What a scene it was. This neighborhood was crawling with hundreds people of all different nationalities. I was especially surprised at how many Americans I saw and English I heard. While Josh grabbed his first slice of authentic Italian pizza, I looked for people to meet. Flirting, for me, transcends all backgrounds, races, and nationalities. Speaking Italian to Italians always provokes giggling, between my accent and the simplicity of my language. Midway through a conversation, I handed a girl my phone and a calling card and asked her to program it for me. She obliged, I said grazie, she said
prego (you're welcome), and her friends dragged her off.
A moment later, a promoter gave us a card detailing a bar in the neighborhood that sounded like a great deal. As we began walking, we ran into my friend Rachel from UMD and several of her friends. I knew Rachel would be in Rome this weekend, but as she has no phone, I had no real plans to meet her. It’s a small world after all. They were going the other way and I decided on behalf of the guys that we would join them. Our big American entourage settled on an American-owned bar called the Drunken Ship. We, the guys, excused ourselves for a minute to avoid being charged a fee to use the
bagno (restroom), opting to use the back of the building as the other ragazzi (guys) did.
We returned to the bar and had a great time. No cover charge, overpriced beers, and a really cool looking ceiling (I thought). There was even a table in the corner with people playing beer pong. I considered joining, but I hate waiting my turn and hated their rules even more (lining up four in a row?!), so I declined. After an hour or so, the girls left. I was ready to hit another bar too, but Jon "Mac Daddy" Siegel was having a pleasant conversation of his own, so I settled on talking to someone new. The first person I saw was an American girl from Pennsylvania. After talking for a minute, she stopped midsentence, dropped her jaw and opened my jacket, revealing my "Ben Roethlisburgher is a Douche Bag" t-shirt. She summoned over a large handful of friends—all Steelers fans—and much trash talking ensued.
Siegel finally lost interest in the girl he was talking to—so he said—and we left. By that point we all drank our fill and decided to grab a bite to eat before going home. We stopped at an unusual sandwich shop at the end of the
piazza (square). I asked the girl next to me to order for me as I had no clue what tasted good. The sandwich looked and tasted like schnitzel (a big chicken nugget) and was pretty weak. I kept talking to the girl, Grazia, and she wrote her name on my map, followed by "Facebook."
The three of us stumbled to a
fermata (used for either bus, train or metro stops, or taxi stands) and hopped back on the #64 bus. Joining us were three English-speaking girls who wouldn't tell us where they were from. Two of them nearly smacked the third and funniest one when she accidentally spilled the beans and hinted that they were Dutch. We got off at Termini and walked back to the hostel. They were one bed short, but Josh brought a sleeping bag. I graciously accepted it, even happier with their refusal to accept money for the room, and quickly fell asleep.
We awoke at 9:00 AM Saturday morning to the sound of dogs barking on David's phone. We showered, put on fresh clothes, and began walking to the Great Old Synagogue. Like the difference between riding the train during the
giorno (day) and at
notte (night), walking through Rome during the eye inspired sheer awe inside me. I don’t recall my eyes or jaw ever feeling more wide open. I will share the details of walking through Rome in a bit when I recount Sunday morning’s journey.
Despite the usual bickering between the Jons and Goldsteins, we arrived at the Great Old Synagogue, albeit just late enough to miss
shacharit (the first set of morning services). At the gate stood a guard; an Italian Jew in his twenties who spoke perfect English, Hebrew, and Italian. He asked me to remove my camera and phone from my pockets, which he placed in a cubby and gave me a ticket. I could not remember all the objects I held in my many pockets and had to walk through a metal detector six times (oops) before the guard wished me a Shabbat Shalom and granted me entrance.
There is no secret as to why it is called the Great Old Synagogue. Though it doesn’t hold the largest capacity of any synagogue (Beth Tfiloh’s sanctuary alone is much bigger), its height and grandeur far exceeded that of any synagogue I have ever seen. The ceiling is hundreds of feet high, boasting acoustics that create an unparalleled sound of magnificence as the cantor chants his prayers. Large, gold menorahs litter the scenery. A second story of seats is available for women on the high holidays, though for Shabbat they sit behind
mechitzot (barriers) on either side of the mens’ section. The ark was at least twenty feet tall with a heavy curtain protecting two Torahs. Sitting atop the ark was a set of the Ten Commandments that looked like any other that one sees atop an ark. This struck me as very humbling both to me and this synagogue: despite all of the splendor and beauty of this synagogue, it bore the same set of commandments, it was still just a synagogue; just as important to G-d and just as welcoming to all Jews as any other house of prayer. What probably grabbed my attention more than anything else (aside from perhaps the sheer size of this building), was the attention to detail in the painting of the sanctuary’s walls. I am not an artist and barely a writer, so all I can describe of this aspect is that its beauty and that of this synagogue made it difficult to pray at times, though I managed to say, “Amen.”
