Timing

I was going to spend this post crowing about how I slept in the airport and got back to Paris in time for my entretien. Then I checked the news.

Saturday night I was going to go see the Spanish Steps, but I wound up polishing some last-minute stuff for my entretien in a pizzeria, and I got so wrapped up in that that by the time I finished it was already 10:30. So I just went back to the hostel. I got into a conversation with the guy at the front desk and he mentioned that the Vatican was closed on Sunday and you had to call well in advance to get tickets to the Villa Borghese. Thus cancelling both my plans for Sunday.

I got up about 8 and walked down to the Colosseum. I was doubtful about the prices for tickets, but Mom and Warren had raved about it, so I joined an English-language tour group to skip the tourist lines. The architecture was very impressive, but unfortunately the history was all stuff that I'd learned previously in Latin. Our guide, Luca, kept insisting, "I not kidding you, is inna books." The tour was supposed to go on to the Palatine Hill afterwards, but it was pretty poorly organized, and I think only a few of the others found the meeting point.

Chagrined, I grabbed a kebab and walked over to the Capitoline Museum behind the Vittorio Emmanuele II monument. The art inside was amazing; lots of incredibly lifelike busts of ancient Romans, Renaissance paintings, and sculptures like the Dying Gaul. More than anywhere else, I'm glad I stopped there.

Then on to the Spanish Steps. Bloody tourists were as thick as pigeons. Enough said.

Near the Vatican I stopped in a clothing store and bought a shirt that I saw in the window.

St. Peter's Square at sunset was magnificent. They still had all the chairs out from the Palm Sunday service that morning.

I picked up my luggage from Casa Olmata and headed to a restaurant that the owner, Mirella, had recommended. Good food, but the service was so slow that I had to scut it short to catch the last train of the night. Yeah, I know service is slower in Italy to give you time to enjoy your meal, but I had no choice.

Took the train out to Agnanina. While waiting for the bus I met other travelers who were about my same age. Helen was German and had been staying with in the countryside of Italy for a week, and was flying back to school in Berlin. Jordan was from Pennsylvania and was studying in Granada. And Ning was Chinese and had been in Rome for a weekend like me. She went to a business school in Gottland, Sweden. Turned out we had all planned to spend the night in Ciampino. We got there and picked a spot on the concrete terminal floor. Jordan and Ning fell asleep at about 1:30, but Helen and I stayed up looking at my photos.

At about 3:30, I felt a distinct tremor through the floor. No one else seemed to notice, so I assumed it was just an airplane landing, and went back to sleep.

At 6 I woke up to find that the others had all left, because their flights had been earlier. I waited for the EasyJet counters to open, and was fourth in line behind a trio of Norwegians. My backpack was too big for EasyJet regulations, and I'd managed to sneak it past 'em on the way down, but they caught it this time and I had to check it. On the plus side, it made it much easier to go through security.

Because I'd been among the first thirty in line, I got to board the plane a bit earlier than everyone else. A group of American guys came and sat down near to me just before we started to taxi. The one sitting next to me introduced himself as Grover and said that they were a group of seminarians who'd been in Rome for the past year learning Italian and studying for the priesthood.

"So where're you from?"
"Virgnia."
"No way, what part?"
"I'm from the Shenandoah Valley."
"Whoa, I'm from Clarke County!"

Grover was from Stephens City. How cool izzat?

When we landed in Paris I sprinted through the airport to get my backpack and get on the train. I needn't have worried about being on time; I boarded the train and got to Luxembourg with ten minutes to spare.

The entretien went well. I think M. Bondurand penalized me because I had failed to look up some words I really should have known, but surely my discussion of Barthean philosophy in regards to French fashion photography gained me some points back.

Afterwards I looked up the BBC online, just to see what I'd missed over the weekend. Now as Sarah pointed out, I have an indelible connection to the tragedy in Aquila.

This last week before the break is really trying. I haven't felt this eager for a vacation since high school. Right now I have to go back into Paris to see about booking the train too and from Madrid.