1/18/19: avviso

Presumably “avviso” is Italian for “heads up,” and if I had any more Italian I might have been able to sort out the transit strike before I squandered my 1.5 euros on a metro ticket. This was a very civilized transit strike, as far as I could tell: it affected only a subset of public transit and it took place from 8:30 am to 5:30 pm then paused, to resume again at 8:30 pm. Thus the impact wasn’t on rush hour, just on dodo people like me who blithely assumed the A line to Battista would be running at 11:30 am on a Thursday. The cab line at the Termini was long but it moved, though I was nonplussed by the woman who assumed a place in line next to me, gradually and casually becoming in front of me, and yeah, lady, I saw that. I got in a cab and noticed the driver had his seatbelt secured behind his back, just like my dad used to do, and he saw any gap in traffic as an opportunity to put his foot to the floor as if letting anyone in ahead of him was a sucker’s game.

Lines in general appear not to be super popular here: I had figured out how to take a bus from the airport into the city and while there was loosely a line waiting, as soon as the bus arrived (late) the line immediately dissolved into a scrimmage as everyone converged to jam their suitcases on, heedless of any logical approach that might have been much more efficient. Our driver—how I wish I could have seen his speedometer—made haste into the city, all the while conducting an animated conversation on his cell. Still, full marks to him for driving a stick shift, and it was such a delight to be back in the land of the lawless scooters, everyone flying around with a breathtaking lack of care or concern for the rules of the road or practical two-wheeled attire, with packages and shopping bags hooked or balanced anywhere. Viva the outlaw scooter!

I don’t want to brag, but on occasion I can demonstrate remarkably poor decision-making skills. A few months ago I had inexplicably purchased two framed photographs from a man who had shown up at my previous place of employment with a preposterous story about how he came to be in possession of them (renovations on a floor below, they had been sent six sets of photographs instead of six individual photographs, his boss said unload them at the cost of the frames). I had a credit card burning a hole in my pocket and the frames are lovely and the photographs are reproductions from the New York Historical Society, one of Babe Ruth and the other of Grand Central station early in the 20^th century, sunlight streaming through those famous windows. I brought them home and slowly came to realize I had nowhere to put them, which is neither the beginning nor the end of my poor decision making. My mother and stepfather recently moved from Florida to South Carolina; my stepfather having lived in the city for a while it soon occurred to me I could perhaps pawn these photos off as a thoughtful gift for their new home. I broached the idea, they were not unreceptive, and so I determined I would ship the pictures to them.

There is a UPS store just ten or so feet from the entrance to my apartment building and while it is generally crammed full of unhappy people trying to use the printer or drop off packages with a staff who are apparently fined if they use more than 10 words in a transaction, since I am free during the day time I was able to sneak in during a relatively unbusy time. This story could be even longer, so the highlights: I was tersely informed UPS could package the photos for $54, not including shipping, or they could sell me a box for $20 and I could spend a fraught two hours stuffing as much bubble wrap as I could carry from the Duane Reade into the bottomless maw of that box, finally resorting to tearing up pages from old New Yorkers and then, in true desperation, digging out some fabric I had from a project that never materialized since the person I was slated to make these curtains had some problems, and when the box was finally filled and shipping was only like $25 all I had to do was call my mother and explain that she was welcome to receive the box and put the entire thing directly into the trash. Everything seemed like a good idea until I got into the weeds and by then it was it was too late to turn back and if futilely pitching crumpled-up pages from old New Yorkers into a gaping abyss isn’t a metaphor for something then I don’t know what is.

I was in Rome in December and when I checked into the hotel they asked for an email address, in case they needed to contact me if, for example, I left anything in my room. I believe I did chuckle out loud and waved away the question, thus setting into motion the wheel of karma that meant I would leave my phone charger and plug converter behind. However, I will have the last chuckle here, as upon returning to the same hotel it wasn’t 30 minutes before my charger and converter were returned to me so as far as I am concerned I have managed to make some 50-60 poor decisions and come out on top at least as chargers/converters are concerned. It’s also nice to be back to a familiar place in a strange one—isn’t there a saying about how home is where your phone recognizes the wifi network?

I like an urban bus ride, as long as I’m not in a hurry, as I like looking out the window at the sights and Rome is an excellent city for gaping at. New York is, too, of course, but I’m kind of used to it and Rome is so completely unfamiliar it is absolutely captivating. I was glad I had figured out a bus/metro trip, though obviously the metro part didn’t exactly work out. I spent not a few minutes roaming around the Termini trying first to find the metro and then to get my brain around the fact that the line I needed wasn’t running. The Termini is like an unholy combination of Penn Station and the Port Authority as it has several kinds of trains, buses, and the metro as well as a giant underground shopping arcade and the most homeless-adjacent-looking people I have seen so far. In other words, in that sense I felt right at home, though I did miss that unique perfume of urine and Auntie Anne’s, and this was before I saw the signs advertising New York City.

The “famous, original”? Really?? Like there are impostor New York Citys that unsuspecting Romans are lured into visiting? There is also a company here called “Wall Street English” and I admit I blanched a bit at this, as I don’t know a ton of people who work on Wall Street but the thought of a bunch of perfectly nice, innocent Italian people learning how to talk like complete douchebags doesn’t seem like a particularly positive impact for America to have. I wonder if they have updated the curriculum from “bro” to “brah.”

On my way to JFK I took the E, as per, and two things from that trip stand out: one was how many people thanked the TSA agents for showing up to work—the security line was all of 3 minutes—as well as how gracious the TSA agents were in response; the other was this guy from the 7^th Ave platform.

This was my first encounter with him (you get to know the regulars—I remember once running into Carlene (“My name is Carlene and I have two children…”) on the 1 line and I hadn’t seen her for a couple of years and I almost greeted her like an old friend), and I do hope I will see him again. He had rigged his gauntlet of hula dolls up with hot pants and roses and they came alive with each song, shaking their hips and lighting up as he played songs from the Americana songbook including “Oh Susannah” and “Yankee Doodle Dandy.” Cheers to you, sir, and thanks for the earworm: I’ve been muttering about being from Alabama with a banjo on my knee ever since.

Stay weird, world, and don't you cry for me.