The men in the synagogue amused me very much. I think it’s typical for Americans to have certain mental pictures of what Italian men and women look like. Those mental pictures rarely include yamulkes and tallitot. Though we missed shacharit, we arrived just before
musaf (second set of morning services). Right in the center of the men’s section was a crowd of at least ten boys all talking and joking with no regard to the service. Their elders paid no attention to this and the boys kept their chatter relatively quiet. At one point during musaf, I witnessed a beautiful tradition that was completely foreign to me. Every man summoned his sons to him; he raised his tallis over their heads and said a collective blessing for their well-being. While most men wrapped their tallis around themselves too, the head rabbi could only drape his tallis flat over the heads of his seven sons. I wondered how many daughters he had.
If I thought running into Rachel made this a small world, it is because I hadn’t been to synagogue in a while. Sitting in front of me were three Hebrew-speaking men (everyone else spoke Italian). I asked where they were from and they replied Israel. They asked the same and I answered Baltimore. All three of these men spent three or four years in Baltimore, attending Yeshivat Ner Israel, three blocks away from my home. They even knew a few Beth Tfiloh alumni, but none my age as they all graduated when I was three. Sitting next to Kalish was an exceptionally pleasant American fellow named Shmarya. Two years ago, Shmarya married Julia Frankston-Morris, a Beth Tfiloh alum of 2003, whom I remembered from when I was just a freshmen and hadn’t seen since she was a student. Sure enough, she emerged from behind the mechitza after the service and joined our crowd for a delicious Kiddush of small sandwiches.
The seven of us—the Jons, the Goldsteins, Shmarya, Julia, and I—met the head rabbi of the synagogue and he graciously invited us to have Shabbat lunch at the “Young Synagogue.” As we walked, Shmarya filled me in on a bit of history about the Roman Jews. In the fifteenth century, the prince of Italy decreed that all of the Jews in Rome must live in a ghetto next to the Tiber River, which flows right through the heart of Rome and is/was prone to flooding. The Jews capitalized on their situation, building a vibrant community that now includes at least two synagogues (the Old and the Young) and many nice kosher restaurants. The Young Synagogue is located on an actual island in the middle of the Tiber River. Bridges on either side of the island connect it to both sides of the river, making it a good crossing point and (I would think) a profitable commercial location.
We walked up a long spiral staircase and entered a room packed full of Jews. As Kalish and Goldstein introduced themselves to the president of the synagogue, I introduced myself to four pretty French Jewish girls. Shabbat shalom was about all they appeared to understand. Amid much chaos and elbow-bumping, I managed to introduce myself to some respected members of this community. I told them I was studying in Viterbo for the semester and they insisted I return for Shabbat sometime. One incredibly kind lady, Leanor Rosenberg, gave me her e-mail address and instructed me to e-mail her for Pesach plans. I intend to follow through.
We mostly talked to Americans, most of whom immigrated to Rome for one reason or another. One man informed us that a large-scale anti-Israel demonstration would take place later that day and that we should take precautions, remove our yamulkes, and avoid demonstrators at all costs. We said we would, and we did, and we were fine. Sorry to give that away, but I know my mom’s blood probably went cold when she read that. Hi Mom!
Finally everyone has cleared out except for the American 7, the president of the Young Synagogue and his family. But no one is sitting down to eat. The table isn’t being set. We ask them if we are supposed to be there and they say yes, but we must wait for one final friend to come. Then we are left alone with their four children; a girl, Daphna, who was twelve, and three boys, Daniel, 7, Rubin, 4, and a nine year-old whose name escapes me. Daniel and Rubin were nearly identical and they played a game almost identical to paper football, while the third boy kept ruining the game and Daphna tried earnestly to keep the boys from fighting too much. As the seven of us sat with nothing to do, I used it as an opportunity to speak with some Italians who probably spoke about as much Italian as I did. Not the case. Though I could translate some words with the help of my notes (I keep a small notebook with me everywhere I go), my attempts earned me the teasing of small children. Thank goodness for self-confidence.
