Rome (by the Sea): Mi scusi! Where is the train station?

Rome. Roma. Caput Mundi. The City of Seven Hills. The Eternal City. More accurately, the City of Seven Hells, and the City of my Eternal Nightmares.

For reasons which are unimportant here, I have been to Rome in the past and not been particularly enamoured with the place. That said, it was one of the cities I was most excited about re-visiting. And this is why I try and go through life with low expectations – because high expectations ultimately set a person up for disappointment. Simply, my disinterest in Rome has developed into a dislike. Immense dislike.

We arrived from Venice by train and had fairly simple instructions to follow in order to arrive at our hostel. It only took a few minutes for my optimistic mood to turn sour. All of the metro ticket machines were being blocked by dirty gypsies who were forcing themselves upon people, buying their tickets for them, and expecting to be paid for their “work”. Locals were pushing them away, but the tourists seemed to be having a hard time escaping their services. We sure as hell weren’t going to pay some disease-riddled vagrant for pushing a couple of buttons on a machine, so we took a cue from the locals and batted them away.

To get from the train station to our hostel, our instructions directed us to catch one train to a station, swap lines, and catch another train. We boarded the first train, and I realised that Kaitlyn was staring quite intently at me. ‘What?’

‘You really are very wog looking, aren’t you?’ I imagine my eyebrows were peeking out from under my fringe. And tormenting everyone. We swapped onto the second line and, after only a few stations, the thinning-out of infrastructure and urban development became quite noticeable. Thinking that perhaps I had accidently led us onto the wrong train, I checked the hostel’s instructions against the route information on the train wall but, no, we were definitely on the correct train. This discovery left me feeling no relief at all. On the contrary, I started to become a little bit anxious, as did Kaitlyn. ‘There’s a lot of livestock out here, yeah? A lot of livestock.’ And she was right. There was no Forum or Pantheon, just farm animals and paddocks. ‘Seriously, are we even in f@#!ing Rome anymore? The f@#!ing sheep are outnumbering buildings thirty-to-f@#!ing-one.’ There was nothing we could do at that point, so we tried to remain calm until we could fully assess the situation. But I am a total city-girl, and just looking at all of the un-disturbed nature was making it quite difficult for me to breathe.

After a period of time in which I believe it would have been feasible to conceive and carry a child full-term, we disembarked the train at “Ostia Lido Centro”, from where we had to catch “Bus no. 1” five stops.  Finding “Bus no. 1” proved quite easy, but boarding it proved quite challenging as there were at least 10,000 people crammed on board. The driver was lovely though, and waved off our apologetic “sorry-about-the-irritating-and-space-consuming-backpack” gestures. Just to confirm that we were, in fact, on the right bus, I showed him the address of the hostel. He nodded affirmatively, and made his own set of gestures which we interpreted as “I-will-let-you-know-when-you-need-to-get-off”.

The bus ride was not much more than five minutes, but in that time, I sustained serious damage to my shoulder and eardrum, not to mention irrevocable damage to my already fragile nerves. At the first stop after we embarked, a man and a young girl boarded. We were still squashed up next to the door and they pushed in behind us, the girl right at my shoulder. I couldn’t see her for my shell, of course, but I sure as shit heard her -and I will probably never hear anything out of that ear again. Seconds after the bus started moving, she let out the most ear-piercing shriek I have ever heard. You would not have been able to hear Maria Sharapova over it. I’m not sure if the bus went up on two wheels and nearly veered off the road, or if my perforated eardrum caused instant vertigo, but we managed to make it to the next stop. No one disembarked, but a few more people climbed aboard, until I was practically resting my face in the bus driver’s lap. I cannot imagine it looked particularly good. Mercifully, at the third stop, a few people hopped off, freeing up a bit of space and allowing me to assume an upright position which I am confident wasn’t in any way suggestive.

Right as the doors were closing, Shrieking Sally pushed her father off the bus, in the process pushing me into the closing doors which, unbeknownst to me, caught onto a little bit of my shell. Frantic Father started bashing on the closed doors, and the driver re-opened them. I heard it before I felt it – half crack, half crunch. Then came the pain. Oh, Good Lord, the pain. But before I had time to cry, the doors closed, and my shoulder cracked again. I didn’t have time to dwell on the agony as the driver was pulling up and gesturing that this was our stop. He pointed to my written instructions, and then across the road to an absolutely enormous complex. It looked more like a hospital than a hostel, but we ventured forth.

