// Roaming.//

“Everyone soon or later comes round by Rome.”
- Robert Browning

The first thing you need to know about Rome is it is not quite what you expected it would be; or perhaps better, it is what you expected, but it is less and it is more at the same time. I expected Rome to be full of middle-aged plump women yelling for their sons, who were really too old to be living at home, to go to the market and purchase more tomatoes to add to the vat of marinara sauce bubbling on the ancient stove. I expected Rome to be seeped in history and tradition; that its inhabitants would be too wise to get caught up in modern materialism and the race for technological superiority. I expected Rome to be full of the chiseled wrinkles of the laughing men sitting at cafes playing chess with the boys they have known for all eternity. This Rome, the Rome in my head, I dreamt about for my whole life; I still dream about it if I am being honest.

I stepped off the train and plunged into Rome, it was impossible not to be wholly there, no part of me was left elsewhere. I journeyed with my companions to the public bathrooms and submitted my one Euro to the gaping slot guarding the stalls. There was something strange about encountering pay toilets, I had already encountered them elsewhere on my trip, but in my Rome this did not exist. There were six of us seeping in Rome, sledging our way through the vibrant and the overwhelming. We slipped out of the station and into the street positively busting with anticipation; it almost seemed that Rome had been waiting for me as I had been waiting for it. But just like the pay-toilets something was not quite right; it was my Rome, but it was also something else.

I saw the ancient-wrinkled men, the demanding Mamas and the somewhat reluctant sons. The history surrounded me, I could detect the hints of marinara in the air and the Romans were distinctly different from me and my companions. However, there was also the unexpected. The young men were quite something, greased, powdered, over-confident and they wore clothes so tight one wonders if they used a cleaver to get them on. They positively strutted their way through the street, cat-calling, staring and encouraging one another in their obnoxiousness; they were quite comparable to a construction crew dressed in Armani. Tacky souvenirs were strewn across the ancient structures with ancient men calling out for tourists to take a piece of “Rome” home with them. Feeling a little unnerved, I, the one who planned, booked and led this expedition, fished through my brown canvas bag and extracted the direction to the hostel; my male companions quickly took over directing the party to our destination.

I walked, and walked, and walked, feeling unnerved by the strange juxtaposition of my Rome with reality; I lost all sense of time winding through the streets and was jolted back to reality when we reached our hostel. The Casa Olmata was slightly different then I expected; instead of being greeted by my imaginary elderly couple, joyful and hospitable we were led into a poorly lit office containing a large middle-aged man wearing golden jewelry, sitting next to a steel safe and a growling Rottweiler. After demanding our Passports and money we were given one hospitable bottle of water and escorted to a different building four blocks away. It was then I realized that Rome, at least the Rome that tourists encounter, is mysterious, not romantically, but shiftily. Rome offers one thing and gives another; Italian glass necklaces with made in China stickers hidden until you have paid three times its worth.

After depositing our bags in our private room we set off to find food and see a bit of the city; with no direction we wandered, our weary bodies drifting downhill with pizza and amore on our minds. We stopped in at a little fast-food pizza place, impatient men with broken English took our orders and we were on our way. Shocked by the un-romantic eatery we took our cheesy, triangular pieces of Italy to a park surrounding an ancient ruin, left un-fenced and un-guarded. We sat on benches and consumed the pizza we had been dreaming of for months, somewhat disappointed by its American taste but reveling in the ancient Italy before our eyes. One of my companions put down her meal briefly to extract her camera from her bag when a homeless man, who had been lingering at the perimeter of the park for some time, came over to her bench, picked up her pizza and started eating it. My companion’s jaw dropped, she looked at me completely puzzled at what she should do, but decided the pizza was not worth the confrontation. We decided it would be best to press on and see what we could before the sun set.

Turning a corner from the park it stood before us, there in all its historical and violent might. We all took a gasp. Excitement bubbled within me because this is what I had dreamt of for my whole life; the Colloseum was before me in all its glory! When you walk toward the Colloseum it seems to take forever to get there, because it is positively unimaginable in size; you think you are close but there is still a ten minute walk ahead of you. We all grabbed for our cameras, trying to capture the moment, attempting to catch the “Rome” we came for. We cheered and laughed; and skipped our way toward the ever increasing symbol of Rome. It was perfect, in all its disintegrating stone and marble.

One of my fellow adventurers needed to find a bathroom and we were told to go into the Palatino, a square kilometer of preserved ancient Rome, to find one. It seemed ironic to me, that despite all the modern structures surrounding where we were it was into a piece of their history that we were to find such a menial facility. We made our way up the ancient Roman road, the pride of the Roman Empire, to find the bathroom. We passed through the gates welcomed by a smiling man with wrinkled etched into his face who informed us that it was Heritage week in Rome so we could enter for free. While my one companion set off to find the bathroom the rest of us wandered around the ancient city. The light was perfect for taking pictures, the sun broke through the trees casting beautiful shadows on the ground and illuminating the structures that Paul would have encountered. I wandered separate from my group, wanting to be alone with my thoughts, I had no words. I yearned to trespass beyond the fences which separated me from discovering what was inside the ancient structures, from caressing the marble walls. I was experiencing perfection; the Rome I came for. What I began to realize, was that we were not permitted to enter the buildings because yes we would wear them down, but more importantly because they were likely facades, covering something not to be had by the traveler but only by the people of Rome.

That is the Rome I encountered, I could not penetrate the true Rome because I was not part of it. I experienced ugliness and assembled beauty. I did not encounter Rome; I encountered a poorly constructed façade, a cheap copy. My Rome still waits to be discovered, behind the tourist traps and guided tours. Rome still waits for me. When you go, because you must go, this is what you may encounter. It is not what you dream of but you will get glimpses beyond what you are meant to see, through the window of the façade. You must go because Rome waits for us all.