Over an hour passed before we were invited to sit at the table for lunch. Before I continue, let me pause to say that our hosts were very polite; so polite, in fact, that they waited almost two hours to begin lunch because they were waiting for a friend who had difficulty getting around. When I kvetch about the length of time we waited, I do so with a smile. After we sit at the table, we still wait for at least a half-hour before everybody is seated. I had eaten Italian meals before, and I had eaten Shabbat lunch before, but I had never eaten an Italian Shabbat
pranzzo (lunch) before, which sure enough, delivered the best of both worlds. Our first course was manicotti with
carne (meat), which they called something completely different than manicotti. Manicotti is Sicilian dialect, as are many of the words I knew before my trip as my father’s family (and the Godfather’s) are Sicilian. Our host attempts to pass out the manicotti himself, but throws the plates down on the table and yells, “Vaffanculo!” shaking his hands from a burning hot plate. Everyone at the table bursts out into laughter except for the six other Americans who did not understand. Josh boldly asks the lady next to him what happened and she replies, “You know, like f**k.” That elicited a healthy laughter from my fellow Americans. Could you imagine this dialogue at a Shabbat lunch table in America? I can not.
Next was chicken and potatoes, followed by an incredibly delicious fettuccini (it looked like fettuccini but there are dozens of similar pastas) in red sauce and eggplant. The lady sitting next to Josh informed him that it is polite to mop up the sauce in one’s plate with one’s bread, pointing at my dish which looked like she just said. I replied that I always just do that as a habit, especially when the sauce or bread is good. Turns out, it’s tradition; a way of informing your host that you enjoyed the dish.
By the time our fourth course arrived, Kalish and I were the only Americans who could still eat. The fourth course was vegetables; corn, beans, and spinach. After the vegetables came chocolate cake. We were down for the count. Then, they brought out big chilled bottles and shot glasses. Our host places a bottle of some lemon-flavored drink in front of us. Only three of us, myself included, manned up and took a shot of this cold lemony drink. Little do we know that there’s barely any alcohol in it and the rest of the table is just sipping theirs. Aside from lemon, there was chocolate and cherry also. My comrades and I pour ourselves new shots and sip them in marginal shame.
We pray after lunch and our host again reminds us of the demonstration and how to avoid it. By now we had been in the Young Synagogue for about four hours. While a couple of the guys were a little sore at having spent valuable time in Rome just having lunch, it was an experience I will certainly not forget. We arranged to meet them on Sunday to give tzedakah to the synagogue as a sign of appreciation for our meal and hospitality (it is traditionally forbidden to carry money on Shabbat). Everyone wished us well, reminded us about the demonstration, and said arrivederci.
One character I almost failed to mention is Yaakov, an old, round man with an infectious laugh. All he could say to us was, “Baltimora!” but in some ways that made him even more congenial. He also frisbee-threw a couple of styrofoam plates across the table at us. We received the most hospitable attention from the Young Synagogue in Rome and I look forward to returning with the four Jewish girls on my program.
After lunch, I checked my voice messages and saw a missed call from my friend Alex—not whose blog you’re reading. I called Alex back and he informed me that a group of USAC students travelled to Rome for the day. They were at the Pantheon and that’s where we were heading anyway so we told them to wait. The synagogue instructed us to walk around the neighborhood containing the demonstration. We met Alex and about ten other USAC students at the Pantheon, took a quick peak inside, and left with them as they had been waiting for a bit and I knew I would return sooner or later (I did).
This big crowd of Americans made its way through a few blocks. Surprisingly, the Jons and Goldsteins were talking pretty warmly with the USAC kids and Alex would tell me days later that he wished they could have stayed in Italy longer. Our small army turned left and arrived at the Fontana di Trevi. I was not fully prepared for such an incredible sight. This enormous fountain is about fifteen feet tall and sixty feet long against the back of a building. It depicts two men on either side wrestling bulls while a man in the center stands with an outstretched arm. Hundreds of people occupy the piazza around it taking pictures nonstop. My friend said she saw a man propose while we were there. My friend Francesca and I bought gelati (my first in Italy—so good!) and we all took tons of pictures. My USAC friends wanted to visit the Spanish Steps, but the Jons and Goldsteins wanted to visit the National Museum of Rome. I opted to join the Jons and Goldsteins and said goodbye to my USAC friends until Monday.
The museum was holding a Picasso exhibit and we arrived at 5:50 PM. At 6:00, the prices go down so we opted to wait for a bit. While waiting we heard a loud BOOM! Because the street was blocked off with police cars, I hypothesized that the noise was a rubber bullet projectile detonation, a painful but nonlethal weapon for riot control. We eagerly entered at 6:00 and got even better prices with our student IDs.
Hundreds of original Picasso paintings, sketches, and sculptures covered the modern layout of this ancient monument. None of us are artists or art historians or critiques, but we spent our time carefully looking at each piece noting what we liked about it, what caught our eye, and which pieces we recognized. Many of Picasso’s most famous paintings originated as sketches and progressed through several stages of painting before completion. We liked a couple of paintings pre-completion stages more than their completed ones. One of the paintings that I recognized put a big smile on my face. I traveled to France with the Alter family in 2006. One evening we went to Cannes and ate at a restaurant that Picasso and many other refugee artists lived in for some time during World War II, paying for their stay with art produced onsite. The time, place, and date on the painting matched up perfectly. I wonder which painting Picasso liked more, the one before me or the one in Cannes. The whole exhibit was a special opportunity that I am glad we caught.
