By Frederick Wolstenholme

Travel is Storytelling

Travel is, if anything, about stories. Mostly. It’s about the stories we tell ourselves before and after our adventure. The stories we long to discover, and the ones we try to hide. It is the story of history and of the future. Of ingenious design and fatal error. Of discovery and fascination, of envy, of wonder, of disappointment, even.

It’s about those antsy feelings you get the night before the big trip, your bag all packed. You have picked out your itinerary and you’re excited about what you will see. You hope, you tell yourself or someone close to you, that it will be better than you expect. No one in their right mind hopes that it goes exactly as planned. That would be … absurd. And, moreover, would completely miss the point of travel.

It is the unexpected and wonder that we seek out. It is more along the lines of Robin Williams’ character in Good Will Hunting asking a young Matt Damon if he knows what the Sistine Chapel smells like. He goes on about how Damon probably knows dates it was painted, methods, etc. but that he’s missing out on the experience of being there and seeing it.

It’s about coming home from a long trip and having conversations with people who weren’t there, trying to explain what made the mountain of broken pottery so wonderful to admire; how massive and empty the Baths of Caracalla were. It’s relaying stories about how some incidents were funny in the ‘but you had to be there’ kind of way, and yet you tell them anyway. It’s about boring your niece and nephews at Christmas with photos of places they haven’t heard about and about why this building is remarkable, or why they should find it remarkable.

At its most basic, travel is the story about ourselves. So in that vein, let me tell you a story that you may know.

Do Not Trust the Horse, Trojans

A long time ago, not in a galaxy far away—though the final Star Wars was released while we were abroad—but in a different time and a universe, there was a man named Laocoön. I don’t know how to pronounce it but that hardly matters. Laow-koh-oon maybe. Anyway, this man was a well respected man in his community and he was pretty tight with the gods, him being a priest and all. He also loved his hometown and had a prescient sense about him.

There had been a war going on for years, a decade already. Laocoön’s countrymen had started the war. Actually, one guy, Paris, started the war. And of course, by doing so, created an eternity of enmity for the city that would be named after him by fly-by-night tourists and pseudo-war historians, not to mention that there was historical reasons why his fleeing countrymen and Paris, the city or the man, might not like each other.  

The basic rundown is that Paris stole Menelaus’ wife, Helen. Yes. That Helen. Faust’s “was this the face that launch’d a thousand ships, and burnt the topless towers of Ilium” Helen. Plot goes: Paris picks Aphrodite as most beautiful goddess. Aphrodite made Helen, wife of Menelaus, fall in love with Paris. Paris absconds with Helen. Menelaus and his brother, Agamemnon, Odysseus, Achilles, and Ajax all jump on a ship and besiege the city of Paris. Before the end of the story Achilles dies. And Ajax the lesser, too. Hector dies. Paris dies. Nearly every one dies.

No one remembers who Helen of Sparta is. But the name Helen of Troy is familiar to people. This is the story, not of the Trojan War, of the Iliad. This is the sequel. This is the third part of the trilogy. It is Virgil’s Return of the King to Homer’s The Two Towers if you will.

But before that killing, outside the city walls and gates, a present arrives one day. It. Is. Massive. It is a giant horse, an animal sacred to the Trojans. And unknown to the Trojans, it’s filled with men from across the Aegean. The rest of the army had set sail for home, leaving the horse as some sort of reverse war booty or sue-for-peace or whatever have you.

Nearly every Trojan loved the gift and eventually they brought it into the city. Nearly everyone except for two: Cassandra, blessed with the gift of prophecy but cursed with never being believed and Laocoön, the priest. They advocated destroying it, of burning it . He’s so pissed he throws his spear at the horse. This, makes one of the gods angry and she not only blinds him when he suggests to burn it but then snakes to kill him when he attacks the horse.  

Before he dies he warns his countrymen: “Equo ne credite, Teucri / Quidquid id est, timeo Danaos et dona ferentes”. “Do not trust the Horse, Trojans / Whatever it is, I fear the Greeks even bearing gifts”.

Thank the Trojan Horse for Rome

One of the few who takes this advice is Aeneas. He gathers some people and piggybacks his son out of Troy as the Greeks emerge from the horse. They travel around the Mediterranean for a while (6 years), getting lost or sidetracked. They stop in Sicily for a bit but move on. They stop in Carthage where Aeneas falls in love with Dido.

They’re about to get married when Aeneas is reminded about his purpose, to found the greatest city, and he quietly leaves before Dido finds out. When she does, she curses him and his soon to be city, making them enemies for life……a decision I’m sure qualifies for the hindsight is 20/20 variety. They go to Sicily and make their way up the western coast of Italy until they are allowed to stay in Latium. They settle there and that is one story of how Rome was founded.

