Montana's literary landscape boasts a rich tapestry of voices that reflect its diverse culture, stunning scenery, and unique history. From poets and novelists to memoirists, famous Montana writers have profoundly influenced the literary world, showcasing stories rooted in the rugged terrain and spirited communities of the state. Understanding the work of these authors not only deepens the appreciation for literature but also provides insights into the heart of Montana. Let’s explore the lives and contributions of some notable Montana fiction authors who have shaped the literary identity of this remarkable state. The Influence of Nature on Montana’s Literature Have you ever noticed how the surroundings influence the stories we tell? Montana's vast landscapes—ranging from majestic mountains to serene prairies—serve as more than just a backdrop; they act as a character in their own right. This connection to the land resonates deeply in the works of many writers who hail from the state. Famous Montana writers often incorporate natural imagery and themes of solitude and exploration into their narratives, making the environment an integral part of their storytelling. Take Norman Maclean, for instance. His acclaimed work, A River Runs Through It, draws heavily on his experiences growing up in the Blackfoot River valley. Maclean's prose is lyrical, capturing the essence of fly fishing and the nuances of family dynamics against the backdrop of Montana's breathtaking scenery. By immersing readers in the natural beauty of the state, Maclean not only celebrates the land but also invites readers to ponder the deeper connections we share with our environment. Diverse Voices in Montana’s Literary Scene The literary scene in Montana is as diverse as its geography. From the rugged mountains to the rolling plains, various authors explore themes of identity, culture, and the human experience. Writers like Louise McNeill and James Lee Burke present different aspects of life in Montana, ensuring that every reader can find a relatable story. Louise McNeill, known for her poignant poetry, draws from her Appalachian roots while also embracing the Montana landscape. Her works often reflect themes of isolation and introspection, allowing readers to connect with the emotional experiences that come from living close to nature. On the other hand, James Lee Burke’s thrillers are steeped in a sense of place, melding action with rich descriptions of Montana’s wild terrains. Readers looking for a gripping narrative with a strong sense of geography will find Burke’s novels compelling and evocative. The Journey of Christie Goodman One writer worth mentioning is Christie Goodman, a horse breeder and writer from western Montana. With an MFA in English from Queens University and a Bachelor’s degree in Philosophy from North Central College, Goodman brings a unique perspective to her work. Despite moving from Chicago to a ranch in Montana without any prior experience in farming or ranching, she embraced the challenge and transformed her life. Goodman’s journey reflects the spirit of many Montana fiction authors, who often tackle the unknown with courage and creativity. Her writing captures the essence of ranch life, illustrating the joys and struggles that come with living in such a beautiful yet demanding environment. The combination of her academic background and real-life experiences lends authenticity to her storytelling, making her an important voice in Montana’s literary community. Impact of Famous Montana Writers on the Cultural Identity What role do these writers play in shaping Montana's cultural identity? By sharing their experiences and perspectives through their works, famous Montana writers contribute to a broader understanding of the state’s heritage and values. Their stories help create a shared narrative that fosters a sense of belonging and pride among Montanans. Moreover, the influence of Montana fiction authors extends beyond state lines. Many of these writers have gained national recognition, bringing attention to Montana’s rich literary culture. Readers across the country discover the state's unique identity through the lens of its authors, sparking interest and curiosity about Montana’s landscapes and communities. Engaging with Montana Literature So, how can you engage with the works of these famous Montana authors? Exploring local libraries, bookstores, or even online platforms can introduce you to a treasure trove of literature that highlights the voices of Montana. Many authors have also hosted readings, workshops, and events, providing opportunities to connect with the community and deepen your understanding of their work. Reading about Montana is not just about enjoying a good story; it’s also about immersing yourself in the culture and history that these authors convey. So, grab a book by a Montana fiction author, settle into your favorite reading spot, and allow the words to transport you to the breathtaking landscapes and intriguing narratives of this incredible state. Conclusion: Celebrating famous Montana authors provides a glimpse into the state’s rich literary heritage and the profound impact these writers have had on literature. Through their diverse voices and compelling narratives, these authors explore themes that resonate deeply with readers, allowing them to connect with Montana's landscapes and culture. From Christie Goodman’s journey to Norman Maclean’s lyrical prose, the stories shared by Montana writers continue to inspire and engage audiences, both near and far. By delving into their works, you not only honor their contributions but also gain a deeper appreciation for the beauty and complexity of Montana itself.
