The river Flumicino, (ex. Rubicon) in Emilia-Romagna near Savignano sul Rubicone, Italy
Discrimen: Latin for an instant of perilous and excruciating tension
In addition to ‘crisis point,’ ‘discrimen’ had a further meaning: ‘dividing line.’ This was, in every sense, what the Rubicon would prove to be. By crossing it, Caesar did indeed engulf the world in war, but he also helped to bring about the ruin of Rome’s ancient freedoms, and the establishment, upon their wreckage, of a monarchy — events of primal significance for the history of the West. Long after the Roman Empire itself had collapsed, the opposites delineated by the Rubicon — liberty and despotism, anarchy and order, republic and autocracy — would continue to haunt the imaginings of Rome’s successors. Narrow and obscure the stream may have been, so insignificant that its very location was ultimately forgotten, yet its name is remembered still. No wonder. So fateful was Caesar’s crossing of the Rubicon that it has come to stand for every fateful step taken since.
–excerpted from Rubicon by Tom Holland
Finding something off the beaten path can sort of make you feel like a conqueror.
While planning our trip through Tuscany, Nick discovered we would be nearish to the point historians believe was the site of Julius Caesar’s infamous Rubicon crossing in 49 BC. The idea of finding and visiting this place did not capture my imagination like it did Nick’s (even though I’m the one who studied Latin for four years in high school and college, and I enjoy generally history much more than he does). It was Nick’s idea and so he took charge of the planning by consulting several sources regarding the agreed spot.
On our way from Florence to Rimini, we plugged the coordinates into the GPS and relied on Jill (the GPS lady) to take us there. There’s no marker or sign, just a farm house on one side of the road and a McDonald’s on the other side. Nick got to explore the area a little and took some pictures, then we hit the McDrive-thru.
For Nick it was a fulfilling experience, but not on the same scale as Caesar’s satisfaction.
Everyone needs a Las Vegas story. Mine is pretty great. If you don’t have your own Vegas story, feel free to tell this one.
We spent a holiday weekend with friends in Las Vegas. Our room was in the Wynn Tower Suites, which is the boutique hotel section of the luxury casino resort. The Tower Suites have a separate check-in and reception area that are accessible off a difficult-to-find corner of the casino floor. After-hours, portly elderly security guards in non-menacing royal purple jackets ask that you flash your red room card at them before entering the elevators. Security and the location of our room – a middle floor, some distance from the elevator – were of no concern to me during the first 36 hours of our stay.
Security at Wynn was only an issue after we were victims of a major breach.
Thanks to per table minimums for bottle service, we had consumed our fair share of drinks at Tryst prior to returning to our room Saturday night. Nick was behind me making sure the door was closed and bolted, so when I noticed a chair turned over and someone lying face down in our bed, I had to take a moment to process whether we were in the correct room. I saw my suitcase on the stand and my laptop on the desk, so I once knew were in the right place, I called out “There’s someone in here.”
Nick popped his head into the main part of the room, sized the guy up and decided he could take him if necessary. Next, we checked the room to make sure no one else was hiding and to see if anything was missing. Throughout this activity, dude was dead asleep. As we realized we weren’t in any danger, we started laughing and grabbed our camera to take a few pictures of passed out dude.
Next I called the front desk. At this point, I was thinking: This is Vegas. The people who work at this hotel have seen and heard everything. This isn’t going to be shocking to them, but they might think I’m playing a joke either on them or on my friend – like if I knew the guy in the bed and as a prank called security on him. Even with cocktails in me, my powerful reasoning skills came through loud and clear, so I was very careful to explain that there was someone in our bed and we DID NOT KNOW HIM.
Quickly, a few of the purple-jacketed old guys and a young girl with a clipboard appeared. At this point I was sitting on the couch and Nick kind of took over. We had to show our IDs to prove we were in the correct room and then explained what we found when we entered. Even with the activity of five or six people buzzing around to assess the situation, dude still hadn’t stirred.
In further attempts to convey that we were serious about this situation, Nick said over and over again,”my wife is very upset.” Meanwhile, I was holding back giggles and uploading a picture of dude to Facebook.
After hearing from us, the purple jackets decided it was time to hear from the intruder and awkwardly tried rouse him. Now I started rolling video.
To recap some key points in the video:
dude only says one word: Bellagio
Bellagio is two miles from Wynn
dude appears to have two dollars, a receipt and a card in his pocket
dude doesn’t seem the least bit concerned that he’s awoken to a room full of people
my bag is wet
DUDE HAS PUKED IN OUR BED
I stopped rolling video, but the story was not nearly over.
A couple of the purple jackets got dude to this feet and escorted him out. Nick and I imagined he was being taken to a holding cell in the casino basement where he would be beaten until he told his story, but I think they just put him in a cab and sent him to the Bellagio.
In our room, the next discovery was related to the wet bag you heard Nick mentioning in the video. The bag in question was my carry-on/pool bag made by an Italian designer and full of iPods, Blackberries, noise canceling headphones, three pairs of sunglasses, etc. In short, it was an expensive bag full of lots of expensive things and it was the first place I looked to see if anything was missing from our room. When I dumped out the contents of the bag, water also poured on the floor. A half-full bottle of water sat on the table near the bag, but I remembered that the bottle was as I had left it.
Clipboard girl knelt down with me to start going through the items on the floor and immediately realized the source of the liquid. Yep, pee. Dude had urinated into my bag. I guess the bathrooms in the Bellagio are located in that corner of the room.
