Rome Pass or Omnia Card, the question of the passage of the city to Rome inevitably arises. And especially when you realize that there are 2 visits to Rome ... And this is the reason for this comparative pass to visit Rome! This ticket will help you choose the sightseeing tour of Rome that will be best suited to your desire for discoveries ...
In fact, in this post, I compare the 2 tourist passes of Rome to help you choose the Omnia Card (buy on the web here) or the Roma Pass (to book online here) depending on what you expect to visit in Rome. I would tell you where to buy your pass for Rome with confidence on the Internet to avoid wasting time in the place. In summary, after reading this post, you must be unbeatable in the pass cards for Rome!
Rome Pass: 2 different passes of the city to visit Rome
For your cultural visits to Rome, it is possible to opt for the purchase of individual tickets for each visit / monument or acquire a pass from the city to Rome.In this comparison about the past of Rome, I do not stop buying unit tickets because it is not the solution to adopt in my opinion. In fact, when buying individual tickets for each visit, you will pay more and you will have to queue at the most famous monuments of Rome (Vatican Museum, St. Peter's Basilica, Colosseum, Roman Forum in particular).
Buying a pass card for Rome is, therefore, in my opinion an obligation and not a simple option to consider. However, a real question arises: what Rome should choose?
“This is Angela Earl. I’ll be returning stateside soon as possible, whenever they can find me a spot on a transport. Hang in there. Thank you.” Devon saved the message, flipped the phone shut, and breathed a sigh of relief on Josh’s behalf. But no sooner had she breathed that sigh than a knot of anxiety began to form in her stomach at the prospect of meeting her half-sister, one more family member she’d not known she possessed. She took the last few steps into the kitchen. Laura looked round from gazing out the window. “Two cardinals have a nest in that camellia bush.” Devon walked over to look. “Just there.” Laura pointed to a bush not five feet beyond the glass.
As if on cue, a bright red cardinal appeared out of the leaves and flew off into the tree line at the edge of the lawn. “I think they’ve hatched. Either that, or he’s bringing food to the female while she sets.” Devon laughed. “Who says chivalry is dead?” “Probably food for the chicks.” “Probably.” “Speaking of food, the muffins will be ready in”—she checked the timer—“three minutes.” “Good. I’m suddenly starving.” “And Josh?” “He seemed fine. Sherri’s with him now.” “How’d it go?” “Oh, just your average everyday meet your gravely ill father for the first time at the age of thirty-six kind of encounter.” “That bad, huh?” Devon laughed. “No, that good. It went fine. He seems a kind and gentle man. In a different life, it would’ve been nice to know him sooner.” “He would’ve cherished you.” “I want to believe that,” Devon said. “But how do you know?” The oven timer dinged at just that moment. Both women jumped at the sound. Laura turned to the oven and used two potholders to remove the pan full of golden brown, perfectly shaped muffins. She set the pan on a cooling rack on the counter beside the oven then put the potholders back in their drawer. Devon watched her mother, waiting for her to finish her task. When Laura finally turned, Devon said, “The muffins look beautiful and smell great. I wouldn’t have guessed you were a baker.” “I’m not, anymore. This is a throw-back to a long, long time ago.”
Devon nodded toward the muffins. “Looks like you haven’t lost your touch.” “We’ll give them a few minutes to cool.” “I can wait.” “And for an answer to your previous question?” Laura asked. “Preferably not another thirty-six years.” “Don’t worry about that. I doubt I’ll last that long.” “Then how about now?” Laura nodded. “Please sit, dear.” She pulled out a chair from the table. “Can I get you a cup of coffee?” “Coffee’d be great. It’s the fuel I run on at work.” Laura poured her a cup and brought it on a mismatched saucer. She brought milk in a small pottery pitcher, sugar in a shallow bowl, and a teaspoon for stirring. She then carefully pried three muffins out of the pan and set them on a bread plate and placed the plate in front of Devon. “Be careful. They’re still hot.” Devon said, “You must think I have the appetite of a field hand.” “Don’t you—after the night and the morning you’ve had?” Devon thought about that. “I just might.” She stirred a little milk into her coffee then slowly sipped it. “Ahh, awake at last.” “From this long dream.”
