Somewhere In Rome

Photo by Smithsonian on Unsplash

We are standing in our room. It is small, hot, cheap. Everything we expected it to be.

My shorts are sticking to my legs, and even though I’m exhausted from the five hour train ride it took to get here, I can’t even think about laying down to rest. On the short walk over from the station, we already passed some ruins, and the fact that they’re stuck in the middle of the city, hiding in plain sight like some kind of picture puzzle in a Highlights magazine, makes me want to go exploring immediately.

I feel like a past version of myself. I’m a looser, calmer me here. The child-like fascination with the world has returned, and I’m so buoyed by the possibility of finding greatness here in Rome, that I can hardly stop to think.

They’ll be time for reflection later, I tell myself. Now, I’m here. Rome. The city that once had everything. The city that rose and rose and rose until it collapsed under the atmospheric weight of its own lofty existence. The city that birthed so much culture and art—Julius Caesar giving way to the Sistine Chapel. And I have the distinct feeling that somewhere beyond the doors of our hostel, lies the answer to the world’s oldest question, the secret to longevity and reinvention.

It has something to do with the imagination, I’m sure. But for now I’ll have to content myself on exploration. That and a freshly-brewed coffee.

We toss our things on the bed and step outside. The air is thick and fragrant. The smell of pastry cream and gasoline and garlic. We follow the sounds of voices and find ourselves in a huge piazza. There are vendors selling clothing, food, anything you can imagine.

It’s an outdoor bazaar of some sort, and it’s teeming with people. A solid mix of locals and tourists.

I spot a track jacket with the word “Italy” written on it. It’s bright red, and even though I don’t like the color, I’m drawn to this jacket for some reason. I don’t have a lot of money, but I decide to buy it anyway, partially because I really like it, but also because I want to try my hand at haggling with the locals.

I’m fascinated by their stark admittance that price isn’t some fixed thing but really just a symbol of how much something is truly worth. The idea that an item’s price is something that should be negotiated feels anti-American in the best way.

The jacket is marked at 40 Euros, so I start with 25. The vendor gives me a sharp no, so I try again at 35. The vendor stares at me for a moment, and tells me the price isn’t negotiable. It’s 40 or nothing. I walk away, deciding not to buy the jacket on principle. I’m fine if he won’t play the game, but I’ve already embarrassed myself by trying and failing, so I don’t really have another option.

I grab a coffee like I wanted to from the start, and I stroll the piazza with a bad taste in my mouth. I sip the coffee slowly hoping to wash my bitterness away in the bitter notes of the dark beans.

We pass a pair of street performers dancing in the square. They’re not getting a lot of attention. The crowd seems to pass them by as if they aren’t there. And for some reason, I’m jealous of their willingness to make art in public without shame.

I look at my friend, and I can tell he’s thinking the same thing. We run back to the hostel and grab the cheap acoustic guitars we recently purchased in Venice.

As we walk back to the piazza with the guitars slung on our backs, I feel a newfound confidence. We stroll past the market, locate an empty space in the middle of the square, and pull out our instruments.

The guitar is new to me. Yesterday it was hanging on a wall in a tiny shop in Venice, but today it is mine. And, as I think about my travels so far, my time in France, my journey through Italy, all I’ve learned, the nuances of culture and art, my unabashed adherence to the American in me, the things I thought I understood but didn’t, something magical happens.

The guitar comes alive in my hand. We are playing for the public. Not some cover song, but something original. A song of our own. And I am singing loudly despite the fact that I’m not fully confident in my voice, and despite the fact that no one knows the song or has any reason to care.

I’m singing for all of Rome because I can. And I realize that’s why I’m here. Not to explore Italy or discover the world, but to discover myself.

And as a I perform the nameless song to the faceless crowd, I feel more myself than I’ve felt since I left home.

When we’ve had enough, we collect the few coins we got from busking, tuck away our instruments, and head back to the hostel to prepare for the evening.

On the way back, I smile at the vendor who refused to haggle with me earlier. I don’t know if I’ll buy the jacket before I leave, but for now I’m happy knowing that I already have my keepsake. The next few days we’ll explore the city, and I’ll try my best to get to know Rome as best as any tourist can.

But when I leave, I’ll be taking something bigger home with me—the knowledge that I’m a better person now than I was before I came.

And years from now when people ask me what Italy was like, I’ll be able to look them in the eye and tell them I found a small piece of myself somewhere in Rome.

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