First thing I noticed about the hostel: it was, indeed, gargantuan. Second thing I noticed about the hostel: the guy on the desk was so attractive it was hurting my eyes – just not enough to stop me from staring. As soon as he saw us, he jumped up from the desk and helped me remove my shell, and Kaitlyn her pack. In a ridiculously sexy accent he made some comment about the size-of-me-to-size-of-shell ratio, and then squeezed my arm to determine the size of my muscles. It was my recently-injured arm. It was a mixture of pleasure and pain.  He briefly disappeared, and returned with glasses of water for us. As we began to check-in, a Canadian guy called TK arrived. As gorgeous as Mr Hot-Hostel was, his ridiculously entrancing eyes had not made me forget something very important: this was not Rome. Before I had a chance to enquire as to where the hell we actually were, Mr Hot-Hostel’s colleague passed us our “welcome literature”, the first one of which was a brochure for Ostia or, as the brochure stated, “Ostia: Rome by the Sea”.

Kaitlyn and I shared a look, but before I started demanding a refund and compensation for their false-advertising, I wanted to go and double-check the website and be certain that we hadn’t misread the information and made a hypothermic-induced error when we booked in Venice. Regardless, we still had a plan that evening which involved a lot of alcohol and the Rome which wasn’t by the sea. Kaitlyn asked Mr Hot-Hostel’s colleague how long it took to get from here into the city. She looked back at us blankly. Kaitlyn tried again. ‘How long from here on the train into Rome?’

‘Rome?’

‘Yeah. Rome.’

‘Rome?’

‘ROME. THE CITY. ROME.’‘….’ The blank look had yet to vacate her face. Mr Hot-Hostel said something to her in Italian. ‘Ahhhh! Roma?!’

‘Yes Roma! How far is it from here to there?’

‘Close, close. On train, fifteen minutes.’ I couldn’t help but call her on her bullshit.

‘It just took us almost an hour.’

‘Hour? No!’

‘Yes.’ You could see her mind ticking away, trying to come up with an answer which would satisfy us. ‘On a Saturday, one hour.’ This did not bode well for Sundays.

‘And on Sunday?’

‘One half of an hour.’ Yeah, I bet.

Mr Hot-Hostel finished checking us all in, saying he had put TK in a room with us. Before I had time to hoist my shell up, Mr Hot-Hostel whipped around and started carrying it for me. Attractive and chivalrous. Swoon.

When we arrived in our room we realised that, while the “Rome” part of the brochure’s claim may have been one massive embellishment, the “by the sea” part was very truthful, as the view from our window was all beach. Equally as eye-catching was the view of my shoulder which, after removing my jumper, was revealed to be really quite swollen and already bruised. A quick re-read of the website revealed that there was absolutely no mention whatsoever of the fact this place was not actually in Rome, other than it being “just outside the city centre”. The three of us agreed 30 kilometres is not “just outside”, but we were too hungry to plan our next move, and decided instead to see what kind of culinary delights Rome by the Sea had to offer.

Even without knowing TK’s situation, it was evident we had all  had a shocking day so far, and it seemed that we all needed some comfort food. So, we ended up at a steakhouse - because there’s nothing more comforting to a vegetarian than steak. No, they had vegetarian quesadillas and there really isn’t anything (non-alcoholic) more comforting to me than carbs and cheese. The place we went to was a really cheap TGIF’s knock-off, resplendent with American clichés: waiters dressed as cowboys, the décor all stars and stripes, “Route 66” stickers all over the walls – it was quite amusing. After we were fed and watered, Kaitlyn and I came to the conclusion that it would be more traumatic to find a new hostel and move, not to mention time-consuming, so the decision to remain in Rome by the Sea was made. We celebrated with some of the most delicious ice-cream we had tasted. At least Rome by the Sea had something going for it.