“Which the dream, which the reality?” Laura shrugged. “All a blur to me.” “You think it’ll ever come in focus again?” “If an infant has one weak eye, they cover the good one.” “And the blurry one learns to focus,” Devon finished. Laura shrugged. “We can hope.” She sat opposite Devon. She twirled her empty cup slowly on the table and stared at it as if it might hold the answers to all her questions, or at least sort out the current pain and uncertainty. “Josh was the ultimate romantic. If he’d got one look at you, newborn and helpless and cute as a button, he would have grabbed hold of you and never let go, defending you against all dangers, known and unknown.” “But the world would’ve won, worn him down?” “No, I don’t think so. Josh’s supply of romantic delusion was bottomless back then, at least far as I could tell.
The world might’ve tried to wear him down, but the world had met few rivals as determined as Josh.” “Then why didn’t you let him have me?” “Early on, I thought it might be spite—that if I wasn’t strong enough to raise you, I didn’t want him to have the chance. He certainly would’ve accused me of that, had he known. But once I was fully clear of his deeply rooted influence, I realized that I didn’t want to put you—or, for that matter, Josh—through what he and I had paid such a high price to learn.” Devon looked confused. “The world doesn’t break Josh, never has. It’s the object of his obsession that gets worn down and ultimately rebels. Sooner or later, that would’ve happened to you. It would’ve been hard on you; it might’ve killed Josh.” “So you spared us both?” “That’s what I came to think, when I thought about it at all—which wasn’t often, for obvious reasons.” “Then I suppose I should thank you.” “Not for that, Devon.” “Then for these incredible muffins!” She had just finished her second and was taking the paper wrapper off the third. “Those thanks I’ll accept with joy.” “Good.” She nibbled on the still warm muffin. “Oh, Angie’s coming, left a message this morning.” “You talked to her?” “Late last night, then she left a follow-up message when I was in with Josh and had my phone off.” “When will she arrive?” “She doesn’t know—something about waiting for space on a transport plane. But she’s coming.” “Good.” “You think we should tell Josh?” “Why not?” “What if she changes her mind? I just don’t want him hurt.” Laura smiled. “I hope I’m lucky enough to have you guarding me when I’m old.” “Don’t worry. I will.” “Promise?” Devon raised her eyes from finishing off the final muffin and gazed straight at her new-found mother. “Of course.” The two women sat in the spreading light and growing warmth of the inexorable spring morning.
Angie pulled out a paperback she kept handy for just such slow spells—Madame Bovary this time, her third reading of the novel. She sat beside an unconscious soldier on a gurney waiting for an evac chopper. He’d slipped while disembarking from a personnel carrier during a raid and his ankle got crushed as the ramp started to close. They’d immobilized his lower leg, pumped him full of morphine and antibiotics, and prepped him for transfer to Germany for possible reconstruction or amputation. Now all he needed was a chopper to carry him to the airport for the flight to Ramstein, but the choppers were all dispatched to a bombing site north of Baghdad. So Angie waited with the injured soldier in the quiet hospital tent, reading Madame Bovary. “She was doomed from the start,” he said. Angie jumped at the words.
