My Roly-Poly-Olie & Jet Leg
- Joanna
- 3 days ago
- 6 min read
I truly believed that the day I switched over to roll-along luggage would be one of the happiest days of my life.
Seriously.
For years, I’ve been a backpacker... lugging around a heavy, awkward beast of a bag on my already crippled & hunched back, making it worse with every step. YEARS!
Every time I watched people at the airport gliding past me with their fabulous little 'roly-poly-olies,' I was filled with envy. I knew that when I finally made the switch, I’d wonder why I hadn’t done it sooner.
Well… that’s not exactly how it turned out.
Of course, there are two sides to every story: roll-along vs. backpack.
The backpack makes me feel younger... more adventurous. When I pick it up and sling it over my shoulder, I feel like I’m 26 again... and can just pick up & go. Wherever I want! The world is my oyster, and all I need in the world is on my back. The trouble is, the older I get, the harder it is to actually 'pick up'... let alone the 'go' part.
The roll-along, on the other hand, feels like something intended for a corporate weekend getaway... a little too pretentious and polished... a much too adult for my liking. It's like pretending to have my life together. And yet, it’s not all smooth rolling.
Those wheels?
They get stuck.
Escalators can be a nightmare.
And somehow, dragging something behind you can feel more burdensome than carrying it.
And it's heavy too!
But will I go back to my backpack?
Honestly… probably not.
So... Rome. I arrived. Finally.
I arrived exhausted, stinky, irritated, cranky, menopausal, and literally dripping with sweat.
The arrival itself was surprisingly smooth. Because of a quick stopover in Zurich, I didn’t have to go through customs again. I grabbed my bag, and just like that... boom! I was in Rome!
The train from the airport to the city was easy enough. No issues there. For a brief moment, I actually felt like a seasoned traveller. A pro. That feeling did not last long.
The 'travelling pro' side of me failed miserably as soon as I reached Termini, one of Rome's main station terminals. When the airporter train arrived, it was time for me to navigate the dreaded Metro. I did consider walking... as it was only 34 minutes to my hotel... but, as I might have mentioned previously, I was too shattered, sticky, and snappy to manage that.
The Metro seemed like the more intelligent choice.
The Metro, granted, was extremely straightforward. Embarassingly straightforward, to be clear. The problem was me. My brain was foggy, my eyes barely open… and the last thing I was capable of figuring out was a simple, colour-coordinated metro-line map.
When I say 'simple,' I mean elementary school simple. I was the idiot who followed the orange squares all the way to the orange line… and then boarded the blue train.
Dumb. Dumb. Dumb.
I realized my mistake the second the doors closed... and I had to jump off at the next stop... though using the word "jump," might be ever-so-slightly misleading. The train was heaving with people, and I had to shove my way through a sea of bodies while dragging my ridiculous little roly-poly-olie behind me, praying no one would pickpocket me during my first ten minutes in Italy.
That would be my luck... wrong train, lost everything... welcome to Rome, Joanna!
Thankfully, no one stole a thing, and I somehow squeezed my way back out into the sunshine. I even figured out how to cross the road and re-enter the station on the opposite side in order to catch the right train back.
Only one additional problem: I had to buy a new ticket.
Classic me move. Every time I try to save money, I somehow end up spending more. That's why I can't save money. For a brief moment, I was determined to walk all the way back to the original station... but sheer exhaustion took over. I bought another bloody ticket... and hopped on the next train.
I was absolutely beat.
Seriously depleted.
My hotel was surprisingly easy to find. It was one of those old buildings... quite tall... with a tiny, caged elevator that creaks its way to the top, directly in the middle of a winding staircase. It's the kind of elevator you half expect to stop midair and trap you there forever.
My room itself was simple... nothing fancy, but comfortable enough.
**Not one single hook to hang up a jacket or a towel... and zero shelving space to put clothes or a dumb carry-on... but comfortable enough... I guess.
Once I’d unpacked and stripped myself of my stinky, sweaty clothes, I decided to head out and explore a little bit of Rome while there was still a smidge of sunshine. But almost immediately, I realized… this wasn’t the Rome I remembered from 1999. This was a completely different Rome.
This Rome was packed.
Packed to the brim.
Of course, people had warned me. They’d warned me of the overabundance of tourists and how much they'd hated being there. WHAT??? I’d heard the warnings, but I couldn’t imagine ever hating Rome.
It’s Rome. How can anyone hate Rome?
Inconceivable!
Well, I figured it all out within five minutes of stepping outside.
They were right.
Rome is overwhelming and intoxicating all at once... but sadly, the overwhelming part tends to win. The sheer flood of tourists drowns out the magic of the city’s history, and, as much as it is to my horror to have to admit it, it left me more frustrated than enchanted. I spent my first few hours dodging and weaving through a chaotic maze of people, tour groups, scooters, cars, cameras... and more. At first, I couldn’t believe how aggressive the Roman drivers were... cars barreling forward without the slightest intention of giving pedestrians the right of way. Then it hit me: they don’t care.
Especially about tourists.
Honestly, I think they’d prefer if we all just disappeared.
I found myself wondering when... or if... Romans will ever push back against this colossal tidal wave of tourists overtaking their city, the way Barcelona eventually did. It's too much. WAY too much. And I'm saying that, coming from a very touristy town. But Banff tourism has NOTHING on Rome.
**Do not be fooled by the empty streets in my photos... those shots took patience, timing, and a bit of creative maneuvering.
Anyway, I finally escaped the crowds by ducking into a little bistrot for an Aperol Spritz and a blob of buffalo mozzarella.
Now, tell me... is ordering an Aperol Spritz the ultimate tacky tourist move?
I feel so blatantly touristy every time I do it. Like I’m waving a giant “TOURIST” flag. I swear it wasn’t even a thing the last time I was in Italy. In both 1999 and 2006, I don’t remember seeing a single fluorescent orange drink in sight. I would have remembered that.
I mean, yes... I am fully aware that I am a tourist. Anyone who looks at me or speaks to me can tell I’m 100% NOT Italian... but still... I like to keep my 'tourist radar' on low. I don’t want to be the one ordering the cliché drink that makes the servers roll their eyes.
Does anyone else remember that Sex and the City episode where Carrie knows the woman isn’t from New York because she’s wearing a scrunchie? Is the Aperol Spritz Italy’s version of the New York scrunchie?
Remind me to look that up.
Anyway, I had one.
Was it good? Yes.
Will I have another? …Probably.
My grand Roman exploration ended shortly after that. I headed back to my room, but not before stopping at a grocery store to pick up a bottle of Prosecco and some cheese. I could barely keep my eyes open, and I pretty much face-planted into bed the moment I got back.
I slept... hmmmm... until about 2 a.m., when I suddenly awoke, WIDE awake.
And yes… between the wee morning hours of 2:00 & 5:30, I somehow polished off an entire bottle of Prosecco and half a wedge of Brie.
Why the Prosecco????
Simple.
I don’t have a bottle opener.
Yet.
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