HOW TO BECOME ROMAN: AN ADVENTURER'S GUIDE

I.
My alarm reads
5:30.

Fourteen hours of
meals that come in boxes
and plastic wrap,
sandpaper seats,
and broom-closet bathrooms.

We would brave far worse
for Rome!


II.
Five minutes to landing.
Please do not leave your seats until the plane has come to a full stop.

Zoe laughs,

as
twig trees with cotton-ball foliage
and
red rooftops

pass beneath us.

The ant-people scurry
outside

our glass prison.

They are pretend.


III.
FIUMICINO
(We say, fee-oo-me-SEE-no).

Concorda?
Yes.

Brisk pace.


IIII.
Italy offers us

two

new languages.

Italian
and

Baby Italian.

We prefer
the latter.

V.
We
       zig 
              zag. 
       Fountains.
Horns!

“Chanel” purses
for
dieci euro.

We are lost
among
bags,
watches,

Italians.


VI.
Zoe has one
week

to see all of
Roma.

We hurry:
Trevi!
Colosseum!
Steps!
Campidoglio!
Vatican!

We break
only for sustenance.


VII.
Up early,
hugs goodbye,
she takes
a cab to Termini to Pisa.
Ciao, Zoe!

No time to mourn: my education as
a Roman
is just beginning.

Deposit,
waiverskeysassignmentsdibshellolast,
sleep.


VIII.
Lisa is in
storytelling
mode.

Aeneas fled Troy during the War of Helen, the woman promised by Venus to Paris.
Remus saw birds first; Romulus saw more birds. Cain and Abel; brother kills brother.
Rome is on the Palatine, one of seven hills! Murderers, outcasts, thieves, exiled, arrive.
Rape of the Sabines: Rome has women and women make peace, and babies; Rome grows.
Grows and grows and grows: Empire. Shrinks and shrinks and shrinks: City.

Déjà vu.


VIIII.
Like a short
History Channel bio.
Caesar Vespasianus Augustus, Titus Flavius Vespasianus Augustus, Titus Flavius Domitianus, Marcus Cocceius Nerva,
(if you have time even to say their full names)
in dieci minuti.

This morning is
my morning.

Il Colosseo.
I am the tour guide,
they trust
Me.


X.
ItaliaIdea: no Inglese per favore!

Come ti chiami?
Mi chiamo Klaus (we are all Klaus today: NO INGLESE! Oh… Come si dice “sorry”?).
Di dove sei?
Sono Americana.

Buonasera!
Ciao!


XI.
Firenze!
We Americans have labels stapled to our foreheads: Butchers of Words and Languages.
I have always been resentful,
but this time

I must agree.

Firenze!
carries meaning, power, anger, life, passion, Medici!

Florence.
Sigh.

Even the helicopter saints laugh at us.


XII.
Siena makes me sleepy,
like siesta.

Un cappuccino, per favore.
None for me, grazie.

My cappuccino-filled companions
sing songs we brought with us

in our suitcases,

as we skip down
the trodden brick pathway,
with rotten fruit
as mortar.


XIII.
Lunch is six fragola gelato bars and a stracciatella yogurt.


XIIII.
Home is a distant city.

It is
Uno, due, tre, quattro, cinque, sei, sette, otto, nove,
hours away,
even

by telefono.

Now,

my fifteen minute walk
con iPod
to Balmer

is

un quindici minuti walk
con amici
a Giolitti.


XV.
Let’s go to Giolitti!
Mmm, gelato. I’ll have the usual!
Cocomero- but of course. E mela verde?
Si!

I lead.

Pass the Caffé Biscione on your right,
the ristorante with the American portions on your left,
down il Vittorio Emanuele.
Turn right, leaving the Piazza Navona behind you,
until you reach the Pantheon.

They follow me
down the alleyway,
right at the split,
to gelato heaven.

Cocomero!
It is the flavor of
my new home.
They don’t serve
cocomero

in Seattle.