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Rocky’s Goodbye
When he stands up his front legs are bowed like a cowboy readying for a fight. Only he can't stand up at all today. The past few weeks he has been falling over a lot. This morning he couldn't stand at all. For ten years he has run around the ranch like he owns the place. I'm quite sure he thinks he does. As he's gotten older he has started having trouble seeing and has taken to barking at anything that moves. He is like an old man yelling, "Get off my lawn!" at every squirrel, leaf or automobile that passes into view. We have him wrapped up like a burrito in a tan afghan. He can't hold his head up. He get's restless until Ben lays his hand on his head and strokes him. Then Rocky settles right back into his world of oblivion, at peace with his lot. Ben is Rocky's boy. Not that Ben is a boy—he's in his thirties—but I suspect that Rocky still thinks of him as such. They have been together for almost fifteen years. I'd say that Rocky has been Ben's side kick since they moved out to the ranch, but I am pretty sure Rocky would be offended by that. It's clear that in Rocky's mind, Ben is the sidekick: the trustworthy, ever faithful supporter of The Great One. Ben stands in the background trying not to panic as Rocky faces off with a 2000 pound bull whose nostrils are bigger than Rocky's head. Ben scolds him as he ushers Rocky back inside but Rocky doesn't hear him. He is too satisfied at a job well done, assured that his lawn is once again safe from the nasty-little-cow-cow that threatened it. Rocky struts all over our sixty acre ranch in Montana, oblivious to bald eagles and coyotes who would see his 15-pound body as an easy snack. Ben rushes around after him, tearing out his hair as he tries to keep Rocky out of trouble. Or he used to. Now Ben holds him, wrapped up like a burrito in an extra soft blanket and listens to Rocky's labored breathing, keeping his face close to Rocky's tiny nose so that his smell is there as Rocky drifts in and out of sleep. We've all said goodbye and now Ben just sits with him, holding him, hour after hour as the day wears on. He was going to take him to the vet and have him put down, but the time for the appointment came and went and Ben couldn't get up from his chair. He just sits and holds his dog. Rocky does not seem to be suffering, so waiting it out will be just fine. It was not The Plan but Ben's heart couldn't sign off on The Plan. He couldn't let him go. Not as long as Rocky is peaceful and free of pain. Their time together is too precious. He can't cut that short just because it seems the practical thing to do. So they sit together, hour after hour, as the sun moves across the sky. Rocky is unchanged. But is Ben? Eventually Ben realizes it is dark and moves to his bed. He tucks Rocky against his side and lays with him, eyes open, sitting vigil through the night. By morning, perhaps. Or sometime the next day. It could take longer, but probably not. Rocky is no longer eating, only drinks a bit when pushed. It wont be long. So Ben sits. A couple of years ago, Ben's father died. He wasn't there to sit vigil at that bedside. Last year his grandmother, who had lived with Ben's family all his life, also passed away. He missed that vigil as well. He has grieved around the edges for those two central deaths in his world, trying to find time amidst a busy schedule and a new job to think and feel and cry. But this one is different. Maybe it's because he lives with Rocky. He was two thousand miles away from his family when those losses came. He wasn't part of the day to day decline. He didn't watch the end approach as he has here. Maybe it's because he feels responsible for Rocky in a way that one doesn't feel for one's parents or grandparents. Maybe it's because Rocky is close to him in a way that no other creature has ever been. Ben takes off of work. He stops and he sits. This is what grieving should be. This is part of the death process that we so often miss in today's disconnected society. It is a part that we need to process the loss that death brings. Ben lays beside Rocky, Rocky's little body pressed up against Ben's bigger one. Ben's hand rests on Rocky's side and he listens to his best friend breath, slow and shallow, loud but peaceful. Does he think about taking Rocky camping in Glacier National Park in the middle of a rain storm? Does he think about trying to get Rocky to wear boots during the cold Montana winters, exasperated as Rocky stands stock still, refusing to move an inch while these ridiculous things are strapped to his feet? Or is Ben's mind blank, as he listens to Rocky's breathing and feels his little chest move slowly up and down? Is he perhaps just present, not thinking at all, as he sits with his best friend and says goodbye? Either way, he is there. He sits vigil with his friend, waiting for death to come. This week my family attended mass with my father for the last time. A life-long catholic, during the last decade of his life my dad went to mass every morning. He didn't talk about it a lot. He had been adamant that he didn't want us raised catholic. He had too many issues with the politics of the catholic church. This wasn't the life he wanted for us, so he went every Sunday of my childhood to my mother's church where we attended as a family. Yet it was that church which held his path to God, which spoke the language of his heart. As I got older I would sometimes make an effort to go to mass with him when I visited. I would sit in church, unmoved by the ritual and formality of the catholic mass, and pray my own prayers, separate from what was going on around me. Afterward, he would introduce me, always proud, to those he knew. I think it meant a lot to him to have me there. So I went.
