The Fed

Testimonial: Roman Vacation

Sara Waugh

It was raining when I got to Rome.  The sky was gray, and my suitcase was bright red.  I was lost.  I walked inside a pastry shop and bought Fanta Arancia.  "Dov’e Viale Medaglie d’Oro?" I asked.  She walked me outside and pointed to the correct bus to take.  I stood in the rain, waiting.

Roma.  That gorgeous city.  I remember crossing the Tiber at two in the morning.  Vespas crowded the streets with exhaust, noise, leering youths, and women in heels.  Erik and I sat in front of the Pantheon, eating giant scoops of gelato and fresh whipped cream.  When my roommate missed America, she would go to McDonald’s where they also served fresh salads and espresso.

The buses got steamy and crowded, with dirty old men rubbing against me.  At the outdoor market, vendors asked, "Poi? Poi?"  And I’d point to olive bread or fresh strawberries and eat them as I walked home.  I remember the night I thought I’d die because I was riding a motorini behind a red haired English girl who rented the bike that morning and had been drinking beers for hours in a smoky pub.  Trying to find our way to a club, Espquired, we sped down one-way streets and passed the Trevi Fountain, glowing blue in the dark.  We drank and danced  ‘til 6am.  The clubs were always sweaty and filled, lights flashing.

I remember late nights with small cars screeching and swerving around St. Peter’s, headlights on, young drivers high on speed or coke, wanting to get with an American girl.  The women of Rome wore thick makeup and furs, sleek and black and smooth like night animals.  The men had greasy hair and flashing eyes and practiced their English saying, "What do you drink?"  My room had green wallpaper with giant flowers even on the ceiling and the kitchen smelled of pasta.  The buses were orange and the Pope rolled by in a limo.  Anchovies and capers came on my pizza.  Druggies hung out at Campo dei Fiori and gave us free string bracelets that they sold to the tourists for 10,000 Lire.  Ji-eun was questioned for her "tiny" Korean eyes, how could she see out of them?  Men from Morocco sold wood sculptures and purses on the streets.  Men from Morocco sold wood sculptures and purses on the streets.  The world turned round and round and the Coliseum stood, silent.  In a smoky jazz club a New York singer crooned and the Italians clapped.  There was school.  There were classes.  But they were not difficult and they hardly mattered.  But to walk the streets where Horace walked, and Cato the Elder, and Virgil.  To see what Michelangelo had touched, and Bernini had built.  Where a republic was born and died, where Emperors marched in triumph.  Roma, Roma, Roma.  The pagan gods, Jesus Christ, they live in Rome side by side, under the energy of the every day – the vespas and clicking heels, the fashion and pizza and cobblestone roads.  Everything in Rome says today is today, and the crumbling ruins wonder at this frantic life and you stand and know the Coliseum will be here when you’re dead.  Sculpted Venus bends over to bathe and her face is serene, her body smooth and damp.  Apollo stands proud, his arms bulge and his mouth quivers.  In the quiet mid-afternoon everyone rests and cats roam the streets.  And I think I am in love with the City Eternal.



August 30, 1999