Final Fling & Final destination

Tube stops: Termini, London Stanstead, Victoria, Clapham Junction

The Final Fling

The word in this title is a bit of a sore point for two intrepid explorers who have visited Rome to see me on more than one pancetta-increasing, vino-fuelled adventure: my parents. Taking the opportunity to revisit their favourite homage to the luxurious, swanky, Capri-centric Sixties and Seventies era in Italy, they booked themselves in for four days at the Hotel Majestic, with its classically styled columns and marble interiors and black and white photographs capturing the social transformations of the country during the period of their childhood.

It was in these four days that the final destinations of my stay in Rome were visited - those tourist features lauded loudly from Time Out and Fodor guides that I had failed spectacularly to encounter became our ports of call.





























Clockwise from top: The view from the orangerie at the top of the Aventine Hill; the Swiss Guards manning the entrance to the Pope's summer residence at Castel Gandolfo; testing my tenacity for untruths at the Bocca della Verita; the marble statue commerating the discovery of St. Cecilia's beheaded yet intact and uncorrupted body.

We visited the Bocca della Verita, Chiesa di Santa Sabina, Castel Gandalfo and the Knights of Malta's headquarters. This was of particular interest to my dad who actually is a Knight of Malta, albeit of a branch connected with the Knights Templar order of Freemasonry. So in truth, this doesn't make my dad a Papist crusader (and therefore akin to the Opus Dei monk and zealous assassin of the 'Da Vinci Code' film) but it also means that no amount of knocking on the door of the headquarters of the order at the top of the Aventine Hill would admit him into its grounds. Apparently, you need to book a few months in advance with a member of the order to do so (a shame he wasn't just wearing his regalia on that blisteringly hot September day!) We settled for the surprise that lies inside the keyhole of those vast, iron-clad doors...

And so, unfortunately, the word 'fling' accurately denotes the very last morning of the holiday when my Mum broke her leg, tripping over a suitcase in the hotel in an attempt to switch off my Dad's beeping mobile phone. Or should that be his "%@*&ing mobile phone"?

She was not drunk (so she claims) and somehow, after fracturing her tibia, managed to not only get to the airport, come out the 'other side' at Stanstead but also travel all the way to a nearby hospital, after complaining that her leg felt a bit sore. The doctor, after confirming that she had in fact broken her shin bone, asked what painkillers she had taken. "Just a paracetemol", was the response. Hardcore, Celtic/Anglo-saxon, mother-of-three alert.

Now, we find that life back at Warrington Road is a little on the crazy side, something reminiscent of Grey Gardens, just without a penchant for head scarves and eating dinner in several inches of filth. The pressure is on for me to complete my translation a fantastic Roman recipe book given to me by Harmony & co. If I don't do so soon, Dad will probably start eating the paper, in a fever of "pasta all amatriciana" withdrawal.

The Final Destination

Originally, this post was going to be sent from Fiumicino airport on my return route to the UK, as some poignant epistle pointing out the highlights and the low points of my time in Rome.

What actually happened was that I spent the 52 minutes on board the shuttle bus to the airport believing I had left my passport at AC/DCs apartment, where I'd crashed the night before, and thus was going to miss my flight despite being three and a half hours early for it. AC/DC, actually being on the bus with me on his way to a business meeting in Puglia via Fiumicino (and therefore in need of maintaining possession of his apartment key, rather than bid it farewell on some trip to the UK), was less than impressed. After a token two minutes consoling, he then plugged into some Gleek-inspired music and I was left to marinade in my fecklessness (the taste is salty like sweat, mixed with fear pheromones and the slightest lemony tint of desperation. Tasty.)

Incidentally, this symbol doesn't represent the passport's embedded microchip
but merely shows you a handy location where feckless travelers
may wish to stable the passport to their forehead.

So, it's been almost a month since I returned home from Rome, bundling many strange items of clothing, footwear, crockery and books into just one suitcase, one travel bag and an oversized beach bag. I said goodbye to my landlord Pablos* and headed off to AC/DC's apartment for pizza and videos.

The one thing I always find strange are the adverts in each airport I arrive at. The garish combinations of font, design and size make some weird impression on my preoccupied mind as if this poster or that billboard is making some generalised statement about the country you are about to experience. An over-sized, vertical welcome mat. In Rome, pouting, long-legged sirens, bedecked in pricey garb, announce designer labels available to purchase. Barcelona advertises 'Gullivar's travels' sized ¡muffins!, ¡coffee!, ¡chorizo! and ¡tapas!

Stanstead airport provides passengers with the reminder that 10% can be saved on booking transport in advance for travelling from the airport to the centre of London. Somehow I knew I was home.

- "If it's icy, then we might as well stay on the plane until it returns to Fiumicino, then?"

- "Sir, either myself or Stanstead's security team will be removing you from your seat."
- "(Knew I should have flown B.A. - at least they'd apologise whilst doing so.)"

And so, on with the job applications and my attempt to move back to London - the scene of wild debauchment, tube strikes and bacchanalia-inspired Christmas shopping. I would turn this part of the blog into a shameless plug to ask if anyone has any contacts in editing or publishing, to please get in contact. But as potential employers may be reading this blog, as Mambo Metropolitano now features proudly on my C.V., this may not be a wise idea so I'll pretend my delete key doesn't work and leave the sentence as is.

So this is the final post for the Mambo Metropolitano blog, but not the end of my writing. I'll be launching two other blogs shortly, so there really is no escaping your online alternative to Facebook stalking.

Thank you for reading this and to my Roman/Rome-based friends: thank you for your generosity, humour, patience and understanding: Rome will always have a place in my heart and I hope I will remain in its affection. "In bucco al lupo per tutti" ;) (...finally, I managed to get some Italian conversation in edgeways!)

To all those thinking about taking a year out to travel or become a resident in another country: Just Do It. Nike style.

Over and Out.

*It is with some regret that I never found the time to blog about the goings-on between me and Pablos at number 86c, Via Principe Amedeo. This was due, in part, to the level of respect I have for the people I met and later wanted to feature in the blog (names were disguised rather unsuccessfully, perhaps) but also because of the sheer licentious nature of what occurred, hence my current use of small font size. (Shhhh.)

Pablos owned the three bed flat as previously mentioned. He always maintained, in the face of offers of further tenants moving in, that the perfect number of housemates was two with a spare bedroom for guests to use on their arrival. What I didn't realise was that frequent visits to the gayromeo.com website resulted in more than enough guests for the spareroom, that later came to be dubbed the 'Red Room'; so many, in fact, that I questionned whether about five of them might be sharing the same room at the same time, such was the sheer number of strangers, half-dressed, helping themselves to our Bialetti coffee machine in the early hours of a weekday morning.

Only by logging on to Facebook via my phone application by chance did I discover that, in the absence of Pablos (who had gone on holiday for a week to Mykonos), someone called Tiziano had taken up temporary residence in the room next door and was requesting friendship, albeit entirely anonymous friendship. A polite invitation to tea/espresso was declined: I was only later formerly introduced when Tiziano stubbled in drunk at 4am, complaining in broken Italian, that that you shouldn't see the sights of Rome on an empty stomach. Quite.

Fin.