Serve the weirdo, Vincenzo

When I got into the city yesterday, it was still too early to check into my hotel room (that always happens when you are jet-lagged and need a shower), so I ditched my bag and went out wandering. The last time I was in Rome I stayed in a neighborhood north of the Vatican, so I headed there to see if I could remember my way around. At first, only a few things looked familiar, then I got a deluge of memories. It's kind of like driving at the start of a rain storm: a few rain drops ping the windshield, and then suddenly the glass is obscured by a wash of water.

Here's a very familiar sight:


I must have eaten at the Gallo Brillo at least a dozen times on my last trip. Yeah, I like it a little bit for several reasons: 1. It's inexpensive and tasty, 2. It's small and doesn't have an English menu, 3. Good house wine and espresso. Gallo Brillo is run by a family, or a least I think they're a family. There's an older man, a younger man, and a younger woman, whom I think of as The Dad, The Son, and The Daughter.
The Dad was always trying to talk me into having a shot of hard liquor after lunch. Being a man of few words, he would sidle up to the table, look at me for a minute, and suggest, "Campari?...Vodka?...[then, making a theatrical face] Grappa?!"
The Daughter always ended up bringing me coffee, therefore she is an angel.
I used to know The Son's name, I think it's something like Vincenzo. He's the main server and is especially skilled at providing sublime, one-word commentary for everything on the menu. Example: Scallopinne al Vino= "It's pig."

I can say with a reasonable degree of certainty that everyone in The Family thought I was a major weirdo. This is because during my last extended stay in Rome, I had been traveling alone for about four months and had entered some...unique head space. An illustration of me eating lunch at the Gallo Brillo during this enchanting phase of my life would include reading a crime novel with graphic depictions of blood/murder/weaponry on the cover, looking generally unkempt and scruffy, and tearing up at inappropriate times during the meal because I was remembering some Deep Thought I'd had about the meaning of life in the shower that morning.

Coincidentally, it was at about this point in my trip that I formulated one of my main theories about travel: You will have a richer dining experience if you 1. are alone, 2. are polite, and 3. come across as a little "off."

When I came into the Gallo Brillo yesterday, Vincenzo was pontificating about linguine to an Italian family sitting by the window. Five minutes later, he was schooling me in the difference between regular gnocchi and gnocchi alla Romana by drawing a 3-D representation of Gnocchi alla Romana on my tablecloth. Well, after that dazzling presentation, I'm sure you can all guess what I had for lunch. I did not cry into the post-lunch espresso that The Daughter brought me, but then again, I hadn't showered...

A couple of photos for fun:


Scene on the street.


First stop after lunch: St. Peter's! I really wanted to go in, but that line stopped me. I went for gelato instead.

I'm here, I'm here! Time for bed.

Hi Friends! I'm in Rome and all is well (or will be once I end my 30 hour vacation from sleep). As soon as I get the wi-fi situation figured out at my hotel, I'll put up some pictures to prove it :)

I made a new friend on one of my flights yesterday. Her name is Maryssa, she is six years old and was on her way to Disneyworld with her grandpa and cousins. When I asked her if she thought there were going to be a lot of people at Disneyworld this week, she matter-of-factly informed me that, yes, there would probably be 40, maybe more, "and at least 33 families." We were watching out the window, having a very insightful conversation about how many more trees one can see from the sky, when she suddenly become quiet and I looked over to discover that she had succumbed to some kind of kiddie narcolepsy and was snoozing away. That was when her grandpa looked back sheepishly and admitted they had gotten up at 4:00 that morning.

She left a shoe print on my right pant leg after I told her that, yes, she could use me as a footrest (you all know how cramped it is sleeping in a Coach seat). The lady sitting next to me indicated that I could wipe the shoe print off easily once we got off the plane. Not for all the tea in China, I thought. That there is a good luck charm.