Roman Rules of the Road

Strolling the streets of Rome I soon learned that traffic signals are suggestions only.

The best way to cross the street is to attach yourself to a native, following quickly on his or her heels.

Crosswalks provide no special protection, jaywalking is mandatory.

With only my day pack, I wandered the neighborhood without a map, circling around the blocks every so often to assure myself that I knew where I was going and could find my way back. It was the oddest sensation, after three frantic weeks of preparation, there was absolutely nothing I had to do.

I watched from across the street as a group of nuns in stiff blue habits examined the purses on a street vendor’s table. I wanted to take a picture of them, but held back. Was the use of nuns for local color sinful? Not being Catholic, I couldn’t be sure. I wondered, what do nuns keep in their purses?

At the counter of the Pizza Rustica shop I stood, mesmerized. Behind the glass were great square slabs bready golden crust, many with unexpected toppings: grated zucchini, sliced potatoes, marinated eggplant.

I made eye contact with the counter person. I pointed to one of the pizzas indicating with my hands how much I wanted. With a rocking motion, the woman cut a rectangular slice from three different pies, weighed them, and transferred them via a wooden paddle into the open mouth of the wood-burning oven behind her.

Mamma Mia! My fist heavenly bites of true Italian pizza.

Now, I suppose lots of people through the centuries have had religious experiences in Rome, so perhaps what happened to me when I bit into that first slice is not so unusual. I saw stars. I heard the angels sing. I took a bite from each piece, and each one was better than the last. Then I went back in reverse order, and they were even better that way.

Fortified, I returned to wandering the streets. As I walked I noticed the once clear skies had began to darken ominously.

Next: The Streets of Rome