After checking the train timetables, we realised that a night out in Actual Rome was still feasible – so long as we caught a train home by 2.03am, or could wait until 5.07am. Putting all of my academia to good use, I tracked down Rome’s best purported pub crawls. TK was pretty keen to come with us, so the three of us researched each and came to a unanimous decision on which one we would be joining. The one we chose met outside the Colosseum (seriously) which wasn’t exactly hard to find our way to. What was hard to find our way to was Ostia Lido Centro. Although we had caught the bus to the hostel, we knew it wasn’t very far away, and we thought it would be nice to see a bit of Rome by the Sea. Stupidly, we had not looked up what “train station” was in Italian, and it quickly became apparent that not many locals spoke English so, when we asked if they knew where the train station was, we were met with blank stares, or they would shake their heads and walk away. In fact, a quick discussion led us to realise that, between us, the only words of Italian we knew were: “ciao”, “bella”, “arrivederci” and “mi scusi”.

As the next people approached, TK very loudly exclaimed, ‘Mi scusi!’followed by a very heavily Canadian-accented, ‘Where’s the train station?!’ Every group of people we asked pointed us in different directions as no one seemed to understand us. Eventually, we got creative and thought maybe if we pretended to be a train and made train noises, someone might understand. A man walked towards us and TK got his attention with a loud ‘Mi scusi!’. We quickly assumed the formation of a train and, with Kaitlyn and I making train-wheel movements with our hands, and TK on the “choo-choos”, we were able to ascertain that the train station was just up the road.

Over lunch we had learned that TK had a girlfriend at home whom he was very much in love with. However, he had made it his mission to find us a couple of attractive  men with whom to ‘at least flirt heavily’. On the train-ride in, he reinforced this, but I think it was merely a way to introduce his girlfriend into the conversation. He was so in love with her, it was sickeningly sweet. In fact, for the entire train ride in, I don’t think we talked about anything else, except for a brief tantrum-interlude when Kaitlyn realised she had forgotten to put her jewellery on. ‘F@#!. I forgot to f@#!ing put my f@#!ing jewellery on. I may as well be f@#!ing naked.’ We jumped off at the Colosseum station and, as soon as we walked out, BANG: there it was, lit up in all its glory. At least, I thought it looked quite glorious. ‘Is that it?’ Kaitlyn wasn’t as impressed. ‘It’s pretty small.’ From here were taken to the first bar of the night, and the pub crawl commenced.

In terms of number-of-participants, we had definitely chosen the right one. In terms of quality-of-the-organisation, even without experiencing the others, I am confident that we chose the worst. When we arrived at the first bar, we were given a number of free-drink vouchers which we were to redeem at the bar. Problem: one person serving at the bar. It was FORTY FIVE MINUTES before we got to the front of the queue and obtained our first beverage. Completely unacceptable. When we had first arrived, there were a lot of people already there, and they were all completely trashed. At this rate, I thought we would never be able to catch up to them, but TK, using his tall, board physique, somehow cracked the system and it didn’t take long for us to catch up at all.

On the walk to the next bar, this guy started chatting to me. He was American, and not at all unattractive, but he was old enough to be my father. Well, not really, but he would have been about 35. And sure, Isaac’s 36, but true love knows no bounds...and drunken attraction does. A guy our own age took a fancy to Kaitlyn and some horribly drunk girl had attached herself to TK – I mean literally attached herself to him, as she was so drunk, she was unable to stand upright without his aid. We made it to the second establishment and I managed to shake Grandpa, only to find myself standing in the line for the bathroom with a girl who had the same colour complexion as the green concoction she was drinking. She also wasn’t wearing any underwear, which I discovered as I held her hair back as she heaved her not-so-little guts out. Kaitlyn appeared and the two of us had to endure her drunken exclamations of love. ‘I loooovveee yooouuuu guuuuyyyssss. Don’t even know your naammmes, but I loooveee you.’ I’d love you to pull your dress down. We really wanted to get out of there, but we weren’t going to leave her alone, so we tried to find out who she was with. ‘My friends. But I ‘dun need ‘em nymore.’ Pause to heave. ‘Cos I got you. And you are my new friends. S’okay…I ‘dun need ‘em.’ Yes, yes you do.

