When in Rome….
• I’m waiting for the elevator in The Hassler Hotel on the fourth floor, going up to the lounge on the seventh. It arrives with an all-too-typical American man: pot belly, tee-shirt, raggedy shorts, flip flops. With him is his daughter, about 12, who says as the door opens, “We’re going UP!” as if I’ve stopped it while trying to go down.
“Thanks for the information,” I respond, “I’m going up.”
“It stops at every floor,” she whines over and over, with her face in her smart phone.
We arrive at seven and I tell her, “There are worse things in life than stopping at every floor.” She makes a face, her father says, “Okay, buddy, have a nice day!”
At 12, you’re in a luxury hotel in the heart of Rome, and complaining that the elevator makes stops before your floor. I’m not betting a whole lot on her future.
• Every Italian I meet is polite, friendly, charming. But there are basically two speeds: slow and stop. When I ask for a check at dinner last night after a drink, a starter, and a main course, the maitre d’, whom I know, rushes over to find out why I’m unhappy, since I haven’t had coffee or dessert or smoked my cigar!
• I commuted to my meetings from my hotel to anotherl via the Spanish Steps. It was somewhat surreal, despite having been there several times. There are 100 steps, the concierge unhelpfully points out, since he commutes the same way. I find they are much easier going down.
• As I’ve noticed since I was first here in 1969, there is a far higher ratio of trim, slim, stylish women than in any other place, including France. There is also the highest proportion of smoking among young women I’ve ever seen anywhere, including the U.S. Coincidence or causation?
• Some Italian police still wear swords and look like rear admirals.
• You don’t walk more than a few blocs without seeing a pair of very tough looking soldiers in battle gear carrying massive submachine guns.
• It’s impossible to get a bad meal in Venice or Florence, but it is in Rome.
• The Rome Airport—Fiumicino, Leonardo da Vinci—appears to be larger than Cincinnati.
• The new danger in travel is being hit by backpacks worn by clueless people whose original girth is bad enough.
• At the Al Italia club, which United shares, a woman in her 70s walks right up to the bar at 7:30 am and orders wine. I was stunned by this until I realized that her husband was the huge guy banging everybody with his backpack.
© Alan Weiss 2016
