Roma

Moving In

We get out of the taxi at Via Baccina 20 and meet Enzo, who is waiting for us with the key to our apartment. While I pay the driver and carry the luggage in, Enzo gives Lisa a tour. This studio apartment, which is perhaps 600 square feet in size, will be our home for the next 5 days.

Lisa found the apartment on the internet before we left the states, and although it doesn't have internet access, it is perfectly situated for us, with ruins at one end of the street, and a small piazza, with ristorantes, bars, and stores at the other. The choice highlights the differences in personality between Lisa and I; she spent weeks researching every available location in this section of Rome, and put together spreadsheets of pros and cons of each. She knows the distance, in centimeters, from the front door of the apartment to every landmark in Rome. I, on the other hand, was put in charge of choosing the hotels for Barcelona and Madrid. It took me roughly five minutes.

Once Enzo leaves, Lisa takes charge of moving in. Everything comes out of our suitcases and goes into drawers and shelves. Within an hour, it truly feels like our apartment. Lisa is delighted, and I have to admit, it does feel like home.

In Ruins

Once unpacked, we immediately venture out into the streets and ruins of Rome. This becomes our daily routine; we get up, we get out, we see ruins. We eat at outdoor cafes. We people watch. We walk all day long, uphill and downhill, down narrow brick alleys. We take photos endlessly. We get lost on the subway enough times that we finally figure it out. We pick up bread, meat, cheese and wine at local grocery stores before returning to the apartment at night. As the week continues, I start taking fewer photos; we've seen so much that I begin to become confused as to what it is that we happen to be looking at. We've already gone beyond planning our days, and simply wander the streets. As there is art everywhere in Rome, we continue to find incredible views, piazzas, churches, etc. Then we look at the map to see where we are.

For the first three days, we do nothing outside of this. Then, after seeing Vatican City, Lisa discovers an outdoor market. Our routine is interrupted. Our last day in Rome is spent shopping.

Our last night in Rome, we meet up with Cathryn, the sister of a friend, at a local ristorante. Cathryn is an art critic and travel writer, an ex-pat that has been living in Rome for six years. She and Lisa hit it off immediately, and after the ristorante, we head up to the piazza to a wine bar. Cathryn has traveled widely and has endless tales of her travels. It is a lovely night; between the stories and the chance to speak English, we stay up late. The next morning is spent rushing to get our apartment back into our suitcases for an early morning flight to Madrid.

Un-American

The waiter comes to our table and, before speaking, sizes us up. He looks back and forth between us, then looks at Lisa and says, 'English'. He looks at me and says, 'Spanish'.

It is a trend that started in Sicily and continues in Rome; the locals aren't sure where I'm from, but they're all pretty certain that I'm not American. As an experiment, after our first couple of days in Rome, I stop shaving. Short, scruffy beards are everywhere on the faces of Italian men, so I'm wondering if it will help me to fit in. It works. After two days, I am stopped three times by Italians asking me, in Italian, for directions, assistance, etc.

During our shopping marathon the last day in Rome, a Chinese shop owner, having asked me what country I am from, refuses to believe that I am American. I do my best to convince her, but she's not buying it: 'Okay,' she says, 'but where are your parents from?'

As we climb into the cab to head to the airport, the taxi driver looks at me and abruptly says, 'Ah! You are Spanish!'. He wants to practice his Spanish with me, so I figure, what the hell, I'll be Spanish. We chat all the way to the airport.

Waiters

Waiters do not wait on tables in Rome; the tables wait on the waiters. They are very quick to pull you off the streets as you pass by to put you at one of their tables, but then they leave you at the table to ponder what you are going to order, or perhaps to ponder the meaning of life. Indefinitely. Lisa has remarked several times at how beautiful the Italians are, especially the Sicilians, and how she simply doesn't understand how they can eat five course meals and stay so thin. My theory is that they eat at the local restaurants. That way, they are limited to maybe two meals a week.

That being said, the food is beautifully presented. Even a cappucino is a work of art, and the beers are served with hors d'oeuvres that will, if you want to bar hop, eventually serve as dinner.