At heart, I am a sadomasochist, which is probably why after all this time, I found myself back in the most sadomasochistic place in the world: Rome. There is no point in fighting whatever strikes you here. Returning to Rome after a long absence is like unplugging from the Matrix. Never mind that coming here is always such a bad idea in the first place. The down side about a place being trapped in 1603 is that you feel you are, well, trapped in 1603. Unless you have been born into the ruling class, or at least have an archbishop for an uncle (neither of which apply to me) it is the stupidest thing someone with no money and no job could ever do.
Yet there we were boarding the train for this place I had experienced so in–depth once before; already confronted by suntanned, relaxed, cheesily dressed Romans, jabbering away in their incomprehensible dialect, trying to rush over my head to disembark before it had even rolled into the station. Don’t blame them for this – they really are compulsed to do it. I felt as if I was already stepping over the threshold to a strange land, watching the bewildered Philippino nuns trying to shout back at them. But Philippino nuns – all nuns for that matter – are invisible to Romans; strange in the city of the Vatican and priests in flowing black robes, broad–brimmed hats and all that. It is always the same on the train, same surly conductors – both baffled and angered by the mad scene before them. We waited our turn, stepped down, took a tranquilizer as we boarded the infamous #64 bus – 2 hours and 35 minutes of hallucinogenic bliss later – disembarked in the heart of it all: Via Giulia.
This might be sensibly considered the most ridiculous of all my attempts to join the Italian dolce vita. As I am neither the daughter of a mafioso or the niece of an archbishop, the carefree days of tanning, vogueing in revealing outfits and making out with gorgeous, dark men have always eluded me since my very short fling with Gianni, the cream of the Roman nobility, at age 19. But ever since my first youthful visit here, I have been poisoned with the unremitting desire to join the ranks of these huge-sunglassed, pointy-shoed, incredibly sensual people. It was an impulse more than a desire, to come back, a voice from deep within that screamed, “Give up everything and go to the Las Vegas of the clergy!” It had come upon me with unexpected force, even for someone as used to forceful impulses as me.
Our two–hour bus ride from the station would be the first of many drains on my voracious will, but it was worth it just to have witnessed a tall, well–dressed man in a dark suit frotteurizng a large and fully–habited nun (look it up – there’s no better way of saying it) from a part of the world where you’d imagine women would want to become nuns just to escape being mutilated or tattooed or getting a plate in the lip. The guy reminded me of a Frenchman I used to know in college – Massimilian was in my sculpture class – we were killing time in there. We were supposed to sandblast our bronze sculptures and he wanted me to do his sandblasting for him – he didn’t want to get his hands dirty or callused. He wanted them to stay soft. “But Max”, I implored, “A girl likes a man with rough hands, hands that have worked. Hands that have seen a day of labor. A girl desires rough hands”.
But Max replied “Ver a husssband, yessss, zee rough hands are goood, but ver a loevvver, a loevver must have zeee smoooothe hands”. Silently, I sandblasted his bronze for him and in repayment, he gave me a Valium “ver any problem zat should arizze”...I woke up hours later somewhere very dark, who knows where. But I must have drifted off somewhere on an old cranky Roman bus...oh yes, frotteurizing the nun. Mmmmmm. Back to my Happy Place: I would spend more and more time there in Rome, until I simply refused to leave.
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