Roman Holiday (Family Style)

We started the day with high spirits and high hopes. The first leg of the journey would be easy, right? All we had to do was get 5 adults and 8 children out of a rented countryside villa, onto an Italian train in the middle of nowhere, and head into Rome. What could go wrong?

After travelling 960 kilometers (ok I am exaggerating a bit – we only travelled somewhere between 25 and 960 kilometers), we finally arrived, shaken but not stirred.

We were led by our natural and usually reliable navigator, Lt. Col. Paul Cazier, with the aid of our family drill Sgt., Peter Cazier, followed by our ever-observant eldest grandson Calvert and the rest of our rag tag mob of children, affectionately known as the Seven Dwarfs. Amazingly, as evening fell, we had accomplished all our carefully planned itinerary. 

The key words are “planned itinerary.” Little did we know that the best was yet to come.

It was late, we were tired and just wanted to go to bed. We boarded our last train, managed to stay awake and get everyone off at the correct stop, walked down 493 stairs (I counted them), walked back up 493 stairs (I didn’t count these), and marched in step to wait for half an hour for bus number 06. 

The bus gods must have been with us because we only had to wait 3 minutes. Here it was, approaching 10:00 pm and hallelujah, here was the bus. 

According to our bus schedule it was the right bus, #06, but apparently the wrong bus driver was driving and the bus gods were enjoying themselves playing tricks on unsuspecting Americans. According to our grandson Matthew the bus driver was blind, but I think he was just intimidated by the fiery eyes of our two youngest grandkids, aged 5 and 3 years old. When this driver saw 8 kids and 13 people total, he did what I would have probably done, i.e., put the pedal to the metal and do a 180°. As he passed us, he laughed and waved. 

At this point, Paul’s mouth dropped so wide that I saw the scars from his missing tonsils; Peter wanted to cry; Calvert pulled out a comic book and yelled, “Yo, big guy! Do you want to read the bus driver’s bible about laughing at potential customers as you wave and drive by and leave them stranded?” Being the mature one, I started yelling sentences in Italian words I made up on the spot.

After a few moments of shock and disbelief, we saw another bus stop on the other side of the cul-de-sac and so, in the true spirit of the Cazier Family, we held our heads high and hurried to that stop. We were REALLY enjoying the unexpectedly long cool evening by now. Joshua was playing dead by lying on the sidewalk; Edwin was counting the bricks in his model Coliseum; Matthew was practicing his belching; Jackson was sleeping and snoring while leaning against a lamp post; Jocelyn was singing an operetta; Hyrum was blowing his nose; Lydia was acting princess-like; Calvert was listening to Peter expound on his great knowledge base; Paul was acting competent (but really inside he was a nervous wreck); Jenny and Anne were doing their mom/grandma-style best to hold things together, and I (Grandpa) was day-dreaming.

After waiting for another 15 or so minutes the next bus came and we were anticipating getting on and getting home to a cool drink of water, a nice meal of Cheerios, and a soft bed for our heads. After all, we were at the right stop, on the right side of the cul-de-sac. Imagine our surprise when this bus driver stopped at the bus stop that we had just left, then put his pedal to the metal and waved as he passed by, leaving us stranded again.

At this point Paul uttered his infamous statement, “I’m pissed off!” I contributed to the confusion by using my best Italian and shouting to the driver, “Stupido, stupido, stupido!”  I don’t think the bus driver heard my message and I really didn’t care because my family gave me a great and wonderful cheer of encouragement. It was only later that my daughter-in-law approached me and asked, “Dad, what does stupido mean?” I told her that it meant “I hope your socks stink and you find holes in them when you get home!” Jenny thanked me and we all felt better.

Finally, at 11:40 pm we saw someone at the train station (fifty feet or so away from the bus stop) and asked the guy why the buses didn’t stop for us. I thought it was because we had been sweating so badly that we stunk, and the bus drivers could smell us long before they reached us. 

However, the real reason we got passed over was because on this cul-de-sac there were two bus stops and the #06 bus stopped at both. Not being from Rome, how were we supposed to know that the Roman bus system used the same number for buses that went in two separate directions? I mean if you stand at one bus stop you can get on the #06 bus, going who knows where or you can walk directly across the cul-de-sac and catch the #06 bus, going the other direction. The only difference between the two is that one goes to the right place and the other gets us lost. Mama Mia! 

We caught the very last bus that night at the right spot, going the right way. When we got home, we were grateful that the little problem got solved and we learned that we shouldn’t draw conclusions about others. What a memorable time a family from the United States of America can have when lost on a Roman Holiday. 

Happy Failing Forward,

Calvert