Sunday, September 26^th, 1999

Energized from the success of Saturday’s forray into the hills, we decided that we would try for the last plate. This time, the name of the town was Fuimicino. Reading in my Fodor’s, I’d discovered that this was where the airport was. It seemed like it should be easy enough to find public transportation out to the airport and back. Little did I know what was in store for us.

We expected that the front desk would be helpful, but when we showed them the page in the book, they didn’t think that the restaurant would be open. They said that it was at a village near the airport, but the only way you could get to it was to take a taxi. The taxi ride would cost about thirty dollars or more. This wasn’t the DaVinci service that we’d come to expect after becoming paying guests.

This wasn’t an auspicious beginning, but rather than give up, we tried calling the restaurant from our hotel room. Strangely enough, our phone worked for the local call. The restaurant was open enough to answer the phone at nine in the morning. No one there spoke English, but we were able to struggle through the process of making a reservation for one thirty that afternoon.

Reading my travel book, I found out that there was a bus for the airport that left from the central train terminal. We could take a taxi from the airport to the restaurant in the town. The cab driver probably wouldn’t like getting such as short fair, but we thought that he would still take us.

Since we were going downtown anyway, Rebecca wanted to go back tot he shop where she’d bought the watches. She’d been looking at these watches. She’d decided that she wanted to exchange some of them and buy more. She’d been going through her Christmas list. She decided these watches were good add-on for every woman on it. I agreed to take her back to the store.

We went to the store. She did her shopping and exchanging. We then walked back to the metro station at the Spanish Steps. It was Sunday. The expensive stores were closed, but everyone was out walking in their Sunday best. Crowds gathered in the front of the church’s we passed. I wondered how people chose their parish in a town with so many churches so close together. Did the churches compete? Were their rich parishes and poor? Were some preachers more popular.

We took the subway to the central terminal. At the central terminal, we followed the signs outside to the bus terminal. We found an information booth in a plaza there and asked which bus went to Fuimicino. The girl at the in the booth spoke better English than we did. We told her that we were trying to get to the town, not the airport. She said that we didn’t want to take these buses then. The buses that went to the town left from a different subway station. She wrote down the name of the stop, "Lepanto."

Lepanto was the subway stop by the Hotel Leonardo DaVinci.

We went back down into the terminal subway station. While we were sitting on a bench, waiting for the train, a man walked by. He stopped and gestured to Rebecca something about her purse. He crossed his arms in front of him. He was indicating that she weren’t using the proper technique for protecting her purse on the subway. Looking around, the other woman were demonstrating the correct posture. You clutch your purse to your chest and cross both your arms over it.

Rebecca was immediately alarmed, not in the least because purse snatching was obviously bad enough the casual passers-by would warn her about it. She was also upset that she’d let down her guard. She prides herself at being careful when we are traveling. To have to be warned was an awakening. She immediately assumed the proper posture. The man was satisfied and moved on.

On the train, the traffic was light. We found seats. Rebecca assumed the proper with her arms crossed over her purse. I pointed out the signs on the subway warning about purse-snatcher. They were written only in Italian so you had to know that "borsa" is "purse" to get the warning. She was always worried about my getting my pocket picked, but purse snatching seems to be the popular practice.

We went back to the subway stop by our hotel. We walked across the street where a number of buses were parked. We walked around the buses until we saw a sign on one that said Fuimicino. Since we still had unused tickets from the day, we just got on the bus and punched them. The bus didn’t leave for while. We were looking out at the ticket window. Our bus driver was visiting with the ticket seller. We thought about getting off to buy return tickets, but we were still resting from chasing around in the center of the city. The bus took off in about ten minutes.

It occurred to us that we should have checked the bus schedule. We didn’t know how often the buses ran. Our experience the previous day had given us confidence. I was still worried that we weren’t going right, but I was less worried.

The bus was soon out in the country. We road on narrow country roads by fields and farms. The area was more bucolic than the road to Franscati. We even saw cows and sheep grazing in the fields.

Along the road, I saw a building that was just some supports and a red tile roof. I was reminded of Giovanni’s stories of how, if you could raise a roof overnight, you would be cited for it, but you could finish the house at your leisure. Looking at this structure, it was clear that someone had developed a construction system to quickly raise a roof. They used pre-formed concrete pylons. These pylons were wide at the bottom so they could stand on their own. The iron roof beams connected the pylons. The pre-built roof joists rested on the beams. You could see exactly how it could be raised over night. All you would need is a couple of men and a crane.

