Roma is a mess. Congested, crowded,
seeping from every crevice in the entirety of the city. There’s more grass in
New York for god’s sake. For all that, it is beautiful beyond real words. The first
thing I saw that was the movement of the people, the Roman’s speech, the way
they express, and grace every moment. The language is apart of their bodies,
and the way they interact. Time is truly slowed down unless you’re on a back of
a scooter, or in the seat of a taxi clutching for your life, and proclaiming
your faith in God.
I met an older couple on the 9 hour
plane ride over from JFK. We touched on
the subjects of music, work, politics, but most of all living. Living with a
whim, and not thinking too far ahead. Relying more on the experiences, and
colors of life rather than the financial structures that we Americans seem to
press upon more than most. Not necessarily saying that’s a bad thing, but I
think it can detract from the beauty, the true dripping essence of life. If you
can’t slow down and feel the breeze through your body, and the reverberations
down the sidewalk, then what the hell are you up to? You look up from your
shoes, and the street vendors are selling their goods, and the baristas going
out for a smoke, moving their lips so expressively, throwing up a hand or two.
Apparently I got here a day early.
But before that revelation I probably got swindled by a well spoken Italian man
at the airport.
He said, “100 for the taxi, or 65
for the van.”
“Ah, I’m gonna take the bus or
train.”
“45.. how bout that?”
“45?”
“Si.”
“All right.” I got in and there was
a couple in the front seat, small tanned beauty from Sicily, and a young man
from Lebanon. They were both living in Lebanon. He worked in tech for “Dunk’n
Donuts”, I told him Starbucks was better, and he just laughed. A family from
Brazil was in the back seat, and I tried to communicate to the father through
broken Spanish. We got our points across.
I got into the center of Rome and
eventually to my apartment after speaking with the locals getting an all right
sense of how to slow down my speech, and communicate. I was the only one in my
apartment, but the cleaners weren’t done so I left my bags and went out to
explore. I found a small café and sat down and had some small pizza like
things, and an Italian beer. I thought I was sticking out as an obvious
American but I was approached many times by other Italians, and some British
folks asking for directions. I shrugged my shoulders, and muttered some
Spanish. Motor bikes sped by with men in linen suits, ladies walked by speaking
sweetly, the breeze flowing down the street. I stared down at my beer, and
tried to condense everything that seemed to be happening, and it was something
along the lines of,
Loosen the gears, stare at the stars, chase
dreams, believe in passion to a delusional degree, listen to music, read
poetry, love
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