Travel Tuesday - Margarita in Rome

So let me tell you about this one time when I went to Italy...

Prior to the first trip to Italy, my international travel was comprised of accompanying my parents to family visits in Mexico. My mother's prim and proper upbringing meant that I was attached to her hip while the quebradita (Mexican for dirty dancing) was practiced by the adolecents in the plaza. In high school, over priced schools overseas schools would send their recruits for us traveling dreamers who  wished to spend their summers away from their parents. I thought then that some semblance of freedom, to travel without the leash of propriety (my mother) was attainable. For a moment I thought I had heard the whisperings of my mothers acquiesce to a semester in Egypt. As I geared myself to make the final pleadings for an allowance to leave, some assholes decided to put two fucking planes in the Twin Towers. It was the beginning of my senior year. It took less than a moment for my mother to say  "ni creas que to voy a dejar en un avion" (Translation: Don't even think you are getting on a plane anytime soon.). My appeals in the form of arguments resembling phrases like "the best time to travel is right after something like this, everything is on lock down and super safer" fell on deaf ears.

It was three years later when an opportunity to vacation to Italy was presented to me. Settling on Rome and the neighboring area, my father and passed me a credit card. I was elated. Rome would be the destination for a nerdy history freak whose study of the bloody battles in the Coliseum were easy Saturday reading, and to top it off with Spaghetti? It all was too fucking fantastic

So there I went to Rome. I am in the mind set that travelers should acclamate the local culture and fully immerse oneself, not standing out like a "stupid American". I studied Italian language and Italian fashion, filling my bright yellow suitcase, with wheels and a handle, with nothing but pastels and mesh over shirts. Have I mentioned that I am a plushy girl? Pastels make me look like a fucking easter egg. So I am in the airport, and because I want to be one of "them", I think, hey, I can do this, I am going to take the trolley, to which I have no map, all the way in to town, get off with my big ass yellow suitcase, and find my hotel..how fucking hard can this be?

The trolley dead ends in the middle of town...and there is no hotel in sight. I am close to some ruins, but if you have ever visited  to Rome you will quickly realize that almost everything is a ruin with a modern building on the inside. The trip was in August, a sweltering month for almost every part of the world, Wearing two sizes too small jeans (because tighter is better in Italy) and a knitted pastel blue short sleeve sweater...its fucking 90 degrees at 11 in the morning. I walk along cobble stone streets, all the while wheeling a  big ass bag that screams "Tourist". But no, I am convinced I fit right the fuck in. I take a right turn, I take a left. I can't fucking find the Trilussa Hotel. Someone is king enought to point me to the street Trilussa, but he knows nothing about the Trilussa hotel. I hobble down some more, all the while fully conscious of the fact that I am sweating, my crotch is rubbing against the fucking jeans, I am tired, I am hungry, and on the verge of a melt down.

I decide that before the tears commence that I take a seat at this cute little cafe. I waddle in, trying to ensure that I get some breeze towards my crotch. A few weeks prior I turned the ripe age of 21, making me eager to get started on what is to turn in to a long history of drinking. I take the seat at the table closest to the street, and I order the only alcoholic drink I can name, a margarita. I order in spanish because  because italian and spanish are the same...right? The waiter smiles, responding in English "sure, I'll bring it right out, and what would you like to drink". I take a breath...I am thirsty and I want my motherfucking alcohol, clearly he had not understood, so I repeat "a margarita". The waiter continues to smile..."I'll bring some water, no gas". I wonder if the no gas comment by the waiter meant he was planning to fart in my water cup.

I took the next few quiet moment to enjoy my surroundings. I had never crossed an ocean by myself, never been so far and removed from my "Pacific Standard Time". Rome is fucking amazing. Despite modernity  its history is captured in every stone, every building, and despite the crotch sweat and inability to find the hotel, I was enjoying this non parental adventure. Twenty minutes passed when the waiter came out to my table, with a pizza. I look at the waiter, and back down to my pizza. He is still fucking smiling. I look at the pizza again and before I can look up, the waiter has skipped his happy ass back to his counter. I politely flag him down..."sir, I still haven't received my margarita..."
"Miss this is your margarita, margarita pizza..."

I stammer, and start to cry...why? Because I am a fucking girl, my pants are stuck in my crotch, it's hot, and all I want is my god damn alcohol...I compose myself, explaining that my flight was so long and that I am very tired. I muster in broken italian/spanish "back home a margarita is a cocktail". My waiter, an angel in disguise I would have to assume, who was kind enough to politely and sweetly deal with  my emotional vagina bullshit, smiles again, and says, "a bella, I get a you a bellini". That fucking saint got me my drink, and a cab to drive me to my hotel...that was only a block away!

