So how's the food?

You know you're entering a land of culinary greatness when people greet each other by saying "chow."

Italians - like the French, Chinese, and Haitians - are pork people. On my street are several delectable salumerie, each offering a broader array of smoked pig than I ever imagined. A request for salami at one of these places will be met with a blank stare and the question, "che tipo?" I've been doing my part to try them all. I wish I could remember their names, but as far as I can tell the main difference has been the way the fat is layered throughout the jewel-like meat. Mortadella practically dissolves in the mouth, the fat is so emulsified into it. Other sausages look like pinwheels of red and white. Of course there's also guanciale and lardo, snow-white hunks of luscious porkiness. (OK, I haven't tried them yet, I'm working my way up to it.)

One store sells my favorite prosciutto crudo (as opposed to cotto), where the kind clerk seems to be overjoyed that you even walked into his place. I take this home and put it on slices of canteloupe, which are even more tender and uniformly delicious than the ones we have at home. Opening the melon and scooping out the flesh is like dipping a spoon into custard.

But back to pork. I wonder if there's some status in this. A bakery near Campo de' Fiori (where they have wonderful sfogliadelle) features a sausage with the diameter of a tire outside their doorway. At another nearby salumeria, what appears to be the lateral portion of an entire hog sits on the counter by the window. This is called porchetta, a typical Roman speciality of seasoned and stuffed pork, roasted until the top layer of skins and fat oozes over the animal like icing. This was inadvertently my first meal here, and I'll be happy to have it again.

But one must also sing the praises of the produce here. Everything, from watery cucumbers to peppery arugula has more flavor than the vegetables we're used to. Strawberries - which are sold at the peak of ripeness - you want to roll in your mouth like candy. Fragoline di bosco, their tiny counterparts, are especially tasty; about the size of peanut M&M's and sweet, sweet, sweet.

Of the all the kind emails I've gotten, the one most popular request has been to "eat a gelato for me." Rest assured, I have borne this obligation with the solemn dignity required. I feel that NOT eating at least one gelato a day here would just be an offense. I do like to vary my frozen treat experience though, and options abound. Yesterday I had a moment with granita di caffe con panna, similar to Pennsylvanian water-ice (not at all related to 7-11 slurpees) and basically the best iced-coffee I've ever had. I discovered a small gelateria that has quickly become my favorite, offering as it does wonderful flavors (like pignole nut) and macedonia, which is fruit salad with ice cream and whipped cream. I'm managing to still fit into my pants.

And the coffee. I was never much of a coffee drinker back home, but here, it's a different story. Your morning cup of coffee is but a couple of rich tablespoons, a balance of bitter and sweet, even without sugar. This can be accompanied by a sweet pastry (called pasta, by the way), or a simple brioche or croissant (cornetto), which are lightly sugared anyway.

Of course, I've eaten my share of pizzas, pastas, and panini. Despite hitting a wall a couple of weeks ago (no more Italian food, please!) I'm back on the wagon, having my share of carbs each and every day. Pizza crust is tortilla thin, and topped with thin layers of meat, cheese, and/or vegetables, yielding the perfect balance found also in a well-cut piece of sushi. There's a nearby fresh pasta store, but even the little packets in the grocery store are tasty, and fresh pesto is easy to find. A favorite panino is made with breseola - cured lean beef - with arugola, parmigiano, and lemon.

My day usually begins with fruit and yogurt. Low-fat is usually watery and not all that great, so I've had to go for the full fat kind, which is sort of like starting your day with gelato. An Italian friend asked if I have a full English breakfast, with eggs and bacon and all. I told him that when I have a long day of sightseeing ahead of me, I do make scrambled eggs, but in my idea of an Italian style, with olive oil and pecorino romano. His baffled expression was mixed with some friendly disgust.

When I'm not feeling language-intimidated I go to a take out shop down the street where customers and staff shout and laugh with each other in loud Roman dialect. While their roast chickens look delicious, I still haven't gotten past their pizza. My favorite is the golden one with potatoes, rosemary, olive oil, and parmigiano, though a close runner up would be the mushroom pizza, with creamy fior di latte and tomatoes.