The bus stopped at a series of small village along the way. Most of them looked old and poor. The people from Rome gradually emptied the bus. We stopped at a larger town that had a couple of bus stops in it. This area looked much nicer. It looked like a small tourist town with a many condominiums and restaurants. Most of the remaining people got off the bus. Fuimicino might be only twenty miles outside of Rome, like my book said but the bus had wound around so much that the trip had lasted almost an hour.

Only the driver and a young lady remained on the bus with us. The lady went up to talk with the driver. I don’t know if they knew each other or not. Italians love to talk and strike up conversations easily. Men and women flirt easily and constantly. The relationship between the sexes seems much more relaxed than in the U.S.

We moved to the front of the bus as well. We asked about Fuimicino. The bus driver indicated that it was only a little further on. When we got there, we showed him the page about the restaurant, asking directions. The girl pointed us in the right direction. Since we didn’t have a return ticket, I asked in Italian where we could buy one. He said at the information booth in the center of town. He pointed out the bus stop across the street to catch the bus. It all seemed so easy this time.

Leaving the main road, it appeared Fuimicino was a much smaller village that Frascati. It seemed to have only one major street. We walked a few blocks and we were in front of a restaurant called Bastiani. That was were we had reservations.

We went up to the major domo and gave him our names. He couldn’t find us on the reservation list. We told him one-thirty. He still couldn’t find our name. Then he asked if we weren’t at the Bastiani al Molo restaurant. Apparently, there was another Bastiani further down the road. He pointed us down the street. This would be so much easier if we spoke the language. Or would it?

As we walked, we realized that Fuimicino’s small size was deceiving. It only had one street, but that street went on. The stores were mostly closed. Only the bars and restaurants were open. As we went on, a small canal canal appeared across the road. Soon, our road turned into a jetty, that jutted out into the Mediterranean. We hadn’t even realized that we were near the sea until we came to it.

Restaurants and bars lined one side of the road. They faced out to the sea. This was apparently a popular dining spot. The jetty then became a pier. There were more resaurants, The Porto, The Pearl, but no Bestani. We were coming to the end of the pier. Bastiani al Molo, our Bastiani, was the last restaurant to the east until you came to Greece.

It was a large and popular restaurant. We were late for our one-thirty reservations, but that wasn’t a problem. Italian lunches were like dinners. They lasted so long that restaurants only have one seating. They gave us a seat on the terrace overlooking the Mediterranean.

We proceeded to have our best meal of the trip. We stated with a salad full of cheese and anchovies. The house specialty was a wide noodle dish with shrimp. I suspect that the shrimp came right off the boats in the canal outside. The wine was great. We had a whole bottle between the two of us.

This was another area where they didn’t get many English speakers. It looked like their clientele was Roman, coming out to the sea for a Sunday afternoon. It is interesting when you are the only people around that speak a language. You feel almost alone, even in a crowd, as though you are traveling in a bubble. Sometimes, it can be very romantic. I highly recommend it.

We got our plates at the end of the meal. Unfortunately, they wouldn’t sell us any extras. For the first time, we saw people around us getting plates. In fact, the tables at either side of us ordered the specialty of the house as well. Everyone was getting plates. No wonder they couldn’t sell them. Their house specialty was popular, and deservedly so.

When we’d paid for the meal, we used the washrooms on the way out. After a two hour meal, we usually needed to refresh ourselves. Rebecca had used the restroom before the meal. She now realized that she’d used the men’s room. It was empty at the time so she didn’t know. Besides, each toilet had its own little stall.

Unlike all the other restrooms we’d seen, these were manual. We must have been pretty far out in the country. The flusher was high on the wall. I wondered how short people managed to use it.

As I was leaving my stall, a man started banging on the stall next to me and calling for help. I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t understand what he was saying. He could be stuck inside or having a heart attack. Fortunately, he was banging loudly enough that a pair of waitresses soon appeared. The stall door was stuck. They looked like this was a common enough occurrence that they knew what to do. I was certainly glad it wasn’t me in there. I could have never told them what was wrong. They couldn’t have told me what to do. It would have been ugly.

Rebecca and I met outside. Now, all we had to do was find the information booth in the center of town. We could buy our bus ticket and catch the next bus out of town. We were full and a little tipsy. It would have been terrific not to have to ride the bus an hour to get back, but we were still happy that we’d been able to find another adventure.

Still, where was the center of town? We made the long walk down the jetty and back to the main part of town. We didn’t see any information booth. There was a small plaza off to the left, no information booth. We looked around the church, no information booth. We walked the main road back to the bus stop. We walked every side road that looked like it had traffic. There just wasn’t any information booth.

By now, the good feelings were replaced by hurting feet. To add insult to injury, we saw our bus drive by at a distance, heading back to Rome.

