Disappearing Acts, Escape Artists Part III

So we all shat, and then refreshed reconvened. Our plan was this. We had about a little over a half-month to find an apartment. We being three American guys that didn't speak Italian or know anything about the Italian culture didn't think it could be so hard. After all, we had the money and were ready to spend it. That is, if anyone was actually in Rome during August.

We started our search by asking the people that worked at the hostels where to go and look for flyers. They recommended a few places. The first was a newspaper called Porta Portese. This is a classifieds ad heaven, if you can read Italian, if not, you are 100% fucked. That's what we were. We were also told to check out a pizzeria called Forno La Renella in a part of town called Trastevere. This place allowed people to post bulletins. It also has the best pizza in Rome. I could write a book about the variety of flavors this place offers, but lets narrow it down to this little anecdote. When Brandon went to school in Rome, he attended John Cabot University. He had classes five days a week, and ate at La Renella everyday. When he didn't have class he would call me and ask me to meet him in Trastevere. We would drink some beer or wine, and then go to La Renella. The boy made a habit of eating there at minimum of six days a week. He went so far as moving out of our apartment and into Trastevere. This is the effect La Renella's pizza can have on people.

So we go to La Renella, start grabbing flyers and begin our apartment search. No one answers. We don't know what to do. We are only booking our hostel stays two nights in a row, in the hope that we will end up in an apartment before the end of the week. By week three, we have stayed in over ten different rooms in seven different hostels all within three city blocks of each other. We are not in a good position. Garrett and Brandon are inseparable, but this is because Garrett likes talking to Brandon. The feeling is not mutual. Brandon comes up to me and lets me know that Garrett bothers him, I really didn't see why. I was too busy reading, "For Whom the Bell Tolls" by Ernest Hemingway to care about anything else. All my thoughts were focused on controlling my destiny through suicide. I at this time didn't trust Brandon or Garrett, barely knew them, yet was forced to spend almost twenty four hours a day with them. I just wanted to find an apartment.

The search led us all over the city to parts of town like, Testaccio, Ponte Lungo, Monte Verde and San Lorenzo. All areas that we would later learn would have been ideal for us, but we all decided them to be too far away. How foolish we were, because we ended up picking an apartment right next to Termini, because it was easily connected to everything. It is also the unofficial Chinatown, drug and prostitution capital of Rome. We moved into a brothel, not just a brothel, but one filled with Transvestite hookers. These "women" had large fake breasts, and make up that would make Mimi on The Drew Carey show look classy. They would try and solicit sex from us every night when we came home. This was done with a series of grunts and tongue movements outside of the mouth. They would pull out their fake breasts and try grabbing us. One night a particularly aggressive one got a hold of Garrett and tried to force him to go home with "her." He struggled to break free and ran home to the safety of our apartment. We decided then that the apartment search was still in full swing, we would stay two months, the amount we had already paid, and no matter if we had to split up or not after we would get the fuck out of that part of town.

School had started and we were all in get a girlfriend mode, even Garrett who had a girlfriend in the States was feeling the pressure, but he would see her soon enough as she would move to France over the winter. Brandon on the other hand, spoke only of Giovanna, his Neapolitan princess. She would arrive on La Notta Bianca (the white night, the one night a year turns into a 24 hour party) from Napoli. I had set my sights on a girl in Trastevere, because I was determined to learn Italian. She was a one of those girls that hung out every night of the summer in Piazza Santa Maria in Trastevere, which basically means a degenerate hash smoking highschooler with a body to die for and a brain that functioned on the level of a worker bee. We got into a conversation that was beyond my minimal control of Italian to handle, and beyond her mental capacity. I tried to tell her that my family was from Sicily, but I used "La" instead of "La mia" this omission of three letters led her to believe that I was marginalizing Italian culture. She thought I was talking about the Mafia. She came back with a quick rebuttal, made of a fist and this phrase. "Pizza! Pasta! Mandolino! Mafia! Is that all you think of Italy?!" All I could say was "BASTA! FERMA! STOP!" as she struck me in the chest. She got all fired up and then left. I never saw her again. This has basically been my luck with Italian girls ever since, if you replace punching with kissing, always one little encounter, very heated and then I never see them again.

We continued to go to Trastevere to eat pizza, pasta and hear the mandolino. In our spare time we attended classes and waited patiently for the arrival of the now mythical Giovanna, and Brandon's other friend Jamie Brown, who would turn out to be the real legend. Oh, La Notta Bianca how we awaited thee.