To think, all that time spent worrying over where I would study for fall semester, wondering if it was worth it to raise the few thousand dollars that would take me to Rome, I almost didn’t go. In fact, I owe Curley for even convincing me (and I mean that with the utmost sincerity, Professor, for all I’ve given you grief). Even after I applied—and wrote that spectacularly pretentious entrance essay—I didn’t really get what Rome meant. Sure, I had been there before. I’d seen the Colosseum, eaten the pizza—God, the pizza—and been to the Vatican. I’d even given Italian the good ol’ college try and then quickly gave it up, because I was making an ass out of myself. And I loved it, all of it, even that time I got harassed by street vendors over a stupid piece of string (and no, I'm not still bitter). But I didn’t really know anything about Rome back then. I remember standing in the Roman Forum, the Roman Forum, and startling when I realized we had arrived. This was it. In that corner, there’re the remains of some rectangular building called a “basilica.” And oh, hey, an arch! I don’t know whose, but it sure is impressive.
That’s all different now. I feel prepared this time, or as prepared as an outsider can be. I still know far more about ancient Rome than I do about the modern city—one of the downsides of liking dead things too much (that's the non-creepy like)—and I'll still stick out like a sore thumb in my ignorant-American jeans and slack-jawed awe of such a thriving city, but I feel more confident this time around. Just as I wasn't prepared for this travel seminar. I'll admit, I thought this was going to be an easy-A class. Oh, there would be "reading"—about the best places to find pizza, the monuments, and just enough history so that we could pretend we were prepared. You know, fun, "travel-seminar" stuff. Instead, this class ended up being one of the most difficult courses of my college career. There wasn't even a movie to tide us over, when Lizzie McGuire could have taught us best how to live and love in Rome. I bet she didn't have to take a midterm or final before she hopped on the back of a motorino.
Regardless, I've learned so much since the beginning of the semester. This isn't high school, where I knew none of the piazza names and thought the Forum Romanum was the only forum. Please. We studied 800+ years of history and memorized countless structures for our midterm, and we saw the pagan gods give way to the crush of Christianity. Through all the reading and agonizing, memorizing and melodramaticizing, we've finally reached this point, on the horizon of our trip, where Italy stretches thin and hazy at the edges of our imaginings, just waiting to take shape. I look forward to the moment we touch down in the airport—all the better for being an Italian airport—and I get to take the first small steps out, sharing my excitement with the friends I've made.
Rome.
I want to see everything. The Fountain of the Four Rivers. The Pantheon. The Ara Pacis. I want to sit on the lip of Bernini’s Fountain of the Tortoise, resting my hand on a stone-carved shell and feeling it come alive beneath my fingertips. I want to count the obelisks—a kind of Where’s Waldo, Rome Edition. The Italian students—I want to see them lounging in front of some museum, smoking together as they watch us pass with jaded familiarity. Maybe see an old couple sitting together on a bench, reading their separate books or just sharing the silence. Melt in amongst the touring crowds crammed underneath the Colosseum, trying to catch a glimpse of the sand that soaked up the blood of gladiators. Read the graffiti. Dodge homicidal traffic and the obnoxious beep-beep of smart cars. Taste the gelato. Touch the sky with my arms stretched out on the steps of the Capitoline, beneath the stares of solemn statues—so that I can feel, for the briefest of seconds, the presence of the city’s long-forgotten gods; the ruins; the memories. I’ve spent so long in a classroom that I’ve forgotten that Rome, thriving, vibrant Rome, is real, ready to unravel beneath our feet.
Only ten more days. I can’t wait.
P.S. Melodramaticizing may not be a word, but it should be.
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