Returning to Rome -- Part 1

Returning to Rome after a long absence is like coming down after a particularly intense acid trip, when everything seems so crystal clear. 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…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. With the Euro as it is, anything we buy in Italy has an automatic mark-up of 20% Yet there I was boarding the plane again at Newark; I was already confronted by suntanned, relaxed, stylishly dressed Italians, jabbering away in their native tongue, trying to rush the line to board the aircraft before their row was called. Don’t blame them for this, they really are compulsed to do it.

Seeing this, I felt as if I was already stepping over the threshold to a strange land, watching the bewildered airline personnel shouting that, “we are only boarding rows 25-30 and PLEASE CLEAR THE AREA, SIR” . The Italian passengers just looked perplexed and tried to inch their way up when the airline employee turned his back to roll his eyes at his buddy behind him. It is always the same on the 10:30pm flight from Newark, New Jersey to Rome. Each night, the same airport crew becomes both baffled and angered when they all rush the gate. I smiled and waited my turn (why would I want to spend an extra second on that plane?) sat down, took my tranquilizer cocktail and – seven hours and 35 minutes of hallucinogenic bliss later – woke up over Italy.

This particular trip might be sensibly considered the most ridiculous of all my attempts to join in the Italian ‘dolce vita’. Since 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 men with slicked-back hair have always eluded me. But ever since visiting Rome for the first time, I have been poisoned with the stupendously unremitting desire to join the ranks of these huge-sunglassed, pointy-shoed, incredibly sexy people. It was really an impulse more than a desire, a voice from deep within me that screamed, “Give up everything and go to the land of vino and ice cream!” It had come upon me with unexpected force, even for someone as used to forceful impulses as me. Once more, I was stepping off the plane for what would be my third attempt at doing as the Romans do; I was beset by a determination the likes of which I had never been able to muster before—MUST GET SOME GELATO BEFORE I SLEEP.