SPQR with a Bullet.
Candy has turned out to be a delight, and moreover, she agreed to leave her pistol back in New York. She apparently speaks Italian for chrissakes, which helps me take a sort of CFO-like role, sitting back paying the bills and letting her do most of the dialogue with the locals. I can barely order, much less make reservations. I am horrible with languages. English included. I attribute this to the general egotistic viewpoint modus operandi I embrace so fervently. Not only is she useful, which sets her aside from most other women I date, she’s a riot. Plus, she seems to actually enjoy sleeping with me. Which is nice.
She is also a beautiful girl, in a youthful sort of way.
Kind of like that Amy Adams actress. Maybe with a little Sunrise Adams thrown in for good measure. Just looks mind you, I'm saying. I appreciate her mind most of all. I am not interested in her reading this and putting a .22 caliber hole between my eyes. I would need that like a hole in the head.
Rome is hotter than the hinges of a made up concept of eternal punishment. This was met with great poise by my traveling partner. She does amazing things to mini skirts and Prada heels. Didn’t seem to sweat a drop. As for me, while I packed my tropical wool and linen, I seemed to be a self contained sprinkler system. Thankfully the Hassler (my Rome hotel of choice) is more than equipped to handle ample dry cleaning...at about a hundred Euro per pound.
Candy and I settled into a nice little routine. Wake up a ten with a triple espresso each and a pitcher of bellini cocktails. Dress, shower and head out to say hello to some old friends. Bernini, Raphael, Borromini, Carvaggio. You know the deal. (In an effort to avoid melting into a pile of fat yankee mush as I humped it across the cobblestones in my Gucci loafers, I commissioned a driver, Giovanni to drive Candy and myself from site to site.) Head to Caffe Greco or George’s for lunch. Candy would be sensible with a little Caprese or other salad like thing. I would do what I do in Italy…stuff myself silly with pasta. Plenty of wine and then back to the Hassler for an afternoon roll in the hay. Wake up around seven and head out to dinner. (Plenty of meat, cheese, more pasta and steaks of many kinds.) Then fountains of cocktails until closing. There are worse ways to live.
The Hassler is a splendid place to stay so long as hemorrhaging money isn’t something that necessitates anti-anxiety medication. Beautiful location at the top of the Spanish Steps. Nice place for a drunken stroll. That said, recently there is a newly formed battalion of rose salesmen that just about drove me insane. They weren’t here in such numbers during my last trip. These guys are more aggressive than a drunken stripper an hour before closing. They literally don’t know the meaning of no. Or non. Or nein. They would place a rose in Candy’s hand and say “Uno Euro, my friend”. I think they belonged to some slavish guild who wouldn’t let the poor devils come home until they’d sold the bushel. While a part of me wanted to break their teeth in, I felt sorry for the odorous sons-of-bitches. Once, in a moment of frustration, I gave the guy a fifty and took the entire assortment. Candy said I was nuts. She’d told me she hates roses. (An absurd cliché, she thinks.) I left them in the open window of an old Cinquecento.
One thing I hadn’t counted on was the World Cup. I live in New York, so I appreciate fans. Ours are intense, regardless of the sport. But comparatively, in terms of sheer insanity and passion, nothing we have seems to reach the levels of importance of FIFA to these people. More on this in future posts. However, one incident in particular stands out.
We were at a bar in the Trastevere watching Italy versus Ukraine. Candy had made friends with an Italian couple from Milan, Paulo and Stefania. She was good at making friends. He was an attorney. She was a former model. Anyway. We were sitting on a square watching the game on a screen provided by the establishment. A crowd of rowdy Ukranian fans were there too. People were exceptionally intoxicated. Long story short, when Vyacheslav Sviderskyi got that yellow card, Paulo let out a resounding cheer (along with 95% of the rest of the place). I guess one of the young Ukranians got a little frustrated and hurled a bottle of Heineken in Paulo's direction. Smart bastard ducked. The thing hit me square in the forehead. Right at the hairline.
Candy, with great conviction, flew over to the table all one hundred-and-practically-nothing pounds, grabbed the offender by the scruff of his Ukranian Jersey and punched him six or seven times in the face. (!!!) In the end, I think he may have a worse deal than I. (Candy sports a pretty hefty canary diamond on her right hand.) The Carbinari had a lot of fun with that one.
