It is a known fact that Italians are an affectionate and handsy people. That said, I assumed I would be an exception given that A. I avoid human contact like the plague, and B. I constantly have sweat pouring off of me. Apparently, my reasoning was faulty.
While wandering around la Villa Borghese (in reality, I was so sore that it was more of a crawl, or perhaps a hobble), I came across an old man sniffing the leaves of a bush. Ducking my head, I tried valiantly to edge past him and sit near the fountain. But alas, he caught me. Actually, the leaf he was waving caught me in the face.
He began rambling to me in rapid Italian, while leaned back and stared at him. Eventually, he realized I was not Italian and attempted some English. After asking if I was from London, New York, or Florida, I told him I was from California, which prompted a listing of all the East Coast colleges he’d been to. He realized that I was still struggling to understand what he was saying, and tried switching tacts, by introducing himself as Sergio and asking me what I was doing in Rome.
By the end of the conversation, I had no idea what on earth he was talking about, and I’m not sure he knew either. Regardless of our level of knowledge, there was no stopping him when he pulled me in for forceful cheek kisses. He then ambled away, leaving me to try to sort out what just happened.
From there, lunch seemed like something that would make sense, and there was a small restaurant that I had heard excellent things about, so I set off in search of it. Except it was closed until September.
I stumbled upon an adorable restaurant with a waiter that actually spoke English, and being overwhelmed by both the waiter and life, I ordered 3 courses all at once. Needless to say, the food was almost ridiculously good, to the point where I didn’t even care that I was the only person there dining alone, let alone speaking English.
Over the course of an hour and a half meal, I realized just how much you can see, even in a quiet neighborhood here. Each of the waiters took turns attempting to stomp on pigeons, an outdoor market was dismantled (leaving behind many tomatoes), and one table made friends with every passerby.
By the end of the meal, I was full to the point where I wasn’t sure if I could actually make it back to the metro station, but that did not stop the waiter from listing off at least 15 types of desserts in an attempt to get me to eat even more.
Getting my check was another fiasco, given that he was the only person there who spoke English, and every other waiter was baffled by requests for change in small bills. The poor English-speaking waiter was dragged back out to help me, and sent me off with a shoulder clasp and cheerful “Ciao.” Unfortunately for him, it was still extremely hot, and I was still very sweaty. But at this point, I don’t necessarily feel like it’s hot out, just that I am perpetually sticky. Which not only leaves those who touch me with an unpleasant handful of sunscreen and sweat, but leaves me looking remarkably haggard and damp, particularly when contrasted with the locals here, some of whom are wearing full suits and never seem to appear even remotely uncomfortable.
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