Last Monday I went again. This time dressed in black and with my whole family beside me. This time I didn't sit beside my father. He lay in a box near the front of the church while we sat in the pews. The priests recited the rituals. The deacons sang a prayer. It was not the kind of service we would have chosen for ourselves. The prayers were not our own, there was very little personal about it. They didn't let us speak about him or share our own thoughts. It wasn't the kind of goodbye that we usually experience at funerals in our mother's tradition. But that's okay. We said goodbye the night before at the visitation when dozens of people filled the hall, telling stories about him and sharing their love for him. We said goodbye after the service when the family took up two large tables at a local restaurant and talked and laughed and told stories about his life. Monday, the catholic service, wasn't my good bye. It wasn't comforting in the way funerals usually are for me. Instead it was a chance, one last chance, to honor my father and this path that he loved, to stand beside him and pay tribute to something which was sacred to him. It was my chance to attended mass with my father, one last time. I've been accepted to Queen's University's Book Development Program! It works as part of my master's degree in Creative Writing and takes two semesters to complete. I will work with an editor from Random House publishing to go over my book (Meanwhile I Keep Dancing) with a fine tooth comb and get it ready for publishing. I am excited to be starting this program!
RomeI was blessed this month with the chance to visit Rome as part of my master's degree program in Creative Writing. We spent a week alternating between touring Rome and taking classes. I'd been to Europe before but never really thought much about Rome. I have no particular ties to Italy. It just wasn't on my radar.
It should have been. This is a wonderful city. And no matter where your family does or doesn't come from it holds meaning for us all. Rome is the birthplace of western civilization and has influenced our world in countless ways. Mostly, though, Rome is just a beautiful place and magical to visit. The old city center is surrounded by a wall. This is the same wall that existed thousands of years ago to keep out barbarian raiders and rival armies. Then it marked the edges of Rome. Now it sits in the middle, a 27 mile-long wall surrounding the heart of Rome. It is dotted with many entrances - usually large arches leading into vast cobblestone courtyards each famous for its own monument, statue or fountain which sits at its heart. Within these walls Rome is still built for a city of foot traffic, with narrow cobblestone streets all meeting at odd angles and lined with cafes. Vendors roam the streets selling everything from toys to roasted chestnuts to tapestries and fine leather bags. Everywhere you turn there are buildings or monuments dating back thousands of years. There are fountains everywhere sporting filtered water where you can fill your water bottle for free. Most of the shop owners speak at least a little english. They are used to tourists here. Many restaurants have english menus. The week I was there was perfect weather - blue skies, bright sun, 60-70 degrees Fahrenheit. The Roman shop owners seem a little gruff at first, but once you get talking they open up and are soon some of the friendliest people in the world. On weekends, the many courtyards around the city are filled with people of all ages. They spill out into the streets where they stroll arm in arm or pop into shops and sit in cafes. Cars periodically wind their way through he throngs of people. And its not expensive to eat here. Compared to New York or L.A. it's down right cheap. So I recommend Rome, highly and with enthusiasm. If you ever get a chance to go, do. Choose a place to stay just outside of the city walls where the prices are cheaper but you are still in the heart of things. Try some Italian or just speak English. Take a cab when you need to but walk when you can. Because for all its museums and history, Rome isn't about seeing specific places or things. Rome is about experiencing the current of the city as it flows around you. Its about being part of something magical and more ancient than you can imagine. Be Careful What You Wish For...It’s a good thing I came here looking for adventure or I might not be enjoying myself quite so much. (On that note, be careful what you wish for…)