We left the museum after a couple of hours and decided to head back to the hostel. The demonstration was over so we headed down that road to catch the Metro. I stopped in my tracks when I realized this road ended at the Coliseum. I paused for a moment to admire it before catching up with the guys, who already took the tour in English.
Across the street I noticed graffiti on the walls. Stencils of bombs scattered the wall, punctuated with the words, “Stop al Massacro, Free Gaza.” We proceeded to walk further until we approached a display for an upcoming Roman festival. Covering the display was a sign written in Italian, warning Italians against supporting Israel’s right to defend its territory. The five of us just stared at it for a moment. Full of anger at the lack of awareness of the causes and consequences of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict and the media’s terrible bias against Israel, I contemplated tearing down the sign. I carefully looked around and saw no demonstrators. Before my friends could stop me, I tore down this hateful message, crumbled it up, and threw it in the
spazzatura (garbage) where it belonged. My feeling of personal pride was short-lived. Moments later, a throng of demonstrators passed us (they didn’t see me tear the sign down) carrying hateful signs, wearing keffiyehs around their heads, and chanting Arabic phrases. My heart skipped a few beats as we passed them, making me glad I did not take longer to make my decision.
As we descended into Metro B, I noticed a lot of differences from Metro A. For example, Metro B was dirtier and fouler than any metro station I have ever been in. It was overcrowded, smelled badly (though that could have just been the protestors), and was COVERED in graffiti.
We arrived at our hostel around 9:00 PM. The Jons and Goldsteins had an early flight to catch and so they resolved not to go out. Though I really wanted to make it to Trastaverde that night, I quickly surrendered to my exhaustion from a long day well-spent. A couple glasses of free hostel wine helped. At the hostel, we watched soccer for a bit while chatting with the other guests. There were Australians, Brazilians, and Portuguese there, including one Jewish girl from Brazil who traded news about Israel with us. Nothing exciting happened, but everyone seemed to cherish the opportunity to sit with other young people from all over the world and chat about the differences between our countries, Italy, and each other. We graciously went to sleep around midnight.
The Jons and Goldsteins had a 6:00 AM flight to London. Around 3:00 AM, they woke up, gathered their bags, and checked out. They woke me up and guided me to one of their beds, traded bear hugs, and wished each other well. I woke up at 9:00 AM and took my time showering, packing, and enjoying the free internet. I looked up the exact locations of two bars, the Scholars’ Lounge and La Botticella, where I knew the AFC Championship game would be shown. I put my bag in the hostel’s storage room, bringing my camera, phone, notebook, pen, wallet, and map as I set out for a day on my own in Rome.
My stomach grumbled as I exited the hostel. I walked to Piazza della Repubblica and decided to eat at this small café just across the street. The cashier, cook, and waiter were extremely friendly and helpful in choosing my breakfast. I settled on a salami and egg sandwich (Italians cut the crust off their sandwich bread—everywhere) and a macchiato. I took my time eating while rereading a short history of the Ancient Near East, Greece, and Rome. Molto bello.
After paying—you must ask for the bill; they will not just bring it to you because they will not rush you—I made my way down Via Nazionale. Strolling is the art and practice of taking one’s time, pausing to look deeply at the stores, people, and sights around oneself. Strolling down Via Nazionale, an enormous main road by any
standards, allowed me the time and peace of mind to truly imbibe everything around me. No one in the world knew where was I was at that moment and that realization brought me feelings of profound freedom and oneness with the world. I officially became a world traveler.
I sat on the steps of a museum while I reflected on these thoughts. After a few minutes I noticed there was an Etruscan exhibit on display that day. The original Etruscans were Phoenician-speakers who settled into small cities in north-central Italy, expanding their territories until the Romans crushed their cities and brought them under Roman rule. With their taxed produce came their language as Rome officially adopted the Etruscan adaptation of the Phoenician alphabet. Viterbo is one such Etruscan city that eventually adapted Roman culture. I read this in my book over breakfast and though I would have loved to view the exhibit, I failed to ask if there were student discounts—apparently it’s free for students—and declined to pay the eight euro to enter.
