Wifi has become such a precious thing to me that I find myself signing up and giving my info out to anything just to get in on their "free" wifi for 15 minutes (internet requiring apps such as "whatsapp" or fb messenger are ny only way of communicating with anyone I make plans with here)
For skepticism sake I made a whole new password unlike the one I use for home stuff.
Wanna know what it is?
funky24
Funky is because that is the greatest word I have used in my vocabulary since my toddler years. Everything was funky. Everything continues to be funky. 24 because that's my age. And it feels kinda big. I didn't think 24 would be such a big age, but it really is. I question it every time. I can't be 24! That's so big. I'm 23, right? This trip feels like a big person trip, so the 24 works well. And I think the "funky" is just me holding onto my childhood innocence.
After arriving to the station, I also found a multilingual post office. I noticed everyone took a ticket, so I did the same and took a seat (DMV style, ya know?). All of the sudden a soft train noise filled the air and left. I quickly realized that rather than an intercom or a bell, the train noise was used to alert the next customer of their turn. I'm not sure if my attention got lost in the train sound, if I needed coffee, if I was trying too hard to figure out their system, or if I'm just a little dumb, but my ticket number came and went on the board and I never went up. So I left.
When it came to being 45 minutes before my check-in time at my hostel, I'd decided to make my way using the screenshots I took of Google Maps (p.s. I learned today that Google Maps can be used on airplane mode even!). Even Google seemed to let me down on this one. It showed a building but there was no sign for it on the outside...?
In the general zone of where my hostel was supposed to be was a cute little flea market happening. Also close to the market was a small group of rasta peeps occupying a curb I wanted to check (with their "head guy"--a Bob Marley/Snoop Dog hybrid--smoking what was likely a joint). I got the uh-oh feeling as I watched through my sunglasses as they eyed me down, so I made a big effort to avoid their vicinity. I should've and I thought to ask for help finding my hostel, but I can be stubborn. :-)
I circled the eight blocks three times, and finally meandered closer the door that was marked on the screenshot map of my phone by a pinmark. This must be it. I tried to open the wooden double door that lacked a handle. Do I push it? Do I clap twice? Open sesame? I've got nothing.
A parking garage clerk to my left, who in his time has apparently seen way too many struggling travelers looking for "Two Ducks Hostel", caught my attention and signaled for me to check the list posted by the outside door and push the corresponding buzzer. Oh!
It reminded me of an NYC apartment building with a list of different individuals inhabiting the apartment and a buzzer to communicate your desire to see them. Like Seinfeld!!
Once inside, an indicating map showed me that the hostel I was looking for was on the 5th floor. I bet you, my dear reader, would be confident enough to give the old fashioned, 3-person elevator a try; I on the other hand, lack that kind of boldness and perhaps patience, so up the marble staircase I stomped. On my way up I bumped into a young man (who would later be known to me as "the flirty hostel clerk") who was on his was down with another young man and encouraged me to take the elevator next time. Sure. Sure thing.
I made my way up to the hostel office and sat on the urban-wore couch and waited for anyone. In a matter of minutes, in came "the flirty hostel clerk". He took my info, took my cash, grabbed my key, and back down the stairs we raced (maybe he had a lot to do?). My two-bedroom, one bath hostel apartment that I would share with up to 11 other girls was on a different street than the office. On our way, a sweet asian girl who had apparently been detained for several weeks in Rome when her passport was stolen, followed "the flirty hostel clerk" around like a puppy. It made for a less awkward trek to the room. Also, we passed by... guess whom... the rasta guys! And as I passed Snoop Marley, he says in the perfect Snoop voice "Beautiful..."
I could have died. It was perfect. Haha
Once through the other wooden double, handle-less doors, up the now 4 flights of marble stairs, and into the vintage apartment via the funky vintage key, I'd arrived to my bottom bunk. I thought the polite thing to do would be to shake the clerks hand, ask for his name, and thank him, but apparently that was a mistake because:
1. I didn't even understand his name to thank him properly
2. He took my gratitude as an invite to be flirty
3. He held my hand shake still for 30 seconds as he tried to recall both my first and last name by memory off my booking info
He left, and boy was I glad. Being nice or even polite seems to get me into trouble. Anyone wanna give me lessons on being bitchy?
A nap was next on the agenda, and when you're traveling alone, you can have them whenever you want! I had another roommate that snored like a grown man during her afternoon nap (of course), but challenge accepted.
Feeling lonely in my travels really hit me here in Rome. I'm an introvert by nature, so talking to strangers also takes a bold gesture on my part. Even after my nap I waited in my hostel bed until dark. After encouragement from a friend from home (love you C!), I decided I should at least try to see something before the end of the day. So I took my complimentary hostel map and went out. It was rough. I rely far too much on following my location on Google maps (and had yet to discover it's open usability). As I was trying to gather my position on my map on a street corner 10 minutes into my seemingly aimless walking, a man asked for my attention in broken Italian, "Scuzi" he hummed uncertainly.
He had the same map out and was trying to find his was way to the Trevi Fountain with his two teenage daughters at 10 at night. He offered that I follow them if I so desired, and because I had just been feeling lonely, I gladly accepted. I got to know that he and his daughters were from just outside of Denver, where I have family from, his daughters are musical (in choir, play guitar, write music), and they take annual travel trips as a threesome. It was adorable and they were the sweetest family. We made it to the Trevi Fountain, took some selfies, made some wishes (I wished to bring you back, Mom), and then after giving up on navigating maps, we took the metro back to our area of stay. I'm so grateful to have met and shared that moment with such neat people. I'd yet to eat since a pastry at breakfast, so I stopped by what I would call a fast food pizzeria a few blocks from my hostel, ordered a Roman caprese pizza, and got it "take-away" (take out). I forgot to tip. They tip here in Italy. They don't really in Spain. It makes sense why the boy lingered a little when he brought me my pizza. Next time.
I sat on the couch next to a roommate and devoured my entire pizza without saying a word to each other (she had headphones in and was doing oher things on her computer while watching Grey's Anatomy).
In some restaurants in Rome they use napkins made of wax. Eco-friendly? Cheap? I don't know, but you might as well not even have a napkin, really.
Then I slept.
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