Today we were spending the morning at Ostia Antica, having lunch on the beach at Lido di Ostia, and then walking through the Catacombs of St. Callixtus. Robin arranged for a tour bus to pick us up at Piazza Repubblica at 9AM. The bus ride was interesting. And by “interesting,” I mean, “one of the most unpleasant experiences of my life.”
       Right from the start, I sensed that something was terribly wrong. Now I’m not a bus driver and never claimed to be one, but nevertheless, I’m pretty sure that the proper way to operate a vehicle of that size has nothing to do with alternately mashing the accelerator to the floor and then standing on the brakes in seven second intervals. If I’m wrong, and that is indeed the correct procedure, then it’s probably safe to assume that our driver graduated from the Bus Driving Academy with high honors. As the ride continued, I really thought we were being tortured, and I was seconds away from confessing to crimes I hadn’t committed. Mercifully, the suffering finally ended in the parking lot of Ostia Antica. We poured out of the bus, fell to the ground and smothered Mother Earth with appreciative kisses.
       When we recovered from our traumatic journey on the Bus O’ Death, Robin took us on a tour of the ruins. I thought that Ostia Antica would be dry and barren but instead, it was lush and green, with plenty of trees and grass. We strolled through the many avenues, ancient baths, markets, houses, and temples. We even saw an early version of a fast food restaurant. Hidden beneath the arches of a spacious portico, a marble counter of a bar revealed that a quick drink or a light lunch is not just a modern practice. 

       With its revolving door and seating for twenty, the public latrine must have been the height of civility in its day. An advanced sewage system consisted of aqueduct-supplied water flowing constantly underneath the seats. Each seat came equipped with its own sponge-on-a-stick. That’s right. Ancient toilet paper. You used the sponge-on-a-stick in exactly the way you’re thinking of, and then you placed it back into the running water so it was cleansed and ready for the next person. I probably could’ve coped with the sponge-on-a-stick routine, but the close proximity of the seats to each other is a different story. I’m sure that rubbing thighs with two other people while relieving your bowels is an absolutely delightful way to start the day, but it’s still an experience I could probably be quite content to never partake in. 

       Robin corralled us for a group picture on the steps of the amphitheater before letting us loose to explore on our own for a couple of hours. Ostia is several orders of magnitude larger than any of the ruins in Rome and I kept climbing to the rooftops of buildings for a better overall view. Seeing the big picture does wonders when the tiny details of mosaic floors, frescoed alleyways and terra-cotta fragments have left you cross-eyed. Ostia Antica is an excursion you’ll love if you’re interested in ancient civilizations. You won’t see massive buildings like the Colosseum, but with a little imagination and a good guidebook, you’ll have the unique opportunity to follow the everyday lives of citizens of the Roman Empire. 

       After an exhausting morning, it was time to play a game. On the wide gravel path that led to the parking lot where our bus was parked, Robin instructed us to form a large circle. The game would test our memory, and the rules were simple. Robin started by introducing herself and then, moving counterclockwise around the circle, each person had to say their own name and the name of every person that spoke before them. It’s tough to remember the names of twenty-four people when you’re introduced to them at the same time. Over the past five days, I had conversations with almost every member of our group, but I’ll freely admit that I couldn’t recall all their names. The combination of my notoriously bad memory and being the eighteenth person in the circle had me slightly worried that I was about to embarrass myself, but after listening to the constant repetition of everyone’s names, I started to believe that I could pull this off. Two seconds after having that thought, Curt tried to undermine my fragile confidence. 
       Curt was on the tour with his wife, Mary Ellen. I never got the chance to sit down and talk to either of them during any of our group meals but I did have a few conversations with Curt during the day as we walked around Rome. Upbeat and always laughing, he showed a genuine interest in getting to know everyone in the group. I never figured him for a troublemaker so it surprised me when he suddenly refused to comply with the rules of the name game. When it was his turn, instead of just naming the sixteen people before him, he named every single person around the entire circle. Impressive? Sure. And for his efforts, everyone applauded. Everyone but me. I’m not going to heap praise upon someone who so willingly flouts authority and disrespects the integrity of the game. The rules were straightforward and he blatantly dismissed them. But way more importantly than that, it was almost my turn and he had just confused the living hell out of me. Ultimately, in spite of Curt’s attempted sabotage, I persevered and managed to correctly rattle off nineteen names without a single mistake. It was an inspiring performance tarnished only by the fact that a mere five minutes later, I had already forgotten almost everybody’s names once again.

