A Few Hours in Rome

I woke up the first time to someone stumbling in the dark. There were two figures outlined in the light from the bathroom across the hall, one trying in vain to support the other as he attempted to climb into the top bunk of the bed setting parallel to my head. It was about 5AM Saturday and two of my 5 male roommates had just stumbled home from a bar. The second time I woke to a loud series of farts coming from the even larger Australian bloke in the bottom bunk across from me. After the third rather long exhalation of gas, he started moaning and then let out a kind of strangled hickcup/screetch before settling again in his blankets. No one else woke up.

When I decided it was time to get up and in the shower before the people in the other room came awake I had a bit of a problem. The bunk I was in was quite high, there were guys sleeping all around me, and there was no ladder. I decided to climb over the headboard and try to put one leg on the small nightstand covered by someone’s clothes, then climb to the floor from there. Front-first, I swung my leg over the headboard and was trying in vain to reach the nightstand with my foot when the guy in the top bunk parallel to mine turned and opened his eyes. He seemed a bit shocked - at my appearance or because he wasn’t expecting a girl, or maybe because I had one leg hanging over the edge of the bed out into space - I am not really sure. “I’m trying to get down without waking everyone up,” I whispered. He offered me his hand, I reached the ground safely, and he went back to sleep.

Breakfast was a small purchased coffee cake, a small tin of cookies, and hot water for tea sitting on the small side table in the hall. As there were 17 of us in the tiny cramped rooms I didn’t think this would go very far. I stood in the small hallway with a cup of tea conversing in whispers with a couple from France. As one of us would move to get more hot water, or a cookie, we had to reposition ourselves. I finished my tea quickly.

It was raining out and my feet were battered and blistered so I decided to tour the nearest church – Santa Maria degli Angeli e Martiri. It is a church designed by Michaelangelo built in and on the ruins of the Baths of Diocletian. I walked past the gypsy woman with her baby begging in the entrance and into the dim gloom of the naïve. The only lights were the electric candles that replaced the traditional offering candles at the alters and a few oddly placed spotlights. I wandered toward the transcept to the right of the main alter and stood in front of the meridian line. There are two holes in the top of the walls near the ceiling that let in the light of the sun and moon and illuminate different points of a brass line inlaid in the marble floor of the church. The position of the sun indicates the time of year and is noted on the sides of the line in inlaid mosaics and engravings. I was marveling at how they constructed such a precise measurement of dates and time when I noticed an Italian man leaning on the back row of benches in front of the alter was staring at me. I assumed that I was somehow doing something offensive and disturbing his worship, but as I had not made a sound and there were other tourists poking about more intrusively than I was, I quickly decided he just thought I was odd.

I turned to cross the floor by the front alter and out of the corner of my eye I saw the man quickly cross himself and start to follow me. I slowly made my way to the other side of the church studying the intricate marble floors and oogling the frescos and statuary and I could hear the man walking behind me. He was in this early 50s and dressed in a nice suit, but it was bothering me a bit that he followed me. I decided to sit on one of the benches near the front alter and “pray” and assumed he would move along and leave me alone. Not one minute after I had sat down and bowed my head, the man approached and said, “Ah, bella, no?”

“Si,” I said, not knowing exactly what to do at this point.

“Ah, Inglese,” he said, assuming I was English. I didn’t reply and he continued. “Ah Roma e bella e tu, tu sai bellisima. Beautiful, beautiful! You piache Roma, si?”

“Si, Roma e bellisima,” I said. I was hoping that this would be the end of the conversation, but he was quite determined to talk to me.

“Ah, si. Sai solo? You are alone?” he said, one eyebrow raised in invitaion. This was a bit weird, not just because of his eyebrow wagging, but also because solo means single in Italian, but alone in English has a slightly different meaning.

I put my left hand on top of my right so he could see my ring and said “No, sono sposato.”

“Ah,” he said and looked around, “ma il tuo marito non e qui?” Apparently the lack of the physical presence of my husband was enough for him. “Posso comprarlo uno caffe?” he asked.

“No.” I shook my head adamantly.

“Ma, perche no? Coffee , con me, you conosci, coffee?”

“Si, capito, ma io non volio, grazie.”

“Caffe, solo caffe!” he said, and smiled.

“No, grazie.” I shook my head again.

“Ah, so.” He exclaimed and then picked up my hand. I thought about yanking my hand away, but it was just too rude and I couldn't bring myself to do it. “Come sai chiama? What your name bella?”

“Uh, Robin.” I stammered as he kissed my hand.

“Ah,” he sighed, and let go of my hand. “Ciao, bella, Ciao!” he said, and finally walked away. I sat there for a minute, not sure what to make of this strange encounter and then made my way through the rest of the church.