After five days in Rome, it’s beginning to set in that I actually live here. Just yesterday, my roommates and I ventured to our local supermarket to stock up on food to balance our thus far carbohydrate rich diet. Not only are Italian supermarkets filled with the nauseating odor of dog food (caused by the myriad hanging cured pig thighs), but they also differ very little from the menus of restaurants, bars, cafes, and pizzerias. Bread, pasta, frozen pizza, crackers, and cookies were among the most affordable items in the aisles. Having never not had a meal plan before, combined with a complete inability to understand the Italian language, the adventure heeded scarce results.
In an attempt to recreate my favorite salad, I invested in rucola (arugz), lemons, and goat cheese. At the dairy counter, I asked for goat cheese. The man obviously spoke no English. Our conversation went a little something like this:
Me: Vorrei goat cheese?
Man: Che?
Me: Uh. Goatttt cheese? Formagio.
Man: (points to all cheeses) Formagio!
Me: (contemplates implementing a game of charades. Begins to bring fingers to forehead to create horns) Chevre?
Kelsi: That’s French.
I found goat cheese in the prepackaged aisle. It wasn’t cheap, but I figured it would last a while and I could eat in on toast for breakfast too. The next morning, I tried to spread it on toast made in the oven, only to find that it tastes like Feta Cheese. If there’s one cheese I hate, it’s feta. Cool.
Shopping for food is extremely difficult. Everything comes in miniscule portions and deli meat is hard to come by. The eggs aren’t refrigerated, which shouldn’t freak me out, but does. Sugar only comes in cubes and three slices of turkey costs 3 euro. Making three meals a day for myself is already a shock enough, but I’m in the food capital of the world, so I’ll figure it out.
For the past few days, tour guides and professors have escorted us around. They’ve shown us Rome on fast forward and my feet are paying the price. It’s amazing to me that life can proceed normally in the midst of ancient ruins. Bars are across the street from famous monuments and everything seems to have historical importance. Rick Steves’ son led us around Trastevere the other night. We saw the Pantheon and warded off pickpocketers attracted to our huge group of Americans, but we mostly drank way too much wine at the end-of-tour dinner. That night, we went to an American bar called the Drunken Ship. It was fine for the first night on the town, but I’m not here to drink pitchers and play flip cup. Needles to say, we hopped off board to catch the last bus home.
Last night was the first one on our own in the city. Some other friends from my program came over to drink wine and limoncello. Then we barhopped until each one closed down. 1 euro peach vodka shots came first. Then onto pineapple strawberry shots, cider, and a final coconut shot, all provided to our group by a student from John Cabot’s orientation staff. What a welcome! And I was the one drinking the least!
In Rome, most buses stop running at midnight. A few of them become “night buses,” but the one we usually take home from downtown is not one. After the last bar closed, we hopped on a night bus and got off at the central bus station. While trying to figure out which one to take next, our new friend Rick, who had arrived just yesterday due to passport confusion, decided to attempt theft in the form of the night bus N13. He sat in the driver’s seat and revved the engine until the very upset driver grabbed him by the scruff and threw him off. Right about then was when we realized that N13 was in fact the bus we needed to take home. Rick snuck back on and sat separate from us with his head down. Alcohol induced sleep followed. After some time, we saw our stop and got off. As we put our coats back on, we saw the doors closing and the bus drive away…with Rick still on it.
Because he arrived late, Rick missed the entire orientation. Consequently, he had no keys, international phone, identification, or general knowledge of his surroundings on his first night in Rome. We were pretty sure that he didn’t even know his address. Logically, we assumed that he’d get off at the next stop and walk toward us. But the next stop was about a mile away. We looked for him, and ended up getting lost ourselves. When we eventually made it back, we were still Rickless. Nervously laughing, we were practically hysterical and simultaneously miserable.
This morning, Rick returned home. I’ve yet to hear the details of his voyage, but we’re all relieved that he’s alive. We went to bed with only one thought: Roma has him now.
Everyone says that life slows down in Italy. So far, I’ve only experienced the opposite. It’s difficult to keep in mind that I’m not only here for a week. We’ve been trying to absorb everything as quickly as possible. Sightseeing and photo snapping are lovely, but I’m very much looking forward to becoming a real local here. Now that we’ve been oriented on high speed, I think we’ll be able to blend in a little more and appreciate the culture wholeheartedly.
Going about the daily motions of life seems peculiar when you’re constantly surrounded by intricate architecture constructed way too many years ago for anything to still be standing. It only seems appropriate that we be screaming with excitement the entire time. Errands aren’t so much a chore here, but a venture into the past. I’m amazed with my new home. I may not be a history buff, but this place is spectacular.
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