So began my lone travels, as a  Stupid (Mexican) American. 

h

Mexican in Rome Part 2

Welcome to the second installment of my Travel Tuesday. If you are still following my blog...thank you and I promise to get as gross as possible in future posts. This one won't be so gross...

As mentioned previously...I was in Rome once when I was really young. I was a novice at this travel thing despite thinking I was the shit and knew everything about travel. I had my fluorescent clothes so I could blend with the Italian locals, I used broken phrases to get around. But I had made a few mistakes.

The first was that I had scheduled a trip in crotch sweat August. Everything stuck to me. It was hot, it was smelly, it was gross.

The second was that I had booked two week accommodations in one location. What that meant was that I would be stationed in Rome while only being able to travel on day trips. The trip was prepaid and it would have been a waste of money if I had taken off. I made the best of the situation and went on trips to Capri, only being able to spend two hours on their beach before hauling ass back to the docks to make the last boat back to the mainland.

It was on one of these day trips that my story begins.

The guided tour traveled to little towns that dot the Tuscan hillsides. The expeditions took us to places that sampled Orange flavored liquor and shoved raw hide goods in your face. So we ended up on this town called Orvieto. It was a medieval town located on some cliff. It was told to our group that this town was so exclusive, that it never allowed any tour buses to or cars and therefore had to hike up to this town. Made no difference, I was in Italy, I would have hiked to a death camp. So while in this town I find a novelty store that was selling swords....SWORDS. And this was no little plastic sword, this was metal, and big, not too sharp, but big. I buy the fucking thing because back home I had a teenage brother that would have believed me to be the most awesome sister ever if I brought a sword to him.

I was sitting on the bus making my way back to Rome and my hotel. I was tired, I was hot, but ecstatic. I had a sword. So the bus driver, an oily man with a profuse belly, announces the stops, Trilussa being one of them. My stop. At this point I had been in Rome for almost the two weeks. I knew exactly where Trilussa was in Rome. So we get to a stop, the bus driver mumbles something, no one gets off. Ok no biggie, he continues to another stop and says some other stop, a couple gets off. I start to worry. I make my way to the front.
"um, excuse me, Trilussa stop?"
If you had been there, you would have seen the large belly swell as his breathing became labored, saying "I stopped at Trilussa, you no get off! So you get off here!". He stops the bus on this narrow little Roman road. I look in disbelief as he opens the door, yelling "this isn't my stop". His fat face retorted, "I no care, you get off here."
"This isn't my stop, you have to take me to my stop"
"you get off"
"I paid to get taken to my stop!"
"you get off or I arrest"
"Fuck this!" I yell as I gather my bag and my sword. I make a huge display, stomping my feet and dragging the sword like some Edward Scissorhand.  I step on the asphalt, and as the orca closes the bus door, I turn and use all of my body weight to kick the shit out of the bus door. It cracked.
My eyes widened and I see that this bus man is trying to open the door and get his ass up to yell at me, but more likely to call the cops on me.  I yell "hi-ya" as I dash down some random alley way, with a sword in hand.

That sword was confiscated at the airport.

Margarita in Rome

So let me tell you about this one time when I went to Italy...

Prior to the first trip to Italy, my international travel was comprised of accompanying my parents to family visits in Mexico. My mother's prim and proper upbringing meant that I was attached to her hip while the quebradita (Mexican for dirty dancing) was practiced by the adolecents in the plaza. In high school, over priced schools overseas schools would send their recruits for us traveling dreamers who  wished to spend their summers away from their parents. I thought then that some semblance of freedom, to travel without the leash of propriety (my mother) was attainable. For a moment I thought I had heard the whisperings of my mothers acquiesce to a semester in Egypt. As I geared myself to make the final pleadings for an allowance to leave, some assholes decided to put two fucking planes in the Twin Towers. It was the beginning of my senior year. It took less than a moment for my mother to say  "ni creas que to voy a dejar en un avion" (Translation: Don't even think you are getting on a plane anytime soon.). My appeals in the form of arguments resembling phrases like "the best time to travel is right after something like this, everything is on lock down and super safer" fell on deaf ears.

