How to spend 3 days in Rome with 85 euros

I was visiting Italy for the third time in two years, and frankly my neglect of Rome was just becoming embarrassing. The problem was not a lack of desire, but rather a lack of finances. Sitting on my friend's couch in a small town outside of Venice, I flipped open my wallet to find a staggering 85 euros.

I reviewed my options for visiting Rome with such an extravagant sum of money.

Partly because I wanted to see if I could do it and mostly because that's all the money I had. 

Option 1: Pay entrance fees and visit all things of historical and religious significance. Don't eat. Sleep on the streets.
Pros: Will become more cultured and able to slip things like "Well, when I was visiting the Vatican..." into conversations.
Cons: Might starve to death. Cardboard box not very comfortable. 

Option 2: Stay in cheapest hostel available. Eat nothing but pizza. Walk around everything without going inside anything. Limit gelato intake to 1  2  3 cones a day.
Pros: Place to sleep. Will not starve to death.
Cons: Will not get to sound cultured at cocktail parties. Sore feet from walking too much. Only 3 cones of gelato per day.

Option 3: Spend three days eating gelato. Sleep in train station.
Pros: Gelato
Cons: Copious amounts of gelato could result in love handles. Train stations very drafty. 

Option 1 lost its appeal when I stepped outside of the train station. A giant clap of thunder erupted from the clouds followed by hard pellets of frigid rain. Committing myself to option 2, I took the bus across town to the Orsa Maggiore women's hostel. Sorry guys. This is for ladies only. 

The hostel isn't too tricky to find, but if you take the bus (1 euro), you'll have to walk a bit. If you have a wheeled suitcase, it will likely lose the will to live as you drag it over half a mile of cobblestone.

The hostel, located in Trastevere, offers all of my most basic requirement for survival. It's clean, right above a bar, has free wi-fi and includes breakfast. 

The total for three nights came to 30 euros. Pulling out my travel journal, I meticulously subtracted that amount from my 85 euro budget. That left 55 euro for the next three days. Taking a deep breath and pulling a map from a stack near the front desk, I retired to my room and mapped out an itinerary. 

As I planned my onslaught of all things pizza and gelato-related in Rome, the rain continued to hammer relentlessly against the window.

I dumped the entire contents of my suitcase into the bottom of the locker assigned to me and waited for the rain to dissipate.

Eventually I got tired of waiting. Shrugging my raincoat over my shoulders, I marched out of the hostel determined to become more familiar with Rome, one gelateria at a time.

But I forgot the map. Which turned out to be a little bit of a problem.

Spotting a sign for the colosseum, I left the riverbank, skirting around buildings and trying to stay under the eaves in a last-ditch effort to remain dry. I spent 15 minutes standing underneath a tree before I decided that I didn't really want to see the colosseum. What I really wanted to see was dinner.

I scrutinized every pizzeria I walked by before succumbing to the one with the cutest server. Under the watchful eyes of the gorgeous man behind the counter, I devoured my first slice of Roman pizza. Subtracting 3 euro (I splurged on a Fanta) from the tally in my travel journal, I walked back out into the pouring rain with 52 euro left in my wallet.

After a pathetic attempt to window shop in the rain, I darted into a grocery store. Shaking the rain from my hair and coat, I grabbed a basket and spent the next 45 minutes wandering down every aisle in this miniscule corner market. I walked out with the following: (1) bottle of water; (1) salad; (1) package of mozzarella; (1) bag of chips; (1) packet of cookies; (1) tube of children's toothpaste (it was the smallest AND it had a dinosaur on it); and (1) super absorbent dishtowel (I forgot my towel and didn't want to borrow one from the hostel. I don't know...just go with it).

The total came to 8 euros and 56 cents. Although I now had cookies in my possession I was down to 43 euro and 44 cents. I consoled myself with one cup of kiwi gelato, and retired to the hostel with 41 euro and 44 cents in my pocket and two more days in Rome.

The next morning brought tolerable weather. Grabbing my map and my journal, I set out to find the pantheon.

I found it. Very impressive. Also impressive was the small café (caffè Tazza d'Oro) around the corner where I enjoyed an espresso (1 euro).

And even more impressive was San Crispino, a phenomenal gelateria just down the street from the Treviso Fountain.

 I tried the basil, pine nut, ricotta with chocolate chips, and ginger gelato. Go ahead. Judge me. I don't care. It was amazing.

It was also expensive (7 euros) so for dinner I sat in my room munching on my salad from the night before while my eccentric Aussie roommate expounded on all of the wonderful attributes of my country. I think I nodded in all of the right places.

