The Diary of a Disgruntled Roman

By Thomas Lott

In an impromptu trip to Rome, an unsuspecting traveller faces instant disappointment when his luggage appears not to have shared his enthusiasm for the trip. What are holidays without a hint of stress though, right?

The Diary of a Disgruntled Roman follows the journey of lone adventurer Thomas Lott, as he recalls in brutal detail the various psychological ups and downs that both plagued and enthralled a trip to the cultural paradise of Rome. A new, refreshing take on the traditional travel guide, The Diary of a Disgruntled Roman educates and entertains in equal measure, all the while colouring the experience with a hint of tear instigating comedy. A must read for anyone looking to travel to Rome, or laugh at the misfortunes of someone else who did.

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Novel Idealist
• Release date: Jun 10, 2019
• ISBN: 9788834135631

Book preview

The Diary of a Disgruntled Roman

Thomas Lott

Holidays are supposed to be fun, right?

Copyright

Copyright © 2019 by Thomas Lott

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.

First Printing: 2019

ISBN 978-0-244-48869-7

Thomas’s Website

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Dedication

Dedicated to the kind baggage staff of British Airways at Heathrow Airport Terminal 5, without whose exceptional hide-and-seek luggage skills this guide might never have happened.

Introduction

Hard work and toil, for hours on end.

Through it we all suffer, for money is our friend.

But every so often, some rest is required.

So to heal weary bones often holidays are hired.

Rest; relaxation; they’re supposed to be thus.

But often these experiences leave one unable to but cuss.

Weeks of saving, weeks of dreaming of that beach side Instagram post.

But of that particular tale I’m afraid I cannot boast.

As travellers all around the world sit poolside, cocktail in hand,

the tragic tale I’m about to divulge should be buried in the sand.

It might make you laugh, it might make you cry.

It might make you wonder if you’ve read anything quite so dry.

‘Travel broadens the mind’, ‘The journey, not the arrival matters’.

Great quotes, which should be inspiring to all; but let me tell you why mine was left in tatters.

Note from the author

The following tale is wholly factual, though the ever-existent hints of distress in my description have been enhanced for your benefit.

My trip was both brilliant and disastrous in almost equal measure, and I hope that you enjoy both my recollection of the series of unfortunate events, but also my accounts of the cultural paradise and historical knowledge I hope to impart on you.

In some ways, I have tried to mimic that same devilish tactic customary of primary school teachers, using gimmicks and humour to trick you into learning.

In no way should the horrors of the following extracts deter you from visiting Rome, indeed I sincerely hope it encourages you to go. It is a brilliant, brilliant place and no, I have not been paid to say that.

Prologue

I feel it appropriate to begin this tale by telling you a couple of quick things about me, not to shape your reading of my experience with my relentless bias, but to help you understand the raw emotions that I experienced during, and since, the time you will shortly read about.

I am not a quintessential complainer. I have spent many an occasion quietly stewing over situations that annoy me, taking I feel an impressively Vulcan-like approach, whilst inwardly planning my grand revenge. I am the sort of person who glares at the man coughing on the train, right up until the moment he senses my gaze at which point my angered glare rapidly turns into an awkward smile. However, perhaps the one thing that enrages my ‘human half’ is inexplicable inadequate service. It drives me, in short, fucking mental.

I have also quite recently developed a penchant for the solo adventure, though in truth the taste was birthed out of my inability to convince my group of friends that visits to places of historical significance are fun, and worthy of their sacrifice of precious days of annual leave. It may well have been a blessing in disguise though; I have grown quite fond of the freedom that solo travel has given me to explore areas where perhaps the average mid-twenties lager lout may not have been quite so far inclined. That is to say, to put this into context, that I very much look forward to these trips.

So all in all, as I looked in amazement at my computer screen one hungover Thursday afternoon, spotting lastminute.com’s brilliant Rome offer, I took my shot. I was instantly jittery – though this was perhaps the after effects of the late night before. A few days in the blistering Roman heat, sharing my holiday hours between fulfilling the desires of my inner history nerd, taking some calm periods to myself for my writing projects, and spending valuable time poolside, topping up the pasty white pins.

I could not wait. That feeling of escape, of excited anticipation, of imminent adventure. Allow yourself to feel those emotions deep within your soul, and with them I hope that you enjoy what will soon follow.

Day 1: The Booking

Thursday 16 August 2018

If there is one thing that I have learned about professional working life, it is that surviving an eight-hour-plus day in the office on a pounding hangover is quite simply unbearable. I would go as far as to say it simply is not worth it, as though that stops us.

That inhumane removal of the protective shield of bed covers, still pungent with the aroma of the evening’s drinks selections; the absence of the distracting Netflix comedies to take one’s mind off the physical pains coursing through your not-18-years-old-anymore body. One is left grief-stricken, slumped over a slowly swaying keyboard, clustering whatever brain cells survived the night to trudge through the gamut of inbox flags, desperately seeking the most appropriate ones to cope with that day.

That, combined with the Oscar-worthy acting performance required to cover up the after effects of the previous night’s antics, in the hope of maintaining some degree of professionalism, makes it very difficult to judge somebody too harshly when they refuse any further requests for one or two later? Or so it should.

I scoured the internet that Thursday afternoon, desperate to find a last minute holiday destination deal (in every sense of the term) for the week to follow, something to take my mind off the steady pounding of my temples, and behold, a stupendous offer on the outskirts of Rome, with British Airways no less!

Sorry guys, I’ve got a flight tomorrow, I should probably leave it this evening, was my innocent response to the group, as they suggested that dangerous one or two later? midweek teaser.

Instant daggers, bemused expressions and wry smiles came my way as I faced an onslaught of Thursday afternoon criticism, deeming my tame response outright deplorable.

With so much packing to do, making full use of the free checked baggage offer I had found, and with an early start the next day, going home stone cold sober was the only sensible option.

Alas, six pints, three quite indescribable shots, and a ‘calm down’ whiskey later, I found myself stumbling through my front