Season Finale... Today is Sunday January 2nd and I am now officially back in New York. I flew back on Wednesday December 22 with Joe and the two cats. The flight took 10 hours, but thankfully was direct from Rome to JFK. I also lucked out because the weather warmed up just for that one day and that made it much easier and safer for the cats to be transported around. (Beyond getting all the vet certificates on their health right before I left, I also had to get them an "acclimation" certificate that says they are allowed to travel in temperatures less than 40 degrees F. The Monday before saw temperatures drop to below 20 degrees F in New York and if that had happened on Wednesday I wouldn't have been legally allowed to travel with them at all.) The cats got checked in and while I was still freaked out to hand them over to baggage handlers, I was relieved by two facts. Firstly that the cats were both being cooler about things this time. They weren't crying incessantly. They just seemed to go straight from scared to pissed at me. At least that redirected their kitty thoughts and so I was fine with it. The second good thing is that in Italy, and especially in Rome, almost everyone loves cats. So many of the Delta workers, security personnel and others came over to see them and talk to them and pay homage to the little kitty travelers, it was sweet. This sentimentality stems from the fact that when the plague came around Rome it was thanks to all the stray cats of Rome that the plague wasn't able to spread as viciously around the city. Since then Rome allows lots of strays, the people all take care of them and it's just a way of life for the people to love and respect them. I knew that this meant they'd be treated well. On the flight Joe and I sat in what are probably the most cramped seats on any international carrier. Delta gets minus 10 points for that. At least on American you have enough room to shift and maybe even cross your legs. On Delta my knees were pressed into the seat in front of me the whole way. Very annoying. Fortunately though, Joe and I had some Vicodin on board and so we popped one and ordered up some Jack Daniels and Coke. This effectively chilled me out for the remainder of the flight and made watching back to back Will Farrell films tolerable and almost even funny. In New York Joe started to freak out about getting through customs. For whatever reason he is constantly convinced he is going to get stopped, full body cavity searched and then thrown into prison when he meets customs. I told him to relax. We're Americans and we're back in America. That means that we can pretty much get away with anything. As wel all know, America is much more concerned with searching, imprisoning and harrassing foreigners. So Joe and all his worldly belongings (fitting into two large suitcases) and me and the cas and my two smaller bags pushed our way over through customs. The dudes asked for the kitties' health certificates and I plopped down about 20 pages of cat documentation for them, half in English and now half in Italian. They flipped through them, checked the vaccination dates and then let me go on my way. We had to get one of those big mini van taxis to drive us back to my apartment. The driver was a complete idiot though and, spurned on by the flat rate $45 to Manhattan fare, he decided to take us on the hour-and-a-half tour of Conduit Ave and the rest of Manhattan's four outer boroughs before getting us home. This was probably a good thing though, because as soon as I stepped into my place I found it totally wrecked. I had sublet my apartment out to an older couple from the Upper East Side. I figured with a nice old couple and their dogs there wouldn't be much damage and there wouldn't be any frat parties or anything else of concern. Well, I was wrong. The entire apartment was filthy, sticky, dirty and gross. I was mortified. Joe was too. He even thought for a minute that maybe this was how my place always looked. He learned otherwise when I immediately flipped on my OCD and began a 5 hour incessant clean of the place. Even though I had a maid coming the next morning for three hours, there was no way I could even spend one night in the apartment the way it was. I had to at least get us clean sheets and counters. The catch was that all the linens were in such a mess of disarray that I couldn't even tell if anything was clean. I would have to go down and do 3 loads of laundry to get things sorted out and in the meanwhile try to clean the apartment somehow. Joe just sat in a comatose state on the sofa staring at all the English television on cable (only after, of course, he rewired the television as that was also a horrific mess that didn't work.) Rod came over and found us both in complete zombie state while I kept riding the elevator up and down to check on my never-dry laundry. (Still though, laundry dryers rule. Sorry, but Italy is mixed up about their whole defiance of fluffy warm fabric softened towels. There's nothing like 'em!) The next day, after finally sleeping, the maid came and she was as horrified at the state of the apartment as I was. She begged for mercy. She said it was the worst, most disgusting thing she'd ever seen. And she's a professional cleaner! So she cleaned for three hours and Joe and I went to the gym and then to Cosi for sandwiches. The gym kicked my ass and proved to me that I am truly out of shape again. Cosi proved to me that the Italians were really totally right about how good their mozzarella is compared to everyone