Stick the Landing

Apparently, I survived the landing, but it took me a while to figure out where to pick up my ride. I'd never reserved a ride from an airport before - but in the movies, there's the driver with the sign at the gate with my last name. 
There were lots of drivers at the gate with last names - none of them mine. I had gotten out later than the plane was scheduled to, but not unrealistically so. Had my driver abandoned me?
Eventually, it occurred to me to read the instructions, which told me to go their office which was "across from the coffee shop."
The "coffee shop" was apparently named Bagel Shop (without NY water? WTF?), and, when I reached them, they said it would be half an hour before my driver would be ready. 
Probably we were waiting for another fate. 
I went outside for a second to breathe Italian air. Seemed kind of similar. I went back inside. 
 sat in the Bagel Shop and got to talking to some Asian Brits and an Anglo Bostoneer also waiting for rides right before my driver pulled me away, and I got to see the Italian countryside for about one hundred and sixty seconds. 
I woke up within Rome city limits. There is, clearly, rest for the wicked. The city looked very much like Rome was supposed to: winding streets, climbing up, sloping down. 
I should mention: I don't speak well in romance. I took four years of Spanish and three years of Latin, but I am wholly unprepared to speak any Italian sentence. 
Neither, it seems, was my driver. When he stopped the car, I didn't see my hotel, whose name was long. So he pointed, I turned, and he was on his way. 
The hotel I went into, though,  didn't seem to have the same long name as mine, and a mild panic set in until the city concierge directed me down the block to my place - with its very elegant elevator. 

Apparently, I ordered some specific features, like a split twin bed - and a shared bathroom. There are eight to ten rooms on the floor and one bathroom. This seems very bad planning (later research seems to suggest that only my room, in fact, lacks a bathroom, which seems like very bad planning of another sort. 
It was a dreary day, and travel and time zones had already squandered a lot of it, but I didn't want the rest of it to go to waste, so I locked up my valuables, packed a guide book into a satchel put on my feet and got moving. 
As I exited the hotel, I tried to lock my location into GPS, but remembered I didn't had roaming, so no internet outside of wifi, so no way to maintain my location. I had to rely on my senses. 
Those senses could tell, in that instant, foreshadowing was likely at play. 
I picked a direction and struck a marching tune. It took me a block or two to see a place with a sign that read "Pizza." Apparently they served that in Rome, too. Weird. 
I figured I should experience the differences with some random, street corner place, though I was in Rome Centre, and this was probably some tourist trap place, ala a generic Famous Ray's. 
I ordered by pointing. He asked a question I didn't understand. I nodded in response. I don't want to seem  stupid and I don't want to be the Ugly American. I guess that means I'll be the Quiet American who gets served whatever I get served. In this case, it was a square flatbread with prosciutto that had been sitting around for a while. Perfectly all right, and only technically something to write home about (because, well, this sentence).
As I walked, I discovered the hotel was just a block or two from Termini, the train station, which means
A - if I want to go to any other cities, it'll be real easy, and 
B - I probably didn't need to wait half an hour to get a ride to my hotel, but
C - I wouldn't have been able to find my hotel anyway, so
D - Never mind. 
There's some English on the streets.  It was enough for me to really know what's going on. I could have done a lot more prep - not that I had a lot of prep time. I sure do give credence to the Ugly American. Maybe surgery's the answer? 
I found a Park. There seemed to be ruins. Because Rome has various periods of history, it's unclear what I was looking at. In twilight, I couldn't make much out of my guidebook; I wasn't even sure where I was, and without internet, my phone was of no use, except to chronicle, in rising darkness, what I could not quite understand. 

Know what it is? Then spill it! 

I saw a building with a small line of people waiting to get in. Turns out it was a place of worship. These Italians have a religious figure they appear to respect somewhat. Weird.  

x

I don't know why those people have their coats on, when they're so close to the friars... I'll see myself out.  

They really do seem to take their deity seriously. Do they maybe have a fetish or something? 

The Italians are placed to give perspective to the statue. Your welcome. 

When I returned to my neighborhood, I couldn't find my hotel right away. Staff at a local restaurant patiently redirected me to the correct block because I hadn't bothered to read the street signs. 

This American is frigging hideous.