ROME, RECYCLED

Mindy says my word is stracciatella; Matt says it’s cosi cosi. Neither of their labels feels right. I have a hard time placing myself; I’d like to think as myself as fluid, too dynamic for a label. Perhaps that is only a wish. I speak with Joel- he tells me his word is acqua: water. Instantly, I know it’s not me; I plan too much, think too much. He finds his own path, flows through Rome like a river, constantly moving and too impatient to just wait sometimes.

I plop down into the cushy chair of our kitchen/living room, thinking, as the lazy Roman sunshine filters down through the massive windows. The breeze carries with it memories, words, suggestions. What have I been in the past? I think, during childhood, my word was caution. As I grew up and hormones began kicking wildly, it became infatuation. Slowly, it is becoming independence. But how would I capture this precise moment? What of my word when I’m in Rome, this towering city of constant movement and change? Rome is the city of recycling: not in the Seattleite environmentally conscious sense of the word, but in the dynamic sense. Everything is about reuse here. The ruins of the ancient Theatre of Marcello still house residents in top-story apartments. The Castel Sant’Angelo was a mausoleum, then a fortress, a palace, and a prison. Now, it is a museum. Nothing in Rome is static, so when I’m here, why should I be? Rome begs change, and I respond.

At home, I’m meticulous. I’m an accounting major. I plan my day out: wake up for class at 10, leave at 10:20, and arrive at precisely 10:30. I walk like a New Yorker, eat like a Portlander, and dress like a San Franciscan (the city, not the order of monks). Language is a requirement to fulfill, homework is a necessity rather than a desire, and plans are made to be kept. When I study for tests, I make lists with corresponding indentations and check boxes, and then I cross them off neatly each time I complete a task. Relaxation isn’t in my schedule, or even my vocabulary.

Here, things are different. Everything is an opportunity. Nothing is set. It rains; we dash to the Pantheon. Along the way, we discover the most delicious pizzeria in Rome. We walk to Trastevere for a casual evening dinner, and wind up in the night market below the Ponte Sisto. We seek a path home, get lost, and end up discovering a graffiti lover’s paradise under the bridges of the Tiber. We stay to take pictures for two hours. Everything here is about discovery; there is no place for the rigidity of my check boxes. I find that I enjoy it.

So what am I in Rome? Here, language is a desire rather than a requirement. I want to learn to speak beautifully like the Italians. I even try to speak Italian, the language I have studied for all of sixteen hours, to owners of panino shops; at home, I have trouble speaking Spanish aloud, the language I studied for five years, even when I’m alone. I try figs, a fruit I would find normally consider terrifying. I never mix fruits with meat; at the antipasto party, I try prosciutto e melone, and go back for seconds. I even manage to barter successfully!

I want to learn everything about Rome: her history, architecture, culture, and language. I want to know how she thinks. I want to soak up every bit of Rome that I can, and take a piece of her home with me. The word absorb flashes in my mind, but I dismiss it instantly. It is too passive; it implies that Rome comes to me. My word needs more action, more initiative, and more passion. My word must be alive! Experiment? But no, that sounds too identity-crisis for my tastes. My word is tantalizingly elusive. Despair, taking on that horrendous form of a cherub head with wings that lurks above so many paintings and church facades, flutters mockingly around me. It laughs a sinister giggle. You will never find it. I sink further into the frayed fabric of the seat.

But the cherub head is wrong. The brilliant Roman sun valiantly lends her hand; a single beam of healing light pushes through the glass, vanquishing Despair. I climb the beam of light, floating to the top, where the sun whispers a single word in my ear. It is my word. I hear it, and I know: this is the one. Embrace. I embrace everything about Rome: the food, the language, the people, and the experiences. My word even has an image, an action. If I could literally embrace Rome, I would. Instead, I spend every waking moment metaphysically embracing this beautiful, recycled city. It is my city for only six weeks, and I will soak up every moment of that time, for in Rome, that is what I do; I embrace.