else's. I took a bite into the Tomato, Basil and Mozzarella sandwich that I used to love and I almost spit it out, the cheese was so bad. It was like rubber. This has solidified my vow not to touch Italian food, pizza, etc for a long time now that I am back in the states. Even though New York may have some of the best Italian in our country, it's terrible compared to what I was having every day in Rome. The maid did her best to clean the place but then a lot still fell to me to do. The walls were covered in dirty hand prints and marks. All the dishes, post, pans and silverware were a mess of filth and disorder. I had to unpack my winter clothes from my storage closet and when I did I found some of my boxes had been gone through, others were cut open from the side and then the worst: my steel fire-proof lockbox had been pulled out from where it was hidden and pried open! I was so angry at this. Not only did the old man invade my privacy but he broke my lockbox and went through even my most prized private things. It seems that nothing is missing, but still. Disgustingly disrespectful. Let me give you a further idea of how nuts this old man is (I blame him because he has MS and all of my encounters with him have been disturbing, confusing and uncomfortable. His wife has always been cordial and polite and respectful. How she could live with him and not understand how far off-his-rocker he is, I can't even begin to understand). In the freezer were almost 50 individually wrapped pieces of pizza, each nestled in their own chaotic tin foil wrapper. All around the apartment, in back corners of shelves, were empty bottles of liquor. In my own bar he left empty bottles, some of things that were mine and some of things that were his. I literally threw out at least 12 empty liquor bottles. I plugged in a lamp on my desk and when I went to switch it on I couldn't find the on/off switch. I looked at the wire and the switch had been meticulously removed from the cable. Seriously! My cordless phone and answering machine both had serious volume problems that made them unusable. The caller ID globe my brother gave me for Christmas the year before also was broken. While we thought maybe he just dropped it, upon closer inspection Joe and I found that one side of the light function had been fully removed and broken off. How?, I don't know. So, yeah, the subletors wrecked the place. It took a good 24 hours straight of cleaning it return it to a livable state again. Then it was time for Mexican Radio. As many of you know, I am obsessed with Mexican food. And in Rome, they really don't know how to make Mexican food. It's so bad that the best version of anything Mexican comes from the nachos and margaritas at the Hard Rock Cafe. So finally I was back in town and it was time for Mexican Radio! Even better I was to reunite with Bill, the very handsome guy I met in Granada back in June. He moved back to New Jersey a few months ago and so we figured we could hang out and revel in our repatriated status together. So Bill came over and went with Joe and I to Mexican Radio where we also met up with Tammy. As soon as I walked in it was like old times. Melissa, the cute blonde punk girl bartender was so excited to see me. We hugged, talked of Rome and she ordered up my classic Mexican Radio food: Radio Rollups, extra toasted and a margarita, rocks and salt. The next day was Christmas Eve and Joe and I reveled in TV watching for most of the day and then went to meet up with Patrick and Johnny to go with them to their friends' Christmas eve dinner party. Partick and Johnny are the two guys we met on the Greece/Italy cruise we took and so it was nice to see them again, and even nicer to have them invite us to go with them to their friends for Christmas eve since we had no other plans. (My family is all in Florida and there was no way I could go from Rome to New York to Florida in the same week. Visiting the folks in Florida usually take a good two weeks of mental preparation and stamina building on it's own!) The party was exceptionally odd and will probably (and hopefully) go down in my own personal history as the strangest Christmas eve ever. Lots of vodka. Really good homemade food. Lots of fabulous gay talk. Eight inch stilettos that everyone took a turn wearing. Oh yes, and more that I can't even go into! Because of the gay Christmas eve dinner party, Joe and I spent all day Christmas in recovery with some pretty vicious hangovers. We watched "A Christmas Story" over and over again. We ate pumpkin pie and made Stove-Top stuffing and drank some egg nog. And we slept a lot. Very uneventful, but very American! The day after Christmas we went back to Mexican Radio after watching a full day of NFL football on TV. Met up with Rod this time and Melissa again. During the past week I've also met up with some of my other friends. I started sending in resumes to places since I am back on the job hunt. I met with the New York Magazine people about a possible contract. I did some shopping and I prepared for New Year's Eve. I had a date with Bill set for New Year's Eve. We had reservations at Artisanal for dinner, my favorite. But even before Friday I knew it was probably going to go bad. As much as I had liked Bill there were certain things that just weren't flying. He was too clingy. He did too much pot. In my apartment. On our date. Ugh, Come on! Then came him asking if he could wear jeans on our date. That was one of the last straws. I had a new dress just for the occassion. Artisanal is a nice