Window Dressing: The displays in Rome (and everywhere I went in Italy) are a matter of great pride to the shopkeepers, and are updated and changed often.

The window dressers appeared to be highly trained professionals; some even rivalling the merchandise in lovliness.

Too bad the same cannot be said of the umbrella salesmen.

At the first sign of rain, the umbrella salesmen appeared like mushrooms. Before I had a chance to pull mine out of my pack, I was accosted by an armful of cheap umbrellas. “No, grazie.” “No, grazie.” I repeated. I wished I knew the Italian for “I already have one.”

He was maybe late twenties, dark skinned with oily straight black hair and yellow teeth. “Umbrella?” “No, grazie.” His hand shot out and groped my breast. Startled, I opened my mouth to say something, but realized I had no speech ready for this occasion.

Deciding against causing an international incident, I settled for looking disgusted and moving quickly away as soon as I remembered my feet.

It began to rain in earnest, complete with thunder and lightning. People on the street didn’t seem concerned, they just huddled into doorways and under awnings and waited.

With an unhurried efficiency, the street vendors used sheets of plastic to cover their wares, the men in charge calling out directions to their helpers. I didn’t understand a word, but the meaning was perfectly clear, and the strong, lyrical quality of their speech moved me like an opera.

The gutters, dry a few minutes earlier, filled with runoff. With nowhere to go, I too ducked into a doorway, my purportedly waterproof shoes squelching juicily.

I sat on the damp stone step and watched the cars and motor scooters racing by too close and too fast on the slick streets. The blare of Italian ambulances punctuated the hum of the Fiats and the staccato drum roll of the scooters. The passing wet tires seemed to want to calm the whole chaos: shhhhhhhhh, shhhhhhhhh.

Next: The Gentleman & the Gelato