Still, there have been some misses. I did manage to buy a bottle of lousy olive oil, and tasteless strawberries. Some cookies that were on sale had a funny taste. I looked at the expiration date and discovered they were a month behind their prime. Yet even the one Euro wine is drinkable....

Sprinter's Eye View Stories and Observations

After I sent out that email to all my folks, I realized I left out some of the neat details I wanted to mention! Here they are....

In the porticoes of many of the older churches in Rome, early Christian fragments adorn the walls. On one such fragment were the following words: ATIDIEA AMANDA
Any idea what that means?

Most of the streets in the historic center are paved with arcs or hatches of uneven black tuffetti, one of the ancient building stones of Rome. These are known as sanpietrosini or little St. Peters, for some reason, and massage your feet as you walk along.

Yes, the air is bad. When Italians are not polluting with their motorinos and cars, they're smoking. Even old men know how to ask for a cigarette in English.

Last Saturday night I planned to go to a concert of Beethoven on the piazza in front of the capital, but in true Italian style, it was simply cancelled with no explanations. My friend and I walked over to the Circus Maximus (think Ben Hur), which was the site of one of the Live 8 concerts in support of Africa. The music was ridiculous - an Italian rapper!? - but it was quite a sight to see the ancient arena filled up with what must have been a million people, flanked by the palatine.

A waitress in New York summed it up nicely once: you don't want to touch them and they don't want to touch you. Here, strangers will grab your arm to pull you onto the tram, standing close together is not just for the bus, and physical affection runs rampant. School boys as well as girls hold hands, women of a certain age walk arm in arm, the two-cheeked kiss goes for men as well as women, and it's not uncommon to see a guy lean a hand on his pal's shoulder.

I noticed one church with removable cushions on the kneelers, in case you'd like to feel more penitent.

This is truly the land of fabulous shoes. Otherwise, Italian style might be summed up as... neo-super-hyper-frilly-Baroque. Italian ladies are glitzed and glimmered to the hilt, showing skin and flashing sparkly jewels. The other night I saw a mother in a tight white outfit in front of me chasing after her kid, and I got a good view of her large sequined belt. And lace thong.

At the church of St. Agostino (whose Renaissance marble facade was pilfered from the Colosseum), a little old man with misty eyes greeted me and offered a pamphlet on the church's highlights. He groaned with delight and kissed my hand when I told him I was studying Italian, and spouted stories about the masterworks in the church. Then he held my hand and looked me straight in the eyes and said, "And today, this morning, there is a new piece of art in the church." Me!

Fun with language: When I think about conversations I had in Italian a few weeks ago, I remember them in German. When I remember my time in Germany, everyone is speaking Italian.

I'm not sure if this story will work without visuals, but here goes: Before a chorus rehearsal a friend and I stopped at a kebab place for a bite to eat. Mohammad, behind the counter, took an immediate liking to my face, and gave me a sweet pastry wrapped in a paper napkin. I tossed it into my purse and ran to rehearsal. Afterwards, a fun kind of guy in the baritone section offered me a ride home on his motor bike. It's quicker than the bus, so I accepted. I also accepted a galss of wine at a sweet local joint. And then we went off to another bar. I remembered the dessert, and offered it to him as we were walking. As I would later discover, he takes to food like a cobra swallowing a dog. When we got to the bar I slipped off to the bathroom, which, as is often the case, was not furnished with toilet paper. When I reappeared, he held out a napkin in his hands and asked, "Do you want to finish?" For what seemed like a very long moment, I thought that perhaps he knew what the toilet paper situation was, and was suggesting I return to the bathroom! I realized there was still some dessert left in that napkin, but by that time I had lost appetite for it.
Postlude: Last week, I was hungry and had just enough time to stop by Mohammed's before rehearsal. "28 days," he said, "it's been 28 days since you last came to see me." The kebab was on the house...