restaurant. It's New Year's Eve. We're on a date. So, NO! You can't wear jeans! Needless to say, New Year's Eve proved as tedious as I expected. Bill was being amazingly cheap about everything. I know he hasn't been working and that life in Granada is a lot cheaper than life in New York, but come on now. You're in New York now. It's New Year's Eve. And you're on a date with me. $200 is a fair expectation of what a person's to spend on New Year's Eve in New York, if you plan to do anything but go to house parties. I even decided not to go to the M Bar party where Joe and I had made friendly with Tim, the co-owner, and could get in for his open bar party for only $85 each. (Pricey, yeah, but for 5 hours of drinking and all the rest of the fun festivities on NYE in NYC, it's a good deal.) But since Bill didn't have lots of money and since he didn't want me to pay for it, we instead opted to join my friend Brian down at the Tribeca Tavern, which has a certain grundge chic element to it (or so I told myself). Plus it's free. So, yeah, somewhere after midnight Bill and I crossed the final line. After he had argued with me about taking taxis to and from dinner (again, it's NYE and I am in a dress and heels. That means, yes, we are paying the extra $5 to take a taxi! And just to be a good sport about it, I even paid for both taxis) and after he had tried to get away with a bottle of wine and some appetizers as our dinner, finally he had the nerve to ask me to pay for the drinks at the bar. That was it. I can deal with financial limitations, but I do expect to be treated like a lady, especially when on a date on NYE. If he couldn't afford to buy me a couple drinks and a proper dinner, then he shouldn't have tried to take me out. Anyway, so Bill and I were pretty much over then. My NYE wasn't a horrible disaster, but I was looking at the crowd and wishing I wasn't on this date so I could flirt with the other guys, get *them* to buy me a few drinks and to generally turn my dull evening into something more fun and suitable for the new year. But then my friend Allen came to the rescue! He had driven to Philly for the week and I had invited him up to NY for NYE but he hadn't called. Then he texted me after midnight and I rang him back and found that he had spent NYE in Atlantic City on his own. He was driving back to Philly but I told him to come up to NYC instead. And he did! So around 2am, Allen showed up! That ruled! I hadn't seen him since July in Las Vegas. Although I originally didn't want anything to do with being his friend (he has a hand in the reason I have an FBI file, thanks Allen!) after we met in July we got along so swimmingly that now I look forward to every time he and I can hang out. So, yeah, New Year's Eve and Allen comes up to play! That ruled! At around 3.30 we left the tavern and Allen drove us home. Since I wasn't even talking to Bill at this point I figured he would come in, grab his things and take off. Instead he grabbed a diet coke and settled in. Well, Allen and I wanted to drink some Amaro and catch up, so I got he and I each a glass of ice and brought over the Montenegro bottle and that was the final signal to Bill. Thus he stormed out and saved me from any more discomfort. Allen and I had our Amaro (I could breathe much better now too, knowing I wouldn't have to fend off any unwanted sexual advances) and then Joe came in. He had gone out with Shane and some friends to a techno club but then he thought it sucked and so he ended up back at the M Bar party where he had too much fun. (I'm still jealous. I dig the M bar these days and that would have been more of my scene, I suspect.) He walked in and the first thing he says is "I need $20." Yes, typical Joe. He lost all his money and left his bank card behind and the taxi was waiting downstairs. Too funny. Even Allen laughed. Then Joe returned, recounted how horrible the techno club was (as I had warned him) and then asked for more money to buy a "falapel" from the cart across the street. Since Joe was convinced the security guards downstairs weren't going to let him back into the building a third time, Allen and I went downstairs with our Montenegro and waited in the lobby while Joe went to get his "falapel." He disappared for almost 1/2 an hour though and so eventually we told the security guards just to let him in whenever he returned and we went back upstairs to chat and drink more. Sometime later Joe shows up with two cheeseburgers and we all drank and are entertained until 5am. The best part was when Joe, after being in the apartment for at least 10 minutes, finally looks over at Allen and says "Who the fuck is that?" I guess it had finally dawned on him that Allen was not Bill. It also rang back to a fantastic line my friend Jennie uttered in her own drunken state in Vegas last July when Allen was in our taxi with us and she looked back and yelled, in a properly slurred nasty Jennie tone, "Who Dat?" while pointing at Allen. Poor Allen. Nobody ever knows who he is. Alright, so that's the end of the year and fittingly the end of this journal. It seems smart to end it in the New Year and in New York. But I don't want to end it with notes on my bad date, my surprise visit from Allen, Joe being drunk and the rest. I'd prefer to give a recap of what I learned and loved about living in Rome. Firstly, the most important part of any place is the friends. I managed, through some fantastic set of miracles, to make some pretty incredible friends in Rome. There's Dena, who was brave enough to come