For 1500 years, people thought that the statue had been lost. Pliny the Elder described it so well that when it was unearthed in 1506 people instantly recognized this statue for what it was and who it portrayed. It sits proudly today in the Vatican Museum. People, I’m afraid, have forgotten the message about gifts though.

Entering Present Day Rome

On the first night, I thought it would be best to acclimatize ourselves to our new environment. We were staying in the Centro Storico, the historical centre where the streets and cobbled and narrow, the graffiti and posters are ubiquitous. We walked to Piazza Navona, the most famous square in the city, and I showed my parents, my wife and daughter who had been rattling around like a Yahtzee dice because of our crappy stroller and the cobblestones. A square famous, as far as I know, for being famous. It is the Paris Hilton of squares, or she the Piazza Navonas of celebrities. Saying that, however, I feel I have disrespected the square.

A Napoleon of some sort lived in one houses adjacent to the square. An obelisk sits in the middle of the square held up by 4 horse statues and water that gushes forth. It’s the Fountain of the Four Rivers by Bernini, a name that is everywhere in the city if you know where to look for it. This one, and the one outside the Pantheon are 2 of 13 obelisks in the city. Behind the Pantheon is a small Bernini elephant statue holding another. Domitian had a circus here and you can look through the glass sidewalk at one end and see the educational excavations. We would find out later that my mom’s namesake’s church dominates this piazza, too.

I Fear the Greeks, Even Bearing Gifts

Like other big cities in Europe, Rome has its bracelet Greeks. There is a plethora of people, mostly African migrants, that try to engage one in conversation, their arms lined with bracelets of different colours. The game is to stop the people, pretend like they are giving you a bracelet or get you to hold one and then get some money from you. Usually, the people are personable and can speak in a few languages.

My course of action is to ignore them. It works for street side vendors as well as it does for signs suggesting you to not do certain things like walk on the grass. Sometimes in the distance or out of the corner of your eye you see someone throw down the bracelet and walk away wondering how they thought that they were getting something for free. Nothing is for free especially as a tourist.

They get in your way and flirt and talk to you if you let them, the slyly try to put on the bracelet and from there it either goes well for the seller, the tourist is too nice or ashamed that they’ve been taken in and they pay—maybe they really like it, I don’t know. Other times, the tourist pulls away and the seller either laughs it off or goes ballistic. Mostly, I think it’s the former since (I imagine) the immigration status of some of these people is less than secure.

My parents were unaware of this game. We led the way and let them follow us. We had warned them of the few scams that we knew of and I was happy that they were able to see it in action; happier that they hadn’t lost any money to it. It’s not always the situations that you expect though. I can hear, now of course, Laocoön’s warning in hindsight.

Statues Throwing Major Shade

The piazza is long. Not circus maximus long, but wander on a nice December evening for a date long. It’s got the four river fountain/obelisk combo in the middle. At each end is another fountain.

There are rumours of the enmity between the sculptors of the day, Bernini and Borromini, that one can see supposedly in the Piazza. Bernini either hating Borromini or jealous of him getting some contracts, created his fountain statues to look away from the Borromini church in the square as well as some buildings that lined the square. How petty and true the story is, I can’t tell.

Filling Final Days

One of the last days we were there, we had to make up for some things we missed. There was a closed early Baths of Caracalla that we didn’t know about. There was a massive rain storm we got caught in. There were things that were struck from the list: the Roman Forum and Palatine hill because of the weather. There were things that were cut because it was a bridge too far: the Ara Pacis, the Capitoline museums. Shopping! We hadn’t even done any shoe shopping yet!

We knew it would be a big day, which I think made my mom happy because she could see the Baths that she talked about for weeks. It made my dad happy because he could check his fitbit to see how his steps were going—something he did often and wouldn’t hesitate to tell you the count. It made Bec happy because today was the day she would get some shoes and it was Christmas party day for our daughter. It made me happy to experience this with them and because it was shoe day and soccer day.

We walked from our place in Trastevere, through the neighbourhood, successfully buying shoes for Bec as we went. We went up the hill and across the English bridge, over the Cloacca Maxima, and through a park that has the best preserved Roman temples: Tempio di Portuno and the Temple of Hercules Victor. Across the street that had the 300 plus motorcycle parade the previous day was a piazza navona church, a church famous for being famous. The reason for its celebrity: It has a manhole cover on its side.

The Mouth of Truth

You might lose your fingers if you’re untruthful, legend says. Chances are history says that you might pick up some disease if you did it in the middle ages. But Audrey Hepburn and Gregory Peck use it to tell the truth to each other. That might not be true. I haven’t see Roman Holiday, but that’s the movie that made this manhole cover is famous. It’s cool looking, sure. A bit smooth around the edges, and as I would find out very very smooth in its mouth.

