongue, as if to say, “What would your mother think of this which you have done to me?”
I arrived at a lovely museum. This was unfortunate, as I had hoped to arrive at the Penn State Study Abroad campus in Rome, Italy. I wandered up a large flight of marble stairs, and into a room full of windows, with a few pictures on the walls and some statues. I asked the guard if he could tell me how to get to the address written in my notebook. He looked at me blankly and was afraid that all was lost when a nice gentleman in a plaid sport coat asked if I was looking for the Penn State building. Then he kindly explained that it was in building ‘B’, and told me how to get there. I eventually found it, and rang the bell. My adventure there should be well documented elsewhere. I walked up the stairs, signed in, got another taxi to my apartment, met my new housemates, and went out for cold pizza before falling into bed.
After immigration, I went to pick up my bags, which the attendant at my departure gate told me should be waiting for me in the baggage claim area, having arrived upon an earlier flight. I went to the passenger aid area for Contental and stood about for a few moments before realizing that preggo was the equivalent of “next” or “can I help you”. I stepped up to the line and asked if they had my bags, and the young woman behind the counter told me to check in the first door on my left when I left her booth. I don’t read Italian, but I’m pretty sure the sign on the door said that I was not supposed to be in there. So I went and looked at the little roped off section of the terminal that had some unclaimed baggage to see if my bag was there. It was not, so I went back to the help desk. I asked the young lady again if she knew where my bags might be, and she, rather forcefully, asked if I had looked in the first door on my left. I said that I had not, and she sighed a little bit, and told me to do so. I decided that if I weren't supposed to be in the little room, someone would yell at me as soon as I opened the door, so I braved it. The nice women sitting at their desks made little surprised noises when I first poked my head in, but when I showed them my baggage claim ticket they brightened a little and told me to “look around, and check over there.” Unfortunately my bag was nowhere to be seen. I decided to wait and see if it had, perchance, made it onto my flight before bothering the young woman at the counter again, mostly because I was afraid of trying to explain to her that I had not found my bag. I was just about to give up when I saw my black duffle, with a little ticket that said, “reroute” on it, slide down the chute onto the conveyer belt. I picked it up and hoisted it onto my shoulder and muscled my way out to the uscita to see if I could catch a cab.
All of these were minute adventures compared to the taxi ride that followed. Knowing no one from Penn State, and not having had time to make arrangements to meet anyone at the airport, I decided to go directly to the Sede to check in. As I made my way to the door, a gentleman in a sport coat looked at me as said, “taxi?” I said yes, and he pointed to a young man by the door that came over and asked me where I wanted to go. I said “Largo Anzani” as best I could, but had to resort to pointing to the space where I had written it in my little notebook. He led me out to his cab where he pulled out a street map and leafed through it for a few minutes before scratching his head and shrugging his shoulders, as if to say “you got me there.” So I asked him to take me to “Piazza di Collogeo Romano” and pointed to the address. He smiled and opened the trunk where I tossed my bags and then I got in the front seat. I’m not sure that I was supposed to do that, but he didn’t seem to mind. Rather, he didn’t yell at me and point to the back. Describing the ride to the Sede would take more time than I have in Rome, and more space than my feeble hundred gig hard drive provides. I shall do my best, but understand that the experience was so novel that it shall be locked in my memory forever, even if I am unable to ever express it in words.
First, I must say that I was not afraid. Traveling at 60 miles an hour two inches from the car in front of us while my driver was making a phone call would normally be cause for a quick change of pants. But I accepted that this was the way the Romans drove. I must admit I had some notion of how it would be because my Uncle Cessna, who studied for several years in Florence and other places in Italy, drives in a very Italian manner. That said I believe that the Roman drivers are better, and not worse, than their American counterparts. They have a great faith in their fellow man, a sense of trust, which we do not. I wonder if they view life as more transient than we do, and as a result are more accepting of death and accident, or if they view life as more permanent, thus conceiving of themselves as invincible and impervious to accident. In either case, they are far kinder than are we. When someone cut off my driver, he did not yell, or swear, or even flip them off. He sighed, shrugged his shoulders, and clicked his tongue, as if to say, “What would your mother think of this which you have done to me?”
I arrived at a lovely museum. This was unfortunate, as I had hoped to arrive at the Penn State Study Abroad campus in Rome, Italy. I wandered up a large flight of marble stairs, and into a room full of windows, with a few pictures on the walls and some statues. I asked the guard if he could tell me how to get to the address written in my notebook. He looked at me blankly and was afraid that all was lost when a nice gentleman in a plaid sport coat asked if I was looking for the Penn State building. Then he kindly explained that it was in building ‘B’, and told me how to get there. I eventually found it, and rang the bell. My adventure there should be well documented elsewhere. I walked up the stairs, signed in, got another taxi to my apartment, met my new housemates, and went out for cold pizza before falling into bed.
posted by Harvy at 4:44 AM
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