Can I Call This Post "When In Rome..."?

Or maybe "Roma!" or "Rome-in' Around?"  

Or maybe not?

Anyway, I went to Rome.  It was more wonderful than I ever could have imagined.  I saw beautiful old things, gawked at beautiful people, ate delicious food, saw nuns, visited museums and churches, walked a lot, saw the Colosseum and the Forum, drank wine in piazzas, climbed St. Peter's, and ate gelato after (and sometimes before) every meal.  Including breakfast.  

Pictures hardly do it justice, but if you are so inclined please click here and take a gander.  And I could write about the trip until I get carpal tunnel and your eyes dry out, but there is just simply too much to say.  So instead of giving you a play-by-play of my itinerary, I instead present to you:

Rome According to Whitney:

A Short Collection of Miracles

The Miracle of the Coronas

So the first night in Rome, Ellen and I were at the Trevi fountain (which, as a side note, seemed way less "ancient Rome!" than it did "Sea Woooooorld!" but that's okay) awaiting the arrival of the rest of our fellow Roman travelers.  The weather was perfect, there were people all about, the water was splashing in the background, and we were so content to sit on the ledge and dangle our feet.  

"Do you know what would be perfect right now?" Ellen asked. "Two ice cold Coronas." (I know, I know, Coronas in Europe?  But the setting called for them.  I promise.)

"Brought to us on a platter by two beautiful Italian men!" I added.

We sighed.  

Approximately three seconds later, Ellen turned her head.  "Are those... Coronas?"

No.  Way.

We turned around, and seating directly behind us were two men on a bench.  

Dark, handsome men.  

Tall, dark, handsome, young, Italian men.  

Holding Coronas.  

I wish I could say "and the rest is history!" but we were feeling bashful/jet lagged/non-Italian-speaking, plus I promised Mom I wouldn't come back from Europe married and/or with child... so the following clandestine picture is all I can give you as a resolution to this story.  But what a story it is!

The Miracle of the Orange Tree

Later the same night of the Miracle of the Coronas, we met up with Mike and decided to stroll around the city some more.  I'm sure Rome is great at any time of the year, but Rome is especially great in the springtime.  The flowers were blooming, the weather was phenomenal, and there were trees just dripping with oranges everywhere!  

There was one particular row of orange trees that Ellen and I had passed a few hours before.   The oranges looked so delicious and juicy, but of course any that were within arm's reach had been snatched up already, leaving only the ones at the very tops of the trees.  Seeing as we are neither giraffes nor Jerome Jordan, we were resigned to walking back home empty-handed.  As we wandered by again with Mike, I pointed up to the trees.

"Gahhhh I wish one would just fall!" I said.

We took approximately two steps.  

"Thunk," an orange said, as it fell to the ground.

We all stared stupidly until Mike finally said, "One just fell down!" (thanks Mike!) and scooped it up.  We then attempted to recreate the magic via digital camera, but it's good to know that I have the power of making fruit fall from trees.

The Miracle of Papa Benedetto

So we were in Rome during Palm Sunday... pretty exciting.  I was disappointed when I read online that your bishop has to request tickets for papal Mass months in advance, but I thought perhaps we could still attend the blessing of the palms on Sunday morning.

"Do you know anything about the blessing of the palms or Mass at St. Peter's?" I asked the hostel-guy.  

"No," he said.  ("Oh," I said.)  "Except I do have these extra tickets to attend, if you want them or something," he said.  ("Uhhhh," I said.)

So basically, five beautiful yellow tickets to Palm Sunday Mass with the Pope landed in our hands.  Just like that.  

Mass itself was incredible.  Two bazillion people were squished into St. Peter's square and we all celebrated together in every language and dear Papa Benedetto took a victory lap around in the Popemobile afterwards.  

The Miracle of the Nutella Latte

Scene: Afternoon, in a park outside the Borghese Gallery in Rome.  Ellen and Whitney, having had to forgo breakfast in order to participate in a ridiculous art-gallery-searching-goose-chase that morning, are famished.  They order sandwiches and are just about to pay when something else catches their attention: Nutella lattes! "Yum," they think, and order one apiece.

Scene: Five minutes later, at a cafe table.  The waiter gives each girl a mug of frothy steamed milk.  Smiling deviously, he produces a 5 kg (no really) jar of Nutella.  (Five kilograms.  That's like eleven pounds.  That's like... a baby.)  Using both hands, he unscrews the hubcab-sized lid and inserts a giant ladle.  One man-fist-sized blob of Nutella splashes into Whitney's mug, one into Ellen's.  He hands them spoons and smiles.  

Scene: Twenty minutes later, in the grass.  Whitney and Ellen lay paralyzed by hazlenut-overdose.  They smile.  "We like Rome," they decide.