
Pensive in a Sun-Drenched City
The light dances on the buildings. Tap, clang, the jewelry maker hammers out link chains for tourists on Via De Cestari. 30 minute walks turn into hour long ambles as I can’t help but stop every few meters to admire the way a new shadow is cast on Rome’s gauzy pink buildings. My favorite time to walk is morning.


As the day wears on, I chase building shadows to keep cool.
Columns, porticoes, ruins spread out casually like a summer picnic. My recurring question: what on earth am I looking at now? Each corner of every street in the city center, every library or institute is… INSANE. Photogenic at every angle, Rome knocks you down with its dizzying array of religion, history and art. Then it hoists you back up with unending, tantalizing aromas. Just walking to the Testaccio neighborhood, I happen upon the ruins of Largo di Torre Argentina. Bronze, stony columns taunt the burnt sienna buildings in the backdrop. Half open shutters frame narrow windows. Mysterious building names are etched in Latin. History lingers behind every curved wall, every faded cobblestone.

Tourist shops surround me on each side of this narrow lane, sweetly empty because revelers are still sleeping off their hangovers. I casually strike up a conversation in my meager Italian with a local bookshop vendor who has been selling books and magazines for 30 years; she inherited her brother’s business. Either that or she was in a fraternity but I’m fairly confident that fratello means brother. Her oldest paper is from 1920 and she shows me something about Giordano Bruno, poet/friar/mathematician from the 1500s (thanks, Google) who is featured in the form of a statue at Campo Fiori.

I have learned that by pausing, listening to locals, this is where observation of local habits and chatter comes from. I hear the cacophony of beauty salon gossip. Sturdy octogenarians stroll with determination and intention. Three older ladies kick it on a bench in the shade, one with a handheld fan. As the morning cool wears off, I look longingly at her black lace fan.

I stop and take a few bites of my corneto, or croissant. This is a major faux pas; Romans simply do not eat on the go. I feel a bit irreverent in the Jewish quarter on my cell phone on Saturday. The kosher restaurants are closed for the day of rest. Looking to toss my paper bag, I wrestle to find the right trash can. Romans are very serious about their compost, recycling, and landfill. Walking along the Tiber river, I welcome the breeze- I dare call it wind! The river flows forcefully and for a moment, I feel respite from the city. An outdoor setup for nighttime cinema invites me on the other side of the murky green river. The river isn’t pretty, but it’s real.
I arrive at Testaccio Market, built on turn of century ruins. The market offers produce, shoes, and clothing. Beggars who look like dazed cult victims persist to ask for money. I mean, persist! The two couples next to me have no patience with it. I sip my succo d’arancia and watch. Italians take their time. To talk, to drink, to really linger over their food. They don’t rush to do- well, anything. They’re not on their cell phones all the time. The pace of things is unharried.
I’ll battle the heat, attempting small conversations wherever possible to find out what music is playing at the trattoria or where the bellowing of Rome’s Saturday night opera actually comes from. I’ll learn that bread and water are extras you must pay for at the dinner table, that only 30% of Rome has been excavated, and that Romans seem as fed up with their government as I am with mine. They take their coffee standing up. They greet and know one another. Women dress to the nines and men shake out their hair (I saw this! Think Fabio). Aperitivo surpasses happy hour by miles…I’m about ready for the tranquility of France, but Italy has gotten under my skin.

