The Long Trip Home: Roma, Cittá Aperta

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Roma, Cittá Aperta
by Tara Kilachand

Rome reeks of historical sentimentality. There are paeans to slayed Roman generals at every turn, a smug looking Colosseum that dominates the majority of treacly postcards sold by smarmy vendors, and seven gloriously crumbling hills that wreak havoc on the knees. As a tourist you could not possibly want for things to do

As my plane ambles around the icy tarmac at Fiumicino airport however, I decide to do something rather extraordinary. I decide to become Roman. For the next five days, I will visit no museums, refuse to set foot in palazzos that have an entrance fee and stay well away from any tortuous queue of handy-cam toting Japanese tour groups. For good measure I will even avoid the three Fs: Fendi, Ferragamo and Ferre.

I suck in air through my teeth and eyelashes batting demurely, say in halting Italian "Such a nut, I’ve forgotten my pack, could I possibly bum one off of you?"

On the first day, I leave all maps behind and wander aimlessly through the roads, bumping into pagan churches, affronting battle embroiled statues and generally stopping short of colliding with massive monuments. I stop for cappuccino every two hours on the hour and gulp them Italian style, piping hot while standing at the bar. I stroll at tortoise worthy paces, and when lost, whip out my mobile and start yakking to answering machines of friends who have yet to surface on the other side of the globe.

At dusk I wind my way to the Vatican and position myself in the center square with no desire to first snicker and then photograph the Swiss Guards, swoon
before the Pietá or stare, fish mouthed at the Sistine Chapel. When I am approached by a portly Indian family to "Please will you take our piccher?" I realize that I'm far from sending Monica Belluci vibes. I’m giving off Mani Behn signals.

Sunglasses, I determine, are the answer. Any self-respecting Italian wears dark glasses, in winter, in summer, indoors and out, while eating or sleeping. In fact, glasses in Italy have no immediate and discernable connection to the sun. I scour Gucci for the blackest pair I can find and, when I finally emerge, the sun has set and I half-feel/half-stumble my way through the double glazed darkness until an old Italian woman unable to take the sight anymore offers to lead me across the street.

The next day after I master the art of walking blindly, I glide (OK...grope) towards the Spanish steps, cluttered as it were, with hordes of teenaged Romans, cell phone cameras in hand, poised to catch the errant Italian soap star. In the air is a feather-light scent of roasting chestnuts and rain soaked concrete, a smell that wafts around me only for seconds before a horde of spectacularly bored, skinny boys blows reams of icy smoke my way. The Italian thing to do would be to inhale the fumes with nary an imprecation in their direction. I suck in air through my teeth and eyelashes batting demurely, say in halting Italian "Such a nut, I’ve forgotten my pack, could I possibly bum one off of you?"

They readily acquiesce, and in seconds I have five offers for cigarettes and a couple more for lighters. I smile, say grazie, feeling a tiny bit smug that the
prudish, non-smoking Pollyanna in me has been silenced, probably (if not definitely) by the toxic fumes of CO2 streaming down my lungs.

When the crowds have dissipated, beckoned by angry mammas and dinner cravings, I make my way to a restaurant that has no dual (or in some cases
three-part) menu in English and Italian or English, Italian and Japanese. In Italy it is no crime to sit alone at a cafe, and you will not be labeled a sad old soul if you do. I order a carafe of vino rosso and a plate of bruschetta, careful to say "brusketta" and not make the hard "ch" into an indifferently sibilant shhhh. The waiter smiles. A tourist who tries. He suggests I have the Roman specialty, maccheroni with cheese and pepper and, in keeping with my all-Italian all-carbohydrate diet, I give in. I even break off some thick crusty white bread and mop up the excess olive oil.

In Italy, olive oil is more than a mere condiment: it is an elixir that is splashed out unabashedly, dripped onto slick pasta, drizzled across plump tomatoes and mozzarella and used as a general excuse to add flavor where none could be
possibly lacking. On the fifth day of consuming it by the bucketful, my skin has turned a subtle dusky shade, close on the color scale to that enviously smooth olive complexion of many Italians.

Though by this point I must concede that there is every possibility that drinking twenty cups of coffee a day might be the determining factor behind this color change.

My last night I spend wandering around the city and, as I come into view of the ugly but impressive Monumento di Vittorio Emmanuele II, I look up and watch a swoop of black birds cut around the dome in ominous sharp arcs. They screech in tones of reedy importance, a portent of things to come perhaps or of nothing at all, but as I stand there watching them glide in even circles, I know that these birds have been there forever, gliding through Rome’s skies during her reign of power, during her fall and her birth. As I leave, two pale tourists approach and in halting tones ask, "Scusi Signora, l’ora?" pointing to their wrist to make their point.

I grin. They think I’m Roman. "Midah-nightah," I answer back. Waving a "niente" to their thanks, I float off into the night.