Eventually, her friends appeared and we were able to vacate the bathroom. I was standing at the bar talking to a guy who was desperately struggling to find a bisyllablic word with which to impress me, when I saw Grandpa ducking and weaving through the crowd towards me. As he wasn’t brandishing a spare drink, I used my midgetry to sneak out of the crowd where I found Kaitlyn and TK. Not long after that, we were heading off to the next place – a club. It was more like a maze than a club but, after a few more bevvies, my need to dance outweighed my claustrophobic unease, and we stumbled our way around its winding corridors and up and down its staircases. We enjoyed ourselves immensely on the DF, and Kaitlyn even got up on stage and entertained everyone with a very seductive routine to some Christina Aguilera. It was gold. Eventually, the three of us found out way outside. It was a bit after 1.00am and, even though we were having a good time, we were conscious of our 2.03am train-window, and decided to call it a night. At least, we thought that’s what we were doing. Little did we know, our night was just beginning.

As we were leaving the pub crawl, we approached the guys running it and inquired where the closest train station was. They were reasonably vague about it, but one of them thought it was in a particular direction. They were more concerned in ensuring we received our fluro-orange “When In Rome” pub crawl t-shirts, which they insisted we put on immediately. We felt incredibly stupid, but Kaitlyn and I begrudgingly put ours on to shut them up. TK had asked for a small size so he could give his to his girlfriend. Not sure why he bothered as, from his monologue earlier in the evening, it didn’t sound as if the two of them spent much time clothed. We headed in the direction we had been pointed, but we couldn’t see any sign of a train station. There were heaps of people around on the street, but two guys were walking behind us, so we asked them if they spoke English and knew where the train station was. They said that’s where they were going so they’d take us. We were walking along talking and I became conscious of the fact that there seemed to be a lot less people around than there had been.We turned a corner and one of them starting patting TK on the back as if to show appreciation for a particularly humorous joke, only it was quite odd. Kaitlyn and I looked at each other because we both sensed something was not right. They stopped, and we realised that they had led us right into an alley, and six other guys started walking up behind us effectively blocking us in.

I usually try and give truisms a wide berth, but everything really did start happening in slow-motion. TK had also realised something wasn’t right and the three of us took a moment to look at each other’s horror-stricken faces, trying to think of what the hell we could do. I was aware of the six guys getting closer, and they started to peel off into groups and come towards each of us. TK was wearing a gold necklace (with a gold hockey stick he had worn every day since it had been given to him by his dad for his seventh birthday), which one of the guys grabbed a hold of and yanked off his neck. One of them then assumed something of a fighting stance, quickly mirrored by a couple of the others. They obviously expected TK to fight back, but he was smart enough to realise that we were outnumbered eight to three (two a half with me, really). He looked at us and screamed ‘RUN!’. One of them grabbed onto my arm, but TK pushed him off me, and we piss-bolted out of there before they could process what was going on. We got back into in the main street without stopping once. We were concerned about TK, but he was more concerned about us. Physically we were all okay, but I think we were all in a state of shock.

We started walking down the street and, even though there were lots of people around, it was evident we weren’t in a particularly “good” part of town. We had no idea where the hell we were and, given what had just happened, we were hesitant to approach anyone and ask. Stumbling along, we came across a food store, and TK took us inside and bought us pizza and water. By now it was just before 2.00am and we realised that we would never make it to a train station by 2.03am. We talked to the guys in the shop who, despite having limited English, suggested that we make our way to the bus station down the end of the street we were on, as he was certain that buses ran every half hour from there to Ostia 24 hours a day. I think all three of us were sceptical, but we didn’t have any other plan, so we took some time to compose ourselves, and started to head down the road.

It was a long freaking road, but eventually we found the “bus station”. It was really a collection of bus stops which I imagine serviced several different bus routes. Most of the shelters had people in them, so we assumed buses were still running in those early hours. We found the one which said “Ostia” (funnily enough it didn’t say “Rome by the Sea”). There was no timetable, and we didn’t even know for sure if a bus was going to come past, but we sat and waited. I was thinking about how lucky we were that we managed to get away without having our bags stolen, when I realised that they were completely obscured from view by the ridiculous t-shirts we were wearing. I commented on this, and TK said that the two guys we had been walking with kept looking Kaitlyn and me up-and-down, so it seems likely that they had been scoping us out for possessions. Of course, they couldn’t see our bags under our shirts, and mine was engulfing my entire body, so my necklace, watch and myriad bracelets were also concealed. ‘I guess it’s lucky I forgot my jewellery, hey?’ Those hideous, fluro-orange t-shirts had probably saved us from a worse fate – the irony was not lost on us.

