Rome: Let’s Just Be Friends
Does Rome not like me?
This was the thought that made me shudder. It was night two in the Eternal City. I was happy to be here. But I couldn’t help but think, something’s off.
Case one. When I arrived, my host offered to take me to his favorite pizza place. I was stoked. We left the apartment and he stopped to chat with a friend. I looked up to see an old woman sitting at her second floor window. She was just sitting, detached and stone-faced, keeping watch over the street. She looked at me and we held eye contact. She made no attempt to be subtle. I gave a funny little wave, expecting her to smile back and be all goofy and giddy. Instead, like taking a bite of an uber sour fruit, she closed her eyes and stuck out her tongue.
I must admit, this was funny. But I was horrified that this was a bad omen. And they kept coming. I’d walk along the street, cheerfully and cheesily saying “Buongiorno!” to every Italian who passed by. Nothing. Not even a smile back. At cafes, I’d speak my rudimentary Italian and they didn’t care one bit. I thought they’d laugh, giggle at how cute I was and give me a nougie. But they seemed resentful. And when they spoke English, it was like they were doing me the biggest favor, how dare I ask.
I should start by saying how much emotional stock went into this trip. If you know me, or you’ve heard me speak in the last three years, then you’ve heard me say “Italy” at least several times. I opened a savings account for this trip in 2017, stashing away $20-$50 at a time as a broke freelancer, hoping I could eventually afford it. Then I got a swanky job and filled that account quickly. Italy was always the plan, and in early 2020 I was starting to really consider going. Then Covid hit.
During the pandemic, Italy was all I thought about. When I was bored, or lonely, or lost, I’d think about this trip and I’d feel warm, inspired, comforted. It was my light at the end of the tunnel. This feels weird to share, but I will: When I was living in Portland, there was this big wide tree in my neighborhood. It was in the front yard of someone’s home and they decorated it with these bright white lights — so bright you could see them from blocks away. Almost every night during the pandemic, I would take a long walk and stop by this tree, and I’d stare and pray. I’d say, “Please bring me to Italy. When it’s time, I promise I will go.”
Italy was my saving grace. The answer to all my problems. So you can imagine, when I finally made the leap to get here, how crushed I was to have old women sticking their tongues out at me.
Of course, part of me thinks I came on a little too strong. I felt like Paulie, in that episode of The Sopranos when the crew takes the trip to Italy. Paulie’s beside himself to be there. He idolizes Italian culture. He’s returning to the Motherland. When he arrives, he raises his espresso at a group of strangers and yells, “Hey, commendatori!” and they look at him like a total douche. I was starting to feel like Paulie.
I went to sleep depressed and woke up sad. I hadn’t felt this type of depression in almost a decade. When the answer to your problems isn’t an answer, the bottom falls out. My thoughts started to spiral. What if this trip is a failure? What if I come home even more lost than before, but with a pouchy gut and a giant hole in my savings?
What if Italy doesn’t want me to be here?
“The Tongue”
I have this worry of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
When you’re in the right place, you know it. Things seem to flow. You can’t consciously manufacture it, just follow whatever intuition is guiding you there. It’s like when you’re sailing, and you turn off the motor and feel the magical pull of nature, gliding you along effortlessly as you cut cleanly through the water.
Being in the “wrong” place is the opposite. Things move against. You’re facing the wind, exerting energy yet moving nowhere. You’re pushing your plan as opposed to being pulled by what’s in front of you.
I have a habit of pushing. And it’s one of my life goals to release this. I don’t know the secret to happiness. But I suspect it has something to do with being able to surrender, because the happiest people I know are the ones who can go with the flow and let life guide them along.
That said, there comes a moment in every trip when this release happens. In the days leading up, I’m so ready for said trip, I’ve planned and researched so much — and, admittedly, packed an additional suitcase of expectations — that I come in hot. I’m controlling. I’m stressing. I’m over-planning. In subtle ways or not, I’m trying to recreate a successful trip from the past, or manufacture a certain outcome.
Then comes the moment of release. I realize I’m pushing instead of flowing. It happens early or towards the end, but the sooner it does, the better the trip. And in Rome, it came in the form of one divinely liberating word: Whatever.
The people here don’t like me? Whatever. I come home and say it was a mediocre trip? Whatever! I don’t get the answers I’m looking for? Whatever! Also, I’ve made the most of bad trips, cold people, and strange environments. And I can do it here, too.
I had another realization. Before this trip, the Universe seemed to conspire to make it happen. I had certain connections fall into place, quite serendipitously. I felt authentically called to certain cities. Right before leaving, a work project came in out of the blue that gave me enough to cover a big portion of my trip. When I reflected on these events, I realized that I’m meant to be here, I’m just not aware yet of the reason. And that’s enough for me.
The next morning, I went to the neighborhood market. I wouldn’t be able to survive off the Italian style of chocolate croissants and cappuccinos for breakfast — I needed fruit. When I arrived, I spoke Italian to the vendors. I wasn’t trying to be cute, I was trying to communicate. I tried to say “strawberries” to one man and he instead brought me a bushel of green beans. I repeated myself, slowly and deliberately. “Ah, fragole!” he said, and he started cracking up. The same types of interactions repeated themselves across the other stalls. People were helpful. They smiled. I was relieved.
I realized many of the folks in Rome, like New Yorkers, can just be playful. Be in on the joke or you let it roll off you. In other words, loosen up. Bring an extra layer of skin. Italians don’t hold back, nor do they mean much ill will. They just seem to have no inner reserves (and perhaps little patience for tourists). When they feel it, they say it. It’s different, and not at all times do I love it, but now, gracefully, at least I can laugh about it.
With that, my top three favorite interactions in Rome:
The older woman sticking out the tongue. Priceless.
I was out to eat. The waiter came to take my order. “I’ll have the pasta e ceci,” I said.
“Ah, the pasta e ceci!” He said proudly. “No.”
“Huh?”
“No. Fa caldo!” He pointed to the sky. “It’s too hot for soup! We will not serve it tonight.” As he said that, he turned and walked away.
“Uh, aspetta!” I said, wait. “I’ll have the tortellini e ragu.”
“Ah, tortellini e ragu, yes!”I went to a very local restaurant recommended by a friend. It was literally underground, part of a church run by nuns — so, all Italian. The woman walked up and asked something about the soup. She spoke very quickly, and I didn’t understand her. She saw the blank look on my face, slapped her forehead and said exasperatedly, “Oh, Mamma Mia!” Fortunately, the man next to me spoke English and helped facilitate. And by the end of the meal, the woman asked me my name and wished me a pleasant journey. After all, she was a nun.
When it was time to leave Rome, I felt ready — like I was recalibrated. I wasn’t just ready for my trip — I felt ready for the people.
There was one magic moment — and it could be my reason why I was brought to Rome in the first place.
Quick backstory. What started all this was an article back in 2018. It was in the New York Times called “A Crime of Pasta.” It was about the Italian government starting to crack down on homemade pasta production. These women, “The Nonnas,” are cranking out orecchiette by hand from their kitchens and selling it to restaurants. They’ve been doing it for centuries. These women seemed to have such bubbling, wonderful personalities, yet the article focused just on the politics, not the people. I said, I’d love to travel to Bari and meet these women.
I was out to dinner with my host when I asked where he’s from. “Puglia,” he said. “Near Bari.” My eyes lit up. “No kidding!” I said. I told him about my dream, to visit the Nonnas and write about them. “I have people I can connect you with,” he said. “Probably closer to July or August. Let’s chat when the time gets closer.”
That was incredibly promising — my first lead into the world of the Nonnas. We’ll see how that unfolds. Time will tell.