The Great Towel Fiasco

As a teacher of private English lessons, I had my fair share of weekly appointments in the ten-story apartment buildings outside of Rome's historic center. The students ranged from 5 years old to 15 years old and each hour-long lesson presented its variety of challenges, but one time, I never expected an obstacle like this.

One particularly thirsty day, I drank too much liquid.  When I arrived at one of my student's homes, I of course took their offer of an espresso, always with a touch of sugar. Then, during the lesson, I drank from my water bottle when necessary to keep the throat well lubricated. Lesson number one finished and I bid them adeiu except it was in their native language.

Off to the next lessons, back to back appointments for a pair of siblings, and to this day I still blame the coffee bean for its diuretic effects. When I arrived, I asked to use their restroom. It was the first time I'd needed it there and so I entered the room of colorfully tiled floors and walls. I found the toilet, flushed using the short flush button rather than the long flush which still bewilders me why Americans don't adopt this water-saving technology, and then I washed my hands at the sink.

Hands soaking, I looked left and right to find the hand towel. To my great horror, the only collection of soft woven fibers were found above the bidet: the other porcelain thingy in the bulk of European bathrooms. I looked down with insecurity at the half toilet / half sink monstrosity likely born from the godless island laboratories of Dr. Moreau.

Bidet usage has never been more confusing.

Now if you are not familiar with a bidet, as most Americans are not, well, at least not intimately familiar, they are used for hygiene...down there. And that means when the area is wet, it has to get dry.

So again, I stood there with soaking hands looking down at the two towels hanging over the bidet. I assumed a 50% chance of success, which meant my potential for failure was still too high.  I needed more assurance that I would be drying my hands with the hands-only towel. So what do I do? I looked behind me to make sure no one walked through the door, one inconveniently designed without a lock so the young kids wouldn't get locked in there.

No sounds of footsteps coming by, I did what any other desperate teacher would do. I hesitantly bent down to sniff the first of two towels. It smelled cottony, not like it was freshly laundered but more of a papery smell, like a stale ream of printer paper sitting idly in the tray for months. Beneath those earthy layers were nuances of slight mildew. My sleuthing techniques didn't narrow it down but it certainly told me this towel was used frequently.  Maybe it was the hand towel, but maybe not.

I turned my head once again for safety. Every private teacher knows how terrible it would be to be caught in the act of sniffing your clients towels. I didn't hear anything so I approached towel number two.

Hunched over the bidet, getting my nose nice and close to the turquoise linen and almost touching it, I sniffed long, deeply. Then the bathroom door opened.

The mom's jaw hit the floor and her eyes popped wide open. She was like a child who just walked in on her parents doing adult things and I was the forbidden, eye-melting sight. So I smiled sheepishly and said, "You have beautiful towels."

Okay, not really. I just let my hands air dry because there's no way I'm touching mystery towels. Nor did I sniff them, just to clarify. But I totally had you there for a moment, didn't I?

The New Pope

Why was this man praying in the center of the Vatican City?

He saw black smoke billowing from the roof of the Sistine Chapel at today's 12 noon decision.

This afternoon, I went to the Piazza of St. Peters to see if the New Pope would be chosen. After the black smoke appeared, everyone went on their way hoping the Cardinals would make a final vote later this evening.  The single-man pilgrimage stuck around just a little longer to change the world through prayer.

Seven hours later, I received notice that white smoke came from the pipe sticking out of the Sistine Chapel. It wasn't through an email, it wasn't from a phone call.  In typical Roman fashion when new Popes are named, the bells of all the city's Catholic churches rang across Rome.  This bell, at St. Peter's Basilica, is the first one that starts the chain reaction.

When I heard the church bells in my neighborhood just now, I knew it could mean just one thing: the New Pope was elected, and this rainy afternoon crowd quadrupled in attendance because everyone rushed over to Piazza San Pietro.

I'm wishing I was able to make it over there for the announcement tonight. It would have been crowded, rainy, and I likely would have been tired standing on my feet for hours.  But it would have been something truly amazing to squish my way into the masses. Congratulations Pope Francesco (Francis in English)!

One Unique Way to Celebrate Carnevale in Rome

Like so many professions, my attempt as a writer means it will take a lot of time before success is fully realized. To help cover the bills until that day arrives, I took on the side job of teaching private English lessons.

It was my normal Tuesday routine.  I exited the bus, crossed the street and walked toward my destination yesterday afternoon.  On the way to my student's home my path took me through Prati, the part of Rome adjacent to the Vatican City. The area was mostly residential, though like most parts of the Eternal City, commercial businesses offered their services on the ground floor while the remaining nine of each building were for personal use.  That meant people frequented the streets often.

On top of St. Peter's Basilica in the Vatican City, preparing to climb the dome.

Well the street I was on wasn't so busy.  In fact, besides myself, there were but two others - an approaching grandmother and her grandson of five years at most.  I minded my own business. Mostly, I looked down as I walked because too many residential sidewalks in Rome were plagued by dogs and their careless owners, see my article Better to Look Down When Walking for further explanation. So as I got closer to the pair, I noticed the grandmother stopped to watch her grandson. Nothing occurred to me as being out of the ordinary, even after she chidingly said his name in that long, drawn out way... "Filipoooo."

Meanwhile, Filipo's eyes flicked up at me as I approached and he, too, just as quickly went back to minding his own business.  He strolled slowly like there wasn't a care in the world.  He looked at the wall of the building next to us.  He glanced back to his grandmother wondering if she was watching. He was just an innocent little boy.

And the second I walked directly next to him, he threw an entire fistful of confetti.

Showered by millions of pieces of glittering shapes, I realized I, a complete stranger, had just been tagged by a one-man street gang of five years old.

Happy Carnevale everybody!

Just Another Stroll Down the Street

Imagine walking down a busy street in Rome.

The always busy street exiting from the Spanish Steps in Rome.

The tall, classically European buildings hover their upper level apartments over your head while the ground level is dedicated to everything commercial.  Store after store goes from phone dealer to clothier, pizzeria to coffee shop.  All the while, you are dodging the slower walkers in front of you like a game of Nintendo's Rad Racer avoiding cars.

During this exciting, real life adventure, you are with a friend or two, and they too are in the throws of the battle. Where you veer left, they must veer right, or they sneak tightly through a gap when you go around the moving object.  But when you get lost in friendly conversation, things can go awry. Laughter escapes your mouth and funny thoughts clog your mind. Right when you pass a clothing store entrance ... BAM!

"Oh my goodness, miss, are you OK?" You managed to stay on your feet.  The unlucky woman, however, fell hard to the ground. You don't wait for her to answer.

"I am so sorry!" You help the petite woman up from the ground, lifting her by the arm.

"I didn't see you at all!  I am so sorry!" So far she is speechless, likely fuming from being knocked over.

Then you look the mannequin in the face.

"Oh."

And the embarrassment sets in and you sneak glances around you to see if anyone saw the ordeal. Thank goodness! No one was watching... except the store manager.

Never ever has anyone looked at you more like a grumpy bulldog. Quickly averting the death stare, your face turned cherry red, you look at the mannequin, then the manager and quickly mutter, "Sorry," and walk away faster than you ever walked in known history.

This story was based on true events. Thankfully, it wasn't my true event, but a good friend of mine who lived out in Rome for a while. In any city, big or small, things like this can happen.

Have you ever done something embarrassing in public? Share your story.