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!