Remember when I wrote about the cool stuff Leo and Vincenzo found in their garden?

Well, the other day I went over and let myself in the house with my guest key. Everything was open, so I knew they must be home, but I didn’t see anyone. I walked out to the garden and there they were, waist-deep in a hole they were digging, coming up with new things every time - or should I say, very, very old things.

This is what it looked like when they removed the rosemary bush, per my previous post:

By the time I had come over that day, they had revealed this:

From left to right: A stone wall; the base of a Roman column; and another large stone block that none of us could figure out what it was there for.

For a perspective, I had Leo stand next to the base:

They also found sampietrini, terracotta vase handles, bits of marble, and a whole bunch of other amazing stuff:

Vincenzo asked me, “How do you feel being a guest at your own private archaeological dig?”

“Like Indiana Jones,” I replied.

OK, it’s not really MY home. But it’s always assumed when I come to Rome that I stay at the home of Marco, my gay husband. That way, everyone knows where to find me.

Before I give you the 25-cent tour, let me tell you a bit about Marco. He is from Bologna, and he was the first person I ever met in Rome, back in 2001. He ran the Internet place I worked out of when I was a moofer for a NY ad agency. He is kind, patient and generous. He cooks masterpieces in his tinsy kitchen. He likes collecting little things that have good design - a package of colored pencils, a clock, an ashtray. He loves his mom. He destroys me in Burraco, our favorite card game. He reminds me when it’s time for us to watch Amici and X-Factor, our favorite shows. And he lets me watch Will & Grace in English.

Here’s his little nest, where I come for cacio e pepe, hugs and tranquility.

The entrance. That wall is an aquaduct. I know.

The view looking up from his front door.

Hot peppers for cooking are in the mud room.

The living room. Marco is always on the long part of the sofa, and I am on the regular part. When we play cards, I am on the sofa and he slides the ottoman over.

He makes espresso in the morning, and then leaves me some for my latte macchiato.

His terrace, which is where we eat in the summer.

The view from the terrace. Leo and Vincenzo live off to the right; this part is tended to by their neighbors. There are wild roses, cacti, apricot trees, olive trees, orange trees and about a hundred other random things growing there. It’s guarded by two dogs that bark a lot, but shut up when we slam open the shutters and glare at them.

Oops!  I almost forgot - here’s Marco!

Ma,

A post just for you!

Love, The Kid.

I often have luxury fantasies about tooling around on a yacht, wind whipping through my hair a la Grace Kelly and waiting for Truman Capote to ask permission to board.  But, alas, your Miss Expatria steps one sandal-clad foot on any sea-faring vessel and lunch makes a spectacular return.  I’m resigned to a life of waving from the shore as the cabana boy brings me another beverage.  But, such are the sacrifices of life, I suppose.

I know next to nothing about boats, so I was surprised to find recently that your run-of-the-mill yachts are not enough for the discerning weekend mariner anymore - there are also megayachts, which is a term reserved for private vessels more than 200 feet long.  This is more than enough to qualify for the Superyacht Society, for which the requirements are measly 82-foot yachts.

MEGAYACHTS. Fly your flag of convenience proudly as you drift around the Mediterranean with your fellow fat cats and playthings on board.

Just when I thought a day out on the open seas couldn’t get any more luxe, I find there’s something called a gigayacht.

GIGAYACHT.

A gigayacht has only the bare essentials - a tennis court, pool and five accommodation decks including a main saloon, dining room, library, cinema, spa and fitness area.

You can have a garden on board. It has LAND on it. This boat is so big, it can carry on its aft deck “two 45ft motor yachts, as well as space for two 27ft sailing yachts, two cars and water-toys including six jetskis,” according to this “article” in the Daily Mail.

And, you can sail around willy-nilly for FIVE FRICKING YEARS without needing to refuel.

Seriously, now. Come on. At one point does a yacht become a cruise ship?

