Roaming Rome

A hand to her forehead as she speaks Maria tousles her hair and returns to kneading the air like dough, speaking with every muscle from the waist up as only Italians can. Her frizzy ash blonde bangs float back to her brow in a rumpled mess, seemingly aware that they will soon be disturbed again and so there is no need to look presentable. The rest of her hair is twisted haphazardly into a tangled knot of scraggly ends and forgotten bobby pins, which could have been secured this morning or the day before it’s impossible to tell. As usual Maria has on an array of neutral colored, loose, draping clothing arbitrarily layered together in a way that makes it difficult to identify on any given day what she is actually wearing. Today however, she is also wearing very baggy blue jeans whose frayed bottoms drag on the ground over clogs with a heel bringing her to around 5” 4’. She rummages through a large olive green canvas bag, clinking a chunky silver ring on her index finger against keys or coins as she forages for a cigarette, her fourth of the morning. Like the excessive fabric used for her clothes everything she does is intemperate. Her movements are leisurely and overindulgent, limbs never choosing the quickest route between two points, cigarettes drawing rings through the air on the way to her lips. All loose strands of hair, no make up, grandiose gestures and loud thickly accented English devoid of prepositions, Maria is equal parts animated and disheveled. The perfect picture of the single bohemian Italian woman, who is a little crazy and maybe a little bit drunk most of the time. She is a fascinating and fantastic mess. She is also, my theology professor.

As part of the Women and Religion class Maria seems to frequently confuse with an art history course, our saucy (and possibly sauced) professor herded us onto a seven am train Friday morning and guided us through a nine-hour tour of Rome. The Coliseum, Pantheon, Forums, Capitol Hill, Castel Sant’Angelo and six or seven churches all of which blur together in a muddle of frescos, filigree and fervently whispered prayers. They were however all very beautiful and afforded me the opportunity to see some relics for the first time1. It rained sporadically throughout the day, which allowed us to see first hand the pitfalls to having a hole in your roof (the Pantheon) and to take cute umbrella pictures during a deluge in front of the Coliseum. I won’t bore you with the history of these places but I will say there is something remarkable about standing on the stones where gladiators fought and individuals built a civilization that would influence the world for thousands of years to come. The Coliseum in particular was a marvelous thing to see. Rome, although very beautiful particularly with all of the fall leaves and history, is incredibly different from Florence. It is really amazing that the two are not only in the same country but a mere hour and a half train ride apart. I was secretly pleased to find that I much prefer the quaint beauty and accessibility of Florence to the dirty busy streets of Rome. After nearly three months, Florence feels like home in a way I believe Rome never could have.

At the end of a long day trekking all around Rome with Maria, my friend Sarah and I wandered off to find our host for the evening. Feeling very much like we weren’t in Kansas anymore and pooling together our limited Italian vocabulary we got tremendously lost and finally made it to Michael’s apartment in great need of a nap. One hour of sleep, two kebabs, and three bottles of wine later Sarah and I found ourselves in a situation that never happens in Florence and rarely at USD: we were outnumbered by American boys 3 to 1. Thus began a typical evening of bathroom talks, overpriced drinks, unoriginal Italian pick up lines and Sarah playing chess with a Columbian in a bar called the Drunken Ship. Huh? When in Rome? The night ended with Sarah and I pathetically huddled atop a make shift bed on the floor in our coats fighting over who would be big spoon and freezing after Sarah lost our blanket to a blacked out boy from Boston. It was too hilarious to even be upset about.

On Saturday we woke up bleary-eyed and grateful that we had opted for the later tour and set off in the pouring rain to grab a cappuccino and a cannoli, make a wish in the Trevi fountain, and complete the full 50-euro tour of the Vatican museums. Even running on five hours of sleep in two days, the three-hour tour flew by. The Vatican is the second largest collection of art in the world (the Louve is the first) and I was perpetually in awe of all the famous and incredible things I was seeing. The Sistine Chapel was absolutely phenomenal. Even with all of the build up and all of the expectation it did not disappoint. Especially when you learn all of the historical meaning and the anecdotes of its creation. Sarah and I also got to see the apartments of the scandalous Pope Alexander the VI, whose wild orgies and concealed murders had been the subject of a presentation assigned to us by Maria the week before. So all in all we were pretty excited.

Lastly, and rather embarrassingly, I had hoped to see the Fountana de Amora from the movie When in Rome. After several fruitless attempts to find it I finally asked our Vatican guide for it’s location and our conversation went like this.
“Excuse me can you tell me where the Fountana de Amora is?”
Blank stare. “Isn’t that in a movie?”
“Yes!” I exclaimed excitedly “When in Rome! Have you seen it?”
“No but I heard about it. They made that up. The Fountana de Amora doesn’t exist.”
I was too disappointed to feel stupid.

One hour and about three false alarm panic attacks later2 we are homeward bound. I stare out the window of the only seating car on an overnight train curiously ending in Germany, and I decide our little Roman Holiday was a success. Much like the intrepid Maria who started us on our adventure, we had navigated Rome with a careless and unmethodical attitude and a sense of humor. Minor set backs only added to the experience and all the must sees of Rome were accounted for. Leaving the city behind for God knows how long I decide that Rome is nothing like the movies and most people have no idea what the expression “When in Rome” really means. Except maybe Professor Maria.






1. I stood next to aged Italian women silently weeping and wondered who on earth decided this, really not very old looking, piece of wood had come from the manger Jesus laid in or why an iron chain was in a glass case with people kneeling in front of it.

2. Since Sarah and I bought a two-person ticket, it did not include the train number or time and it took several inquires to acquire this information. Then when the conductor asked for our ticket it seemed we had lost it and right as he was about to throw us off the train I found it soggy and folded in the forgotten outside pocket of my bag.