I ended getting three stiches in my forehead, 100% free of charge thanks to the socialized medicine in this fine country. Candy pointed out that I would have a decent scar and that in the US, I probably would have received at least a dozen stiches. I asked her, "what about free don't you understand," and shook the hand of the seven year old doctor with one eye who helped me out. Fortunately for me, she likes scars. What a girl!
She is also a beautiful girl, in a youthful sort of way.
Kind of like that Amy Adams actress. Maybe with a little Sunrise Adams thrown in for good measure. Just looks mind you, I'm saying. I appreciate her mind most of all. I am not interested in her reading this and putting a .22 caliber hole between my eyes. I would need that like a hole in the head.
Rome is hotter than the hinges of a made up concept of eternal punishment. This was met with great poise by my traveling partner. She does amazing things to mini skirts and Prada heels. Didn’t seem to sweat a drop. As for me, while I packed my tropical wool and linen, I seemed to be a self contained sprinkler system. Thankfully the Hassler (my Rome hotel of choice) is more than equipped to handle ample dry cleaning...at about a hundred Euro per pound.
Candy and I settled into a nice little routine. Wake up a ten with a triple espresso each and a pitcher of bellini cocktails. Dress, shower and head out to say hello to some old friends. Bernini, Raphael, Borromini, Carvaggio. You know the deal. (In an effort to avoid melting into a pile of fat yankee mush as I humped it across the cobblestones in my Gucci loafers, I commissioned a driver, Giovanni to drive Candy and myself from site to site.) Head to Caffe Greco or George’s for lunch. Candy would be sensible with a little Caprese or other salad like thing. I would do what I do in Italy…stuff myself silly with pasta. Plenty of wine and then back to the Hassler for an afternoon roll in the hay. Wake up around seven and head out to dinner. (Plenty of meat, cheese, more pasta and steaks of many kinds.) Then fountains of cocktails until closing. There are worse ways to live.
The Hassler is a splendid place to stay so long as hemorrhaging money isn’t something that necessitates anti-anxiety medication. Beautiful location at the top of the Spanish Steps. Nice place for a drunken stroll. That said, recently there is a newly formed battalion of rose salesmen that just about drove me insane. They weren’t here in such numbers during my last trip. These guys are more aggressive than a drunken stripper an hour before closing. They literally don’t know the meaning of no. Or non. Or nein. They would place a rose in Candy’s hand and say “Uno Euro, my friend”. I think they belonged to some slavish guild who wouldn’t let the poor devils come home until they’d sold the bushel. While a part of me wanted to break their teeth in, I felt sorry for the odorous sons-of-bitches. Once, in a moment of frustration, I gave the guy a fifty and took the entire assortment. Candy said I was nuts. She’d told me she hates roses. (An absurd cliché, she thinks.) I left them in the open window of an old Cinquecento.One thing I hadn’t counted on was the World Cup. I live in New York, so I appreciate fans. Ours are intense, regardless of the sport. But comparatively, in terms of sheer insanity and passion, nothing we have seems to reach the levels of importance of FIFA to these people. More on this in future posts. However, one incident in particular stands out.
We were at a bar in the Trastevere watching Italy versus Ukraine. Candy had made friends with an Italian couple from Milan, Paulo and Stefania. She was good at making friends. He was an attorney. She was a former model. Anyway. We were sitting on a square watching the game on a screen provided by the establishment. A crowd of rowdy Ukranian fans were there too. People were exceptionally intoxicated. Long story short, when Vyacheslav Sviderskyi got that yellow card, Paulo let out a resounding cheer (along with 95% of the rest of the place). I guess one of the young Ukranians got a little frustrated and hurled a bottle of Heineken in Paulo's direction. Smart bastard ducked. The thing hit me square in the forehead. Right at the hairline.
Candy, with great conviction, flew over to the table all one hundred-and-practically-nothing pounds, grabbed the offender by the scruff of his Ukranian Jersey and punched him six or seven times in the face. (!!!) In the end, I think he may have a worse deal than I. (Candy sports a pretty hefty canary diamond on her right hand.) The Carbinari had a lot of fun with that one.
I ended getting three stiches in my forehead, 100% free of charge thanks to the socialized medicine in this fine country. Candy pointed out that I would have a decent scar and that in the US, I probably would have received at least a dozen stiches. I asked her, "what about free don't you understand," and shook the hand of the seven year old doctor with one eye who helped me out. Fortunately for me, she likes scars. What a girl!
posted by Chas Chesterfield Esq. at 1:19 PM
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