The good news is, though, that there’s no way that thing is going to pitch and yaw, or whatever they say for a boat that’s being tossed around like a bath toy.  Perhaps the gigayacht is the answer to my horrid seasickness!  Oh, the problems that have been solved in my life, simply due to luxury.

I have been hating on the New York Times recently.  Everything I’ve read in the last year or so just strikes me as too, too precious and white collar for my tastes.  Granted, they are writing for a particular demographic; but as they say, there are 8 million stories in the naked city, and it’s be nice if the Newspaper of Record would write about them.

I just read one of them, and it made me laugh - if only because it’s nice to see someone embracing their obsessions, as I have bene known to do on more than one occasion.  (Go on!  Ask me about Watergate!)

Anyway, Dan Glickman told Joan Raymond some amusing anecdotes about his obsession with flying, airplanes and such, and I encourage you to have a chuckle at Mr. Glickman’s expense.  If anything, it shows me he is much more of an actual human being than his completely crap predecessor.

I’ve been following Vincenzo and Leo’s progress as they work in their garden, as you’ve seen in some earlier photos.  I have no doubt that millions of homeowners in the northern hemisphere are doing similar projects in their own gardens and terraces.  However,  an errant clunk or thump from the tip of the spade at Leo and Vincenzo’s house can mean anything from a piece of stubborn rock to a Roman sarcophogus.  Who’s to say?

Their home is located on Roman ruins; the existing structures date back to the Renaissance.  The house to the left was the main palazzo; Leo and Vincenzo’s house were the stables; the neighbors to the right live in the former servants’ quarters.  Those neighbors recently found a door in the basement that leads to an enormous room, most likely used as a storage area for pantry goods.  This room is old - OLDE - but the Belle Arti of Rome, who’s in charge of looking into such things, have not been granted access to the home to investigate further.  The old couple that lives there won’t let them past the front door.

Now, onto Vince and Leo’s house.

You might remember this photo, taken a few weeks ago.

They recently moved that enormous rosemary bush seen in the lower right hand corner, to in front of the tree that in this picture is to the right of the steps.  While digging up the bush, they found:

Leo thinks this marble is “only” from the 1800s.  They also unearthed:

This would be the base of a column dating back to the Roman era.  It was underneath the rosemary bush.  Now, this portion of the garden looks like this:

The Roman column base is in the foreground, with the rosemary bush in front of the tree back there.

I’m all excited about this discovery - but Leo and Vincnzo, two Capricorns if there ever were, take it all in stride during our early evening cocktail:

This is the building to the left of Termini train station, if you’re facing the architecturally fascist facade.  The stormy sky broke for a minute and shed some serious light on it.  No one seemed to notice it but me! 

This is where Marco takes me after he picks me up at the train station.  I always have a latte macchiato and a tramezzino.  We sit and chat and look at the Colosseum and smoke cigarettes and get caught up on everything.  My time in Rome does not start until after we leave this bar.

Marco showing the proper way to drink from the city’s water fountains.

This is where Vincenzo and I take Pepino sometimes on his walks.  It’s a little park that’s never crowded.  The center of it has a secluded little sitting area; this is the entrance to that area.

This is the little path we take from one side of the aquaduct to the other, to get to that park.  It cuts through someone’s property and I’m not even sure it has a name.  It takes you from Ye Oldeste Roma to a neighborhood of modern-ish apartment buildings and stores and such.  It’s quite strange, like moving through another dimension.  I can’t think of two bordering neighborhoods that are more different than these.

This is my founatin in my piazza - Piazza Madonna di Monti, off via dei Serpenti behind via Cavour (yes, I do make it into the center of town every once in a while).  I saturated the color to show how it looks in my mind.

I travel a fair amount.  I’m not one of those crazy airplane-commuter types, and I’m fairly certain that I’ll never take this kind of trip or be like this lady - I pretty much stick to Western Europe and hotels and such.  But, nonetheless, I often find myself packing for a trip of indeterminate length.

