Italy - Miracle in the Holy City

                                      MIRACLE IN THE HOLY CITY

                                                An Italian story

The Holy City of Rome is beautiful and impressive gallery of historical sites, churches and cathedrals. But on Sunday around lunchtime it is as sleepy as a small village in a lost valley. And at exactly that time our tourist bus stopped in front of Vatican gates.

  “You have one hour for looking around or shopping,” says our Slovak guide optimistically.

  He did not notice that there was no place for shopping and nothing too much to look around at. Most members of our tourist group resigned to this fact and tried to find a toilet or munched on their last home-made sandwich. But my wife and I had an important duty – to buy something, in the worst case anything, for our relatives back home. How we should explain them that we did not found time to acquire some “typical Italian” articles when in Rome? Well, we had time, but little hope.

  “It’s no good,” said my wife, “maybe we will buy something on the way

back home.”

   “Forget it,” I answered, “our drivers will try to reach home so quickly that it will be difficult to stop them even at borders.”

  I knew that there was only one solution to this problem – a miracle. And where else if not in Holy City?!

  “Let us go,” I said.

  “Where?” asked my wife.

  “Let us go and we will see,” I said, and went. My wife followed me as generations of other wives before her followed their foolish husbands – with resignation and reluctance. But we moved, at least.

  I chose a direction impulsively turning left from Saint Peter’s Square down a long, deserted street. It was hopeless. Not only was there not one shop open; worse, there were no shops at all. But I insisted we would find one, and my wife stopped complaining. We didn’t talk. In fact there was nothing to talk about. The only sounds we heard in the hot sunny midday were our steps and voices of people over the sounds from spoons, knives and forks celebrating Sunday lunch. There can be hardly a less sensible mission. But it did not last long – after a few hundred meters we came to the outskirts of the city! It was hard to believe that this giant town ended only a short walk from the city center, but according to all indications there was nowhere to go. The street changed into a little lane leading to some pine woods. There couldn’t be a less promising place for shopping.

  My wife start smiling the way that generations of wives before her have shown their foolish husbands that this particular idea was another one that failed. I wanted to say something to her, but words can’t help. Our pilgrimage for a miracle ended with a failure. It was time to turn back.

  As we turned – we saw it. Not only a shop and not only an open shop, but a whole shopping center – open for business! It was on the opposite side of street and somehow hidden from the direction we came. Our shopping spree did not last long. We were the only customers in the whole shop, and there was only one cashier. As we were approaching her with shopping-cart full of ’typical Italian gifts’ I saw a shelf with razors.

  You certainly know that paradox – you can buy classic razors cheaply but replacement blades are really costly. And here they had blades for a relatively low price, and I desperately needed some new ones back home. This was a bonus on top of our shopping! But there was only a small problem. We had no more money left. For a while I stood with my wife in front of the shelf and tried to calculate and recalculate what could we leave out from the gifts to our relatives, but we had already made the list as short as possible. Well, miracles have limitations. So, I had to forget about razor blades. We moved to the cashier and paid for our shopping.

  While I was paying, my wife pushed shopping-cart to the exit. I followed my wife and I suddenly saw something falling from the shopping-cart. I was stunned for a moment. It was the package of blades we had not been able to buy. I looked at my wife, but she was occupied by packing our goods. I looked at the cashier, but she did not even look in our direction. I reached for the gift fallen from heaven and went to show it to my wife. It was unbelievable. There is no explanation how the package of blades hopped into our shopping-cart. We were too far from the shelf, and we were merely glancing at it. Nothing more. But the blades were here in my hand and my wife put it into plastic bag without hesitation.

  “That’s bonus from God, you shopping genius,” said she, and hurried me back to the bus.

  Well, this was really a little miracle. Only one thing I had to add – I am not an expert on razor blades, and it seems that God isn’t either. Coming home I soon realized that the blades from Rome’s miracle shopping center were not the type useful for my razor. Well, even miracles have definitively their limitations.


Available in E-books:

http://itunes.apple.com/sk/ book/svetje-maly-the-world-is- small/id554103459?mt=11

http://itunes.apple.com/sk/ book/le-monde-est-petit-world- is/id554104733?mt=11

http://itunes.apple.com/sk/ book/the-world-is-small-svet- je-maly/id554101744?mt=11

WHO'S STEALING IN ITALY?

WHO’S STEALING IN ITALY?

An Italian story

In every country you may be robbed, but in Western Europe the worst reputation in this matter has Italy. It may be because of the scores of Mafia movies we watched but you have to be careful anyway. Thus, when we with my wife Janina decided to take a trip to Italy, I suggested to her that she leave all of her expensive adornments such as necklaces and other jewelry at home. I warned her that I wouldn’t be able to fight the Italian Mafia in the role of an aggrieved husband. My wife obeyed. However, destiny dictated that the protagonist of our biggest shock during the trip was me.

