|
"Being too charming was never one of my faults." - Kill Me Later
Webcam
Mine ::
about me.
wishlist
Right-wingers ::
RWN.
Frank J.
DF.
Volokh.
LGF.
Flea.
Serenity.
Common Sense & Wonder.
Neophyite Pundit.
BlytheBlog.
Red White and Right.
RightGuys.
The Politburo Diktat.
Dave Munger.
Chuck.
Harry.
Michelle Malkin.
AHC.
DW.
Mlah.
National Summary.
Right Thinking Girl.
Fausta.
MaxedOutMama.
My VRWC.
La Shawn Barber.
Moxie.
Kali.
Cassandra.
Tony.
Conservative Grapevine.
The American Princess.
Dr. Melissa Clouthier
Military ::
Kevin.
Sgt Pontifex.
Chief Wiggles.
Eric.
Koreahn.
Bill
Blogs ::
Lian.
Phil.
Dan.
Click.
Jon.
Rijah.
Christine.
Dave.
Opinions Vary.
Dave.
Carey.
Albert.
Len.
Grace.
Thelma.
Pia.
Bumblebee Dreams.
Todd.
Babiegoose.
Archives
May 2004
June 2004
July 2004
August 2004
September 2004
October 2004
November 2004
December 2004
January 2005
February 2005
March 2005
April 2005
May 2005
June 2005
July 2005
August 2005
September 2005
October 2005
November 2005
December 2005
January 2006
February 2006
March 2006
April 2006
May 2006
June 2006
July 2006
August 2006
September 2006
October 2006
November 2006
December 2006
January 2007
February 2007
March 2007
April 2007
May 2007
June 2007
July 2007
August 2007
September 2007
October 2007
November 2007
December 2007
January 2008
February 2008
March 2008
April 2008
May 2008
June 2008
July 2008
August 2008
September 2008
October 2008
November 2008
December 2008
January 2009
Powered by Blogger.
|
|
Tuesday, May 08, 2007
Barcelona > Italy
Warning: The following post may contain some profane language. Such is my hatred for the country of Italy.
Je suis deteste Italie.
I’m having a really hard time figuring out why it is the French who have the label “rude” when clearly Italians are the rudest and most obnoxious of all Europeans. I realize that I am generalizing and blah blah blah but seriously, I’ve come in contact with more rude Italians in two days than I have in four months in Paris. I have never been more insulted by people allegedly in the service industry than I have here in Italy. I’m fairly certain “customer service” is not part of the Italian vocabulary.
Maybe I should begin at the beginning.
After we missed our flight to Venice (long story to be told at a later date) we ended up with only one evening in the beautiful city of canals. But before we could head out to the island we had to check in at our hotel, which was unfortunately on the mainland. Our very first impression of Italy was the surly old hotel reception man and the very first thing out of his mouth was, “put that down,” as he pointed to the duffel bag my sister had just lugged from the train station and placed on a couch. Then he basically commanded us to give him our passports and sit down. My sister was so sketched out by the place that she ended up sleeping with her passport and money in her travel pouch. The man redeemed himself by being semi-friendly and chatty the next morning as we checked out but it was still in a very, uh, brusque tone.
What else has happened in the 36 hours since then?
• On the island we ordered sandwiches and tiramisu from a complete fucking bitch of a woman who was working the counter. That is actually the only appropriate description for her. First she yelled at the nice English-speaking couple ahead of us who were simply trying to order a slice of tiramisu to eat while standing (it costs more to sit at the tables because of the cover charge for the orchestra). She kept telling them that they had to take it to go and they were saying that was fine they just wanted to stand and eat it but she kept thinking they wanted to sit down, eventually she called over the man working the café booth and he was the asshole to her bitchiness and didn’t get it either. The English-speaking husband ended up finally getting through to them and then even apologized profusely for the confusion while I fumed silently in the background because if anything it was the jerks at the counter who should have been apologizing, not the freaking customer. She then asked us three separate times if we were getting it to go even though I very clearly told her we wanted it to go. She also served someone behind us while we were in the middle of ordering. Um…okay!
• We arrived in Rome Termini the next morning and with all our bags in tow set off in search of an information kiosk where we could purchase a Roma Pass (it allows you to visit two attractions of your choice, discounts on attractions beyond the first two, and a three-day metro card). After asking a whole slew of official looking people where to go and being pointed in eight different directions we were fairly certain that these elusive information kiosks did not really exist…until we realized they were actually the cigarette stands and did not actually say information on them anywhere. Of course, none of those police officer/train station people bothered to give us this crucial piece of information.
• Finally bought our Roma Passes and made our way into the metro system. Um, ew? Seriously, ew! Packed trains completely covered on the outside with graffiti and although there were video screens running ads both inside the trains and on the platform not a single one gave any useful information, like where the hell is this train headed? So far only the platforms at the Spagna station seems to have signs which provide this crucial piece of information for travelers unfamiliar with the Roma metro system.
• Okay, so we make it out of the metro in one piece and find our “hotel.” I only use the word “hotel” to describe it because that is what I booked. A hotel. This place however, looked like a dungeon from the outside and is at best a hostel. Whatever, though, it was cheap so what did I expect right?
