I Like-a To Make-a The Prrrank-a Phone-a Call....Ciao Roma!

Welcome to the latest installment of "Jessica Offends an Entire Continent Within the Span of One Semester," where I share my bawdy tales with my friend, the Internet. I really would love to tell you about the deliciousness and work of complete originality that is the Nutella-and-Banana sandwich, but there was this other thing I did this weekend, so we should maybe talk about that.

Jessica Says "When In Rome" About 700 Times In Three Days

So after the Wednesday night freak out about the train strike and the blood and sweat that went into making a backup travel plan, those lazy Germans stopped striking after a couple hours and we were happy to hear that our journey would be hassle-free. Enter the genius of the Deutschland labor unions. We may have been able to take our scheduled train, but that actually meant the four trains it took just to get to the airport in Weeze, which is basically a city that looks like Solvang on its night off. We got off the plane, onto another bus, walked to the metro, rowed across a lake, dog-sledded a few blocks and finally reached our hostel and were allowed in after we answered the intercom "these questions three." And then walked up seven flights of stairs.

We dropped our stuff off at the hostel, which was teeming with twenty-somethings finding themselves, and went in search of dinner. Starving, exhausted, and generally jubilant, the mood was only soured by the time (almost midnight) and the scarcity of open restaurants. Enter Ivano. If you were wondering what happened to Inigo Montoya after the Princess Bride ended, he moved to Italy and opened a hostel (at which we were staying) and then sold it and started roaming around restaurants. The staff recommended a restaurant around the corner where we ran into Indigo/Ivano and as he overheard us talking about the hostel, asked us our budget and then promised us a 4 course meal meeting the exact price. A few bottles of wine, pasta, salad, meat, appetizers, and dessert later, we breathed a collective sigh of satisfaction and unanimously decided that we were in love with Rome.

Too tired to go out, most of us went to sleep early to be prepared for the next day's adventures.

Jessica Plays A Game of Hide-And-Seek With the Pope



The Vatican. I would go on for pages and pages describing the rooms and hallways and corridors filled with marble busts and statues of gods, saints, popes, and disembodied faces of supposedly important people but it wouldn't make any difference. The best I can do is recommend a good art history book and instruct you to cut it in half; there, in a nutshell, is the Vatican. Priceless statues and frescoes that you hear about your whole life and don't really care about spring at you from every wall, reminding you that you've done little to nothing with your life. We set off in search of the Sistine Chapel, and because the Vatican is full of liars who like to post arbitrary signs all over the place, it took us hours to find it. Kristin's camera shuttered with rapid flashes every few seconds as we stared straight up at the Creation of Man and were then yelled at in rapid Italian over a loudspeaker. We moved on.



We found the School of Athens and mummies from an Egyptian collection, and then debated on whether or not to buy a two euro soda; "When in Rome," I quipped for the 8th time that day. Finally, after another labyrinth set up by what I believe to be very bored priests, we made our way out of the museums and into St. Peter's Basilica. I have never seen, nor do I think I will ever see again, something so overwhelmingly beautiful and terrifying as that building. The size of it takes your breath away, the intricacies of the art and architecture grip you, and then St. Peter himself punches you in the stomach when you look at his tomb underneath the massive baldachin and realize that you are standing feet away from the first pope. I had to sit down, but managed to pant a soft "When...in...Rome."

We walked out and took about 40 pictures in St. Peter's Square, and I was quite hurt that Benedict didn't even bother coming to say hi. Undeterred, we headed off into the streets of cheap souvenirs and gelato in search of the Colosseum. We ate a quick lunch (and I stupidly ordered a drink that cost 4 euro without knowing it) and walked for hours trying to navigate a map aimed at leading tourists down alleys where they will face off with Italians on Vespas. Running into a piazza filled with artists, music, and contented people eating outside in the warm weather, we got our first gelato and relaxed for a moment before wandering off again in search of things to tell our families we saw and feel mildly better about ourselves.
We found the Pantheon, what we thought were the Spanish steps, the Roman forum, centuries-old ruins in the city center, and then the crescendo: The Colosseum rose out from the skyline, mocking the McDonalds restaurants that cowered its ancient shadow. Being the thrifty (read: cheap) Americans that we are, we opted to walk around the Colosseum and Arch of Titus (instead of paying for the tour inside) before falling exhausted on the ground and studying a group of flight attendants with an almost pervert fascination.

