OFF THE PAGE WITH RAYMOND ATKINS

OFF THE PAGE WITH RAYMOND ATKINS

From a Villa in Tuscany

When I told Mandy that I would be traveling to Italy in January and that I might not be able to contribute a column, her first reaction was, “Oh my God. The magazine might not survive your absence!” Okay, she didn’t really say that, and I can neither confirm nor deny that she thought it. What she did say was that I should write about my travels and send those musings to Well Read. I kind of liked that idea, but I want everyone to be really clear that this was her idea, not mine. So even though I am all up in Dawn Major’s lane for the next couple of months, please rest assured that it is only temporary. I do not want to get on Dawn’s bad side, because that girl is formidable.

So anyway, I am writing this month’s column from a villa in Tuscany. I am sitting here in front of my wood stove with my laptop on my knees. My petite cup of strong, black, well-sugared coffee sits upon the table to my right, and if this image does not enhance my writerly credentials, then I don’t know what you guys are looking for. I was considering naming this column Innocents Abroad, but my Italian AI Assistant, Guiseppe, advised me that the title had already been used by someone named Twain, so I guess I’ll just go with Notes from the Road. Guiseppe is here with me now, looking over my shoulder while smoking with impunity, as is the Italian way, with virtual biscotti crumbs dribbling from his scraggly beard onto my keyboard. Apparently, he came with the place.

I am here with my lovely wife, and this is our 50th wedding anniversary trip. From my point of view, they have been the 50 best years of my life, each one better than the last, and from hers the best 37. I think she is kidding about that, but I am not entirely sure, and I’m afraid to ask. In the grand scheme of things, 37 is pretty good, and you’re welcome.

Our trip began, as many trips do, with a long flight. We traveled with American Airlines, or as I like to refer to them, the flying cattle car company. Actually, the flying part of the journey wasn’t too bad, because after buying our tickets I also purchased the ass upgrade, which gave us three more inches of seat room and four more inches of leg room. These additional inches cost about $100 per inch and were worth every penny, which sort of gives you an idea of the extent to which we all have been conditioned to be grateful for not much and to be willing to pay out the nose for the favor. We flew out of Atlanta with a tight connection in Philadelphia, a plane change made even tighter by a last-minute gate change. Airlines do this regularly before international flights to be sure that travelers of a certain age are physically able to withstand the rigors of a transoceanic journey, and what better way to do this than by making them run down the concourse while dragging heavy suitcases behind them? We made the flight, but I lost my fancy European hat in the process, and I am willing to bet euros to donuts that it won’t be in the Philadelphia airport lost-and-found when I get back. I really liked that hat.

We flew into Rome, and it was there while seeing some of the sights before moving on that I discovered that apparently I look like an American. I discovered this at St. Peter’s Square where, among a crowd of no fewer than 5000 people, I was like a scammer magnet. Random strangers walked past everyone else to get to me with the intent of selling me phones, scarves, rosaries, pictures of the Pope, and bracelets. At one point the actual original Nigerian Prince approached me with a plea for 1000 euro that would then somehow unlock billions, all of which we would split. I have no idea why he was in Rome, and I hope he was able to resolve his financial embarrassment and get back home. He seemed like a nice fellow just down on his luck.

This was early in our journey, and in an attempt to circumvent similar experiences throughout Italy, I decided to get proactive and take steps to change my appearance to something more European. I bought a pair of tight black pants which were no fun to put on because my feet are bigger than my ankles. I purchased a turtleneck sweater, and I augmented it with a stylish wool scarf. I secured a jaunty hat, which sort of ticked me off because, as you will recall, I had a perfectly good one back in Philadelphia. I shaved parts of my beard until all that was left was a van Dyke. Sadly, after all of this effort, all I had really accomplished was to look like an American trying to look like a European, and after turning down perhaps the only opportunity I will ever have to purchase a sliver of the True Cross, I decided that it might be time to go back to the hotel for some Italian television.

Another type of individual approached me on a few occasions as I was minding my own business while trying to not look like an American. This group was comprised of various people from different parts of Europe who asked me via gesture, mime, and one-syllable words what exactly was going on back home in my country. To all of these folks my reply, via gesture, mime, and one-syllable words was the same: I could not explain it, it was not my fault, but it was damn sure my problem, and before all was said and done it was likely to be their problem as well. My unofficial ambassadorship ended shortly thereafter upon the arrival of four big boys from the Netherlands who looked like an international hit team and who seemed to have a big old chunk of America stuck in their Dutch craws. My attempt to defuse the situation by telling them the only Dutch joke I knew—you know the one—fell flat, so I hitched up my tight pants, adjusted my replacement hat, and got the hell out of there.

We did the touristy thing in Rome for a few days and saw many of the famous attractions, but the one I want to mention here is The Vatican Museum. You will have to turn to the Bard of Travel, Rick Steves, for information about the rest of them. The Vatican Museum is nothing short of amazing, and on top of that, it is one of the very few attractions in the city that is free. There are literally miles of galleries showcasing art and antiquities from as far back as 10,000 BCE up through modern times. I have an image in my head of the Pope after hours being wheeled through the various galleries by a Cardinal, perhaps, or at the very least a Bishop, just looking at all of his cool stuff and saying, “Buono…buono.” There is so much to see, in fact, that you would do well to break up your visit over two or even three days. Otherwise, like me, you will be searching for the uscita after five or six hours with much of the museum still unseen, because there is only so much culture an American can absorb at one sitting without experiencing heart palpitations, anxiety, and sharp pains behind the left eye.

Our next stop after Rome was Florence, but before I take you there I want to devote a paragraph or two to some general travel information, beginning with taxis. We chose not to drive in Rome because we don’t have a death wish and elected instead to rely on transport via taxi. Some of these excursions were fine, but some were not. There seem to be two types of taxi drivers in Italy, and you never know which you have gotten until you are strapped into the back seat. The first category includes friendly, helpful, honest professionals. The second group is manned largely by people you would normally go out of your way to avoid rather than seek out and pay. These drivers seem to hate taxis, traffic, driving, me, you, and their mamas. Okay, I may have gone too far with the last one. They probably love their mamas, but I bet they don’t call as often as they should.

In no particular order, here are some other facts that might come in handy during your Italian journey. Italian Coke tastes like flat American Pepsi and should be avoided. Travel with two credit cards, but only use one. When (not if) it becomes compromised, usually at an Italian gas station, cancel it, switch to the other, and continue your travels. Regardless of what you may have read to the contrary, Italian folks like tips just fine. When you order a cheese platter and it comes out warm, soft, and moldy, do not be a foolish American and ask to speak to the manager. This was intentional, and believe it or not, you are supposed to eat it. Expect to pay for water. Bathrooms are called toilets and are not always free. Gelato can give you brain freeze. And finally, even though euros look and feel like play money, they are the real deal, so don’t be handing them out like candy.

That’s about it for this month. Mandy gets fussy if I go too much over my word limit, and she’s been in a mood anyway since having to fire her Amish contractor. Next month we will visit Florence, Venice, Tuscany, and the ever-popular Pisa, which was, ironically, the last place that Mandy’s Amish contractor did a job. Ciao from Italy!