Getting through customs, locating an ATM, withdrawing some Euros, and following the signs to the train station was a breeze. I opted for a train over a taxi because it was cheaper, convenient, and I enjoy traveling by train. Next to the train platform was a tabacchi shop with a sign in the window that said, “Roma Termini – €9,50.” Bypassing the self-service kiosks that were scattered around the terminal, I entered the small tobacco shop and said, “Hello,” to the woman behind the counter. That's my standard greeting in foreign countries so they’ll immediately know that I speak English, and that there’s a good chance that I’m about to butcher their language beyond recognition. I didn’t disappoint. “Ticket. Roma Termini. Uno,” I said without even the slightest hint of an Italian accent. I received my ticket and then proceeded to somehow make the word, “Grazie,” sound like it had eight syllables. It was really quite a magical performance. 
       Trains from the airport to Termini Station in the center of Rome depart every thirty minutes. I was in luck as one was just about to leave. I quickly validated my ticket in the yellow machine near the platform and boarded the train. 

       One of my favorite things to do when I’m home is to take a train to New York City on a Saturday afternoon to see a Broadway play. I always get the same adrenaline rush as I ascend the subway stairs and step out into Times Square, the heart of the city. You’re immediately swallowed by the onslaught of people, sights and sounds, and if you’re not used to it, it can be a little disconcerting. The same applies to Rome. You walk out of the train station and the bustle of activity smacks you right in the face. Cars, buses and hundreds of mopeds roar past as you stare disbelieving at people risking life and limb to simply cross the street. It’s utter chaos. I think it’s safe to say that I liked Rome from the start.

       For me, the exhilaration of actually being in Rome was accompanied by another sensation. Disorientation. I had absolutely no idea where I was. 
       A few months earlier, I had received directions to the Aberdeen Hotel from the folks at Europe through the Back Door. That’s where I’d be staying for the next seven nights. In preparation for my journey, I had carefully studied a map of the area and had traced my path from the train station to the hotel enough times to be able to execute the ten-minute walk blindfolded if I had to. 
       I looked around desperately. “Where the hell is Piazza dei Cinquecento?!?! It should be right here!! I can’t believe they moved the entire Piazza on me!!” 
       Screaming that at the top of my lungs and frightening everyone within a fifty-yard radius may have been poor judgment on my part but unfortunately, my inner voice, which should assist in dictating my etiquette in social situations has been inoperative for quite some time now. A quick check of the map informed me that the Piazza had not been relocated. I had just exited the train station on Via Giovanni Giolitti, which runs parallel to the station. I simply had to walk up the street a few hundred yards to reach the main entrance of the station and the Piazza in front of it. Heh.

       I surveyed the lengthy walk up the hill and for the second time in under an hour, I was glad that I had packed light. The first time was as I blew past the hundreds of people crowded around the baggage carousel in the airport waiting for their luggage. Whenever I travel, I travel light. This trip was no exception. My carry-on backpack weighed only seventeen pounds and my smaller bike messenger bag that I carry during the day weighed about a quarter of that. The weather was mild so I removed my jacket and started hiking up the hill. I chose to travel in early November for a few reasons. It’s cheaper, it’s not 145 degrees in the shade, and unlike the summer months, the locals actually seemed to outnumber the tourists.

       I wasn't surprised to encounter a large peace rally in the Piazza in front of the train station and in the surrounding streets. Italians love to demonstrate in support of their beliefs. Thousands of people show up almost weekly in Rome, and the demonstrations are usually colorful, music filled, and completely peaceful. From what I saw, they also seemed incredibly disorganized. Instead of one huge protest, there seemed to be many smaller ones taking place in the same area. I thought that perhaps I could lend a hand in uniting the crowd. It was less than a week before Election Day in the United States, and I was in a political mood. I grabbed a megaphone, stood on the hood of a police car and started chanting various Pro-George Bush slogans. As a unified front, the entire crowd proceeded to hurl fruit, vegetables and beer bottles in my direction. I'd been in Rome for less than one hour and I was already participating in community events. It was exciting and invigorating. Also invigorating was the sprint I took to the hotel as the swelling mob pursued me down the street. For the third time in under an hour I was grateful that I had packed light. 

