Let me tell you of my latest, greatest, Roman woes…
Yet another instance of my all-encompassing intelligence not so subtly being MIA.
This is the stuff that Mary-Kate and Ashley movies are made of.
I arrived in Rome on a beautiful, sunny October day, filled with an enthusiasm for travel and an open heart. My first day traveling alone in Italy was going great! I’d figured out how to read the train schedule, take the train, check into my hostel and buy peanut M&M’s from the foreign vending machines all in one day. Grinning from stretched earlobe to stretched earlobe, I dropped my pack at the hostel and skipped out onto the streets of Rome. I had a map, walking shoes and a full bottle of water.
Ready. For. Action.
I was overjoyed to finally behold the ancient beauty that is the coliseum. I circled it twice, took a few pictures and decided that the Pantheon was my next destination. En route I realized that I did not know what the Pantheon was. I knew there would be a sign.
Lo. And. Behold.
Two signs, in fact. Quick photo sesh and onto the Trevi Fountain. I overhand softball pitched a quarter towards the fountain. It did not actually land IN the fountain but it landed NEAR it. Oh well, just change the preposition and mission accomplished.
It was still mid-afternoon and insanely crowded so I chose to walk slowly and take in as much culture as I could. Humility is key; I am unashamed to admit that by this point I realized that I was seriously lacking certain historical information. I strolled along, unknowingly creating blisters that still haven’t healed. I scanned the crowds and looked in souvenir shops. And there he was…
A perfect specimen of all that is Rome… The most Italian-looking, doe-eyed (in a manly way) artist and I were suddenly stuck, locked gaze.
I. Almost. Shit.
I could not, for the life of me, understand why I’d been possessed to make eye contact with a stranger in a country where I did not know a single person. We continued to walk north, one of us speeding up then slowing down for the following ten minutes. In these ten minutes, I’d mentally composed notes to my mom and bosses explaining why it was necessary for me to live in Rome forever.
“Ciao, bella.”
Oh no he didn’t! HE DID!!! We made small talk for about forty-five seconds before his English skills were completely exhausted. All of the Italian I know (minus the word for “cheese,” which I think it actually more important) was used within the first millisecond of our interaction. He was able to communicate that his train station was near “La Piazza Del Popollo,” would I like to see? As we walked, he pointed out different structures, old ones, that I’m sure are very historically monumental. I did not understand a single word of the tour. This small nugget of a conversation happened four times;
Me: “Wow. It’s so beautiful!”
Him: “You are very beautiful.”
Onward. To La Piazza Del Popollo. I would love to say that I used my deductive reasoning and critical thinking skills to figure out where we were headed. In reality though, I arrived at this very large building with a fluffy cloud of oblivion between my ears. It truly was beautiful. I turned my back on our destination and took an impressively well-balanced photo of a bench with people sitting on it and an unimportant looking statue. My new Italian friend guided me closer to the building, closer to the train station and closer to his chest. We became Facebook friends (He has since unfriended me, presumably because he cannot read any of my posts. Or he is just terrified of me.) before he kissed me.
I skip-walk-jogged back to my hostel. THAT WAS SO EASY! I CAN MAKE FRIENDS ANYWHERE!! I WAS AT A PIAZZA!! I exuberantly collapsed onto my hostel bed (climb-skip-jumped up rather, top bunk) and began to explain the events of my day to three bewildered-looking Australians who were fortunate enough to be my roommates for the night.
I said, verbatim, “We made out in front of La Piazza Del Popollo… I guess that’s the house of the Pope?” (Jesus. I don’t even know whether or not “POPE” should have a capital ‘P’ or not. “Jesus” probably was not the most appropriate expletive here either.)
The blank stares of my tres Australian amigos suddenly became almost vacant. In the most deadpan, dryly hysterical way they said in unison, “The Vatican?!”
The Vatican. The fucking Vatican.
“I majored in science!” I defended! I clearly did not exchange contact information with the Tres Amigos.
Even after outlining this tale in such excruciating detail, I’m not sure what the worst part of it is… I followed a stranger in a foreign country. I allowed a stranger to kiss me in a foreign country. Extreme embarrassment x a million. A sincere lack of historical knowledge. I know absolutely nothing about Catholicism. I literally stood in front of the Vatican and did not realize what it was.
To put a positive spin on it, what I lack in intelligence I clearly make up for in openmindedness.
The worst part though…
I. Didn’t. Even. Take. A. Picture.
allyayoga 