Rebecca always claims that men don’t ask directions, but I was the first to want to ask instead of charging around town. I carefully put together the phrase in Italian. Dove posso comprare bigletti per l’autobus a Roma? Where can I buy tickets for the bus to Rome?

I used my phrase at the first store we came to. It worked, they suggested the bar down the street.

At the bar, I simplified my phrase. Posso comprare due bigletti per l’autobus a Roma qua? Can I buy two tickets for the bus to Rome here? They said they didn’t sell them. I asked, Dove? Where? They sent me to a drug store down the long road.

The drug store was closed. We asked at a gift shop next door. Dove posso comprare bigletti per l’autobus a Roma? Where can I buy tickets for the bus to Rome? They didn’t know. They suggested a magazine shop magazine store down the road some more and across the road.

We walked down the road. We didn’t see anything that looked very much like magazine shop. We finally came to a stand that sold a few magazines. I asked the question. The pointed us back to a bar up the road.

As we were walking, a couple on a motorcycle pulled up to us. They asked for money. The girl pointed to her leg in a caste. We were obviously tourists and, I guess, therefore easy marks. They had a motorcycle. We didn’t. I was in no mood to be generous despite the novel approach.

We asked at the bar. They didn’t sell them. They sent us down the road again to anther store that was closed. We felt like a ping pong ball. I seriously began to wonder if everyone was having a little Sunday fun with us. It was hot. We were tired. Rebecca had had enough. I suggested that she wait and rest while I played on alone, but she wouldn’t here of it. She takes this partnership stuff seriously.

Finally, a store told us to go down to the bar after the Pearl restaurant. I remembered the Pearl. It was almost to the end of the quay. It was the last restaurant before the Bastiani. We made the long walk again. I didn’t much hope for any tickets, but I figured that we could have the restaurant call us a cab. Enough was enough.

We got to the bar. I asked if we could buy bus tickets. They asked how many. I didn’t my ears or my Italian. They actually sold bus tickets. We bought to and in broken Italian explained that we’d talked to everyone in town trying to find them. They thought my story or my accent was entertaining. I gave them a big tip even though they charged twice as much for tickets as the station did. I am sure that they were confused as to why.

We made the long walk back to the bus stop. An Italian lady else was there already waiting. The only question now was how long it was until the next bus. It had been over a half-hour since we’d seen the last one. We waited and waited some more. Another man showed up waiting for the bus. These people must know the schedule—if they even have such a thing in Italy—it must be getting close.

We waited some more. Soon the man was consulting with the lady about the time. We got the sense that neither of them knew when the bus was coming. A teenage girl was trying to start a little moped in a parking lot. She worked and worked trying to pedal it up to speed. She finally got it working. We were still waiting. I was tempted to ask her for a ride.

Finally, a bus arrived. It was a different bus. We wanted a blue bus. This one was red. We asked where it was going. It was going to Rome, but it was a city bus. We didn’t know where it would stop. We decided to wait for a bus of the proper color.

Thirty minutes later, we began to think that we’d made a mistake. We’d seen one red bus coming from the right direction, but it had turned up the main street of Fuimicino and disappeared fifteen minutes ago. We began to think that we should be seeing a red bus come from the direction of Rome to eventually turn around and take us home. We had been waiting over an hour and a half. We hadn’t seen any buses coming from Rome. We were starting to talk about the cab idea again. We’d been so happy after getting our tickets, we’d forgotten the idea before.

An oriental lady carrying a box of souvenirs of some kind and a backpack. She was waiting for the bus too. Maybe this meant it was coming soon.

It did come. We were so happy to see it. It was empty. We punched our ticket was we got on. We still didn’t know if it was going back to Lepanto, the stop near our hotel, but we didn’t care. It was going to Rome and we were going to Rome.

The ride back was uneventful except the the bus filled up with souvenir sellers. They all carried boxes and backpacks. Many of them seem to know each other. A number of them were oriental. Others were African blacks. They were carrying all different types of wares, umbrellas, toys, little books. We wondered if they were ending their day or going into Rome to sell in the evening.

We got into the city. We passed St. Peters. We were close to our hotel. Near the Vatican, the bus stopped and all the souvenir sellers got out. There was a huge street fair. Even though it was after five, it was still going strong. Rebecca and I weren’t even tempted to go look.

The next stop was Lepanto. We’d gotten home. We’d left at ten in the morning and hadn’t gotten back until after five. It had been a long day. We were ready for a bath and a drink. We had a bottle of wine in the room.

It was our last night in Italy. We were too tired for a big meal. We still had to pack. We went out for pizza, the thin crust kind.