       I checked into my room and was quite pleased to see that it was cozy and clean. The bathroom was spotless, the bed firm, there was a TV, bureau, safe and mini-fridge. It wasn’t extravagant but I didn’t need extravagant, I just needed comfortable. It was still early so I decided to venture out to see what Rome had to offer. I managed to make it to the National Museum unscathed despite the close proximity of the museum to the burgeoning horde of angry demonstrators. 

       The National Museum in Rome is one of the richest ancient art collections in the world. For six euros, I received entrance to the museum as well as a stern command from the lady behind the counter. “You must go to the second floor at 3:15.” 
       I knew that the collection of frescoes and mosaics were on the second floor, and that they could only been viewed by a timed-entry ticket. I didn’t realize that attendance was mandatory and they were going to send out the attack dogs if I didn’t participate. 

       I pulled out my tattered copy of Rick Steves’ Rome 2004 guidebook. I’ve been pouring through this book for months now, highlighting, circling, scribbling notes, and bending the pages and cover until the book itself looked like it had barely survived the rise and fall of the Roman empire. I began to follow Rick’s recommended National Museum of Rome walking tour but by the ninth room, I put the book away and just strolled around. I’m more of a fan of architecture, paintings and statues than I am of busts. Sporadically proclaiming, “Caligula! I’ve heard of him!” or “Ooooh! Tiberius! He did something important I think!” as I attempted to plod through twenty-five rooms containing hundreds of busts of every emperor and person of note over a thousand year period grew increasingly ponderous with each step. Jet lag wasn’t doing me any favors either. A quick glance at my watch told me that it was 3:10 so I hurried to the second floor in order to thwart the nefarious ticket-booth lady who was undoubtedly tracking my movements on the security cameras.

       The forty-five minute tour of the frescoes and mosaics was in Italian and English. The tour guide spoke in Italian first, followed by English. I’m usually not a big fan of guided tours in museums but this one was pretty decent. I prefer audio guides because you can listen, stop, reflect, and then move on at your own pace. Too often, tour guides will speak nonstop as they parade you around a museum, leaving you feeling slightly disconnected. It’s Art. You can’t talk it to death. Sometimes you just have to quietly soak it in. After the tour I went down to the basement and surveyed two thousand years worth of Roman coins in just under ninety seconds. My brain was tired and I needed some food. 

       Rome is home to some of the best ristorantes, osterias, and trattorias in the world. I went to McDonalds. You read that right. McDonalds. I try to eat relatively healthy and I usually avoid fast food. It's been years since I've been to a McDonalds in America, and now I traveled all the way to Rome and I suddenly found myself craving one of the most American foods of all; a Big Mac. That’s not ironic or anything. It’s really just sad. But I was tired and hungry, and at that moment, the thought of traipsing around and looking for a place to eat sounded about as much fun as a barrel full of dead monkeys. A McDonalds was twenty yards away from the museum and I succumbed to the golden arches without much of a fight. 

       I ate my meal at an outside table facing the Piazza della Repubblica. In the center of the Piazza, surrounded by a constant whirling dervish of traffic, is a small island with an elegant and rather provocative fountain, the Fountain of the Naiads, or water nymphs. Scandalous when it was unveiled at the turn of the twentieth-century, the nymphs are four completely naked young female figures whose voluptuous, alluring bodies shine gloriously as they’re tenderly bathed by water and sunlight. I spent an entire hour admiring the artistic vision of the fountain's creator. What can I say? I’m an art lover. Ahem. 

       On the opposite side of the Piazza from where I sat are the remains of the Baths of Diocletian. The baths were built 1700 years ago and are the largest in Rome. The church of Santa Maria degli Angeli, designed by Michelangelo from the ruins of the Baths, was my next destination. Now the only problem I had was actually getting there. I’m used to crazy drivers in New York City but the Romans take it to a whole new level. Traffic lanes are undivided. Merging is a race, not a cooperative effort. Signs and lights are merely suggestions. Moped drivers maneuver in ways I wouldn't even attempt in a video game. I don’t remember exactly how I got across the street but I’m pretty sure it included a little running and a lot of praying. 

       After my tour of Santa Maria degli Angeli, I stepped outside and noticed that the sun had set. The entire Piazza was illuminated. It was Saturday night and I was in Rome. As I watched the streets come alive with nighttime activity, I pondered my next move. The possibilities were limited only by my imagination. Unfortunately, while my imagination fought valiantly against the effects of jet lag, in the end, it didn't stand a chance. I shuffled back to the hotel and was sound asleep by 7:30.