As I continued down Via Nazionale, I noticed two McDonald’s on this crowded street. I should have figured as much, but I still chuckled as I walked past and recognized the familiar scent of grease. A few blocks later, my peripheral vision caught sight of a clothing store with clothes on
display that I liked. The price tags jumped out at my eye, “12 euro!” Most clothing stores have their nicest clothes on display with triple digit prices, so I entered this store and dug through stacks and stacks until I found a great new shirt for only 9 euro. I asked the girl behind the counter, “
Ti piace?” (Do you like?) She nodded yes and I bought my new shirt. I don’t know how unimpressive this story will read to many people, but I am far from a materialist. I treasure experience much more than material objects. Aside from presents for my siblings, this is the only thing I bought in Rome that I can bring back with me. If you are still reading this, you may agree that the memories I will bring home will ultimately be my most valuable purchase.
Walking a little further down Via Nazionale, I passed a looming tunnel on my right. I passed this tunnel on Saturday with the Jons and Goldsteins, but it was such a curious sight that I decided to turn right and walk through this imposing infrastructure. I emerged into a whole new neighborhood. At this point I was still slowly moving in the direction of the synagogue and the bars in no particular hurry. I turn left here, right there, and before I
know it, I am back at the Fontana di Trevi. It is such a beautiful sight that I decide to sit down for a moment and admire it. Four girls walk past me and sit down. Hug boots, long jean skirts, stockings, etc. “Are you Jewish?” I boldly ask. With a look of puzzlement one answers, “Yes…Are you?” When I affirm this she asks, “How did you know that?” Like I couldn’t have guessed. I even guessed they were from New York. “Brooklyn,” she responds. Small world again—she knows a friend or two of mine from Hillel at Maryland. I wish them all well, advise them to visit the Jewish ghetto, and resume strolling.
A left here, a right there, and ten minutes later I am at my first stop, the Scholars’ Lounge. It’s a family-owned Irish pub that everybody in Rome seemed to know. I emailed the manager ahead of time to ensure that the game would be on that night, but I just felt like stopping by to say thanks and that I would return later. It was 1:00 PM and there were about six or seven bartenders; all Irish. There was barely anybody there, but they were definitely prepared for the crowd that would invade the pub that night.
My next stop would be the Great Old Synagogue. I asked an old man for directions in Italian and his accent sounded similar to mine. I asked if he was American and he answered yes. His name is Paul, he has two tiny black dogs, and he is an American citizen who has lived in Rome for fifty years. His father moved the family to Rome some fifty years ago as an employee for RCA (the electronics manufacturer) and it is and always will be his home. Paul told me to turn around and make a right.
Piacere (Nice to meet you) Paul.
The gate to the synagogue was locked. I started walking to the Young Synagogue when I noticed an open guard house. The gentlemen inside told me to return for Mincha (the afternoon service) at 4:30. I obliged and exited.
Walking in the direction of La Botticella, I suddenly had to use a restroom. Everything looked closed for
pausa pranzza (similar to Spanish siesta) so I asked an old Jewish man if he could point me in the right direction. We spoke mixtures of Hebrew, Italian, and English (a lot of fun). When he asked me where I was from and I replied Baltimore, he asked if I knew Rabbi Heineman, the most well respected rabbi in Baltimore and head of the Star-K (kosher stamp). I replied that everyone in Baltimore knows Rabbi Heineman (in the orthodox community anyway) and I ate in his sukkah when I was a
bambino (boy), but I didn’t personally know him. The other man explained to me that the rabbi I asked for directions, Rabbi Umberto, is Rabbi Heineman’s equivalent in Rome. And I just asked him for directions to the bathroom using informal speech (oy). After he gave me his card, his comrade said, “You tell any Jew in Italy that Rav Umberto sent you, he opens the door.” I graciously said thank you. They didn’t know where I could find a restroom, but I finally found one in a kosher restaurant nearby.
La Botticella was not easy to find. Even a restaurant one block away never heard of it. The next person I asked for La Botticella coolly responded with an American accent, “You’re looking at it.” Giovanni was that man and he owns a Steelers bar in the heart of Rome. Though I hate that team like no other, I knew my brother, Mark, would be at the game in Pittburgh so I figured I could at least handle a Steelers bar. I told him I was a Ravens fan, prompting a scoff from him.
He told me that the bar would have to close at 2:00 AM (the game would start at 12:30 AM), because the police clamped down on bars after a recent stabbing in the neighborhood. I planned to watch the game at the Scholars’ Lounge instead, but I also planned to stop by before the game to taunt the Steelers fans. My friend, Christine, texted me that a group of USAC kids were in Rome and heading to the Coliseum, so I asked Giovanni where I could catch an
autobus (bus) that could take me there. He steered me through Piazza Navona and said ciao.
My Italian improved a lot this weekend thanks to my willingness to ask strangers questions, their friendliness, and my practice of writing down unfamiliar words—just about everything—in my journal. Just before my autobus arrived I noticed I was standing across the street from the National Archives of Rome. I marked the spot on my map, and hope to return there sometime this semester if I have time.
