This story is dedicated to Terry Summerbell.
5 nights in Rome is quite a while so we thought a day at the local waterpark might be fun. Travelling is about doing stuff,we were told, rather than simply seeing stuff. So we set off on our journey - i´d had the directions translated off the website and it seemed pretty straightforward. Change at x metro station and catch y bus. Easy. Except, that is, for the fact that y bus is the hardest bus on the planet to find.
Lost and slightly exhausted it was time to engage with the locals. We´d trawled every road in a one mile radius and were moments away from sacking off the whole escapade and heading back to base. Some extraordinary conversations ensued with the local Romans. Couldn´t make head nor tale of what they were on about but very entertaining nonetheless.
On the verge of returning home I recalled that my mother, Sheila, had once won an award for perserverence. ISo I perservered, with another local Roman who naturally didn´t know of the bus or the mythical waterpark for that matter. His non-english speaking, kojak look-a-like, friend had, however, got wind of the bus number and with the help of an interpreter relayed some directions. The stop was miles away but heartedned by our interaction with the locals we set off.
Being slightly anal of most things I decided to double check with a newspaper kiosk employee en route. The outcome was dispiriting. No bus today - its bank holiday. That was it. We´d had enough. broken by this development we headed back. At this point kojak (now carrying the world´s smallest dog) spotted our desperate bid for freedom, crossed the road and intercepted our path. We shrugged and gesticulated. He knew we had given up and wasn´t having any of it. At this point something magical happened. The ATAC 609 to Hydromania roared past.
The next 30 seconds are a bit hazy but the next thing I remember is sitting in the passenger seat of Kojaks car, Chloe in the back and Kojaks dog in my lap, following the 609. It was exhillarating.
We made the bus, arrived at the waterpark and set inside the grounds of our destination. "Good God" I muttered to myself. This is Chloe´s idea of hell. 20,000 Italians, 10,000 sun loungers and about 4 weasly slides. 20 minutes later I had secured 2 (broken) sun loungers conveniently located above the engine of the wave machine. I´m pretty sure I saw Chloe cry. Nearby a teenager had been struck on the head by a parasol blown in the now gusty wind. This was Sandy Lane for the damned. I had to rescue some value from the day so I left Chloe with her book and headed for the slides. Perhaps if I could lift my own spirits I could lift hers.
In hindsight it was pretty naiive of me to assume that the slides would be open. Every damn slide shut. Dry as a bone. Reveiwing our day at this stage I admit to having a little private laugh. And then bemusement. Why would so many people come here? To Hydromania´s credit they did lay on some entertainment. First up, and remember that this as pitched at the under tens, a man in what can only be described as an intimidating wrestling mask, demonstrating his martial arts nun-chuck skills. You couldn´t make it up. Secondly, and this prompted our eventual exit, a brawl between a feisty Italian red-head (and his gang) and the life guards.
There was just enough time for me to be told off for taking photos (the wave machine engine at least providing a convenient platform for photography) before our departure.
