Rome Part 1

It's just as incredible as you imagine.

VIVA ROMA!

Ciao! Come va?

It what will surely be a surprise to no one, it turns out that flinging yourself halfway across the world to a city you haven’t been to,* where you don’t know a soul, much less the language, is actually a great idea. Especially if that city is Rome.

You guys…Rome is magic.

I arrived at the beginning of March with two lightly-packed suitcases and zero expectations, to my apartment in the Nomentano neighborhood, a quiet, residential area in the northeast section of the city. The apartment itself is beautiful — with high ceilings, wooden floors, and stained glass windows — in a charming building with massive wooden doors, marble stairs, and a teeny-tiny elevator.

I spent my first few weeks here acclimating: finding my grocery stores (produce, meat, and dairy from the open stalls at Mercato Italia, Lucarelli for pizza bianca, fresh pasta, Parmesan, prosciutto, and wine from Limata, and then to a regular grocery store for coffee and sundries), learning how to use the metro, walking for miles and miles around different neighborhoods trying to orient myself, going to restaurants, figuring out my favorite areas and places to eat, and absolutely butchering the Italian language wherever I went. And, getting used to my mostly nocturnal and fairly punishing work schedule. What, you thought I was here just fa la la-ing around? I wish!

I think many people try and see as much of Italy as possible when they travel here— two days in Rome, than two days in Florence, then three days in Venice, etc —but I resisted that inclination for the entirety of March (though I traveled in April and May, more on that next time!) and committed myself to being fully immersed in the city, which is magnificent and enormous in its own right. To be honest, I’m still processing a lot of what it has meant to come here, and I am not consciously aware yet of all the ways this experienced has changed me. So rather than self reflecting, I’m just going to tell you about my observations so far:

The COLORS. That’s the first thing that struck me. The colors of the apartment buildings are a range of oranges and yellows and sometimes pinks and greens. On my walks I have given them food names (apricot, mango, lemon, butter, pistachio, avocado, tangerine) as its the only way I can describe them. The sky is bluer here, the vines greener, the wisteria more lavender. Maybe it’s because I came from the gray PNW, but I want this color palette imprinted on my eyeballs forever.

The SMELL. The wisteria was in full bloom, and now the jasmine is exploding. It smells like a lush, tropical heaven.

The FOOD. Duh, obviously, food is great in Rome. Roman food is extremely specific and many restaurants serve a variation of the same exact thing: the four signature primi pastas (carbonara, gricia, amatriciana, cacio e pepe), a simple meat (steak, lamb, or pork — very little chicken or fish), and vegetable sides (contorni) of sauteed chicories (cicoria), potatoes, or, if in season — happily, they have been — carciofi (artichokes), either alla romana (Roman-style stewed with oil and mint) or giudica (Jewish-style, deep-fried). Sometimes you can have a plate of prosciutto or pecorino or mozzarella di bufala as an appetizer. And, of course, bread (and wine).

Non-restaurant food is generally sandwiches, pizza, or suppli. I could write an entire post on sandwiches and pizza, but suffice to say I love them all: tramezzino, trapizzini, panini, stuffed pizza bianca, and both of the Roman-style pizzas: the thicker kind that comes out of the oven in an oval or square slab, and you indicate how much of each slab you want; and the super thin-crust version I’ve had at pizzerias. Pizza bianca is sold in pretty much every alimentari or shop and is the basis of my favorite sandwich with porchetta and cicoria at a small shop near Piazza del Popolo.

I quickly realized, though, that if I ate like I’m on vacation every day, I would come home weighing 200 pounds, so during the week I cook mostly everything at home. Lentils, eggs, vegetables, and, yes, pasta, pretty much every night.

This city is absolutely beautiful.

The PEOPLE. Are everywhere, which is a huge spirit-lifter for me. I find Seattle way too isolated so I personally love the fact that when I step outside, there are multitudes of people, of EVERY age, everywhere I go. Old, young, packs of teenagers, middle-aged, babies — everywhere, all the time. I would say half of the people I have encountered in my day-to-day life speak English, and the rest tolerate my dumb attempts at my Italian. The only time it gets to be too many people is whenever I am in a tourist area (anywhere near the Colosseum or Centro Storico) — holy hell this place is crowded and it’s not even summer yet. I feel bad for Romans.

Weird confession: As an Italian-American, I spend a fair amount of time searching for my facial features on the faces of women on the subway. So far, I’ve seen a lot of spectacular noses and eyes, but none that are quite like mine. I’ve been stopped and asked for directions a lot, though!

The FASHION. People are better dressed here, full stop. No matter their age, people look put-together — no athleisure, save for people who are actually exercising. Women and men of every age (except teens, who pretty much universally wear baggy jeans, skimpy tops (girls) and T-shirts (boys)) wear blouses, button-downs, dresses, nice shoes, pants, skirts, sweaters, and scarves. Older women wear lots of jewelry and makeup, and, hilariously, puffer jackets or wool coats if it is any temperature under 70 degrees. Older men wear suit jackets, sunglasses, and good shoes. They are chic as fuck.

The DOGS. They are also everywhere, including restaurants, trains, grocery stores, and the metro. Mostly on leashes but sometimes not, dogs here are incredibly well behaved and incredibly well cared for. And the owners are happy to let you pet them. My kind of town!

The ART. And HISTORY. And MONUMENTS. More than two months in, I have barely scratched the surface of all of the historical monuments, ruins, basilicas, and museums. I regret that I don’t know much about Roman history because I think the experience of being here would be that much more amazing if I did. I will never get over the fact that when you pop out of the Colosseo metro stop you are in fact…in front of the actual Colosseum, and that practically every street you walk down just casually houses some incredible work of art or momentous historical marker. I’m not religious, but I’ve wept more than once in a basilica, especially when coming across the Caravaggios hanging inside.

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Speaking of weeping, I have done a fair amount of it here. I have had moments of transcendence and moments of joy, but I’ve also had moments of longing and loss. I miss my dog so, so much. I know that looking at old pictures of her will make me cry, but instead of resisting it, I tell myself I just have to feel the sadness. Being in another country definitely gives me plenty of other things to think about, but it hasn’t stopped me from thinking about her, from missing her, from reliving her excruciating last days. I try to remember that in the total span of her life, she had one bad month out of dozens of good months, and that I was so lucky to have had the time with her that I had.

In these moments, I reach for the lock of her hair that I brought with me — a touchstone, in its little plastic pouch — and I take a deep breath, taste my tears, and remember. I remember.

Grazie per aver letto,

Antonia

*I was here for one day as part of a high school trip. I don’t really count that!