Freelancers and a Medieval Village

We left the Sistine chapel and walked around to St. Peter’s Square, where workers were putting away chairs from that morning’s papal audience. We had originally planned to at least stand in the square to catch a glimpse of Pope Francis, but our snafu with the museum admission voucher precluded it.


We came, we saw, we left. We were hungry. Walking away from the tourists and hawkers of the Vatican, we came upon a little bar filled with ordinary Romans. For 12 euros we got a bottle of mineral water and two plates: vegetable croquettes and savory farro salad with vegetables.

It was time to head back to Luciana’s. The subway had no ticket window, only machines. After we made several attempts, a young lady standing nearby showed us how it worked. Although the instructions on the machine indicated that it would take 5, 10, and 20 euro notes, she explained that in fact, it only took fives. As it turned out, she was a freelancer, helping tourists with the machines and earning her money from tips. We handed her the change from our transaction and headed for the subway.

Something similar happened at the train station. Unsure which train we should take, we located the ticket counter. There was a sign indicating that we should take a number. The first number machine didn’t work, and as we were struggling with it, several people took numbers from an adjacent machine. We hustled over, grabbed the slip of paper, and read our number: 581. Then we saw that the number currently being served was something like 450. Sheesh! We could be there all night. So we abandoned the queue and decided to brave the ticket machines instead.

As we puzzled over the machine, a young man—another "freelance train consultant"—approached, asking which town was our destination. He hit the right buttons, explained to Gauss how much money to put in and where, and Bingo! Two tickets. Gauss gladly gave him the two euros of change from our three-euro purchase. It was money well spent for the time we saved. 

We boarded the packed train but the ride was short, only 15 minutes. When Luciana picked us up, she suggested that we stop at her favorite deli, located within the walls of an old village called Pratica di Marina. We took a winding road up a hill and through an arched gate, parking the car in front of an old church. Suddenly we were transported to a quieter, slower past, where cats lounged on the tiny streets.




At the deli, Luciana selected two kinds of prosciutto di Parma, some rustic bread, and an enormous ball of mozzarella di bufala (buffalo-milk mozzarella.) A few minutes later we were home. While she boiled some mushroom ravioli, Gauss and I set the table and laid out our purchases from the deli. The meal that followed made my eyes roll.

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