The next morning, Beth left to fly to NYC to do an interview at NYU for a law school scholarship, and my mother and I set out to find a pair of tennis shoes for her, and I needed a few items myself.

After grabbing lunch and wandering around the Colosseum, we walked back to the enormous department store to browse the merchandise. We started sifting through some 1 Euro t-shirts when one of the store employees came over and started hovering over us. A bit uncomfortable with this overly-cozy arrangement, we moved on. As soon as we did, the woman pounced onto the shirts and began refolding them, since we clearly had not done a thorough enough job.

We walked to the socks section, and yet another woman appeared, darting toward us with a disgruntled snarl, and snatching the pack of socks from my hands. “What size,” she stated more than asked. I held up nine fingers. She dug through and found the size herself. As we checked out the linen pants, bras, and shoes, an endless parade of Gestapo (as my mother had coined them) women followed our every move, all overtly irritated with having to do their jobs. We decided that the TSA should come and recruit from this department store if they were really interested in thwarting terrorism.

That night, we headed across the bridge to the Navona area. We crossed over the river, checking out the view of the river and surrounding neighborhoods at night, and began searching through the winding cobblestone streets for the enoteca I had found in my mother’s Frommer’s. We finally found it, after walking for a good bit, and enjoyed a tasty meal of “enoteca” specialties; cheeses, meats, and pates.

On the way back, we started to notice that the landscape looked a lot like a Felini movie. It had been raining and the light glimmered off the sides of buildings and cobblestones down dark alleys. A few characters roamed the streets that could have been plucked directly from a Felini set - one old woman was wearing a strange mixture of clothing, hunched over and turning in circles, with cotton candy hair, dark, haphazardly applied eyeliner, and the brightest red lipstick I have ever seen.

The next day, exhausted from our marathon walk around Rome the day before, we chilled out in the neighborhood. I got taken by a laundry terrorist who charged me nearly $30 for laundry I did myself. I was shaking and near tears thinking of the full two days in Cambodia the two measly loads of wash had cost me when my mother handed me 10 Euros just to calm me down (thanks, mom!). We found a great fondue place that night where we feasted on meat boiled in oil and some delicious cheese fondue.

The next morning, my sister Kerry arrived from her month long Euro-tour. As soon as she dropped her bags, we dragged her to try some gelato and pizza. She was thoroughly impressed and began craving more pizza a mere hour after her first slice. We made friends with the pizza guy, Lugo, who we repeatedly conversed with throughout our stay. He was always happy to see us when we passed, calling out all of our names, and taking a particularly keen interest in my sister.

On the way to the Vatican, Kerry was accosted by an older gentleman trying to get folks into his restaurant. He was so taken by Kerry, that he blocked her path and pinched her cheek, saying how “bella” she was. Apparently, after I left, they ran into him again, and this time he picked her up off her feet and carried her around for a while. Kerry was laughing but yelling for my mother who was too busy laughing herself and snapping pictures to intervene.

That night was Friday night, and we cabbed it down to Travestevere to the same restaurant we had discovered with Beth a few nights before. We walked around checking out the shops and amusing ourselves by watching some of the street performers. We were particularly taken by an older woman who simply stood in her overcoat and veil, swinging her arms to the beat of dance music that played loudly from her boombox. She smiled and bounced ever so slightly as nearly every passer by threw coins and bills into her donation box.

Because of Kerry’s incessant drinking on the overnight train to meet us the previous night, we were to have an early Friday night (much to her big sister’s chagrin). We all took a cab ride home together as I stumbled over my words trying to tell the Italian cab driver where to take us. I started taking a few pictures of my mom and sister in the back seat and ended up taking one of my mom making a face that made me laugh so hard I felt like I had the wind knocked out of me.

“Oh, this is definitely going on the blog!” I squealed . My mother grabbed the camera, yelling “hideous!” and trying to delete the picture. I turned around in my seat grabbing my mother’s arm, reaching for the camera, and yelling for Kerry to help me wrangle the camera from her. In the commotion, I managed to knock the taxi driver a few times in the arm, who I’m sure had had just about enough of us at this point. I did get the camera back, but my mother threatened, “If you put that picture up on the blog, don’t even bother coming home. Just keep going around the world.” I will respect her wishes… But I thought I’d put this one up as a substitute.

The next day, we went yet again to the Trevi fountain. We threw coins in and took some pictures of the whole fam. We ate amazing buffalo cheese, pizza with the crazy pizza guy (see “Enter Mrs. B”), and of course, finished off with some gelato. Then we headed over to the Colosseum.

So the long awaited Gladiator Story, AKA Lauren’s Ugly American Moment. I thought perhaps I could get away with not posting this, but apparently this tale is in high demand.

We had decided that we wanted to get a picture with the “Gladiators” in front of the Colisseum. Tons of tourists were getting their photos snapped with these guys. They had swords and shields, were dressed up like Roman soldiers with the strappy sandals and fake armor, and posed with the tourists in some aggressive manor in front of the Colosseum where their ancestors had fought to the death.

I was walking toward the entrance of the Colosseum, when I turned around and noticed my mother and sister far behind me, with Gladiators smiling over them, searching in their wallets for bills. Bills!?! There are no 1 Euro bills (only coins), so I knew they were trying to get them for 5 Euros or more.

I rushed over in a light jog, and jumped into the conversation, “What’s going on?!?” I demanded.

“They want 10 Euros,” my mother said.

“NO way, uh uh,” I said. “That’s riDICulous. Let’s go.” That’s nearly $14, and they weren’t even using their own cameras or developing film. They were just standing there. I started to usher my mom and sister away, when the gladiators jumped in.

“OK! Five Euros,” they bargained.

Now I knew they were full of it. They were just trying to get as much money from my family as possible. They didn’t have a set price — just whatever they thought they could milk tourists for. Five Euros was still egregious. One or two, fine. But five Euros was more than $7, just for posing for a picture!

“No,” I insisted. “Let’s go.”

“Why do you care?” they asked, getting huffy. “It isn’t even your money.”

“Because this is my MOTHER!” I shouted.

“But you weren’t even in the picture!” they insisted.

My sister started telling me that they had already taken the picture, and it began to dawn on me that we’d have to negotiate something. I was beginning to tell my mom that we should give them 2 or 3 Euros, when one of them interrupted -

“This is how we make our living! This is our job!” they screamed, getting aggressive.

“THEN GET ANOTHER JOB!” I yelled back.

I was still intent on getting them their 2 or 3 Euros but my last jewel of a comment had pushed them over the edge.

“Fangul!” they shouted at me, and “F&#@ you!” just so they were sure I understood. I even got the infamous hand under the chin Italian flick, which I was actually quite amused by. I had never really seen it done in real life.

We left from there, Kerry pretending to delete her photos at their behest. But she kept one or two anyway. Somehow we felt that we had earned it.

Shortly thereafter, my mother and I raced to the Gestapo store to get a few last items, and then I rushed back to the apartment to get my bag. I said my goodbyes, telling my mother that she’d have to come visit me in another country, and took off for the airport.

However, when I went to check in, I learned that there was a strike in Buenos Aires and that my flight had been delayed until the next day. I rushed back, surprising Mom and Kerry, and was able to have one last dinner with the fam (more fondue), and slept overnight in the apartment again. The next morning, I got up early and went to the airport where I boarded my plane and flew to the Western Hemisphere… hopefully all Ugly American Moments behind me.