• After we settle in we head out and have lunch nearby. The service was much, much better than our service in Venice the previous night but even though the restaurant workers are obviously very nice, they are still quite a bit brusquer than Americans would generally be used to. Coming from France I understand that it’s mainly a cultural difference, but at least in my opinion, the divide between Italians and Americans is much wider than between Americans and French in terms of what does and does not constitute being polite.
• Towards the end of our lunch it starts raining. We buy an umbrella from one of the many umbrella vendors who have appeared out of nowhere and he tries to make us buy two by shorting us change and leaving us with an extra umbrella but we manage to get our money back and send him away with the unwanted umbrella.
• Since St. Peter in Chains is nearby we stop in and when we get back out the rain has stopped so we decide to take the metro over to the Spanish Steps to check if the American Express is still open so we can exchange our traveler’s checks (they don’t seem to accept them anywhere in Rome). It’s not. Even though it’s starting to rain harder we decide to walk down a busy side street and when we ask one of the umbrella vendors to move to the right side of the sidewalk he tells us to just get off the sidewalk and go around him. I want to tell him he is a bastardoh but my sister was afraid we might get accosted by the gang of umbrella vendors propositioning tourists nearby.
• It’s raining too hard to keep going so we duck into the “most lavish McDonald’s in the world” and get some Cokes and use the toilet. For the most lavish McDonald’s in the world it’s got some filthy, disgusting toilets. The downstairs area was nice though. In McDonald’s we see a baby drop some cookies on the floor and his mother (who is obviously Italian since when the rest of the group joins her at the table they speak Italian with each other) sees this but does not bother to pick them up and throw them away. Instead she leaves them on the floor. Her baby walks by again and smashes one into the ground with his tiny foot. I flip through Candace’s phrase book to try to find the word rude, but unfortunately it’s not in there. Asshole and bitch are though. Hm…
• Finally the rain stops and we go for the Dolce Vita walk described in Candace’s tour book. We pass by a Zara and decide to go in, quickly discover it’s much more expensive than in Barcelona or Paris and head back out. For some reason the alarm goes off when we walks by and we are manhandled by an incredibly rude security guard who does not even apologize after we walk through the sensors again and they don’t go off. He quickly becomes bored of us and looks away. There are a lot of security guards in France too, but usually they are very polite about asking you to step through the sensors again or looking in your bag. Especially if you don’t look like a hoodlum or a bum or something. I was seriously miffed and tempted to use the new Italian words I learned in McDonald’s.
• We keep walking down this street which is supposedly Rome’s version of the Champs Elysee/5th Avenue/Rodeo Drive and while many of the stores are the same (Dior, LV, D&G, Prada, etc.) there is garbage everywhere. Big, overflowing heaps of garbage bags litter the street, one particularly big pile just to the right of the entrance to Dior. So. Not. Impressed.
• Oh yeah, I forgot to mention that before heading to the Spanish Steps we popped by our dungeon…er…hotel to change our shoes and going back to the metro I slipped on some moss going down the hill and twisted my knee and my wrist (from trying to catch myself). I also managed to pull Candace mostly down onto the ground with me since our arms were linked to make it easier to huddle under the umbrella together.
• This morning as we are on the train headed once again to the American Express at the Spanish Steps (they were already closed by the time we got there the night before) this weird Italian guy in a rainbow skin tight tee squeezes behind my sister and myself even though there is a lot of room just to the left of us. We both have our sweatshirts wrapped around our purses which we are wearing across our shoulders and in front of us, so if he is a pickpocket he surely should have noticed we wouldn’t make easy targets. He gets off at the next step and I hear him mutter something that sounds like swearing under his breath because I don’t move out of his way. I don’t move because just to my left there is a TON of empty space and I figured he would do the normal thing (or at least normal in Paris, New York and Barcelona, the only three cities in which I’ve used metros) and go around me since it was easy to do so. By now I am barely even fazed. Another Italian jerk. Big whoop.
Seriously, the nicest and most helpful people we’ve met here in Italy so far have been other Americans on vacation. While I would definitely go back to Barcelona again in a heartbeat (I don’t think I planned enough time for us there even though we did end up with an extra day) I’d only come back to Italy if Paul really wanted to visit. It’s expensive, definitely comparable to Paris. It’s much dirtier than Paris or Barcelona. The public transportation is much scarier in terms of its appearance and the fact that we’ve been warned so many times by other travelers to beware of pickpockets here in Italy. My sister’s OCD is out of control, I see her constantly turning around to make sure I’m clutching my purse as tightly as she is clutching hers. She didn’t bust out the travel pouch until the day we left Barcelona for Venice.
Barcelona made me kind of wish I had been able to study there instead of in Paris, and Rome (Italy in general, really) is making so thankful that I was in Paris and not here. I know there are things to love about Rome, the history for one, but I guess it’s just not my cup of tea. I can’t wait to move onto Athens. I will try to enjoy it though since I’m stuck here for another day and a half. Will let you know how it goes.Labels: Europe
wingless was still breathing at 10:57 AM
-
(c) 2001-2006 transcended.net - all rights reserved
|
|
: 6:22 PM