ROMA

MATTINA
13 Agosto

The brightness! It smells of China. It is that same musty smell, origin unknown, which always reminds me of a mixture. I would call it stale bamboo and sweat. The odor hit me the instant we stepped off the plane and ventured into the airport terminal. We escape the cocoon tunnel from the airplane to the gate, only to face an auditory assault. The airport is bustling with noise! Dozens of anxious people hold handwritten signs containing a name. They scan the crowd, desperately searching for the bearer of the name. We walk past them.

I pull out my itinerary; but where is Concorda? We discover the elusive airport shuttle service hiding behind a tiny desk. The lady at the desk is as curt as she is skinny. We are quickly given a “set price” and no option to disagree. Shrugging, we consent to wait for a shuttle. Beside us, a young child shouts in lively Italian; he is having a minor disagreement with his father. The child emphasizes each syllable in his cute, newly formed voice. Already, he has captured our hearts. I hold no malice against this tiny family, but I can’t help wishing they would continue arguing eternally.

We wait, and wait, and wait. We stare out the massive glass barriers separating us from the relaxed fields outside. A vast expanse of dried fields stretches across the vicinity, beyond the horizon. The clouds are a striking, pure white. They lie in stark contrast to the cheery blue background they lie against. Both clouds and sky smile down upon us. From inside the fish tank airport, we watch those on the outside enviously. I am bursting with energy despite the fourteen hours of air travel time. I am ready to leave the explosion of voices, chattering in languages both known and unknown to me. My ears shrink back from the English words everywhere. English is not the language of this city, this country. I am ready for Rome!


POMERIGGIO
21 Settembre

As the van takes us toward the airport, we pass the Campidoglio, the Statue of Vittorio Emmanuele II, the Teatro di Marcello, and finally the endless walls of graffiti, which introduced me to Rome. So many people have expressed their desire to return home, but I am not even torn. I want to stay here for weeks longer, months even—maybe a year. We arrive at the colossal airport, which once looked so enthralling. Fiumicino: the gateway to Rome. Now, it is the gateway from Rome.

I stand in line with the other Americans. The English comforts them; they all chatter excitedly, relieved to hear a familiar language. I am melancholy. The sound of English is piercing to my ears. I long for the mysterious, beautiful Italian I have grown so accustomed to hearing. Even the blaring of airport loudspeaker announcements comforts me; they are in Italian. I try to pick out familiar words, a frustrating but rewarding task. I need more time to absorb the language, to be Italian. I am not ready to return to America, but Italy is throwing me out, and I must heed her orders.

Today, I return home, where stores will ungrudgingly give you exactly $43.27 in change if you hand them a fifty. Home, where stiletto heels never get stuck between cobblestones, asking for discounts is taboo, and the first floor is always numbered “one.” Home, where a building from a century ago is considered historical, and eighty degrees is scalding. Home, where they bag your groceries for free. Home.


NOTTE
26 Ottobre

Rome is not real; it is the world I enter when I lay my head down on my pillow, conjured by dreams of cocomero gelato and fresh pizza from Zazone. In my dreams, Rome overflows with pasta and art. Rome and Time are no longer on speaking terms. I try to place time stamps on my writing pieces and journal entries, but they struggle in defiance. They derive pleasure from remaining elusive, like the clever satyrs of Roman mythology. It has only been a month, but my memory is already crumbling. I desperately try to glue the pieces back together, spending my spare time rereading daily diary entries, using my photos to conjure memories, and obsessively organizing and reorganizing my online blog. At best, they are temporary solutions, delaying the inevitable, like medication for the terminally ill.

When I close my eyes, layers and layers of fresh, creamy, delicious Italian surround me. Words float through the air like happiness. Names end in a or o, and everyone is warm and lively. I swim through waves of buongiorno’s and pomodori. When the sun rises and the words scatter, I find myself sitting on the steps of the Pantheon as images flash by.

The inscription “M. Agrippa L. F. Cos tertium fecit” glimmers in the morning sunlight as Michelle leads an awed group of University students into the massive monument. It is our first week in Rome, and we are hungry for art and knowledge. As I watch, the students fade, and I find myself walking to Giolitti with a few friends, desperate for two delicious scoops of gelato con panna, to counteract the blistering afternoon sun. We pass the Pantheon on our right side, veering into a small alleyway. We are halfway through the program, and still we argue about directions. This time, we have no chance to find out who knows Rome best, for we never reach Giolitti. I turn back for a passing glimpse of the Pantheon, and suddenly it is past nightfall. Christina and Henry are hugging one of the gigantic ionic pillars under the inscription and smiling. They beckon me over. There is a space between them just wide enough for me to add my embrace. I dash over to join them; my last night in Rome would be incomplete without giving the Pantheon a farewell hug.

I stretch my arms out to hug the gentle marble. My fingertips desperately grip the stone pillar, but it is too smooth. I am Apollo and it is Dafne, slipping away from my longing grasp. Alas, Rome is fading away. I stare down at the steps I am seated upon. These are not the marble steps to the Pantheon; I am resting on the concrete staircase to my apartment building in the University district. The characteristic raindrops of Seattle pay a visit, washing away my dreams of a distant city. Sitting in the downpour, I do not despair, for I know that someday I will return to the land of my imagination. For now, I must be content to sift through photographs and journal entries, add slices of boiled egg to homemade pizzas, and invent new words by pluralizing with an Italian i ending instead of the American s. I know that one day, I will return to give the Pantheon another hug. When I do, I will not be merely another face in a crowd of touristi; I will be a member of the living, breathing citizeni of Rome.