Il Terzo Mondo

If Rome were nothing but seven uninhabited hills, I would still come here if only for the extraordinary weather and flora of the area. This, and some other cultural quirks have reminded me, of all things, of my time in Guatemala. I've seen some of the same flowers I saw there, the afternoon sun is certainly compatible with the dry-season heat I encountered in Guate, and the evening tempeste that have occurred almost daily since my arrival could be a feature of any equatorial country.

Oddly enough, I've managed to be in high places nearly every time a thunder storm hits. The first time I was coming down the Gianicolo from the American Academy in Rome after a storm, when the sky was still churning and the humidity drenched my face. Later, I was at the top of Castel Sant'Angelo, (Hadrian's family tomb turned medieval fortress turned Renaissance and then Baroque papal palace) which is topped by an enormous lightening-conducting bronze angel! And just yesterday I was admiring the pine trees in the Villa Dora Pamphilj when I realized that that cool breeze was bringing storm clouds.

There are other reminiscences of the third world. The conductor of the choir I'm singing with was telling me that in Italy you will find everything from A to Z. But nothing works. You wait a half hour for the bus, and half your old age for your pension.

Again - and sorry to keep bring this up but it continues to amaze me - the menfolk remind me of the friends I made in restaurant kitchens during my brief waitressing career. Just this morning I smiled at a muscular young man who was out walking with an older gentleman, who I assumed was his grandfather. We started talking, and he explained that he works with older people who suffer from Alzheimer's and other disablities. After the initial introductions, he posed the same questions I heard time and again from the Mexican and Ecuadorian cooks I knew in NYC: Are you married, Do you have a boyfriend, How old are you, Can we exchange numbers?

Having learned my lessons before, I replied that I didn't have a phone, but he wrote down his number and gave it to me. Then he hugged me. I patted his back and tried to pull away. When that didn't work I ducked down as he planted a kiss on my forehead. He held my hand and kissed me on both cheeks. Twice. He finally let me go as he ran after his charge, who by this time had ambled down the road. I turned in the opposite direction and hoped to lose them in the twisting streets, covering my mouth to keep from laughing out loud. My new friend's name? Francesco. A name I've learned to fear, as I and nearly every girl I know has had brusque encounters with them.

Mamma mia!

Quando men vo'

Attention blonde girls! Feeling down in the dumps? Can't get attention from the fellas? Come to Rome! Dozens of dark-haired, brown-eyed men are waiting to sing your praises, fall at your feet, and undress you with their eyes!

I couldn't imagine getting more stares if I were walking around unveiled in Saudi Arabia. Italians make eye contact, check each other out. This drove me nuts the first time I came here, but I'm actually appreciating it this time. It makes me feel like the city is acknowledging my presence here. In New York, where you probably could make a living by selling eye contact, you can walk for days without anyone looking at you. Here, babies, old ladies, young women, and of course men look you in the eye and check you out. Most men look at my eyes and then their gaze falls slightly south of my shoulders. There are many government offices in Rome, so in the center you often find military and security personnel hanging out in flocks. I get smiles and stares from beneath the brims of their uniform caps.

The fact that I'm blonde, light-skinned, blue-eyed, and tower over most Italian men doesn't help the situation. Someone was telling me (was it Francesco, or Gianni?) that light hair and eyes are the symbol of purity. Consider, for example, Botticelli's birth of Venus.

There are fewer boundaries in daily life here, so it's easy to strike up conversation with strangers. This has happened on a couple of occasions with men here, and I've since learned my lesson. I was going on my daily walk, and suddenly felt the sticky stare of brown eyes. Having no other excuse, I ended up talking to them for a while, and, because they were so insistent and because I wanted to get rid of them, I gave them my number. In New York, exchanging numbers doesn't mean you'll ever actually see each other again, and if a guy calls back, you can always somehow not be available. In Italy, they call, and you have to answer. People don't leave voice mails here (most homes don't even have answering machines) because cell phones are always kept on, even in church!

