On my eighth day in Rome I only had three things on my “to-do” list. First, I wanted to continue getting back into running shape after taking more than a month off with the stressful chore of moving continents. My second errand was to find the neighborhood pet store to get supplies to fight the dog’s worsening ear infection. And finally I had to get a bank account so that all of my euros weren’t being filtered through a U.S. bank. Seems simple enough, right?
I got up suitably late; still suffering a little from jetlag, after Ashley had left for work and Logan had left to meet friends on her Thanksgiving holiday break from school. By the time I’d read the news on my phone, walked the dog, and donned my running clothes it was already after 11. The Airbnb apartment that we’ve rented in the San Giovanni neighborhood is right across the street from the Aurelian Wall, which is roughly 1700 years old and protects old Rome from invasion. On this day, however, it also provides the infrastructure for an inner-city run. The wall is about 16 m high and has a turreted tower every 35 m or so. Originally in went for 19 km (thanks Wikipedia) and has gates every once in awhile to let the roads through. It also has a park and sidewalk next to it providing great recreational activities (dog walking, smoke breaks, outdoor latrine, etc). I aspire to run only a small portion of it, down a few gates and over to Circus Maximus (look at me name dropping already), and up a few gates and back. It’s a pretty big thrill to have to stop to catch my breath every kilometer or so (yes, I’m staying in metric) in such an amazing place.
After cooling down and eating a bowl of my chocolate and hazelnut muesli (yum), I’m faced with the task of taking a shower. Now I wouldn’t normally spend much time writing about a shower, but this is no ordinary shower, at least for me. This shower is only 0.4 m2 in area (that’s 4 ft2!). I have to stand diagonally in the square cell just to reach my hand over my head. I just ignored washing my feet until I ran on a rainy day and was dripping with mud below my knees. In looking at longer-term apartments, the size of the shower certainly has been elevated to the top of the list of considerations.
The next errand on my agenda was the pet store. So I set out from the apartment on foot with the dog on a leash, the sidewalk still covered in places by leaves and branches blown down by a storm several weeks ago. The smallest of cars line the streets everywhere, often creatively (e.g., up on the curb). There are hardly any American cars anywhere – they’re too big to be of much use. There are also running faucets on the sidewalk on most blocks that provide potable spring water that tastes better than the stuff out of the tap in the apartment. I assume these will be more useful in July and August when I fear I will melt in the Roman heat. Anyway, there are many people walking their dogs in the early afternoon as I pass the local market that has stalls for fresh fruit and vegetables, olive oil, cheese and prosciutto, and cappuccino. There’s a stall for pet supplies too, but I doubt they’ll have the needed ear meds so I press on a few blocks to where Ashley says is a Pet Zoo. I also collect some poop bags (you never want to be caught wanting) and treat bribes (she’s not always a good girl). I stop for a slice of kale-stuffed pizza on the way back. I write this to illustrate that there is almost everything that you might need in Rome within a short walking distance. That said, I’ve been averaging about 10 km of walking per day (not including the running), but that includes a little sightseeing too.
My third chore of the day is wholly bureaucratic and illustrative of the parts of moving internationally that we’d rather ignore. Without Ashley getting here six weeks before me to figure out the Kafka-esque process it would have taken me much longer. The reply to her initial inquiry at the bank local to her office about opening a joint bank account for us was that it was impossible. This, of course, can’t be true. Her second inquiry on another day was met with “of course, but he first needs a codice fiscale.” A codice fiscale is sort of the Italian social security number. Ashley asked around the office and one of her coworkers said that there are agents around that can get you a codice for a price. So for 32€ and a subway ride I found myself in this agent’s office with my passport and a letter from Ashley’s office certifying employment (she had already shown our marriage license earlier in the process), and he would get me my codice fiscale within the week. So on this day, I met Ashley at the bank in the mid-afternoon with my passport and new codice fiscale to be included on her already established account. It would still take 2-3 weeks to get my bankomat card. I faced similar hurdles in getting my metro pass for all of the various public transit options, and my spouse access card at Ashley’s office. My old car insurance and Costco cards have now been replaced in my wallet by these hard won others. And speaking of my wallet, Euros do not necessarily fit into wallets made for U.S. dollars.
Simple enough.