Acting as the local travel guide, I bundled family Wolstenholme over to the church to have a peak at this mouth of truth, Bocca della Verita. I noticed that there was not anyone in line, which wasn’t the case every other time we walked by. I wasn’t going to waste my time waiting in line for such a trinket. We skipped the entrance to the church and took a picture of the mouth. And oddly, there was some sort of security guard manning line ropes.

He let the two people before us come close to it, insert their hands and take a picture and as they turned to leave, coming back the way they came, coming our direction, the security man stopped them and forced them inside. I thought it odd. Usually the treat comes at the end. But since it was a free tourist attraction, I thought sure, I’ll get my hand in there.

With my child carrier, I walked my daughter and I over to the mouth, got the obligatory picture and was shuttled like a sheep into the church. My family obligingly followed. I was gonna make a beeline for the exit but a man stopped my parents, and started speaking to them in Italian and once he realized they didn’t speak Italian to English. Would you like to see the crypt of Adriano? He’s buried just downstairs. Of course, it’s free, we just asked for a small donation. He rattled the cash box.

The Crypt of Lies

The English translation of Adriano is Hadrian. My mom dropped two euros into the box as a sort of shameful indulgence on all of our behalf. I thought, well, for two euro checking out the crypt of the guy who built a whole wall across England might be cool. It’s important to know your history. It’s important to know when something is too good to be true, which we obviously failed.

Hadrian’s wall isn’t the most northern wall the Romans built in England. He also isn’t buried in that church. No, that’s another Hadrian who lived 700 years after the Emperor. This guy was at least a pope. You only find that out, however, when you descend and read the placard having both dispensed of your money and your pride. Don’t worry though, if you’ve done it, you’re not alone. The first review on trip adviser says the same thing!

Coming up from the crypt there were a lot more tourists in the church, being shuffled in through the cattle gate. Except for the Japanese ones. They came through the entrance. The man who harangued us into the crypt didn’t even try with them. That was a time when I wished I were Japanese for a moment. We chalked up that to experience and decided not to warn the others. It made me feel better to know that others would experience that same feeling. I told myself: this will make for a funny story.

Baths and Shopping

We walked to the open Baths of Caracalla and wondered at their size, trying to imagine how the pools operated and how it must have been when the second floor came crashing down. We talked about the fall of the Roman empire a bit, but more in awe of its achievement.

We walked past the Colosseum, named for a statue that sat beside it (who knew!?) and past the Piazza Venezia and its monument to Vittorio Emmanuele. Behind it, on the Capitoline line is the city hall and its square designed by Michelangelo. In the middle sits one of the only bronze statues of Marcus Aurelius, or any Roman emperor. Spared from being melted into cannon bits because pious Christians mistook him for Constantine.

Up the Via del Corso and its shopping. We looked around the Trevi fountain for some shoes and knickknacks, my mother ruing the day that she didn’t buy the Christmas ornament on the first day, since I assured her “we’ll be back this way”. And we were, I’m sure of it. Only we didn’t know what store it was at, or what street it was on. But I’m certain we passed it.

I finally landed my pair of shoes and, although it wasn’t my first choice, it was a close second. We searched for a gift and some snacks for Mia to bring to the Christmas party that we were about to crash. We walked some more. We walked to the church where the party was and relaxed. We were all a bit tired.

While Mia was playing with the toys, pushing around chairs and eating her blueberries, dad and I were getting tired. We needed to stay up late that night because of a soccer game we were going to. We decided it was best to head back, take a nap, and then take the bus to the stadium. So we walked back to Trastevere, like fish against a stream of shoppers on the Corso we made our way back to Piazza Venezia, just missed the tram and walked home to take a quick nap.

Walking, Walking, and Walking

Waking an hour later we got up and made our way to the bus stop to see that we had just missed our bus to the game, that the next one was 36 minutes away and that the Uber was 30 some euro and 40 minutes. We decided that we would catch the tram, then the metro and then walk from a stop where I was told it was a 20 minute walk.

As we alighted from the Vatican metro stop, it started to rain. So we started walking. And walking. Someone asked about a bus that was going to the stadium. We didn’t know. We walked. The bus passed and there was literally no room for people to get on, much to the chagrin of those waiting. On we walked. And walked. And walked.

The Stadium

Finally we got there and, as we did, our bus pulled up just ahead of us. We walked to the security gates. Dad pulled out his passport and showed the security man. I was next and I pulled out … Mia’s passport.

