Overly elaborate in our attire, self-conscious of the culture of fashion we imagined inhabited the city, we wandered the streets of Rome looking for a restaurant a friend had recommended. TV antennas, like beacons to the modern world, dotted the rooftops of squat, antique apartment buildings, their wires falling down the facade and disappearing into shuttered windows. Above us an elderly woman watched from her open window as we waited to cross the street. I caught her eye and began to wave, and just as she was turning away she seemed to think better of it and waved back, smiling to herself before vanishing into her flat.
We approached a large woman as she disembarked her scooter– a lit cigarette still clenched between her teeth– and asked if she could help direct us to the restaurant. Language was an issue, and this woman spent much of her energy pointing and trying to think of the right word. Another woman, who happened to be wearing a Canada sweatshirt saw the confusion of languages and gestures unfolding on the sidewalk and interceded. Crisp and efficient, like a directional robot, she gave us way too much information, showing-off her knowledge of the mysterious Roman streets all the while bullying the other woman out of the conversation.
Almost immediately we learned the story of the Canadian woman, who 20 years ago, as a single mother, had moved to Rome so that her daughter could learn Italian. She taught gym at a high school, met the love of her life and had four more children. It was a happy ending, and she proudly told the story as if it was instruction on how to live one’s life. For whatever reason, my sympathy resided with the Italian woman who may not have felt so confident and blessed in her decisions, and I kept trying to thank her. Eventually, I made an effort to bang fists ( a ridiculous, ironic thing that I do) with her, but she just accepted my fist in her two hand and held them, nodding her head and smiling.
We ended up taking a cab to the Colosseum where we wandered the exterior of the ruins. I imagined that upon seeing it, touching it, I would channel something mysterious and true and feel a sense of awe wash over me, but I did not. Instead I had my photograph taken with a couple of hucksters dressed up as Centurians, and as we headed for the Metro it began to rain–so lightly, beautifully and unexpectedly cooling– that the moment suddenly became perfect and ageless.
A breathtakingly gorgeous young nun walked past us, and then an expensive, black Mercedes pulled out from around the corner. Spotting Rachelle, the man behind the wheel blew her a kiss, putting his finger to his lips to hush her so that she wouldn’t mention it to me.