It was three years later when an opportunity to vacation to Italy was presented to me. Settling on Rome and the neighboring area, my father and passed me a credit card. I was elated. Rome would be the destination for a nerdy history freak whose study of the bloody battles in the Coliseum were easy Saturday reading, and to top it off with Spaghetti? It all was too fucking fantastic

So there I went to Rome. I am in the mind set that travelers should acclamate the local culture and fully immerse oneself, not standing out like a "stupid American". I studied Italian language and Italian fashion, filling my bright yellow suitcase, with wheels and a handle, with nothing but pastels and mesh over shirts. Have I mentioned that I am a plushy girl? Pastels make me look like a fucking easter egg. So I am in the airport, and because I want to be one of "them", I think, hey, I can do this, I am going to take the trolley, to which I have no map, all the way in to town, get off with my big ass yellow suitcase, and find my hotel..how fucking hard can this be?

The trolley dead ends in the middle of town...and there is no hotel in sight. I am close to some ruins, but if you have ever visited  to Rome you will quickly realize that almost everything is a ruin with a modern building on the inside. The trip was in August, a sweltering month for almost every part of the world, Wearing two sizes too small jeans (because tighter is better in Italy) and a knitted pastel blue short sleeve sweater...its fucking 90 degrees at 11 in the morning. I walk along cobble stone streets, all the while wheeling a  big ass bag that screams "Tourist". But no, I am convinced I fit right the fuck in. I take a right turn, I take a left. I can't fucking find the Trilussa Hotel. Someone is king enought to point me to the street Trilussa, but he knows nothing about the Trilussa hotel. I hobble down some more, all the while fully conscious of the fact that I am sweating, my crotch is rubbing against the fucking jeans, I am tired, I am hungry, and on the verge of a melt down.

I decide that before the tears commence that I take a seat at this cute little cafe. I waddle in, trying to ensure that I get some breeze towards my crotch. A few weeks prior I turned the ripe age of 21, making me eager to get started on what is to turn in to a long history of drinking. I take the seat at the table closest to the street, and I order the only alcoholic drink I can name, a margarita. I order in spanish because  because italian and spanish are the same...right? The waiter smiles, responding in English "sure, I'll bring it right out, and what would you like to drink". I take a breath...I am thirsty and I want my motherfucking alcohol, clearly he had not understood, so I repeat "a margarita". The waiter continues to smile..."I'll bring some water, no gas". I wonder if the no gas comment by the waiter meant he was planning to fart in my water cup.

I took the next few quiet moment to enjoy my surroundings. I had never crossed an ocean by myself, never been so far and removed from my "Pacific Standard Time". Rome is fucking amazing. Despite modernity  its history is captured in every stone, every building, and despite the crotch sweat and inability to find the hotel, I was enjoying this non parental adventure. Twenty minutes passed when the waiter came out to my table, with a pizza. I look at the waiter, and back down to my pizza. He is still fucking smiling. I look at the pizza again and before I can look up, the waiter has skipped his happy ass back to his counter. I politely flag him down..."sir, I still haven't received my margarita..."
"Miss this is your margarita, margarita pizza..."

I stammer, and start to cry...why? Because I am a fucking girl, my pants are stuck in my crotch, it's hot, and all I want is my god damn alcohol...I compose myself, explaining that my flight was so long and that I am very tired. I muster in broken italian/spanish "back home a margarita is a cocktail". My waiter, an angel in disguise I would have to assume, who was kind enough to politely and sweetly deal with  my emotional vagina bullshit, smiles again, and says, "a bella, I get a you a bellini". That fucking saint got me my drink, and a cab to drive me to my hotel...that was only a block away!

So began my lone travels, as a  Stupid (Mexican) American. 

Travel Tuesday - The one where I tell you how to travel

So this is where I give you tips and suggestions on how to travel without being an uptight asshole.

Booking the flight: In general, you have to be vigilant on sales and promotions that are offered from time to time. If its a domestic flight, Southwest offers a rapid rewards program, while sending promotional emails weekly. Southwest can be pricey, but the promotions are phenomenal. And when booking, always try to book anywhere from 40 to 60 days prior to your trip. The fares tend to go up when there are less than 40 days.
International flights are a little tricky. I've used Lufthansa, Austrian Airlines, and British Airways. From experience, I can confidently tell you that AIRLINES SUCKS!!!! They re-route you to some bummed out Scandinavian country, they lose your luggage. Do not ever fly Austrian. Lufthansa, although a little pricier, is comfortable and semi luxurious  And if you are a freak of nature who likes her international travel plans to be settled ten months prior to the trip, you can always find a flight for less than $1,000 round trip. Same goes for British, although not near as posh as Lufthansa.
Finding deals on an international flight is a little harder but can be obtained. Cheap-O-Air consistently provides cheap flight options that include Lufthansa, British Airways, Virgin Atlantic, etc. Recently we booked our honeymoon flights to Belgium and Germany for 1300 a pop.

