Coraggio

This morning I saw a beautiful horse standing unattended in San Pietro. She had black eyes and a lovely sad face and I really wanted to touch her. I didn't. I was afraid her unforeseen owner would slap my hand away.

Later, my petite professoressa spoke of Goethe and his travels to Italy. Goethe saw this adventure as an occasion to 'reinvent himself'. Incognito, he joined the artistic community, painted the city with an artist at his side, and fell desperately in love with a prostitute before returning to the Court of Weinmar.

Why do I mention this? If Goethe had been by my side, with faux mustache and gold pocket watch, he would have urged me to the touch the horse's face. "Go on" he would have said, "you might learn something."

When I see her again, I will reach for her. I think it's the right thing to do.

Jesus Juice

Today, Yom Kippur, is the holiest of days for the Jews. I am not a particularly orthodox girl (do bagels and lox count?) but I am a spiritual one. Rome is an intensely Catholic place; it is impossible to ignore the religious flavor. Jesus is everywhere. The term 'drinking the kool-aid' refers to taking in a philosophy, an experience. I would have to say that I am drinking the Jesus Juice. I can't help but be fascinated. My grandmother is reading this and choking on her challah but don't worry, Gram, I'm not going to don a habit. Instead, I'm opening my eyes. The Vatican may be incapable of fully adapting to the demands of the modern world but her nuns are wearing Gucci shades and taking the metro. And this is where my fascination begins: with the intersection between the ancient world and the one before me. I'm in a class called "Contemporary Issues in the Catholic Church," taught by Father Larrey. Twice a week, he lectures about the gospels, and the Pope (whom he knows personally), and the truths of the bible which are alive for him everyday. I just sit there and drool. I'm a skeptical girl and an indecisive one; I have trouble committing to an entree. And here is a man who believes wholly in the existence of Jesus and who has devoted his life to this divine power. I'm in awe of his piety. And the biblical terms..they are so scandalous. The glorified body, the re-insertion of the soul to the body, the eucharist. Oh dio! Regardless of religious orientation, there is something alluring about the spirituality of the city. Maybe I'm just looking for a higher truth. Stay tuned.

Tanti Auguri

Thursday evening I awoke to my roommate, Zoe, shaking me softly. "We were invited to a birthday party," she said. "I think we should go." I raised my eyebrow. And then I got dressed. Twenty minutes later Zoe and I found ourselves in an exotic courtyard, surrounded by greenery and panties drying on the clothes line above. Our friends Nicole and Maura came down to let us in. In the claustrophobic elevator ride up, we quizzed them. "Ok, on a scale of 1-10, how awkward is this? Did you do that cheek kiss thing or shake hands?" Before they could answer, we arrived at the apartment. We followed the techno and walked onto the balcony. There were about thirty guests, standing, smoking, eyeing us. As Americans, we cope with uncomfortable situations reasonably and with excessive amounts of alcohol. We got cocktails and stood together. A guy in a purple shirt (yes, there was explosive chest hair) came over and introduced himself as Joseph. "Joseph," I said, "I am going to drink and then we are going to speak Italian." He had a little laugh and then asked me to repeat again in Italiano. And so I did. I should explain something to the reader. I have taken four semesters of Italian and my ulcer has grown stronger with each. I love the language but it eludes me. Pronomi combinati? Che? I can't get it together. But I promised myself that I would try and adopted the age old mantra 'fake it till you make it.' So, cutting back to the birthday party. Joseph and I made a pact, and suddenly I was in a whirlwind. I spoke with Claudio about his ski vest, with Valter about his birthday, and with Miriam about American boys. Were these conversations deeply intellectual? Assolutamente no. But I felt, for the first time, that I was living in Roma. I wasn't a tourist but I was just a girl, talking to boys and girls. The night was filled with chocolate cake, club jams, cigarettes, and a few illicit photographs. It was ridiculously fun. We American girls dipped out of going dancing but from our cab, we saw Valter (the birthday boy) get out of the car and dance around in the brilliance of the streetlight. "Magnifico," the driver said. "Si," we agreed. Siamo d'accordo.

Wonder Daze

On the plane from Frankfurt to Rome, I had a panic attack. I awoke to a German woman with watery eyes shoving a cheese sandwich in my face. I smiled and shook my head. I walked to the back of the airplane and stood near cheap curtains feeling sick with nerves; a kindly stewardess with impeccable bone structure poured me a cup of coke. Twenty minutes we landed in la bell' Italia. And this is where the story begins.

My travel sickness has subsided while my serotonin has continued to surge. Each day I walk the forty five minutes to school. I jet past the colosseo, through Piazza Venezia, and along the Tiber. I look like an asshole, dark hair plastered to my forehead, power-walking, a huge grin on my face. I can't help it. I really can't.

The Goddess Roma has welcomed me into her arms and now I never want to leave. Make no mistake: I miss dependable public transportation, feeling 'exotic' amongst my blond fat Americans, and air-conditioning. But these are small losses. And baby I'm only getting richer.

The loot thus far:

*laughing in Vatican City

*a daily panino con salami from my favorite cafe

*dancing on the riverbank at La Maison

*swimming in Sorrento

*learning to cook pasta carbonara

*the phrase 'che cazzo'

It's been three weeks and I feel myself transformed. Am I being dramatic? Ridiculous? Eccentric? To these charges I have one thing to say: when in Rome.

A presto, blogosphere.