I checked my email on our last morning in Positano at the internet cafe by the beach and had multiple birthday messages waiting for me, which was much better than waking up to vomiting and diarrhea.  My favorite (shocker) was from the BF (F at the time) giving me grief about my Siena scooter ride.  And informing me that my new nickname was Scooter.  I felt blessed to know that while I was kneeling beside a toilet, friends and family were thinking of me and expressing their love; that there is more going on that just what I can see happening to me.

During our last breakfast on the terrace (which consisted of the non-traditional Italian meal of leftover birthday cake), I noticed a couple sitting at a table a few feet away.  They had finished their breakfast and were lingering over coffee, each reading a book, occasionally talking back and forth.  I looked at them and felt a pang as I hoped for that kind of companionship with someone one day.

Fabio had done such a good job of getting us to Positano that we rehired him for our trip to Rome.  Leaving behind the beauty of Positano was wrenching, but we settled in and watched the boring video that Fabio had thoughtfully provided for the ride.  One part of it that stuck with me in between naps was about how archaeologists had to excavate the ruins of Pompeii by removing the layer of destruction covering the original city, and that this excavation occurred only after years and years of silence after the city’s downfall.  Encouraged by my love for metaphors, I thought about the excavation project going on in my own life and wondered what my Years of Truth in New York would end up uncovering in me.

Fabio delivered us safely to our Hotel Nazionale in Rome a few hours later after getting lost in the city and asking a cop for directions.  We dropped off our stuff and wandered outside for a drink and dinner.  A fact about Rome in August met us at the door of the first bar we walked up to: a sign informing us that the place was closed for vacation.  The vacation that all Italians take for the month of August.  The vacation that Americans need to start duplicating.  After walking around without luck, we all realized that what we really wanted, more than a bottle of wine or a bowl of pasta, was a plate of fries and a beer.  Then we saw it: a sign for the Hard Rock Cafe.  Could we?  Would we dare?  On our first night in Rome, no less?

Yes, we could.  And we did.  Nachos, burgers, and beer.  And a walk back to our hotel, where we fell into happy, fried American sleep.  Cultural appreciation could wait a day.