I just started a master’s degree program in Creative Writing. It’s all on-line except for two weeks twice a year when we gather in person with our professors and other students for some intensive study. This year they offered the option of doing that in-person stint in Rome. Student loan money would help cover the costs, so I jumped at the chance. I mean, I don’t speak Italian or anything, but who wants to pass up the chance to go to Rome when it comes their way? Two weeks before leaving I went to my filing cabinet to look for my passport and discovered it had expired two years ago. I was sure I’d JUST renewed it. I remembered that I had lost my old passport and had to send in for a new one. But my sense of time is often screwy, so maybe that was ten years ago. I spent a couple of frantic days calling around and finally figured out what I had to do: The normal passport renewals are taking up to six months right now. But some offices in some cities offer last minute appointments for emergencies like mine. You have to be within 72 hours of your travel date, but you can walk out of there with the passport that day. None in Montana, but there was one such office in Minneapolis, so I changed my flight to go through Minneapolis, with an eight hour layover. I left the house at 3am that morning and arrived at the airport at 4am for a 6am flight. They told me I couldn’t get on the plane. It didn’t matter that I was about to get my passport. They had to check me in all the way through to Rome and they couldn’t do that with an expired passport. An hour of phone calls later they finally came up with the option that I could rebook as two different trips but that would cost an extra $2500 (twice as much as the flight cost in the first place). Not an option. I fought with them another half hour before they finally offered to change my ticket for free. I was on the flight. With the heart problems I have been having lately, walking any distance is hard for me, so I am in the habit of ordering wheelchairs in airports. That worked for most of the airports, but I was still often shaky and gasping for breath by the time I got somewhere. I was also sick. I had taken a Covid test the night before, so I knew it wasn’t that, but I had been getting increasingly sick for the past few days. I know my body and when I feel like this it is most often bronchitis or pneumonia. By the end of my flight to Minneapolis, I was having trouble breathing. I found an urgent care clinic near the passport building and called an Uber. The doctor there was wonderful. Yes, I had bronchitis. Yes, if things were normal they wouldn’t be giving me antibiotics quite yet, but given my trip to Rome she gave me antibiotics, an inhaler and a med to help clear the gunk out of my lungs. Luggage in tow, I took another Uber to my passport appointment. I waited in lines, filled out forms and answered questions. The woman was very friendly, asking all about my ranch in Montana and the horses I raised. She sent my paperwork to the printer office and said I should stay nearby and wait for their phone call. An hour later it came. But it wasn’t good news. This was not my most recent passport. This was the one I had lost two years ago. Somewhere at home I had a valid passport which was needed for this trip. That could have been it right there. But the woman took a deep breath and said, “We are going to make this work. We will get you on that flight to Rome. Just come back and fill in more paperwork. We will say you lost your new passport (the one at home) and you will get another one today.” By now it would normally have been too late in the day for them to still manage printing a passport but over the next hour a number of them stayed late and made it happen. Whatever the reputation of government burrocrattes, the people in that office were lifesavers. An hour before my flight was suppose to leave, I stumbled down the stone steps of the Minneapolis Federal Building with my luggage behind me and called for an Uber. We rushed to the airport. I got there to find I needn’t have rushed – the plane had been hit by lightening and it was going to be four hours before they could get us a replacement. They ordered subs for the whole lot of us while we waited in the airport, and still served us a dinner of cheese ravioli when we boarded the plane at nine o’clock that night. The plane was going to Amsterdam, eight hours during which I dozed intermittently, and then I had a connecting flight to Rome. But because of the delay, I missed my connecting flight and had to be moved to a later flight. I spent a nice flight to Rome chatting with a Dutch woman in the seat next to me. We exchanged information and offers to stay if the other was ever in our area. Finally, I landed in Rome. My luggage didn’t. I spent two hours in line filing a report about lost luggage and was sent on my way. I paid an exorbitant fee ($37) to get out E100 of cash at an airport ATM and walked out of the airport. Immediately I was overwhelmed by noise and activity. There were hundreds of people standing around the door holding signs with names on them. My brain had shut down hours ago and I barely knew how to make sense of where I was. I read the instructions for meeting