over to my dinner party the night we first met and play drinking games with me and my Italian friends. She and her motorcycle story will never be forgotten. I think it was the highlight of the evening actually. Then there's Dave, my fellow Dracula cofounder. Sit us together and we can talk/argue about film for hours, completely ignoring everyone else and achieving absolutely nothing other than an overpriced bar tab. Plus I don't think I've ever met a guy who likes to dance, as much, as often and as goofily as Dave. His disco fever at Speedy Gonzalez will also live on in infamy. Then there's Melanie, my absolute best gal pal and co-conspirator. I only wish I had met her sooner. She's the only girl I've ever kissed.. and even though she says I'm a crap kisser, I think Joe and Dario would argue that she's lying! When she visits New York I may need to start a whole new journal just to recount the crazed fun she and I will have here together too! Then there's the Italians. Dario is, I speculate, an Italian guy version of me in so many ways. Early on I would say Dario was immediately one of my new best friends. Up until he started getting super popular with the ladies, I would see him almost every other day. He never did cook me dinner, but he hosted an "International party" for me and Elina and he escorted me to Cirque du Soleil in a fit of missteps that left us stranded on Via Cristofo Columbo talking for hours. Dario and I think a lot alike, except for the part where he thinks in Italian and I think in English. He has taught me the way of the dice and I can already tell that in thirty years we'll still be making bad dramas together whenever put in the same room. Dario's friend Paul, who is technically Australian, also has his moments, although I admit they require more dedication to come by. Paul thrives on being difficult, argumentative, stubborn and silly. But there's something about him that makes breaking down his hard exterior worthwhile. Or maybe it's just his old age that makes him so grumpy. *grin* Either way, his way with mothers came out when we had dinner with Joe's mom and my own. His quick witted sarcasm made the evening for all involved. Finally, and definitely last but not least, is Antonio. I can't even say enough about Antonio. He's completely and utterly fantastic. The best guy I've dated in a long time, he is the thing I miss most about Rome. From the night we met I've been after him and without an ounce of regret. Early on I teased that he has some sort of sorcerer's powers, and I can't ever take that back. He's definitely cast a spell on me and stolen my heart. From jazz, to mozzarella to his now infamous calendar pose, Antonio constantly finds new ways to engage and impress me. I could go on and on about him and why I fancy him so much, but I know he's not a big fan of public displays of affection so I'll refrain. Instead I'll just keep hoping he comes to visit me soon! As for the goals I set when I left for Rome, well, I have learned some things and disappointed myself with others. I wrote a rough draft of half my book but then got distracted and wound up having more fun than writing. To make up for this lapse in productivity, I did take Italian classes, three weeks at three hours a day, and I am most proud of my quick ability to read and understand some Italian. At this point my Italian is better than my French. I did try to get in touch with someone I thought I've been in love with my whole life but his lack of a reply has forced me to rethink things. Granted I expected a reply from him and I had had faith for years in him and I being an eventuality, but now I have started to move on. Time to fall in love with a real person instead of a ghost. Time to define who I am by who I am and not by who he and I could have been. This is all a good thing. A hard thing, but a good thing. It makes me less of a fairy tale fantasy girl when it comes to life and love and living happily ever after. It's making me real. Which brings me to the bigger lesson about Rome. I moved to Rome precisely because I knew nobody there and I didn't speak the language and I knew it would be a huge challenge. I wanted to see if I would be the same person I am when thrust into that sort of world. Remove all my friends, my job, my fancy apartment, all my things, and see how I do. Sounds a little masochistic to some, I'm sure, but at 29 it was clearly something I had to do. Time for some personal realisation. Time for some challenges. Time to try to see if I sink or swim. Well, it turns out that, yes, I am the same person no matter where I am. I can and do survive. And well. I not only survive, but I have fun. And I make great friends. And a great life. I had a really hard time leaving Rome. The last weekend I was there was horrible. I was constantly stressed. I wasn't eating. I totally lost it when I saw Antonio on what could have been my last time with him. Fortunately he didn't let that be our last time together. And fortunately I had Joe to travel with me. The cats survived the flight. My apartment in New York, although a mess, is still my apartment and it is great to be back in the comforts of all my things. Now if only I can find a way to merge my Italian life with my comfortable New York life.... That'll be the challenge for the coming year. I need to bring some Italy to New York or I need to bring more of my New York life to Italy. Another journal in the works.... << back to where it all began... Content & Photos © 2004 Laura Laytham, laura@girlsaresmarter.com.