My third day in Rome dawned bright and clear. I had visited St. Peter's the previous day and from there I  jumped on city bus #116. For 1 euro, this small bus makes its way past most of the city's main tourist attractions. Having seen a good portion of the city already-- including the previously elusive colosseum--I decided to devote the majority of my last day in Rome to exploring the neighborhood around my hostel.

This was my favorite part. I spent the morning across the river wandering around the farmer's market before heading to the pizzeria Frontoni for lunch.

Sitting at a small table, I savored a beer and two slices of pizza (6 euros) before slipping back out onto the quiet streets of this quaint quarter of Rome.

Enjoying an espresso (1 euro)  in the dark corners of a comfortable café, I stared out the window for an hour before ambling over to a bar to enjoy a glass of wine (3.50).

Eventually, hungry and in danger of freezing to death, I stumbled into Alle Fratte di Trastevere for a pleasant dinner at a cozy table looking out onto the street (15 euros).

Yeah, that's right. I spent the entirety of my last day in Rome eating and drinking. I didn't see one single tourist attraction. But sitting in the dusky light outside a small café in view of the Basilica di Santa Maria, I wasn't feeling any pangs of regret.

Rome: The Vatican vs. Pizza

A few nights ago I found myself throwing back vodka with a bunch of Ukrainians in a small town in Umbria. How did this happen? I'll tell you. It's a very short story.

British guy.

This is exactly the sort of thing that happens when British guy is around. When he's not around I tend to retreat to my little hostel at around 8 pm where I can eat cookies and relax my aching feet while catching up on my favorite blogs.

Which is exactly what I'm doing right now because British guy is on a secret mission in Spain and I am spending a few days wandering around Rome in search of the absolute best slice of pizza known to mankind. I might also go see the Vatican. Maybe.

I do keep trying to go see things in Rome, but then I see a café or a pizzeria or a gelateria or a farmer's market and I get distracted. It happens. Often.

While wandering around Trastevere today I rounded a corner and stumbled upon a pizzeria so enticing that I couldn't continue walking. I shoved my way in through the crowds of Italians not lining up to place their order and pressed myself against the glass counter. That's what the Romans were doing.

Prego? the man behind the counter shouted in my general direction.

I pointed at a slice of pizza gorgonzola and a slice of pizza con patate and used my hands to show how big of a slice I wanted. He weighed out the pizza and then asked what I wanted to drink.

Sometimes when people ask me complicated questions like that I get nervous and just shout out the first thing that comes into my head. In this case, it was beer.

I enjoyed a split second of relief at having answered his question, but then he came up with an even more complicated question. What kind?

Dammit.

I couldn't see over the counter because I'm too short and instead of sensibly asking him what types he had, I told him to just give me whatever beer he likes to drink.

I thought this was a clever plan, but unfortunately it backfired.

He scoffed and responded that he didn't drink beer. Then he gave me a look that would have been justified had I asked for a glass of sewage water.

I panicked.

What did that scoff mean? Had I unwittingly broken some unspoken rule. The Italians, I know, are fussy about their unspoken rules. I have been chastised twice in Italy by complete strangers. Once for ordering a cappuccino after noon and then again for putting parmesan on a pasta dish that was not served with tomato sauce. Both instances left such a lasting impression on me that I have since incorporated these little rules into my life.

But I couldn't figure out what--if anything--I had done wrong this time. The man behind the counter eventually handed me a Nastro Azzurro and threw my pizza into the oven. All the while muttering in Italian and occasionally flinging out semi-coherent phrases that the other Italians around him seemed to agree with.

They were probably talking about football or Berlusconi or something totally unrelated to the ignorant American girl who had clearly violated some social code. But I couldn't be sure so I tried to look remorseful and ashamed of my ignorance as I slunk to my table with my pizza and beer in hand.

But then I took a bite of the gorgonzola pizza with fresh tomatoes and I nearly cried from happiness and nothing else mattered in the world.

The man behind the counter came over to check on me after I had devoured both slices of pizza. He raised his eyebrows and asked something that I hope was along the lines of "Did you enjoy your meal?" because I grinned and nodded and indicated my spotless plate as further proof.

If he was asking about something completely different-- such as my thoughts on Berlusconi or the Italian football league-- he nonetheless seemed satisfied with my response. Whatever social crime I had committed when ordering had been forgiven.

Happy, full and absolutely in love with Rome and all things Roman, I downed my beer, pulled out my journal and people-watched for an hour before wandering to a café 500 meters down the road in search of an espresso.

Tomorrow I plan on doing the same thing. And who knows, perhaps I will even make it to the colosseum. It's hard to say. There are a lot of pizzerias, cafés, and gelaterias on the way.