my hotel shuttle over and over and they still didn’t make sense. After an hour of wandering, I started stopping people to aske if they spoke English. Most just rushed on but one lady stopped and attempted to talk with me. Once I’d explained the situation she agreed to help me. But she could make no more sense of the directions I had than I could. She spent a good half hour calling the hotel (we couldn’t get through) and wandering with me around the airport, looking for a sign that would tell us where I was suppose to be. When we continued to get nowhere, I told her I would keep looking and went my way. I had no cell signal and could make no calls. Worse, my phone had no data connection and I couldn’t get the airport wifi to work so I had no way to look anything up or pull up google maps. At one point I just sat down on the sidewalk and stared around me. I had no idea how to continue to try and solve the problem before me. I’d been sitting there for a while when the woman walked up to me again. She had seen that I was still lost and was back on her phone, trying again to get through to my hotel for me. She motioned me to stand next to her and, finally getting through to a person, she began again to try and unravel my situation. Twenty minutes later she took me by the hand and led me to a (very hidden) sign with the name of my hotel on it. She told me to wait forty-five minutes for the shuttle that would pull up in that spot. I thanked her profusely and she put her hand on my shoulder and said, “Welcome to Rome.” At my hotel it took me thirty minutes to find my room, which turned out to be in a separate building from the hotel and up an unmarked elevator. The next day I was to make my way to an Airbnb at which I would stay for the next two weeks, but the Airbnb hadn’t been available when for the first day of my trip, so I had booked this hotel for one night. I awoke the next morning to find I had laryngitis and had lost my voice. I couldn’t speak above a whisper. I used Google Translate to look up and write down (in my handy dandy little travel notebook) “I lost my voice,” “I don’t speak Italian,” and “Do you speak English?” all in Italian. Gripping this piece in sweaty hands, I started my first day in Italy. I took the shuttle back to the airport and spent two hours trying to find the Lost & Found office again. I stood in line for an hour and spent the next twenty minutes explaining why I was there. But – what do you know! – I was told that my bag was here and I could pick it up. That wasn’t as easy as it sounded and I had to cross the airport three times before the woman behind the desk left her desk, took me by the hand, and led me to an obscure back door with no signs and no attendants where my bag was sitting, waiting for me. Now I just had to get across Rome to my Airbnb. And that proved to be harder than all the rest of the trip combined. I had planned to take a bus. But I had not counted on 1) how much trouble I would have lugging my luggage around and doing all that walking and 2) how confusing it is to read bus signs and schedules when you don’t speak the language or know what streets are near your stop. I soon realized that even if I figured out how to get a ticket and got on a bus, I would have no idea where to get off. I decided I had to take a cab. This was not ideal. I knew Rome cab drivers have a reputation for cheating people, especially at the airport. And I had no idea how to find a cab, despite the frequent signs for “Taxi” all over the airport. I walked out the door into a throng of a hundred or more people, holding signs. Behind them was another throng of people in front of a Taxi sign, and a long line for the Taxis. But at the time I couldn’t tell the two throngs apart and didn’t realize there was a dedicated Taxi line. I was relieved when a person came up to me to ask me if I wanted a Taxi. I said yes and asked the price. They said 80Euros. I knew the price was suppose to be about 50Euros and said no. After being approached by three or four more people with the same price (I did not yet realize that the actual way to get a Taxi was to stand in the long line. The people approaching me on their own were private companies, unlicensed and looking for an easy mark – which I clearly was – a middle aged, confused, exhausted American woman who didn’t speak the language and was clearly lost…) I finally realized I needed to go back inside for an ATM because I had only 50Euros with me at this point and it was starting to look like that wouldn’t be enough, despite what the guide books said. One driver had offered to take me to an ATM on the way, but that didn’t seem at all safe to me. I decided I needed to go back to the ATM I had seen in the baggage claim area and pay the ridiculous rates to get more money out. Then I discovered that once you leave the building you are not allowed