On the bus I chatted with a French economics professor who spent time teaching at Stanford and Georgetown. He made sure I exited at the correct fermata and wished me well. My phone suddenly stopped working. With much difficulty, I found the USAC group hanging out around the Coliseum. I opted not to take the tour this time as it costs 20 euro and I am visiting Rome again in several weeks with my Roman Civilization class. It’s been there this long; it will be
there when I return. After twenty minutes or so of playing around and posing for pictures, I hear, “Alex! Alex!” I turn around, look up, and lo and behold, it’s Rachel from UMD waving to me. I make my way up the stairs to her, stunned by our second coincidental meeting. Rachel tells me she is bored of the activity her friends are doing and I dare her to join me for an adventure. True to her daring personality, she accepts. I turn around and yell, “Ciao guys! See you back in Viterbo!”
I ask Rachel if she would like to stop for a cappuccino. She does and we turn into the second one we see (the first looked pretty shady). We want to sit down, but quickly remember that Italian cafes charge you to sit down; 1 euro to stand at the bar, 3 euro to sit. We decide to stand.
We have no plans, but I remember that I must go to the synagogue for
Mincha. This trek would require us to travel past a heap of ancient ruins that Rachel had spent the last week studying on her program. She whipped out her notebook and described in vivid detail every bit of every ruin we passed. I quietly listened, gleaming in the experience of personally experiencing the history I have only read about in books.
We finally arrive at the synagogue and I get frisked again. The two of us go inside, but Rachel couldn’t enter the men’s section so I promised to be prompt. I quickly spot a man who ate Shabbat lunch with us, and with another round of Italian-Hebrew-English I am directed to our host. I pull out the 45 euro that I collected and thank him immensely for his hospitality. He replies that we were a pleasure and that I am welcome in the Roman Jewish community anytime. I promised him I would return and I hope to bring the four other Jews on my program with me.
On our way back to Rachel’s hostel, she continued telling me some history of the sites we were passing. Two places in particular stick out in my mind. The first place that sticks out in my mind is a former training ground for Roman soldiers. Its remains take up about a block of space in the middle of the neighborhood and it is completely overrun by cats. I counted fourteen stray cats just in one passing. The second place I vividly remember is the Villa Publica. Here, Roman generals who returned from war would have to convene with a group of military leaders and public administrators to determine if Rome’s objectives were reached or not. Only if they all agreed that the objectives were complete could they declare victory. My mind immediately flashed to Bush’s “Mission Accomplished” banner.
Rachel and I find our way back to her hostel so she can change. We hang out for a bit before heading out to find a place to eat dinner. We spot a small, quiet, charming restaurant and decide to eat there. Two glasses of chianti, pasta with shrimp and clams for me (my first shellfish in over three years), and pizza with eggplant for her. Absolutely delicious, perfect service and I would never in a million years be able to find this place again. At least, I mentioned, we would always have Rome.
I walked Rachel to a café where she planned to study. I had to return to my hostel and prepare for the game. She told me she would meet me at the Scholars Lounge sometime that evening, but it would turn out that neither of us would make it there. That was our goodbye. I am glad she shared my experience with me.
I hopped on a bus to go back to the hostel and engaged a young couple in conversation the whole way there. After only a week in Italy and 48 hours in Rome, they were impressed with my Italian.
Non c’e’ male (Not bad). We departed the bus at Termini, said ciao, and I made my way back to the hostel.
I pulled my bag out of storage, changed into my #52 Ray Lewis jersey, my purple Ravens camouflage pants, and my 2006 AFC North Champions hat signed by nose tackle Kelly Gregg. I was pumped and the other hostel guests could tell. I said goodbye to the hostel manager, Franco and left. The hostel is called Freedom Traveler and I highly recommend it to anyone travelling through Rome.
My bag and I hustled to Termini, stopping for a moment to buy a postcard for my Hebrew school class. With much (so much) difficulty I bought my return ticket to Viterbo and placed my bag in the care of the station, barely remembering to retrieve my flask of Sambuca. I hopped on
a bus and headed to La Botticella to have a beer with Giovanni and taunt some Steelers fans. Much to my dismay, they informed me that the Scholars’ Lounge was packed and no longer allowing people in. I resolved to remain at La Botticella as long as possible and run to the Scholars’ Lounge when Giovanni kicked everyone out.
What an environment. Me, a beacon of purple pride, in a sea of black and gold. Trash talking came from every angle. Beers were thrown at me. A couple of people told me they were impressed that I had the guts to show up in such fashion. We watched Donovan McNabb blow the NFC Championship game and everybody in black and gold or purple cheered, knowing that everyone from Philly will finally shut up (probably not). I downed an espresso before the game started, feeling a bit tired already from my long day beginning at 9:00 AM. The game was mostly a disaster, as you already know.