I also find myself traveling alone, too - which means no one is there to watch all my stuff if I want to peruse the duty-free shops or catch a quick trip to the loo.  I’ve gotta schlep everything with me wherever I go.  It can be a pain sometimes, but it has taught me to travel light.

As for clothes: I don’t own a lot of them, so it’s easy for me to pack for a trip of any length.  The four pairs of pants I own are all dark-colored - and that’s the way I like it.  Dark clothing hides a multitude of sins - from fat asses to grass stains - and can be paired with tops that can show a bit more pizzazz, if that’s your style.  I’m a New Yorker at heart, so black clothing is it for me: tanks, cardigans, turtleneck sweater and, of course, one perfectly crisp white shirt.

Shoes - I bring slippers for cold or grody floors, winsome flats for dinner or short excursions and my trusty vintage Chanel golf shoes for everything else.  They are indestructible and easily the most comfortable shoes I’ve ever worn.  And they’re Chanel, for chrissakes - they’re gonna go with whatever I’m wearing.

My travel bag is from L.L. Bean.  Again, indestructible and also quite fetching; I swear by it.  I actually have four in various sizes and strap lengths.  I got the idea from my grandmother, who has used the same one when she travels for the last 30 years. In this bag I put all my “tech” gear - laptop, camera, phones, Shuffle way-too-big DJ-strength headphones and all accompanying chargers and plugs; Sudoku. Ticket goes in the outside pocket!

Within this bag I have whatever smaller bag I’m planning to use as my purse while traveling.  I keep all my toiletries in this one, although I dare say I don’t have nearly as many as most women when traveling - deodorant, lotion, toothbrush and paste, tweezers, mascara, kohl, eyebrow pencil, lip gloss, pocket mirror, Chanel no. 5.  I like doing this because I can run to the loo on the plane or train without lugging every piece of electrical equipment I own and looking like a terrorist.

Also in the small purse are my day-to-day essentials: Small notebook (which for the last four years has doubled as a wallet and passport holder because I can’t find the perfect wallet), change purse, pen, mini sanitizing gel, two-gig USB key, lighters, phones, Swiss Army knife, cigs.

That’s it, really.  Give me 15 minutes and I’m ready to go.

=======

I have to say something here: I honed this skill while living abroad and traveling, to be sure; but the urge to pare down while being prepared started after September 11.

It was kind of an unspoken thing during that time, but every woman I knew had changed the contents of her purse after September 11.  One girl carried dime store flip-flops after she walked home in heels that day; another carried a small flashlight, because the staircase of the building she had to evacuate was dark; still others carried snacks, change specifically allocated for payphones, baby wipes, an extra pair of underwear in a Zip-Loc bag, bottled water - whatever they felt would get them through another unthinkable emergency.

That urgency has faded, but when I travel I still think of what I would need in case I couldn’t go home again. 

=======

This lengthy and suddenly depressing post serves as the prologue to say this: I’ve found quite possibly the coolest travel kit EVER, from ThinkGeek: The Survival Kit in a Sardine Can.  Per their site:

“The kit includes one of each of the following items: non-aspirin pain reliever, adhesive bandage, alcohol prep pad, antibiotic ointment, book of matches, compass, chewing gum, sugar, salt, energy nugget, duct tape, fire starter cube, first aid instructions, fish hook & line, note paper, pencil, razor blade, safety pin, reflective signal surface, tea bag, waterproof bag, whistle, and wire clip.”

My taste in travel won’t bring me anywhere near anyplace in which I would find myself needing almost any of this stuff; and I sincerely hope that I’m never in a cataclysmic emergency where I’m boiling water in a sardine tin to make tea. 

But, I WANT ONE. 

I want a sardine can survival kit, just because of how I felt that day.  It’s my own private joke, to be sure, but it will remind me of who I was that day, and who I am now - and just how far I’ve come, in ways other than can be marked on a map of this big, beautiful world.

