So there I was, bags in hand, standing dumbfounded in the middle of the arrival lounge in the Fiuminico airport in Rome. I was hot, tired, and dirty – 12-hour layovers on international connections tend to do that to you.

The first thing on my agenda was finding an ATM. I had read the horror stories of travellers checks these days, such as outrageous fees and the lack of acceptance at all but the largest banks, so I had arrived with no currency whatsoever – except for the $50 USD I had in my money clip, which I'm sure would convert to about 10 Euro after fees.

So I relegated myself to the luck of the draw whether either my debit card or my credit card would work overseas. Not like I didn't have other options: Begging for loose change wouldn't be the ideal way to spend a vacation, but I suppose there are worse places for it than Rome.

Fortunately for me (unfortunately for you as the reader), I get cash without a problem and get a ticket for a train into the center of town. Never mind the fact that in my daze, I forgot to validate my ticket. Though I previously read numerous times about the fines for getting caught travelling on an unvalidated ticket, my readings failed me in the moment.

So there I was, watching over my eye like a paranoid delusional, looking out for the conductor who was sure to come and slap my butt with a sky-high fine. Not like I had any clue as to what I'd do should he appear – run to the safety of the next cabin? Or muster up my best "dog ate my validated ticket" excuse .. in Italian? No, I realized that I better just enjoy the ride either way, and started enjoying the sights whizzing by me.

Riding the train, you might assume that the first thing I noticed about the Roman countryside was the ancient monuments littering the landscape. Or the itty-bitty golf carts they try to pass off as automobiles. Or the hundred of vineyards dotting the landscape. But to be honest, what struck me first was very simple and trivial – there were clotheslines everywhere, in every yard, on every building. Hell, my mom used to hang wet clothes out in the backyard during the summer, so this was nothing foreign to me. But the fact that the clotheslines were on every window, ran between every neighboring building, and were all PACKED with clothes – that was what struck me.

Over the next few days, I half expected the windows of President's House or the Vatican to be filled with clothes – after all, even the Pope has to dry his boxers.