  On our trip from Venice to Florence and finally to Rome we consumed the variegated menu of cultural memories. Most of us were looking forward to the first experience with the ´Eternal City – Rome´ like our grandparents waited for their wedding night. To please us even more the bus drivers released the ´secret´ that our guide for Rome (a Slovak woman married to an Italian) not only knew everything about the places worth seeing, but also about one particular place where we could buy the cheapest postcards in Rome (and in two sets!). Well, they were partly right – for some people it is more important to send postcards than to be at the place shown in these postcards.

  Nevertheless, I promptly explained to my wife this was not our case. Although it is nice that all official representatives of the travel agency are trying to recommend to us the cheapest postcards of Rome (and allegedly one in two sets), but an experienced traveler must know that these cards are good for nothing. I also reminded to my dear wife of the well-known fact that I have immunity against mass-market psychosis.

  Therefore when our guide in Rome finally appeared and began our tour through the city with her first comment aimed to the cheapest postcards, I only smiled indulgently and reminded my wife that we were not here to buy postcards, no matter how cheap they might be. She agreed and, anticipating the attractions of Rome, I forgot all about postcards.

  Perhaps because of the many experiences of this day and the fatigue from so much walking, I can be excused for letting my wariness slacken. Thus after we left one too many churches, the guide reiterated her well worn phrase that ´here are the cheapest postcards´ and I wasn’t ready. In

fact, I was surprised that our passive group of tourists turned into a gang rushing to the postcard stand. I was doubly surprised by the fact that I was in its vanguard! This wave of eager consumers of totally unusable postcards carried me along with an irresistible power. And how to oppose the old man selling the postcards? In anticipation of these sales, he was stepping in front of his stand with delight.

  I was the first one there! He quickly pushed into my hands two sets of postcards (Don’t forget to check that they are marked Roma I and Roma II!) and I gave him my money as did those who followed. But I soon found that I had two sets of Roma I, so I returned and fought for the old man’s attention. He quickly changed one set of postcards and, exactly in this moment, the main mas of fanaticized tourists of our group separated us. It gave me an opportunity to look behind and contemplate the mass hysteria that was fascinating. A few meters from the old man’s stand, other sellers were hopping up and down proclaiming that they had the same postcards for the same price. But no one cared until the old man sold out. Then the ecstasy was over and our guide managed to press us back to our bus to visit other churches and monuments.

  I was shocked at the whole experience – mostly at myself. However, in the next basilica, St. Maria Maggiore, looking at the frescoes on the walls, I was comforted by the idea that it was an experience, but not an expensive one. At this moment I broke into a cold sweat. That morning I had changed our money and I had no small notes. What I´d stuck into the hand of the postcard seller in a hurry were all our money for the next days! To buy two sets of postcards that you don’t want is somehow unique; but to buy them at hundred times of their value?!

  When I told this to my wife, she almost fainted. She knew that I’m always lost in any business at home, but she had never dreamt – even in her worst nightmares – that my talent could be international. And then, while the women from our group comforted her by saying things like ”with a man you can find worse things,” I went to the guide. If I’m going to commit financial suicide, then I want to do it perfectly. I asked her to return to the postcard stand.

  Our whole entourage promptly voted to return to the renowned – now really renowned – church to see an attraction that was unscheduled and unpaid for. When I got off the bus, which unfortunately could not get now to the square right before the church, I was accompanied by the schizophrenic views of our tourist group fellows. By one eye they regretted what happened to me and by the second twinkled by expectation with of how long nose I will return. The guide and I stepped up of the never-ending long upstairs to the church like two mourners.

  After terribly long while we saw the stand from a distance, but the old man was nowhere in sight. It looked as though he had vanished with the cash. Who might be surprised for him. Beaten, we came to the stand and looked around. Then we found the old man. He was sitting on a very small chair under the shade of his counter and reading a newspaper, almost imperceptible because of his tiny size. He asked what we wanted. I have no idea what the guide told him, but she spoke as fast as machine gun.

  After a never-ending while the old man slowly nodded his head, looked at me with understanding, patted me on the shoulder and gave me what I had overpaid. Then he waved good-bye and returned to his newspaper. Thus, if you are curious about who is stealing in Italy, I can assure you that one very old seller of postcards in Rome isn’t...

Available in E-books:

http://itunes.apple.com/sk/ book/svetje-maly-the-world-is- small/id554103459?mt=11

http://itunes.apple.com/sk/ book/le-monde-est-petit-world- is/id554104733?mt=11

http://itunes.apple.com/sk/ book/the-world-is-small-svet- je-maly/id554101744?mt=11