Flight Essentials: If your trip duration is less than a week, carry on. Remember that you can carry on one small luggage, and one personal item. Because the carry on luggage will be in the overhead storage, make sure that you have the following in your personal item bag - headphones, music player, phone, books (multiple if you are like me and need to read more than one book at time), magazines (pictures and small articles are a nice break from lines and lines of text), hand sanitizer, tissues, snacks, a rosary (for us superstitious folk) etc. It is hard enough to get up for a bathroom break, making the act of getting out of your seat, opening a storage bins when you are in flight an awkward nightmare.
However, if you are gone for more than a week, and will need to check a bag, make sure that you have the following in your carry on, especially if your flight requires at least one connection - Clean change of chonis (trust me, nothing says comfort like changing the 10 hour sat in underwear at the first opportunity), toothbrush and toothpaste (the recycled air will make your breath stale and you'll reek of corpse vagina), change of clothes (in case the checked in luggage doesn't make it to your destination), deodorant and make up, because come on...what if Ralph Fiennes is in the seat next to you! MILE HIGH CLUB!(JK...I am spoken for...)
I tend to dress up when I am flying because I am a psycho and always wonder "what if we crash and I am dressed like an asshole...I need to look cute". And mind you, not even lost luggage and having to wander the cobblestone of Venice for 24 hours in 6 inch platforms deters me from this practice. Practicality is for assholes.

Your Accommodations: Ideally you want to be as frugal as possible. However, a few things I learned that are very important in choosing your accommodations - Firstly, a modicum of cleanliness is essential. But also, research your location. Check the reviews, make sure that where you are staying is not in some obscure out of the way neighborhood. Stay within a reasonable distance of a major attraction. That way, when you stumble out of the local discotheque wondering how to speak German to the Italian cabbie, you'll at least be able to get close to your destination. Also, make sure your place is close to public transit, its convenient and cheap. If you are staying for a week or more in one place, try to rent an apartment, its cheaper and much more private. This was not as common when I began my travel excursions over ten years ago, but with the advent of sites like AirBnb, and Craigslist continually listing vacation homes all over the world, you will be able to find an affordable, comfortable, and awesome temporary home for your vacation.

Now to the good stuff. You can plan all you want, but please bear the thought that PLANS will go astray. That's ok, you are on a fucking vacation. Disorder should be at the top of your to do list. Go out for a coffee and chat someone up. You will learn so much about the city, receiving greater recommendations that no travel book will ever provide. Walk! Walk everywhere, turn a corner off the main street. Get lost! Not literally, but just wander. See it all on foot. You won't get that same feeling and experience from a tour bus.

Never ever get drunk alone! Never. Yes, I have been a shit show many of times, and a few of those alone. But this is fucking retarded and should not be practiced. Have a few, relax and enjoy, but stay conscious of everything and everyone. Locals are friendly...but so are rapists. If its available, try doing a pubcrawl. Not only will you meet other tourists, but you'll safely be traversing the streets, making a mental note of where to check out next when you are on your own. And believe me, the conversations and memories you make on the pub crawls are those that will mold the stories of your whole trip. Denmarkian is now a word I will forever use with a story for how it is used.

Do the touristy stuff. I nearly skipped that gondola ride because of its pocket raping price of 80 euros. But how the hell do you go to Venice and not take a ride on the gondola!? Yes it was pricey, but the gondolier was cute and he was able to score some wine from one of the canal side restaurants. AND HE SANG TO ME! It was something out of a Henry James movie remake. I even went to Oktoberfest. And although I paid a shit load to stay in a hotel in Munich (300 american a night) it was the best experience of my life. I slept on the sidewalk, with a Romanian girl as we swapped stories of our parents, but please don't tell my parents I did that.

Rent a moped, go to the beach, sit and do nothing. You never know if you will ever get to go back. I am fortunate for the opportunity to visit some of my favorites in this world more than once. But you really don't know if you will ever get to go back. So go and keep your eyes open. Don't fuss with a travel book. Immerse in to that world. And don't ever ask if someone speaks American, or if the Italian restaurant serves Margaritas ... they don't know that back home a margarita is drink, not a pizza. You'll end up with the most confusing conversation ever and if you are anything like me, you will probably cry.

Now go!