Let's just suffice it to say that my experiences have at least allowed me to add the following phrases to my vocabulary: "I'm busy right now." "I'm busy for the next few nights." "I have a boyfriend, and I feel uncomfortable going out with other men. " "You're really making me uncomfortable." "Please stop calling me." "If you don't stop, I'll change my number. Then you can call all you want." One man kept calling my cell over and over again one afternoon, thoroughly freaking me out. I was just trying to blow him off! He sent me the following SMS: "Why don't you respond? Maybe in America you live like animals but in Italy, shame on you! Addio." Whew.

I've since found some nice girls to hang out with, and I'm taking my socializing with the stronger (and in this country, shorter) sex a little more slowly....

The Language

No, it's not Chinese or Arabic, or even German, but Italian is a lot harder than I thought it would be. This is the first Latin language I've made great efforts to learn, and these fast-talking Latins are tough to understand.

It helps that there are lots of cognates (arte conccetuale, insalata verde), and even some handy borrowed words from l'inglese (memory card, middle class, non-profit), but, like Chinese, slight changes in the placement of the accent or a change or omission of a vowel result in completely different meanings. My most recent favorite is this: l'oroscopo=horoscope; ora scopo=now I am fucking.

And what makes Italian great to sing makes it difficult to speak: all those vowels. In the first couple of weeks here I watched quite a bit of TV, wondering to myself at every instant, "do I really need to learn this shit, can't I just stick with opera vocabulary?" Every language demands a new voice, and I'm still having trouble finding mine in this one. I try to get in at least a few hours of speaking Italian a day, but with so many Americans, foreigners, and locals used to talking English, it's actually a tall order.

When I speak to someone in Italian, usually the first thing they say is, "do you want to talk in English?" This never happen in Germany. People are trying to be nice, but it makes practicing all the more difficult. Sometimes English will come only after the second or third response. If I didn't hear something or didn't understand, they'll repeat themselves either in English or Italian, at which point I don't know what language to expect and can't understand a thing! But there's one request I hear every day, which even old men know in English: "Do you have a cigarette?" When they're not polluting with their cars and motorbikes, they're smoking.

I've been doing some conversation exchanges with Italians I've found through a website here, and it's been very successful. Most recently, I had a long lunch with a pleasantly nerdy fellow who works at the UN's Food and Agriculture Organization, a hideous building near the Circus Maximus with the most spectacular view of the city I've yet seen. It's a very international workplace, and the cafeteria even serves sushi, which is such a refreshing change from the sea of spaghetti options here!

Of course, the best place to learn a language is in bed, but I've resisted the romantic options here. All the stereotypes you've heard about the men are true, and it can be over the top sometime....

Routine

One part of my slightly rough adjustment was the fact that I didn't really have a schedule to work around. I still don't, really, but I've put a few events in place that keep my week churning along.

My twice-weekly Italian course just came to an end, which leaves me with even more hours to fill. There are some lonely days, and I'm not always too keen to cave into the company of English speakers, but sometimes it's just easier to stick with your own kind than to venture embarrassing language errors with the natives. Though I recently signed up for a couple of courses at a low-cost continuing ed school, and already I've met some more people there. The first meeting of a class that tours the papal villas resulted in a new friendship with a Spanish girl (she speaks Italian and English beautifully), and a spontaneous trip to the magnificent Villa d'Este at Tivoli. The other course, tarot card reading (!), should lead to more contact too.

Until recently, twice a week I began my day with a swim in the marble piscina communale, a few minutes walk from my apartment. I actually just snuck in, but one is supposed to pay. When I first asked about signing up, the secretary said I would need to get written permission from a doctor, a requirement which must go back to the time of the plague. A new lifeguard finally asked my name as I was trying to get to the pool, catching my bluff. Any thoughts on how to forge a medical permission slip?

When I'm not reviewing my verbs or trying to make friends, I'm faccendo la turista, as they say. There are endless things to see, and my wonder grows with every day. During the first few days of walking around the antiquities with my Rick Steves book, I felt like a sheep in the herd, and I couldn't imagine spending the whole summer as a tourist by myself. Travelling alone can be great or excruciating.

