People in Rome and Getting an Answer

The last day in Rome. A week’s worth of experiences for what is starting to feel more and more like home. I’ll miss it despite that I’ve only been here a short time. What will I miss?

Well it isn’t the traffic laws. That’s for sure. I’ve been honked at, slammed between two doors on the metro, told via revved engine that I needed to move, and nearly run over. As it turns out, traffic in Rome is much more anything goes. In truth, I was surprised one night to see someone actually getting a ticket for a parking violation. Don’t get me wrong, I love when things are a little hectic, but I certainly won’t miss the uncertainty of whether or not a green light really means you’re clear to walk or not.

It isn’t even the artistry and beauty (of which there is plenty). The city is incredible. It’s great to be able to walk to the Vatican at night for a heart-to-heart with God—which the passersby will find only slightly discomforting. Which, if you get the time, San Pietro Square should really be seen at night. Another note here reader: in Rome, it is very possible to end up accidentally at the Vatican. And I won’t discredit how humbling it is to stand beneath the Arch of Constantine and appreciate both its age and colossal size. It is truly an incredible experience. Despite all of these types of antiquities Rome has to offer, I wouldn’t say it’s what really makes leaving Rome feel unreal. It is, I think, the people and the great feeling of humanity that is present just walking the street. 

For example, after visiting the Trevi Fountain at about 10:30 at night, I took a walk around it. I got 20 minutes away and people were still active. The stores in the immediate area were closed or closing but the people kept about. It was not strange to them that anyone was out. And they were genuine and kind people. Even the alleys felt safe. And so it is with walking in Rome.

Up until that point, I was an American in Rome treating Rome like an American city, but not afterwards. I sat at the Fountain and just reflected on life. And the Romans all understood. Several looked at me and nodded, or just came up next to me. Many foreigners - I could tell from my sparse German and smattering of French and Spanish—passed me by or started loud conversation with odd looks directed towards me. But the true Italians, seemed to commiserate with escaping the bustle of life.

It’s like when walking to the Vatican for my unintentional night-time encounter with the colonnade (since I didn’t realize that though the security check points closed the square remained open) those who live here, such as the guards, had a deeper appreciation of stopping to do so. Meanwhile, those tourists who passed by for many a nightly photo were not able to appreciate the site for what it was: ultimately a church, a people. Let me explain the guards for those who do not know. The guards are military men who never seem to be in a good mood (not bad, just not happy). They carry very large rifles, the type which I'm sure are against American ownership laws. And they have a very straightforward approach to problems. These same guards, mostly silent threatening human-beings I had not tried to interact with so far, actually smiled at me and thanked me. And when I left, they gave me a little wave and a nod. If I knew more Italian, I probably would have understood more than just the introductory "Thank you". What I got from the body language was something like this: "You're not the only one, kid".

I say this like I'm an observer. But what I'm beginning to realize is I'm not.We're active participants in the culture. Today, I had an incredible connection with the maid at the hotel. It did not last long, but long enough that we both understood each other. She passed me in the hall singing Amazing Grace--in English! And it was just beautiful, and I joined in. Just for a moment, we both understood each other, even though we couldn’t communicate in basically any other way. It lasted until we did not know the words, and then it was over. 

But it doesn’t have to end. I feel we can take some of it back with us. For example, in Louisville, if you're lost, you just ask directions. But after four or five tries in Rome, I'm willing to amend that. Note one: looking confused is a no-go. In Louisville, looking confused is the hallmark of being lost. Do that in Rome and people will run off in the opposite direction (true story). Note two: simply getting someone's attention is not enough to get an answer. I'm used to getting a direct answer whenever I get someone's attention. But three different people heard "Scusa", acknowledged it, looked at me knowingly, and I could not ask them anything. Note three: except on public transit, space is everything. For getting a conversation, you need to be in shouting distance, not closer. Finally, after a lot of trying, I got a working approach—put on a blank look, give five feet of space, get the person’s attention, and then ask the question with almost no gap between. So far, success every time, though not always a right answer (in fact, the answer was very wrong, but I made it back despite). It's something that from now on, I know. 

What makes it a part of you, I think, is the recognition of your own humanity. You can’t see the city without realizing the vastness of the world and your own smallness. One begins to understand that they are part of something much bigger. St. Peter's is not just a big beautiful church - it's a place others have gone before you, that has a developing and interconnected history. The Trevi Fountain is not just a place for tourists to throw their money - it's something that connects others through the stirring of emotion. The street is a constant rush of life, not just you in a crowd. And being one among many means being part of a group of people who understand each other. One thing is for sure: if nothing else, you will leave Rome knowing that the 20 people crossing next to you at the intersection have an intimate group understanding for being honked at, slammed on the metro, and nearly run over (even if they don’t say it). Not much, but a start. It's the little things as much as the grandiose.