Well, I'm finally in Rome. It sure took long enough. Each of my flights was delayed at least a little, and leaving London we just sat on the runway in a dinky Alitalia plane for what felt like an age! Ugh. Anyway, I've decided that Italian men come in two varieties: the enthusiastic or brooding. This occurred to me as I watched the interactions of our entirely male flight attendant staff on the plane. They were either happy puppies or not happy puppies.

The happy puppy attendants would bounce up and say: Madam, what would you like to drink?!? And they would smile and gesture and their eyes sparkled. However, if you got saddled with one of the brooders, the drink ordering experience was quite different. It went something like this:

Brooding attendant saunters up and says, "You want water, yes?" in a voice that tells you that water is on the menu, whether you want it or not! It was very interesting. The broody ones also had crazy hair--I'm talking Einstein. It was very interesting.

So, then I actually got to Rome, picked up my luggage (yes! no lost luggage) and then attempted to reach the hostel. Huh. So, bear in mind that I haven't really slept in 24 hours at this point. I get to the train ticket counter and just stare at the guy behind the glass--I need to say Termini, but Trevi is all that comes to mind. Thankfully, he was obviously used to disoriented travelers and just threw the right ticket at me.

Then, I get on the train and wait, and we pass stops, and I recognize some, but not others. Then, I break down and ask this random woman where Termini is and she tells me in rapid Italian and makes motions with her fingers--something about walking. So, I get out and wander around and find my way to the right station and then take the wrong train. Then I get on the right train and I get to my final destination (Roma di Re Piazza) and it's raining--but I brought an umbrella.

So, I start walking down what I think is the right street and pass all of these people who are looking at me because I look like I've packed more than Paris Hilton on a month-long trip to Monte Carlo. Anway, I walk past a building that looks hostel-ish, and then I turn and walk by it again, and then I decide--yes this is the hostel! Oh, and then I climb FIVE flights of very old stairs. FIVE!!!

To be continued...