Beware the Ides of March

Man, they weren’t kidding about the Ides of March and the bewarement.

I went to the credit union on Saturday and ‘splained about how I was going to need to withdraw a large sum of money from the ATM upon arriving here and they fixed it up for me so I could.

Or so I thought.

We got off the plane and headed for the money mo-chine and no cigar. So I made the first of several $79 per minute calls back to the states to figure out what the hell was going wrong, only to be told The System was down for nightly maintenance until 6 a.m. EST and they couldn’t help me.

It’s nice they maintain that system and all, but I’m here, without access to my money, which I would very much like to have to leave the airport and check us into our palatial apartment.

Which, by the way,  is palatial. It is also on the “first floor,” but that’s the second floor to you.

It’s a lot of stairs, the first flight. Like 30. So is the second flight.

We got here at about 9, which was 2 hours before we could check in, but no bother, because Carlo, who doesn’t speak much English was here, and Carlo had no idea who we were and what we were doing here. Carlo is an electrician. Carlo was doing renovations.

Carlo was happy for us to leave our luggage and go find coffee, perhaps some money. We didn’t even think twice about leaving all our worldy possessions with this man we’d never even seen and taking a header.

We went to the Pantheon, and then out for cappuccinos and pastry, and then started making calls again.

When we got back here, the apartment manager was a bit testy because she has “other chickens.” But I had the cash, dammit.

We took naps and ventured out for several hours, finding the spot where Julius Caesar was killed, then found dinner and did some more putzing around. I would show you pictures of these things, but I’m just to tired to figure out how to upload them at the moment.

But, dang, we’re lucky.





About S.

Reader, writer, talker, knitter, picture taker, tennis player, music lover, Southerner.
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