Firenze Fervor

Sitting in the waiting room of the Florence train station, I have all my layers on and a steady rain falls from patchy skies. My gloves on and furiously typing, I look up to notice that I have become the focal point of everyone’s attention. I smile. My audience smiles back expectantly, but I keep on typing all the while desperately wishing for some sort of reliable Internet connection. I am officially an addict.

I am sitting next to two old men passing a box of wine back and forth. They are clearly drunk, but as they aren’t bothering anyone, nobody seems to mind. Their attempts to burst out into drunken singing is constantly being upstaged by their tendency to erupt into laughter. The fact that I appear to be more of a spectacle indicates something, but I’m not quite sure what. I am still reflecting on my morning walk along the river and the church I stumbled across.  

I generally bypass the busy churches full of whispering tour guides and flash photography. Churches for me are places of hushed and revered refuge. I love the feeling of slipping into a darkened church. The light slips in through stained glass windows, and the devout or the desperate bow their heads, their lips moving in pleading prayers for peace or grace or truth or love. It is quiet and safe and I generally retreat to the closest bench and succumb to an enveloping sense of relief.

In Florence a stained glass window caught my eye and I slipped unnoticed from a busy street into a simple church.  Breathing deeply, I sank down onto the closest pew. The entire building is permeated with the sense of sacred that a thousand years of faith has imprinted upon it.  After sitting for awhile, I make a donation and light a candle. I always do.  I have nothing to wish for, but I place my candle next to one that is flickering. I turn to leave, but as I do the woman sitting at the small information desk approaches me. She has brightly colored squares of paper in her hand and after determining my origin and my language, she hands me one.

Rising very early before dawn, he left and went off to a deserted place, where he prayed. Mark 1, 35.

I do not fall under the category of the religious devout, but I am touched by her sincerity and by the poetry of the verse.

I grab her hand in mine. Grazie I say as gratefully as I can. I want her to know that her heart has reached mine. And though I am unlikely to join the church, I am sincerely thankful for the gentle grace it has given to an otherwise gloomy day. 

The Greyhound Blues

Last week I took a bus from Montpellier, France to Milan, Italy. I'm spending some time visiting a friend who lives just outside of Sacile (It's about an hour from Venice). And yes, I could have taken the train or the plane, but the bus was the cheapest option.

British guy came to see me off in Montpellier. I started crying. Don't feel too sorry for me. I hate good-byes. I always have. And--as my friends love to point out at every opportunity--I cry during Disney movies. Even the happy ones. Especially the happy ones. It doesn't take much to trigger my waterworks. It's because I'm a Cancer. (In reality I'm just a baby, but I like to have the excuse of an overly-sentimental zodiac sign. It lends more credibility to my case.) So I cried while British guy waved until I was out of sight. Then I leaned my head against the window and thought back to my last bus trip.

It was December of 2007, and in an effort to explore alternative modes of transportation in the U.S., I chose to take a Greyhound bus from Salinas, California to Atlanta, Georgia (and back again) in order to visit my Mom for Christmas.

Please don't do this. Ever. 

I arrived at the Salinas Greyhound station at 11:00 pm. Upon arrival I was informed that the bus was running a few hours late. No problem, I thought, as I settled into my seat and cracked open one of the 6 books I had brought along. After a few pages, the sole employee there told me he was locking up and I had to sit outside. I looked out at the empty parking lot in the middle of Salinas, the alleys alongside the station and the bar across the lot. I looked back at him. He couldn't be serious. He was not going to throw a young woman out at midnight to sit in an empty parking lot for a few hours. But yes, yes he was. I watched him lock up.

"I would stay next to this door if I were you. Last week some homeless guy was murdered just in that alley."

And then he got in his car and drove off.

Salinas

I called a friend in tears. He agreed to stay on the phone with me until the bus came. I noticed a man pacing back and forth outside of the bar across the parking lot. He kept looking over at me. Eventually he walked over to where I was sitting. He looked homeless and drunk and I was so scared I could hardly breathe. 

"Are you alright?" he asked. "Do you need any help? Do you want me to stay here with you?" 

Dumbfounded and ashamed for having judged this man too quickly, I simply nodded. 

He stayed with me until the bus came. He didn't say anything. He just sat and stared off into space. When the bus came, he simply nodded at me, and walked away. 

Stunned by this man's incredible thoughtfulness, I climbed onto the bus and my cross-country journey began. 

The thing you have to understand about taking the Greyhound is that having a ticket does not guarantee you a seat. As soon as you get off the bus, you hightail it over to where your next bus is scheduled to come in and you stand in line. And after you've stood in line for hours and your bus shows up, you hope that there is enough room left on the bus. If not, you watch the bus pull away and you continue to wait for the next one. This can go on indefinitely.