back into the airport at all. It took me ten minutes to talk them into letting me in so I could go to the ATM. I got out 200Euros and went back out to the Taxi area. A man approached, quoted me 75Euros and I accepted. He took my luggage and led me away from the airport. Quite a long ways away. We walked a long time. By the time we got there it was clear I had gotten one of those private taxi companies the guide books warned you about. They have no white Taxi sign on top of their cars and no meter inside. I decided I had to just go with it (I could barely stand or think by this time) and I put my luggage in the trunk and got in the car with the driver the first man led me to. The drive was fine aside from the fact that the driver spent much of it, zipping full speed down highways and through crowded streets with the index to his map open across his steering wheel, trying to find my street. Every now and then he would swerve too far into another lane, get honked at and jerk the car back. Periodically, he would purposely, without warning, yank the car into another lane, cutting off bikes, busses and other cars. I decided that this was the definition of a situation I had little control over and sat back to observe the big stone buildings and abundant flowering plants lining every street. In the end we arrived in one piece. He wrote me out a receipt and handed it to me. 175Euros. I argued with him. He became offended, loud and angry. He showed me a placard with prices listed on it and pointed to one line that said 180Euros. I argued some more. He said if I wanted my luggage out of his trunk I had to pay the 175Euros I owed him. I finally pulled out 4 fifty dollar bills and asked him for change. He dropped the money in his lap then picked it back up. “What is this?” he asked. “You cheat? You cheat me?” The money in his hand was two fifties and two tens. “I gave you four fifties,” I started, and the yelling began again, “You not! You try to cheat me! You give me two fifty and two ten!” The truth is I was not positive that he wasn’t right. I was so tired by then, I could have pulled out the wrong money. But I didn’t think so, Because all I had left at that point was one more fifty and if I’d given him two tens there should have been three fifties in my wallet. Eventually I took the two tens back and gave him the other fifty. He gave me by bags and left. I got into my Airbnb. I got settled. I slept. I slept some more. I double checked the price of taxies – it should have been only 50Euros. Oh well. What can I do about it now? I tried to let it go. I continued to try and let it go for the rest of the day. And most of the next. I explored my area, found a little Peruvian restaurant and had dinner. And I slept and slept and slept. (I planned my arrival two days early knowing I would need to sleep a lot to recover from the trip). Tomorrow the rest of my school group arrive and I will, hopefully, have a little back-up around. Or at least a few comrades in arms for me to commiserate with. The streets here are lined with cars and packed with people. Busses barrel down streets they can barley squeeze into and motorbikes ignore all lanes and zip around everyone at top speed. Bikes and scooters do the same. The streets are lined with huge, brick or stone buildings with dark wooden doors. Most are covered with verandas a dozen stories high and the verandas are all dripping with potted plants and flowers of every kind. Everyone is dressed in long sleeves and jackets except for me who finds 60-70 degrees to be quite pleasant and about perfect for shorts and sandals. There are little supermarkets here and there which are filled with colorful fresh fruits, fresh cheeses and beautiful breads. They sell loves by the half or quarter loaf so you can get just enough for one meal and not have to eat day old bread the next day. Tomorrow I find the hotel where my group is meeting and figure out how to get there – taxi or walk? Then on with the adventure. I just did a trip to Rome for a conference and, though I planned extensively before I left home, there were some important things I didn't know when I got here. The guide books don't have room for the kind of detail you want when first arriving at the Airport in Rome. So I am putting that detail here. Feel free to email me with any questions you have as well! Arriving at the Airport in RomeThe airport is where you will be the most confused and the most vulnerable. You are also likely to be exhausted and not thinking clearly. You have to do three things to get out of there: 1) get money. 