But then, I dropped Rick for Georgina Masson's excellent guidebook called simply "The Companion Guide to Rome." I'm grateful to Leonora for recommending it to me as it's helped me find some of the most beautiful and extraordinary sights, and fill in the gaps of my knowledge of Roman history. Me and Georgina have spent many days together, mostly touring churches, which are as easy to be found as sand on the sea. The book works like magic. When she says to ring at number 40 and a nice old nun will take you in and show you the secret garden, it all happens as if choreographed.

At first, poking my head into the countless churches here, I wondered if I had made the right choice. Do I really have that much of a passion for religious art? But what I am picking up is a sense of the Baroque style, which of course relates to the music I study. Over the top dosn't accurately describe it all. Churches are littered with angels, colored marble, elaborate tombs, ornate frescoes, and the glitter of precious metals and candles. But what I like to think about is the time when all that glitter was not gaped at but simply sensed, as communities gathered for worship and fellowship. I wonder how Rome ever supported as many churches as it has, and it's true that many masses are underattended or even empty. But, in nearly every church I've visited, I've seen sacred spaces used for what they were intended for. The tourist couple kneeling at the altar at St. Paul's, the distressed woman taking a pew at the Chiesa dei Portogesi, the African usher singing along perfectly to the liturgy at the French church at the top of the Spanish steps, and the youth group singing in Tagalog at the medieval church of St. Pudienza. I went up to a young nun and said "In che lingua cantano loro?" "What?" she replied.

Expectations

Eight years of thinking about it, six years of working, two years of procrastinating and 50,000 frequent flyer miles, and here I am, in Rome.

I came with a set of expectations, knowing fully that those expections would be met or exceeded, or that I would experience things I had never even expected. What I didn't expect was exactly how those original expectations would have to be put aside.

I expected space. Green spaces in the large parks around the city, space in my schedule to study music and language and leisure, the space of a quiet piazza filled up with blue sky. I didn't remember how too much space and solitude can make you absolutely crazy. Away from friends, family, and a life I was happy with, all the beauty in the world couldn't stop me from being unhappy.

So that was the first four days. But I got over it, and slowly I've been finding a balance between studying Italian, socializing (which doesn't always overlap), walking around town, practicing (more and more occasionally), and enjoying this baroque town. I had some bad first impressions (graffiti, sunburn, tourist mobs, men urinating on antiquities), but I've started to find the parts of this town that have enchanted people for ages.

I thought I would be writing phrases like "in my mind's iPod I hear Resphigi's Pines of Rome," when in fact there is generally so much car and motorcycle noise in this town that I can't hear myself think. When I come to quiet corner I'm most content to enjoy the silence. The traffic is stressful here, to say the least, and one wrong turn can put you on a street as busy as the West Side Highway but in the space of Spring Street. I spent the first few days taking the most direct route (which meant where the cars are) and being immediately plagued with stinging eyes and sneezing fits. I've started taking extra asthma medication.

I'm slowly slowly beginning to be able to leave the house without looking at my map, though navigating the streets around here is like walking through spaghetti, so I still get lost or need to retrace my steps.

The whole point of this trip was to learn Italian, but even that's harder than I expected. When I arrived in Germany in January 1997, there were no Americans there on long term vacations. In Rome, on the other hand, I'm not the only one who came up with the idea of spending some time here, and the piazzas resound with English chatters. Storekeepers and most everyone else can manage some English, and will do so even when I'm talking to them in Italian. It's so frustrating! At least, when I called the Casa di Goethe, they broke into German instead.

I am making some progress, and I am happy with my twice weekly course at ItaliaIdea. I might look into another supplementary course too. I have found a few Italians who are studying English, so I've been meeting with them once a week each to do a language exchange. It's been quite successful, and I'm also slowly starting to make Italian friends, but they need to have patience. Many men seem to be eager to be my friend....