Salinas to Los Angeles, Los Angeles to Phoenix, Phoenix to El Paso, El Paso to Dallas and Dallas to Birmingham, and Birmingham to Atlanta, I leapt from the seat of one bus to the line for another and then back again. I found it impossible to sit back and relax. I was constantly scheming about how I was going to catch the next bus and speculating about when exactly I would arrive in Atlanta and hoping that it would be before next Christmas.

And all the while I was making new friends. My problem is that I look nice. I mean, I am nice, but there is something about me that attracts people in a "I'm going to pour out my whole life story to you for the next 10 hours" kind of way.

There was the flamboyantly gay Avon salesman from Louisiana, who also happened to be legally blind. Halfway through showing me the Avon catalog he mentioned that he'd just gotten into an argument with his boyfriend. Then he leaned close to me and said in a dramatic half-whisper, "I don't normally tell people that I'm gay, but seeing as you're from California...." 

Then there was the Reverend. The Reverend was traveling from his native Alabama up to Georgia. He had never left his home state before and he was absolutely fascinated by me. 

"California," he exclaimed. "Bless my soul, California. Now, tell me. How do you celebrate Christmas there? And what sort of houses do you live in? Do you pay income taxes there? And did you go to school? How many celebrities do you know?" 

After three days, I made it to Atlanta. My family spent the entire holiday making fun of their crazy Californian relative who thought it would be fun to take the Greyhound bus. They were incredulous that I still intended to make the return trip, but I was determined to see my journey through to completion. Also I wanted to go through Tennessee.

After a day on the road, we arrived in St. Louis to rumors that a Greyhound bus had flipped somewhere in Colorado. Delays and cancellations were piling up in every direction. People were frantically speculating and planning and some had even taken to creating makeshift beds in the St. Louis bus station. It appeared that nobody was going anywhere any time soon. By some miracle, my bus through the Rockies and onto California was not being cancelled. Instead they had rerouted us to Oklahoma City. From there I would try and catch a bus to Los Angeles. Happy just to be on a bus heading in the general direction of home, I fluffed up my jacket pillow, chose my favorite iPod playlist, and closed my eyes. 

"Hi, you trying to sleep? Cause the lady I'm sitting next to is trying to sleep, but I want to talk so I was wondering if you were trying to sleep because if you aren't then I can sit next to you and we can talk."

I groggily pulled my earbuds out of my ears and looked up at the man who was already sitting down next to me.

"Oh, and can I use your phone? I was just released from prison. I was in solitary confinement for awhile. I want to call my sister to tell her when she should pick me up." 

In my stupor I handed him my phone. He spent the next 20 minutes chatting away to his sister before the call was finally dropped. Thank you, T-Mobile. For once your terrible coverage was in my favor.

Seven hours later we pulled into the Oklahoma City Greyhound station. This man talked the entire way. I am now in the position to write his biography should I so choose. 

I spent the next two days trying to make it from Oklahoma City to California. Anywhere in California. I promised God that if He or the Universe or whoever just got me to California, I would never take the Greyhound bus again. 

I made it back to California and I kept my word. 

My Eurolines bus trip from Montpellier to Milan was much more subdued. Nobody was fighting over seats or pushing to get on the bus, and the bus driver didn't get into a fight with any of the passengers (coughElPasocough). It was quiet and calm and everything went smoothly. Though-- despite how miserable I knew he would be trying to cram his 6'+ frame into the tiny bus seat for 11 hours--I missed British guy and I already missed France. I curled up into a ball on the seat and the steady hum of the engine lulled me to sleep.

When we crossed over into Italy, the official shook me awake from my fitful sleep.

Passaporto, he demanded.

I stared blankly at him, groggily trying to place myself as my mind jumped between consciousness and unconsciousness.

Passeport, he offered in French.

I fumbled with the zipper of my bag and fished out my passport.

He flicked through it and handed it back.

Grazie, he says.

Welcome to Italy, I tell myself, before curling back up on the seat to sleep.

A few hours later we roll through the fog and into Milan. I negotiate my way to the train station just in time to order a cappuccino and catch my train to Venice. I arrive in Venice with 15 minutes to spare. The last train into Sacile is crowded, and I opt to remain in the small space between the cars. I throw my bag next to a greasy window and spend the next hour sitting on my suitcase, watching the Italian countryside fly by me. This. This is the life. Racing at a breakneck speed to nowhere in particular. A cappuccino in one hand and my journal in the other.  

And, thank God, no Greyhound bus in sight.