And the man just shook his head. It was 30 minutes to the game and there was no way I could get back to grab mine and come back. He asked for photo id. I pulled out my driver’s license and he accepted it. And we moved on to the next security gate where dad got the wave through and once we showed the tickets the guard didn’t bother about asking for id again. I assume it’s because he knew we were foreign.

Just as we walked under the cover of the stadium it started pouring down. We walked to our seats and found we were sheltered and had great seats and we enjoyed the game despite me having to tell dad to not cheer for good plays overall but to only cheer for the good plays that the home team does. The home team secured a late win, which pleased the fans and us and we left again.

Walking, Walking, and Even More Walking

Having not taken a tram here since we didn’t know where it ended or where it started, we thought it best to go back the way we came. And so we did. We walked. And walked. And walked. And about 45 minutes later we arrived at the metro stop and made to the Colosseum and walked to our tram in the silence of the evening. There were people out, but dad and I were not speaking much. We just dreamed of bed.

We arrived in Trastevere and people were just exiting the bars. It was midnight when we stepped into the apartment and reached for a well earned bottle of wine. Dad looked at his fitbit and said 36 thousand something. The calculation turned it into 19 miles walked that day, 31 kms or so.

Dad was proud but he was beat. I was beat. Bec was tired. Mom was tired. The only one who wasn’t beat the next day was Mia. She encountered Santa for the first time and didn’t quite know what to do.

The Last Day

The next day we got up begrudgingly. There were a couple of things on the list but I knew we weren’t going to make them all. Our minds might but our legs wouldn’t. We walked to the circus maximus on our way to check out the Appian Way. Dad had had enough. He wanted to enjoy his last day and not walk and walk and walk. Bec didn’t want to see the road. Mia was the wise one among us, sleeping.

Mom and I walked. Past cemeteries. And gates. And gardens. And underpasses and walls. And runners. And bikers. And people living their lives. We walked by the Quo Vadis church where Paul turned back to meet his fate. Mom wanted to see the straight road lined with cypresses. We didn’t have any transit passes and so we walked. And a bus passed. And we walked. And walked. Another bus. Walked. Another bus. There was no sign of that. In fact, there was no sign of the ‘pedestrians only on Sundays’ rule I read about.

We went to near the crest of the hill and stopped. We turned around and walked back, having seen the Appian Way. In the meantime, Bec and Dad watched a marathon of some sorts at a nearby track for a bit. Bec played with Mia. Dad played with Mia and simultaneously was trying to gesture to Italians trying to park that they had plenty of room while Bec thought that the Italians might think there was a lunatic foreigner yelling at them while holding a baby, perhaps swearing that they’ve endangered a child and he wasn’t too happy about it.

We met up and decided that maybe a church service at mom’s church wasn’t in the cards. It was about one o’clock and we were beat. Dad was happy to head home. Home to Trastevere, sure. Home, even more. We all were. We ran out and did some errands before having a quiet evening just the five of us, telling stories about the trip. What we liked. What we saw. Reminiscing. Realizing that maybe the best stories are only because of the Greeks.

When the Trip Ends, the Stories Remain

Whether it was accepting the Greek gift of a touristy touch in the mouth of a drain cover, a ‘free’ look at a crypt, or accepting a free guided tour of Venice, Florence, and Rome from someone’s son, what was certain was that we got more than we bargained for. Fortunately, for us (and I believe for my parents as well) it was a good more.

The memories that we made, that I made travelling with my parents as an adult, that my wife and I made with our daughter, will last a lifetime. Maybe the story of how I broke dad and his walking/fitbit record or how stubborn me dragging my parents around towns in the least expensive way possible will survive us and become family lore.

Our memories will sort of change as we retell these stories. Maybe some of them already have. They will change from we walked here to here and saw this and dad said this funny thing and he learned to do a selfie here will morph into something else, something more akin to legend, like the spark for photographic genius started here, accidently.

Wolstenholme Family Legends

Perhaps our family travel stories will take on legend-like status similar to ‘Bernini hated Borromini so much that he purposely designed fountainheads not to look at certain churches or windows’. It could be something like a Marcus Aurelius surviving because of mistaken identity. Maybe our stories will become embellished from what really happened like the stories of Romulus and Remus, like those of Aeneas.

What won’t change is that like Romulus surviving the river, like Aeneas leading his makeshift family around the sea before landing ‘home’, we survived the trip and have stories to share. Stories that help create who we are; stories that affirm our role of who we are. We have stories of wonder and amazement, stories of questioning and frustration. We have stories that connect ourselves to our past as well as the past of so many others. Where we end up after our travels isn’t so much the main thing; who we end up as is.

Perhaps that is why Rome is the Eternal City. Not because it will last forever but that the memories and stories created there will and, in a way, already have.