Europe Explained (Rome, Italy)

Gelateria next to the hotel is out of ice cream.

But croissants are available. 

That would be like going to Dairy Queen and they say there are no Blizzards, but you can order shrimp and fries. 

“You want?” the bespectacled Italian man behind the counter asks. 

“No, grazie,” I say, sternly yet politely. 

G and I walk out of understocked gelateria.  

We’re in the capital city of Italy, staying at a place named after Julius Caesar and Roma pizzas (you know, the cheap, flimsy ones you can bake in 20 minutes)…

Just kidding. 

Despite being in such a historic locale, walking 10 minutes yields nothing in terms of food. 

Time to go to the grocery store. 

I begin tapping my feet while G weighs a cucumber, then a bag of oranges, then ten other produce items. 

“WTF, I thought we were just getting a few things,” I mumble to myself, my hands in my pockets because it’s cold out and all I need to eat is a couple packages of meat and a chocolate piece of bread, but lil bro is shopping like he needs to meal prep for the week ahead. 

Halfway through eating all this food, I regain consciousness and tell myself to slow down, to stop eating and acting like a damn maniac. 

“You’re on vacation,” I whisper to myself. 

“Did you say something?” G asks. 

“No.”

Not to you anyway. 

Mimi food coma commences.

Good thing it’s not American food or I’d have to take Pepto Bismol, sip on a Ginger Ale, pop dos ibuprofen, and take a 2.5 hour nap to combat all the chemicals pumping through my organs.  

Next morning arrives. 

Wow, I slept great.

Even thought I woke up in my own bed.

Actually, it was disappointing to realize I’m still in Europe. 

Not because I don’t like Italy. 

But I’m starting to get hungry. 

Not like I’ll have the spaghetti carbonara AND dessert hungry. 

Metaphorically hungry. 

Vacations are great, and if done correctly, I believe you too will come back home revitalized and ready to interview 17 different people and churn out an assortment of articles, while simultaneously being meticulous about not overusing certain adjectives, so as to avoid redundancy and lose a reader’s attention. 

Okay, yes, vacation is fun, so this is where things may go left: 

I’m 32.

Physically I feel great but emotionally too often I feel dead inside, disappointed with humanity, the machine, and countless ancillary factors that are completely out of my control. 

I don’t want to stop caring about society and its future, and I am contemplating lacing up a pair of white New Balance shoes, loading a rocking chair into my backseat, and then relaxing on the third floor of my building, fully content to yell at the kids running around outside at 7:34 P.M.

“Go inside,” I would yell, shaking my fist while also imbibing on flavorless popcorn. 

There would also be a glass of ginger ale resting nearby, the precipitation from the ice slowly dripping off the exterior of the glass as the heat melts the ice faster than I can consume, refill, and clear my throat in order to let out another stream of complaints directed at the neighborhood kids. 

This all may sound enticing, but as I daydream about this, I’m snapped back to reality when I sleepwalk through another transaction and somehow end up paying 30 Euros to wash clothes. 

“Together or separate?” the attendant asks us, the sun set and I’m surprised she let us in her store at such a late hour (6:49 P.M). 

“Separate,” G giddily responds, because he may get my cooties if the clothes are washed together, but this is also how I went from paying 15 Euros for laundry to 30. 

Receipt comes.

“Seems high,” I mutter. 

Translator app is accessed. 

“Ah, she charged us 30 because we did separate,” I confirm.

G grunts, frustration emanating off his face.

Being a caring older brother on, I put on my cape and attempt to console him by giving an unsolicited breakdown of all things financial, as it relates to this transaction and life in general. 

I’m not check-to-check, so in my head this automatically means I’m qualified to be lecturing G. 

Quentin logic fully deployed, I’ve once again missed the mark. 

I tend to do that:

Rationalize everything and completely blow past how the other person is feeling 

No matter. 

Lil bro is still disappointed that we overspent again, so, needing to shove a round thing into a square thing (or however the expression goes), I tell him that if 15 wasted Euros is a legit problem, we have bigger issues in our respective lives. 

At least there will be dinner at the hotel tonight, or so I was told by the young woman working at the check-in desk. 

Back at hotel, arrow says go <— to find ristorante, but the door is locked and a sign says it’s under construction. 

So it’s back outside, and back to supermarket to buy thinly-sliced strips of meat that are stored in plastic containers. 

“Gelato?” G asks on traipse to the 14-story hotel, but there is nowhere in this section of the city to actually get gelato. 

So, back to the crib. 

I need to sleep. 

Tomorrow, we go to Naples.

But I’ll miss the electricity of Rome, the seamless way one can move around the city via subway or bus.

Reminds me of being back in Beijing.

Also reminds me of a kid who thought he had it all figured out, even though in reality the only thing he did know was that all those photos you see online of iconic places are just places, their once memorable history, glorified in books, now replaced with lingering scammers, construction equipment, and bountiful tax revenue.     

Ciao, Roma. QS