Near the end of the first quarter, with the Ravens down 13-0, Giovanni instructs everyone to leave his bar. I was sitting deep inside so I waited a bit, making sure that I would see as much as possible and thank Giovanni for his graciousness. He leans in and tells me, “It’s alright, you can stay.” My heart leaps. Ten people remained at the bar and we helped him clean up for a bit. Giovanni turns the sound and lights off and warns us not to make noise. To my annoyance, Willis McGahee picks this time to score his first touchdown of the night. I yell in a whisper, “That’s what Willis is talking about!” They remind me to be quiet, prompting me to ask, “Didn’t you depose the Fascists like sixty years ago?” They liked that one.
After thirty minutes or so the lights go back on, the sound goes on (couldn’t hear a word when there were still people there), and beer is on the house. Though the Ravens lost that night, the relaxed atmosphere allowed me to get to know Giovanni and his friend Brian a little better. Giovanni lived in Baltimore for a bit as it turned out. Federal Hill. His girlfriend lived in Pittsburgh and drew him into that cult. Unlike Steelers fans in America, Giovanni and Brian were very gracious and polite. Brian even offered prayers when McGahee went down with a concussion. When the game ended, we all posed for this picture together, which is now posted in the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette (
http://community.post-gazette.com/blogs/blogngold/archive/2009/01/19/from-our-rome-bureau.aspx). Giovanni warmly shook my hand and insisted I return with friends. I assured him I would.
Brian and I resolved to stumble back to Termini. Though it would be quite a walk, we knew we would have time and didn’t feel like paying for a taxi. After walking for about thirty minutes, we stop for a macchiato and
cornetti (croissants). We walk another thirty minutes, talking about ourselves and how we, two American strangers, ended up where we were. We finally arrive at Termini just before the first train leaves. We exchange contact information and say ciao.
With much difficulty (again) I retrieve my bag and miss the first train to Viterbo. Brian is nowhere in sight and finding someone helpful proved very difficult. With more difficulty, I find the arrivals/departures board, decipher it, and proceed in the direction of the
piattaforma. I stop to ask a group of men who worked there for help. They were very unsuccessful in speaking so that I could understand them, but I managed to write down the name of the station I wanted to switch trains at.
I boarded my train at 6:30 AM and immediately fell asleep after 22 hours of wakefulness and almost as many of walking. Some time later—I have no idea how much—I was woken by a ticket puncher. I asked him how much longer to Civitavecchia and he replied that it was two stops ago and I had better get off and find my way to Roma San Pietro. I get off and discover another train coming in twenty minutes. Before
il treno comes I decide it’s absolutely necessary for me to change my socks, which are unpleasantly drenched with cold sweat and hurting my feet. For some reason, no one sits on the bench next to me.
I board
il treno and begin a conversation in simple Italian with two women who were about my mother’s age. They laugh at just about everything I say between my accent, my simple language, and the fact that I am wearing all purple (my camos look more like pajamas). They are getting off at the same stop I am and they take it upon themselves to help guide me to the next piattaforma. While we are riding on
il treno, I, as I do every time I am sitting on an autobus or treno, whip out my journal and begin trying to converse with people using the words and forms of speech I have scripted. When I tell them, “
Voi scema,” (You are silly women) they burst out laughing and nodded. Not until Tuesday did I discover that it actually means stupid or crazy, rather than silly. I had been using that word to flirt all weekend not knowing I was calling these
ragazze (girls) stupid.
They blow me kisses as their train leaves and I return the affection. After fifteen minutes, the next train comes—my final train to Viterbo. It was 9:30 AM and I had class at 11:00 AM. I find a seat on il treno and get the attention of the
ragazzo (guy) sitting adjacent to me. He was also a student at Universita della Tuscia and I asked him to wake me up at Porta Romana.
I exit the train at 10:45 and make my way to campus after traveling by train for over four hours. It is the first day of class and I have Roman Civilization beginning in fifteen minutes, but no schedule with which to find the class. Plus, my phone still wasn’t working. The Program Director, Stefano, can barely stand to tell me that my
lezione (class) is on the other campus. When it rains, it truly pours.
I grab an espresso and a
biglietto from the
tabacchi adjacent to the
fermata (you should be able to read this by now). The
autobus picks me up and takes me to class. I am nearly an hour late, as I enter my class tired as hell, still wearing all my Ravens gear, probably smelling terrible, and carrying my duffel. The look on my classmates’ faces told me all I needed to know. My professor graciously accepted my apology and I took a seat in the back row. He is an extremely nice and intelligent man and I participated fully in the remainder of the class on the structure of the Roman Imperial Administration.
