8:00 a.m–Excessive greenery interrupted by a snake line of cars weaving through the streets, all headed toward the circle that is Rome. With streets like wheel spokes, the Romans built their city with an interior circle, attached to outward pointing spikes, such that any road taken would eventually lead to Rome. We arrived to a hotel with about as much curbside appeal as that guy from the movie Ghost who screams out “Get of my train!”
Inside though, the olive oil-dipped veggies and platefuls of pasta are absurdly tasty. Room one apparently had a mosquito problem and the maid got a little loose with the RAID bottle, leaving us coughing and rubbing our eyes as we staggered back to the front desk for a room change. Room two offers a big screen television for Italian soccer games and the sort of beds one might expect Snow White to offer her ax-wielding friends.
Halfway through the afternoon, after thirty hours of no sleep, we hit the tennis courts for a light practice, which ended up a four-hour headlong dash into lactic acid hell when the Italian team showed up and wanted to play against us. Though exhausting, Italian fans applaud and smile with the regularity of a hospital enema wing.
An hour after finishing, Mamma Vittorio fetched out the results of three days of hard labor in her Roman kitchen—three thin-crust pizzas with just grated mozzarella. With hungry players lapping at her counter, they disappeared in less than sixty seconds to near porn star moans.
Writing this at ten thirty now, eyes below half-mast and showing obsidian circles, Roman ruins in the distance. Practice tomorrow at ten and then off to see history….