The only way to do Rome and this tournament at the same time is to get up early. Today began at the ungodly hour of 7:00 A.M. (who knew there was such a thing?) and went something like
— Warning: The entry below begins with much non-tennis-related content and other forms of bloggy self-indulgence. Proceed as you see fit.
—this:
8:00 Breakfast: The hotel has a good one, with chocolate croissants and scrambled eggs. But the server and I never know what to say to each other. “Buongiorno” or “Hey” or “Yo” probably go through our heads, but we just nod and smile and mumble.
8:15 It’s a clear day with a slight breeze, so I unpack the tourist book and head for the old city. My friend and colleague, Toronto tennis writer Tom Tebbutt, has been talking about how he may be surrounded and attacked by gypsies here.
Is this true? Is Rome more like Calcutta than I realize? I walk through the Prati, the neighborhood where the press hotel is located. This is my favorite type of Euro city section—leafy, residential, not too touristy, dominated by wide avenues and imposing, uniform apartment buildings. I could walk through these streets alll day.
8:30 Fifteen minutes later, I’m in the historic center of the city, land of German tour groups, Japanese camera-clickers, U.S. kids with bulging backpacks, and punky Italian high-schoolers on field trips. I walk up the Spanish Steps and find myself somewhat underwhelmed.
The first conversation I overhear is in university English.
“I felt so much better after I puked last night.”
“Yeah, puke and you can just drink some more.” [laughs]
“Yeah.” [tries to laugh but coughs instead]
Is this the definition of a “tourist trap”? Am I trapped in a former life?
8:45 The Trevi Fountains are a much better bet. Anita Ekberg rocked them in La Dolce Vita, and they're not a disappointment in person. The site is a monstrous, 18th century series of pools (you can drink from the small fountains, and I see a few people fill up water bottles at them) wedged into a more modern square. In front of me, Italian high school dudes with mullets and black T-shirts try to talk to highly made-up girls in Chuck Taylors, who have their jeans rolled halfway to their knees and are chewing gum. They pose for a big group shot in front of the fountain. Everyone puts their arms around each other, while the boys strike tough-guy poses. All I can think is: Williamsport (Pa.) Area High School, 1984-1988. (Hang in there, friends forever. The high school kids were wrong, we knew it all along.)
9:15 Anyway, Via Del Corso. The historic/shopping artery at the city’s heart is a favorite spot so far. I’d wanted to check out the Doria Pamphili, a gallery and former palace, but I only have time to look at it from the outside today. I also think this area is part of a great, long, strange scene in L'Eclisse, a movie by the best tennis-playing director I know of, Antonioni. Monica Vitti and Alain Delon stride quickly after each other through the Rome streets. There's nothing quite so glamorous today, though I do enjoy the sight of businessmen in dark suits smoking cigars, and a dressed-to-the-nines 30-something Mom wheeling a stroller and smoking a cigarette. (You don’t see that in NYC every day!)
10:00 On my way back to the hotel, I come to the realization that Rome is not made for pedestrians. You see, Romans don’t really believe in sidewalks. They park their bikes on them. They park their cars on them. Sometimes they park each other in on them. At times I’m forced more to walk around their parked cars and onto the street, where the cars are moving. Basically, they park anywhere they can. This is illustrated to me most forcefully when I come across a car parked at the end of a driveway; it's back half is almost in the street. As I walk past, another driver pulls up, stops, and honks his horn. He wants to go into the driveway, but he doesn't see that no one is in the car. He keeps honking as other cars line up behind him and also begin honking. Still, no one realizes that the car is empty—it's parked.**
1:30** OK, it’s time to watch tennis. Amer Delic is running away with the first set against Marat Safin. The American is imposing and rangy, but he has a low shot tolerance; if he has to hit more than four balls in a rally, things get dicey. He’s inconsistent to the point where, even when he hits two straight shots in the same direction, they rarely land near each other. Even his serve can land many feet out.
But Safin can’t make him pay for it, and Delic hits a heavy ball with every stroke, especially his backhand, and controls the action through the first set. But he doesn’t quite have the belief that he can win. Delic gets close in each of the last two sets, but every time he’s on the verge he misses. He’s at his best when he hits long ground strokes to the corners and follows them in. Delic is one guy who would be served by a net game and the instinct to get there. He turns 25 next month; that’s too late for instincts, but not too late to late to think about adding something to his game.
Safin plays countryman Nikolay Davydenko next.