As the minutes ticked away and the shock (and alcohol) wore off, we realised how cold it was. I curled up into TK’s lap, each of us with our arms around Kaitlyn, and we remained in a pathetic little huddle until a bus finally pulled-up. We climbed on-board and the driver took one look at our dishevelled state, and waved us on without charging. Being on that bus was not unlike being on a Mystery Bus Tour. Everyone was wasted but, despite it being close to 4.00am, it was party central and there was quite the community spirit, with bottles being passed back and forth. Fortunately, people seemed to realise that we weren’t really in the party mood, and left the three of us to shiver and shake alone together. The bus stopped at the train station and, even though we knew how to get to the hostel now, it was a long, cold walk, especially the last ten minutes when lightning lit up the sky and rain began to fall. Still, I couldn’t believe how pleased I was to be back in Rome by the Sea.

The next morning we decided that, despite our time in Rome being quite limited, we would take it easy, so the three of had a leisurely, late breakfast followed by some ice-cream on the beach. TK was keen to head back and Skype his girlfriend because it had been well over twelve hours since he last had, so we headed back to the hostel. TK had gone to take a nap, and Kaitlyn and I were sitting in the computer room alone when Mr Hot-Hostel came in. Despite it being barely 12.00pm, he was drinking from a very large cup of wine. He asked us if we wanted any and, although we declined, he disappeared and came back with a very large one for each of us. He may have been attractive but my goodness he was irritating. Kaitlyn was trying to Skype, and I was trying to write, and he just wouldn’t shut up. He kept trying to make us drink the wine, even holding the cup up to my mouth at one point. Then he jumped onto a computer and starting showing us photos of himself in bunkers in Afghanistan. Kaitlyn, she of slightly lesser-patience than me, got fed up with him and went back to the room. I was determined to finish what I was doing, so I stayed there and just ignored his ramblings. He started talking about me, commenting on my eyes, but then things turned creepy when he started sucking on my earlobe. I high-tailed it out of there and back to our room where I promptly locked us in. We had been umming and ahhing about whether or not to head into Actual Rome that afternoon, but I sure as hell wasn’t hanging around there any longer, so off we went.

Even though it was Sunday, the train ride in was definitely more than "one half of an hour". But it was long enough for TK to recount his Skype conversation with his girlfriend. Verbatim. Word-for-agonising-word. We spent the afternoon wandering around the Forum and the Colosseum – which Kaitlyn seemed suitably more impressed with in the daylight. We also happened upon an African street festival at which we were able to enjoy corn on the cob to the music of a man who seemed to have confused “African” with “Native American Indian”, and was playing 90s classics such as “My Heart Will Go On” on a pan-flute, sporting a feathered headdress.

Despite the fact we were having an enjoyable afternoon, even in the daylight we were all on edge and, as soon as the sun went down, our anxiety only increased. We agreed that we would like to be well and truly out of Actual Rome by the time it was dark, so we jumped on a train and headed back to Rome by the Sea.

Once we got back, we found a cute little place down by the sea to have dinner. I’ll be honest, we chose it because it was cheap, but the food was amazing. Anytime we go out for a meal and there is Carbonara on the menu, Kaitlyn will order it. Even if she has previously stated that she wants “something light”, if she sees it on the menu, she will order it. And every time she gets halfway through, completely regrets it, turns to me and says ‘I told you to stop me doing it.’

‘I tried.’

‘You didn’t try hard enough. Why do I always order creamy f@#!ing Carbonara? Next time you need to stop me.’ And next time I will try, reminding her about last time and the time before, and the time before that, and she will tell me this time is “different” because she “really feels like it”. And she will order it despite my protestations, get halfway through, feel sick, and blame me. Every. Time.

Going through the menu, the first thing I did was look for Carbonara, and it was there. I didn’t say anything, and instead kept looking for me, and waiting for her to notice it too. ‘Oh! Carbonara! That’s exactly what I feel like.’

‘Don’t do it.’