       We had lunch at a restaurant in nearby Lido di Ostia. Right on the beach, the restaurant had a long wall of windows that offered a clear view of the beautiful Mediterranean Sea. It was the warmest day of the week, with temperatures in the upper 70’s, and after we finished eating, Robin gave us some free time to enjoy the beach before we headed to the catacombs. 
       The warbling song of a tiny bird perched on a nearby post greeted me as I made my way along the breakwater. A radiant sun was high above the horizon, making the sea shine like diamonds. I was picking up seashells, and enjoying the pleasant crunch of sand under my feet when I saw Tamara walking towards me. Out of the corner of my eye, I had been watching her closely since the incident at the restaurant near the fake dome a few days ago. I figured it was only a matter of time before she exacted her revenge on me in some dramatic fashion. I waited nervously all week, but nothing happened. She never did anything. Although, now that I think about it, it’s quite possible that the satisfaction she got from watching me slowly turn into a quivering mass of paranoia just might’ve been the best revenge of all. Damnit. Girls are clever.

       It was a Thursday afternoon in early November and I was standing on a beach in Italy, basking under the warm sun with a cool, salty breeze on my face. Spending half a day wandering the beautifully preserved, tree-shaded ruins of Ostia Antica, and enjoying the tranquility on the beach at Lido di Ostia, was a nice change of pace from the intensity and compactness of Rome. The brief respite was just what we needed. As the group boarded the bus, everyone seemed happy, rejuvenated and ready to flex their sightseeing muscles some more.

       The Catacombs of St. Callixtus were the first cemetery of the Christian community of Rome. The complex is a network of tunnels stretching for nearly 12 miles, structured in five levels and reaching a depth of about 65 feet. Our tour guide was one of the order of priests dedicated to preserving and caring for the catacombs. The tour was entertaining in a macabre way but to be honest, I was hoping to see some bones. How can you have a crypt without any bones? Am I alone in thinking that a burial chamber really isn’t complete without a chandelier or ottoman made of human fingers and toes? There were some interesting tombs and artwork but I was extremely disappointed by the lack of skull pyramids and strands of human teeth hanging like Christmas lights throughout the tunnels.

       On the ride back to our hotel, Kristi and Shane mentioned that they were going to the Hard Rock Café for dinner that night and they invited a few of us to join them. I accepted. I sat next to both of them during our first group dinner together and since then, I’d spent a good deal of time punishing them with a nonstop barrage of my caustic wit. God bless them, they took it in stride. Most don’t.
       Over the past week, I had consumed a diet that consisted primarily of pasta, chicken, and fish. I was craving a mouth-watering hunk of dead cow. I wasn’t alone. Shane, Kristi, Petrina, Liz, Jamie, and I all took a break from Italian cuisine by going American and ordering cheeseburgers and fries. It was one of the most satisfying meals I ate all week. I know. I'm so American.

       After dinner, while the rest of the group returned to the hotel, I walked down the street to Piazza Barberini, which boasts one of Bernini’s masterpieces, the Triton Fountain. The fountain is composed of four dolphins whose tails mesh together to support an enormous shell on which a muscular Triton, the son of Poseidon, stands blowing into a conch shell. Piazza Barberini is a tiny, nondescript, triangular piazza that is completely surrounded by a constant stream of motor vehicles, all traveling at half the speed of sound. I almost died no less than four times just trying to reach the fountain. After my harrowing ordeal, I was ready to call it a night. On the way back to the hotel, I passed a small pub that seemed to be calling my name. Not wanting to be rude, I answered the call and stopped in for a quick drink.
       I can’t get used to room-temperature beer. Apparently there's some law in Italy where nothing can ever be cold. Seriously, there are no ice cubes anywhere in the country. If you ask for a soda, you better like it ten degrees warmer than room temperature because that's how you're getting it.
       Struggling to drink the warm beer, and in the middle of a conversation with the bartender about some of the sights in Rome, I suddenly noticed this petite, deeply tanned woman making eyes at me from the other side of the bar. I completely ignored her, which she took as an invitation to come over, wrap her arms around my waist and press her body against mine. She purred, “Ciao,” and smiled at me. 
       To her credit, she did have a nice smile, and you could tell by her symmetrical features that she probably broke quite a few hearts when she was a young woman. Unfortunately, that would’ve been right around 1921.
      I was more than a little uncomfortable with this tiny octogenarian’s arms wrapped tightly around me, so I attempted to free myself. Let me tell you, this lady had the strength of a python. I was incapable of breaking her death grip. The bartender, obviously enjoying my discomfort, laughed heartily before finally saying, “This woman is a puttana. She’ll show you the sights here in Rome. I’ll talk to her for you."
       Before I had a chance to tell him that I wasn’t looking for a tour guide, he started speaking to her in Italian. After a few seconds, he smiled and winked at me, and the next thing I know, this little old lady started aggressively dragging me out of the bar. I shot a bemused look at the bartender who was now laughing hysterically. I was tired and I really wasn’t in the mood to take a walking tour of Rome. I tried to explain this to her but she kept pulling on my arm. By the time we reached the sidewalk, I managed to understand enough of her broken English to figure out exactly what her intentions were. As the bartender stated, this lady could indeed take me on a tour of Rome. Of course, by "tour," he meant "tour," and by "Rome," he meant "her vagina." Apparently a puttana is not a tour guide, but in fact, a prostitute. Bartenders in Rome. They’re freakin’ hilarious aren’t they?