It was around 3 a.m. when the purple jackets started busying themselves with filling out incident reports and clipboard girl called housekeeping to start cleaning the room. Nick asked for a different room, but we were told that since it was Saturday of a holiday weekend, no other rooms were available, but Nick persisted. He went all medical on them and said, “It is a matter of two things. It is a matter of security, and it is a matter of infection.” I have no idea what that means, but combined with the mantra of “my wife is very upset,” clipboard girl got back on the phone to find us a room.
The purple jackets had us itemize everything that was damaged, while someone in rubber gloves started stripping the bed of the pukey sheets – I’m sure there’s a procedure in place for that common occurrence. Clipboard girl returned and told us that someone would be up to help us pack our bags and escort us to our new room. The porter efficiently helped us gather everything and then took us to the opposite end of the resort to the ultra-exclusive, can’t be booked online, reserved for whales Fairway Villa. However, our stay would be short. They were very explicit that we would be moved to another room for the next day because a VIP was checking in.
The porter said he had NEVER heard a story like ours, but knew something major was going on when he was instructed to take us to the Fairway Villa. At the time, Steve Wynn was living there because he was separated from his wife.
For those few hours, we enjoyed having our run of the two bedroom suite with private pool, but it wasn’t long before it was daylight. I met our friends for brunch while Nick slept. He has just showered when the call came – a porter was coming to our room in 10 minutes to escort us to our new room. We ran into the COO of the resort as we passed through reception and he introduced himself, told us that he had already heard about what happened and had the incident report in his hand. He offered us a pool cabana and promised to look into the security breach.
Nothing was resolved while were there because security and the risk management team were investigating. We were never told who dude was or how he got into our room – they said telling us would expose their security gaps, which they were taking measures to close. We also told that no charges were pressed against dude. My best guess is that dude wandered into the hotel and was “helped” by security or staff into our room.
In the end, we were compensated for the majority of the items that were destroyed. Wynn also credited us half the incidentals on our bill (food, shopping, etc.), gave us the cabana rental and offered us two night’s stay or the equivalent credit. Was it an appropriate response? Without fail, every person who I’ve told this story to has said, “Is that all?” What else should have been done?
I didn’t get free hotel room upgrades for life, but I did get a great “only in Vegas” story. I’m o.k. with this outcome, but we haven’t again stayed in a Wynn property.
The banks of the River Cam, behind Kings College, Cambridge, England
When I explain that I’m learning the language of my new home, most people who know I’m living in England exhibit surprise or confusion. The truth is, the language differences are significant and it’s foolish to assume otherwise, so I’m minding the gap and trying to be conscious of the words I choose.
Something as simple as throwing away the garbage for the first time meant we had to leave our flat (apartment) and take the lift (elevator) to the reception (lobby) to ask the porter (building superintendent or manager) for help finding the bin storage (dumpsters) in the car park (garage).
I picked up a couple of books on British slang before we left the U.S. and quickly learned not to point out fanny packs in public, but helpful tips like this aren’t enough.
The language differences impact my life daily, but most often when dealing with numbers. Everything you take for granted about numbers – how to read, say and write them – is different. March 15, 2012 is either 15 March or 15/3/12. The time 1:30 isn’t “one thirty,” it’s “half one.” Ninety minutes earlier isn’t noon, its midday. The phone number 07 4423… isn’t “zero-seven- four-four-two-three,” it’s something that I still haven’t figured out “ohseven doublefour twothree.” And three of the same numbers in a row? That’s treble, not triple.
Yet the BBC and most Brits blame Americans for ruining the language. From what I’ve heard, there’s plenty of blame to share.
We try not to be too clichéd (that’s the only French word I could weave into this post about Paris) touristy tourists, opting instead for authentic experiences where possible. We really do, but it doesn’t always turn out that way. They’re called “tourist TRAPS” for a reason.
On our first trip to Paris, the Eiffel Tower was not on our must-see list, but it’s so large, you can’t miss it. The mysterious metal tower must emit some frequency heard only by visitors that causes the non-French to stare and reach for their cameras.
We’d avoided that monster for two days, but after an outstanding dining experience, we exited Restaurant Maison Blanc to find a taxi and were confronted with the Eiffel Tower lit up in its glory. The champagne and Rhone Valley red, plus the surprise of having an unobstructed view of the tower at night meant we just couldn’t help ourselves – we took a silly posed picture with the Eiffel Tower in the background.
(If you need further proof that our guard was down, immediately after taking the offending picture, a street vendor charmed us into buying an overpriced, broken stemmed rose.)
Several years ago, before my sister even had started her family, she informed me that to her kids, I was likely to be The Aunt Who Lives Far Away.
This was an accurate guess because the closest I’d resided to Cincinnati in the last dozen years was a four-hour drive. Now that I’m on another continent and with my next two moves already planned out, it’s clear that I will be The Aunt Who Lives Far Away for the foreseeable future.
My niece was just three years old when we learned a move would take us to the UK. One day from her perch in the car seat, she called up to my sister to ask ”When are Aunt Amanda and Uncle Nick moving to England?” We hadn’t been keeping it a secret from her, but obviously she had heard the grown-up talk. (My sister wondered how she even know the word ‘England’.)
During a visit home a few weeks later, she and I were coloring together and I brought up our move to some place far away. Without putting down the blue crayon or taking her eyes from the activity book page, she said in her sing-songy voice, “Yes, but we can drive there.” Oh, oh how I WISH they could drive here.
But just because I’m far, doesn’t mean I’m forgotten. We make short videos during our trips so the my niece and nephew to can see us and some of the places we visit. My niece plays the videos on repeat and every time I talk to her on the phone, she requests a new one, making me extra conscience to keep my travel schedule as active as her viewing habits demand.
The videos are fine for now, but when she and her brother a just a wee bit older, we’ll take them along with us on some trips.
I might be The Aunt Who Lives Far Away, but I’m also The Best Aunt Ever.