The soldier was staring at her, clear-eyed and clearly awake. “Who was doomed?” “Emma Bovary. She expected too much.” “Of whom? Charles? Rodolphe?” “Of life. It’s a dangerous thing.” Angie was now more confused than startled. “What’s dangerous—life?” “Expectations.” “Better to have none?” “Yes.” “But what of hopes? What of dreams?” “‘Smoke before wind’ at best, a terminal cancer at worst. Emma had the worst kind.” Angie lowered her book and studied her calm patient. She was amazed he was conscious, let alone coherent. She quickly checked his IV drips—they were all open and flowing. “Are you all right?” “My ankle’s been better.” “I mean pain. Are you in pain?” “Been through worse.” “Can I get you anything?” “I’m fine for now. Just don’t leave.” “We’re waiting for evac. I’m not going anywhere till they arrive.” “Good.” The soldier closed his eyes. Angie studied his face. He couldn’t have been older than nineteen or twenty—he still had an adolescent softness to his cheeks and chin. He might one day grow into handsomeness, if his face could negotiate the transition to adulthood. She took a towel from the gurney and gently wiped a drop of sweat from his left temple. He opened his eyes at the touch of the towel and nodded thanks. “This morning I still expected to be an Olympic skier.” He spoke the words with a clinical detachment. “Still could be.” He offered her a beautiful smile, the brightest thing in the room at that moment. “Thanks for saying so, but you and I know that Olympic skiing is not in my future anymore.
Thing is, I now realize it was never a realistic expectation. But it took God to put the hammer down on that expectation this morning.” “God?” “How else do you explain this?” He nodded toward his leg elevated on pillows under the sheet. “An accident.” “Not this time. God needed to shake me free of futile expectation.” “To what end?” “Well, I guess that’s the fun part—now I need to figure that out.” “And just how do you do that?” “Pick up the pieces you’re given, put them together best you can.” “When’d you get so smart?” “This morning around 11:20 Baghdad time.” “Steep price to pay.” “Cheap, compared to years or decades chasing phantom dreams.” Angie gazed at his face that’d seemed to age under her watch. “Then again,” he added, “might just be these high-dollar drugs you’re pumping into me.” He again flashed that incredible smile. “Never worked like this on anyone else.” “First time for everything.” He closed his eyes and leaned back into the pillow. “Please don’t leave.” Angie said, “I won’t.” He slid his left hand out from under the sheet and to the edge of the gurney, just beneath the lowest side rail. She reached out and accepted his grasp, a mutual gift. “Don’t talk about the first thing that pops up,” Josh joked as Sherri began his sponge bath by focusing on his groin region. She’d finally removed that uncomfortable catheter and was taking full advantage of this renewed access to his penis and scrotum. She scrubbed gently but firmly with her sponge dipped in warm, soapy water.
Drops of water leaked out of the sponge and trickled down over his inner thighs and testicles and anus to the thick towel she’d doubled up under his butt. “I’ll give it a workout, if you wish,” Sherri countered. “Probably could use the exercise.” “No ‘if you wish’ about it,” Josh said. “That soldier marches to the beat of his own drummer.” Sherri nodded. “So I’ve observed.” As if on cue, Josh’s half-tumescent penis flexed once and rolled to one side, then didn’t move again. Sherri sponged the spot it had vacated then continued her bathing gently down over his thighs and hips, every few seconds pausing to dip the sponge in the basin and squeezing out the excess water before continuing her scrubbing.
Josh closed his eyes and seamlessly set his mind to drift on the prevailing breezes of semi-consciousness. Not surprisingly, those breezes carried his mind to the hands of all the women that had massaged his nakedness—whether in love or lust or a desperate need only they knew—over the course of his life. It wasn’t a particularly long list, at least for a man of his generation and socio-cultural background—perhaps twenty or so women in all, though he’d never tried to establish an exact tally. Some of the massages had been of the one-night-stand variety—little more (or less) than furious gropes and probes and releases in bar-room toilet stalls, house-party guestrooms, motel beds.
In fact, there are 2 visits to Rome:
The Roma Pass, an interesting pass from Rome but does not include the Vatican (book here at the rate of 39 euros for the Rome Pass 72 hours)
The Omnia card, the most complete pass in Rome that includes the Roma Pass pass + full access to all Vatican sites (to reserve here)
In the next part of this post, I talk to you in detail about these 2 passes in Rome to guide you in the best choice of your pass to visit Rome. Also, I tell you where to buy your tourist pass for Rome at the best price.
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