I wouldn’t get to sleep until that
notte (night). I had another class at 3:00 PM and by then I passed my threshold of sleepiness. Christine, Felicia, Lauren, and Hannah hosted an American dinner at their appartamento, complete with burgers, fries and beer. I left around 11:00 PM much to their displeasure. On my way home I was stopped by Carabinieri, the Italian State Police (equivalent to our FBI, but much more to be wary of). They demanded to know who I was, what I was doing there, and to see my passport (“Documento!”). Thank goodness I had it on me and answered the questions with little difficulty. They sure were imposing and I was very relieved to be on my way. I crawled into bed and passed out immediately.
This was one of the best weekends of my entire life. I hope I didn’t bore you with all the details, but I am pretty glad that I have thirteen single-spaced to help me relive what an incredible time I had. Rome is a city everyone should visit. I can’t wait to go back. I will try to post again about my week so far, but I’ll try to give you time to keep up with me. Arrivederci!
-Thursday, January 22, 2008 - 8:46 PM
On Tuesday our coordinator informed us that she convinced a pub owner to open extra early for us to watch President Obama’s inauguration. Italians eat dinner rather late—around 8:00 PM—so we were all grateful for the owner’s courtesy. At 5:30 PM we packed into Gianpiero’s and silently watched with praise and awe as President Obama was sworn in and delivered his inaugural address. I thought his speech perfectly fit the times and circumstances of his inauguration. Without fluffing up the state of our union, he promised to lead America in overcoming these difficult challenges moving forward. While his words lacked the pomp and elegance of many leaders’ triumphal speeches, President Obama used language that everyone can understand and a demeanor that everyone can rally behind. I must admit that I hadn’t shed a tear for America since September 11, 2001, but our president inspired the pride and determination necessary for a small salty drop to form in the corner of my right eye. Or maybe it was just the beer.
spending some time on the internet on campus, I befriended a few local students who were very eager to learn and practice their English before an oral exam on the subject. Gabriella and Elena invited me to grab lunch with them. I spoke in Italian while they spoke in English. Their foreign language was much better than mine. After lunch we grabbed an espresso, introduced me to their cane (dog), and gave me a ride home in Elena’s car.
anged into our swimming trunks and eased into these natural hot tubs. After adjusting to the hot water and the strong smell of sulfur, I leaned back to see a sky filled with stars. Never before can I remember seeing a sky so full of stars. I laid my head against a rock and began taking deep heavy breaths of warm air. My ears fell below the water leaving only the sounds of my heartbeat and breathing to keep me anchored to reality. After a few minutes of gazing out into the universe I forgot I was even in water or in Italy; I was simply floating in the cosmos ever grateful for all my blessings. Soon enough, I floated back to earth and remained there for at least an hour before we all decided, “Andiamo,” (Let’s go).
On Tuesday our coordinator informed us that she convinced a pub owner to open extra early for us to watch President Obama’s inauguration. Italians eat dinner rather late—around 8:00 PM—so we were all grateful for the owner’s courtesy. At 5:30 PM we packed into Gianpiero’s and silently watched with praise and awe as President Obama was sworn in and delivered his inaugural address. I thought his speech perfectly fit the times and circumstances of his inauguration. Without fluffing up the state of our union, he promised to lead America in overcoming these difficult challenges moving forward. While his words lacked the pomp and elegance of many leaders’ triumphal speeches, President Obama used language that everyone can understand and a demeanor that everyone can rally behind. I must admit that I hadn’t shed a tear for America since September 11, 2001, but our president inspired the pride and determination necessary for a small salty drop to form in the corner of my right eye. Or maybe it was just the beer.
spending some time on the internet on campus, I befriended a few local students who were very eager to learn and practice their English before an oral exam on the subject. Gabriella and Elena invited me to grab lunch with them. I spoke in Italian while they spoke in English. Their foreign language was much better than mine. After lunch we grabbed an espresso, introduced me to their cane (dog), and gave me a ride home in Elena’s car.
anged into our swimming trunks and eased into these natural hot tubs. After adjusting to the hot water and the strong smell of sulfur, I leaned back to see a sky filled with stars. Never before can I remember seeing a sky so full of stars. I laid my head against a rock and began taking deep heavy breaths of warm air. My ears fell below the water leaving only the sounds of my heartbeat and breathing to keep me anchored to reality. After a few minutes of gazing out into the universe I forgot I was even in water or in Italy; I was simply floating in the cosmos ever grateful for all my blessings. Soon enough, I floated back to earth and remained there for at least an hour before we all decided, “Andiamo,” (Let’s go).