I’ve done a lot of work recently for a company that arranges for their clients to conduct their finances in offshore jurisdictions. I must be writing great copy, because I’m starting to believe my own hype: I want an offshore bank account. I WANT ONE SO BAD.

The hilarious thing about this is, I don’t make a lot of money. I don’t make a lot of money by normal checking account standards, let alone the kind of cash one would need to possess in order to logically conclude that an offshore bank account is a sound financial decision.

I’m not sure what about it attracts me so much. It could be the Jason Bourne fan in me; I have previously written about how jazzed I would be if I found a Swiss bank account number embedded in my shoulder that gave me access to a dozen passports and enough currency to say to a perfect stranger, “I’ll give you ten thousand dollars to drive me to Paris.”

I’d actually have to say this, since I don’t drive. But that’s a story for another time.

The self-absorbed, snobby brat in me would love to pull out a completely blank debit card and say, “Oh, this? It’s linked to my anonymous offshore bank account.”

The travel addict in me wants any excuse to make frequent visits Vanuatu, or Mauritius, or the Caymans, or any of the other dozens of offshore havens there are out there. “Sorry, I won’t be available next week. My bank manager in the Seychelles wants to have a word with me.”

A number of offshore tax havens cater specifically to those who have recently come into a lot of money, whether by inheritance or the lottery or whatever. As I’m cranking out page after page of SEO-heavy drivel, I’m fantasizing about calling up this same client one day and saying, “Hi, remember me? I need an offshore bank account - fast.”

The thing I love best, though, is a service that companies like my client offer - the Virtual Office.

For many offshore banking activities, a registered address in that offshore jurisdiction is necessary. Because these companies are establishing themselves as experts in offshore banking, they have offices in these offshore locations that clients can use as official addresses. Which, OK, that’s pretty cool. I imagine - again, with the Bourne thing - Julia Stiles sitting in a charming apartment with a mother of a back room hooked up to every conceivable network on the planet, waiting to collect my L.L. Bean catalogs and letters from my dad.

But they can also send and receive faxes for you; answer a dedicated phone number as if they’re your secretary and either take a message or forward the call to you while you’re on your yacht or whatever; and, should you find yourself needing to completely fake someone out and pretend that your offshore shelf company is in fact operating at that address, you can use their conference room and auxiliary staff.

Yes, please!

On a delightfully sunny Sunday a few weeks ago, we all piled in the car and headed north on via Cassia to Viterbo. It’s not that far out of Rome, and features a bucolic setting worthy of the best Impressionists.

Our first stop was to Civita Castellana, to check out a house Vince and Leo want to buy:

It’s on six acres and you can’t actually drive up to it. We learned later it hasn’t been sold because no one from the actual town further up the hill will buy it - they call it “The House of Doom” due to its close proximity to a large cliff that has a tendency to shed a few tons of itself every once in a while.

We followed the old path that used to be the way into Rome years ago. As in many hundreds of years ago. Now, the path looks like this:

I know. And we were the only ones on it all day. We ate wild asparagus, mint, fennel and onion from the areas next to the path, and Pepino played with lizards and chased rabbits. I found a porcupine’s quill and thought it was a broken paintbrush (I’m not normally exposed to actual nature).

We then piled back in the car and set off for civilization, so to say - Calcata. (Check out that link for a view of the entire town - it’ll give context to the following.) The town was forcibly abandoned in the 1930s for fear of falling down. It remained empty for decades, until it became populated again by souls braver than I. I didn’t realize until I looked at my pictures from Calcata that apparently I was obsessed with the doors in the town:

Every street ended in a sheer drop of about 500 feet. At the end of this one, there was a one-table outdoor bar:

We arrived back in Rome with fresh air in our lungs, flowers in our hair and a good night’s sleep ahead for all of us.