2) get baggage and 3) get to your transportation. You have to have Euros to get around in Rome. Most taxis require cash. (though by law they can’t do that they often have “broken” card reading machines.) You will pay exorbitant rates at the airport, even at an ATM, but you have to have it for most of the travel you are going to do and any food you are going to buy. I paid $37 to get e100. Much of the airport is a big shopping mall. You will have to walk through this to get to the baggage area. You will go downstairs to get your baggage. If your baggage doesn’t arrive, find baggage area #7 and look across from it. There is a Lost & Found office there. You will probably have to stand in a line for a long time, but if you are lucky the line might be empty. They will either find your luggage on the spot or have you fill out a form to claim a missing bag and arrange to have it brought to you when it is found. Most of the time this happens within a day or two. Someone at the desk will speak broken English at least so you can somewhat communicate with them. After you get your baggage, you will exit the baggage area and walk a short ways to the outside door. Note that when you exit the baggage area you cannot return. And when you walk out the outside door you likewise can’t return. You will need Euros in cash to get your taxi, bus or train, so be sure you have gone to an ATM before leaving the baggage area. And be sure you have purchased your bus ticket. There are kiosks for this in the baggage area, but you wont be able to turn around and go back in for those things after you’ve left. Now, walking out the door – this is overwhelming. There is likely to be a big crowd of people holding signs with names on them. These are for people who have reserved a limo or car where they come and get you and take you to their car. In back of them is a line for the taxis, with a big wall blocking off the waiting area and forming the line for waiting. But before you make it there, you will be approached by a private taxi company asking if you are wanting a taxi. DON’T GO WITH THEM. Tell them no and go to the taxi queue. No one stands outside for the real taxis. You just stand in line, then walk up to the first one in line and tell them where you want to go. They tell you if they will take you or not and you go on to the next one or get in. Those people who come up to you and ask you if you want a taxi are from private companies. They are usually not licensed and can’t be tracked. They will probably quote you something like $75 (it should cost about $50). But when they get you in the taxi they can then say $175 and act like they said that all along. They hold your luggage hostage until you pay, so what can you do? Don’t go with them. If you are planning on taking taxis in Rome, at the airport or elsewhere, read this: https://www.romewise.com/taxi-in-rome.html It’s a great article and covers a lot of detail. If you are waiting for a hotel shuttle, say no to the private taxis people and walk through that whole crowd to the street. Cross to the FIRST island (very small and mostly lined with blue railings). Turn right and walk along the blue railings. Shortly one of the ubiquitous signs on the railings will say, “Hotel Shuttles this way way" then after that there will be a number of signs listing hotels. Find your hotel and stand in front of that sign. Your shuttle will pull up at the appointed time. To get to the bus, walk through a couple of lines a traffic until you reach the big parking garages at the back. You will see signs for the bus station on the right. Follow those. You also go through this area to get to the Uber area, though it is not easy to find or marked. Uber is spotty in Rome, though they do have it and it is safer than taxis when it comes to not being ripped off. Hello to all of you! I wanted to let you know that have just started an MFA (master's degree) program in Creative Writing and am working on a book called, Dancing. The title comes from the poem by Diane Hillel:
I get up. I walk. I fall down. Meanwhile I keep dancing. The book is about my life and adventures living with a long-term illness. As I put the final touches on this book, I am also launching an author website, complete with a blog I call, Christie's Mountain, about writing and life from my mountain. Subscribe to it if you would like. I will post at least once per month but probably not more often than that unless something particularly exciting happens with my writing or in my world. Meanwhile, I am riding my horses, breeding my stallion and enjoying the fall. I am getting ready to go to Rome for a conference in October and am very excited to be traveling again. Hope you all are well and hope to hear from all of you. Christie Goodman |
Christie GoodmanChristie is a 50 year old Author from Missoula Montana. She has an MFA in English and a bachelor's degree in Philosophy. She owns an off-grid horse ranch in the mountains of western Montana. She is an author of two books with a third on the way. Her first book will be published in December of 2024! Archives
October 2024
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