We were scheduled to go to a pub crawl that night, so we headed back to the hostel to be knocked unconscious for an hour by the tiredness of traveling (which rivals the violent effects of Nyquil or Opium).

Jessica Meets the Pub Crawl: Toasts Her New Friends By Singing the Spice Girls' "Wannabe"



We met up with the group on the Spanish steps (the real ones, not the massive staircase that I stubbornly maintained was the actual monument)and after a delightful conversation with a man from Norway who knew slightly more English than I know German, we were headed to the first bar. Open bar for an hour, pizza, and the Spice Girls set the tone for an awe-inspiring night. We met several American, Spanish, Italian, and French college students (all easily identified by their respective haircuts) who were a welcome distraction from the hungry stares of middle-aged men, slicking back their oiled hair and cracking their knuckles as they measured up our group of 9 girls. The organizers rounded us up into several buses, and I crammed in the back with one of the most welcome sights of the weekend: a group of highly energetic and friendly Germans.



I rattled off every German phrase I know, including, but not limited to, my name, age, and all the swear words I've collected over the past month. Their warm reception and offer to teach me new and exciting swear words, however, could not match the sheer spectacle that was an entire group of adult men (who had moments before been singing patriotic fight songs and cheers) happily shouting every word to Katy Perry's "Hot and Cold."

After the second bar (peppered with inebriated conversation with friendly Americans and the live band's rendition of U2's entire musical catalog), we headed to the last destination: a cave with blaring dance music. In the morning, this location would be deemed "creeper central" as most of the normal people tapered off after the second bar and the rest of us got saddled with the remnants of the crowd. Luckily, I found a nice, sober Spaniard named Alberrrrto who chatted with me in English while I insulted his entire culture with my attempts at Spanish.



After the pub crawl, we realized two things:
1) We were drunk and now deaf
2) We had no idea how to get back to our hostel

We wandered aimlessly around for twenty minutes before stopping an Italian who pointed us in the opposite direction. Kristin, at this point, had a dramatic falling-out with her shoes and considered walking barefoot through the city. "When in Rome," I advised. We gathered her over our shoulders and all walked back to the hostel, having one of those conversations that in practice means nothing but contextually means everything to those participating in it. Finally making it back to the hostel around 4:00am, Brittany and I chatted with some dirty Australians in the kitchen about traveling, drinking, and the meaning of the word "cunnilingus," which incited a conversation about cultural semantics. It was all very important and not in the least bit inappropriate or immature.

The next day we woke up and packed, sad to leave this wonderful city that we had all so rapidly fell in love with and had so few hours left to explore. I went with a small group to the Trevi Fountain (which, as an ignorant American I compared to the talking statues at Caesar's Palace), made a wish to return to Rome, and had our last gelato of the trip. Then the mommy pants went back on as I frantically herded everyone out the door to make sure we didn't miss our bus, which would lead us to the seven different modes of transportation we would need to get home.

Jessica Meets the Train System Again; It Wins This Round One metro, bus, airplane, and another bus later, we were faced with the chilling weather of Germany and a train that wouldn't come for another 45 minutes. We cursed Weeze, and found a Greek restaurant five minutes away where half of us devoured cheeseburgers and fries. When I remarked that they seemed to have thrown some meat patties into the deep-fryer after cutting them with scissors, Kristin calmly responded, "When in Greece," to which I tipped my hat and uttered a satisfied "Touche." We got back on the train, and then to another train which apparently needed to make the rounds to every stop in all of Germany before getting to ours (again, a meaningful conversation driven by delirious exhaustion took place, this time regarding sausages). We finally got to Koln, and half of us made it to the stalled train to Bonn, where a forty-something woman manifested the growing anticipation for Karneval dressed as a glittering clown with a light-up tambourine.

Being one of those fortunate enough to have made the train, God made it up to me by making that train go to the wrong stop where it refused to continue on. Pretty sneaky, train. On the upside, I made two more German friends who happened to be on the same route as I, and about 45 minutes later I was back home to the smell of bruschetta, which Lilo had prepared for a small dinner party with her sister and brother-in-law. Amused by the presence of Italian food after a weekend spent desperately searching for it, I ate some, drank some juice, and headed up to bed.

How was your weekend?
Ciao!