‘Don’t do what?’

‘Don’t get the Carbonara. You know why. You’ll regret it.’

‘I won’t this time. I really feel like it tonight, plus I’m hungry. I was mugged last night and spent all day protecting my bag from f@#!ing gypsies. I need some

f@#!ing comfort food.’

‘Okay. But you know you’re going to regret it.’

All three of us ordered pasta dishes and, while we were waiting, TK told us more about his girlfriend. Even once our meals came, between forkfuls of pasta, TK kept telling us about his girlfriend. And not even about her life, or sweet little anecdotes about their relationship, but really personal details that neither of us wanted to hear while eating. Or ever. Halfway through her meal, Kaitlyn threw her fork down and turned to me. ‘Why did you let me do it? Why didn’t you stop me?’

‘I tried.’

‘Well you obviously didn’t try hard enough, because I still ordered it. Why do I always order creamy f@#!ing Carbonara? Next time you need to stop me.’ Yeah, because that will definitely happen.

Talk turned to Mr Creepy-Hostel, and I recounted the story of our afternoon encounter in more detail. At the mention of him discussing my eyes, TK, seized on the opportunity to turn the conversation back to his girlfriend. ‘I probably miss her eyes the most. They’re green and just so…so earthy.’ It got better. ‘Everything about her is earthy. She’s just so fertile.’ If any boyfriend of mine ever describes me to someone as being “fertile”, I will pack my bags and move permanently to Rome by the Sea. Seeing as we were now going to essentially be doing Rome in a day, we decided to head back to the hostel and have an early night.

Actual Rome wasn’t built in a day, and it certainly wasn’t made to be seen in a day. Still, it didn’t stop us from giving it a red-hot shot. It was just Kaitlyn and I that day as TK had decided to stay back in Rome by the Sea, which was fine by us as I wanted to see the sights without a running commentary of how each one reminded him of his girlfriend’s naked, fertile body. On the “fifteen minute” train ride in, Kaitlyn accurately summarised it. ‘I feel like I’ve had sex with her.’

Considering our limited time, we managed to see what are arguably the city's most significant sights, minus the Vatican which, as the only indoor sight open on a Monday, had a queue which probably spanned the distance between Actual Rome and Rome by the Sea. We caught the train straight to St Peter’s and from there we went to the Pantheon, Trevi Fountain and the Spanish Steps. Of course, we had already seen the Colosseum and the Forum. Although time was of the essence, we decided to refrain from using public transport that day as we knew we’d see more of the city by walking. As if all the walking wasn’t tiring enough, the whole day was spent being uber-vigilant, to the point of paranoia. It’s fair to say our experience on Saturday night certainly left us feeling on edge, but there is something about Actual Rome that left us feeling incredibly unsafe. We’re not naïve travellers, and we’re careful every single day. But there is a big difference between being careful and being constantly on your guard. It was thoroughly draining and it unquestionably impacted detrimentally on our attempts to enjoy the city.

Even though we were somewhat cautious about wandering around Actual Rome after dark, we were resolute about having at least one proper meal in the city. While it was still light, we found a cluster of restaurants which were spitting distance from the train station. We decided on a cute little place which was probably as authentically Italian as Pizza Hut, but it looked the part. The first thing I noticed was that there was Carbonara on the menu. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t be getting the f@#!ing Carbonara.’ As it was, she nearly didn’t get anything at all as our waiter was so incredibly stupid.  It wasn’t a language barrier - he struggled to walk in a straight line, let alone correctly take down our order. I was starting to think that walking through the city in the dark wouldn’t be an issue because surely the sun was about to start rising, but another waiter seemed to be cognisant of the fact this guy was depriving a village somewhere of an idiot, and stepped in to save the day. Night had fallen by the time we left, but we made it back to Rome by the Sea safely.

The best way I can describe Actual Rome is that, while it is resplendent with phenomenal history, it is an absolute shithole. Its culture is marred by the insolence of its people, the significance of its sights greatly undermined by its filth. You’re probably thinking that this is a very bold claim to make from one day of sight-seeing and one night of drinking, but remember this was not my first trip to Rome. I have thought the same thing in the past and, despite giving the city a chance to redeem itself, it left me feeling the same way.