I swear, the
minute I get back to L.A.,
I'm taking a sledgehammer to the walls in our house. Rome's got it going on in the ruins
department. No words can describe the magnificence and preservation of old
Roma. I'm still trying to scrape my jaw off the ground. I was there as a
16-year-old on one of those whirlwind tours by bus -- 17 cities in 21 days!
Just like every other city on that trip, Rome
remained a blur in my mind, even though I thoroughly appreciated that
eye-opening journey
I offered to
report on Los Angeles vs. Cities I Visit in
Europe, and I just left Rome
with a schoolgirl's crush still fresh and visible on my smiling face, so here
goes.
Like L.A., Rome is a
one-industry town: there are as many priests, nuns and monks walking the
streets as there are actors in Hollywood.
The Church is tantamount to, say, Disney or Universal Studios. Where it's
writers and the like who go on strike in L.A., we witnessed firsthand a very
large march called "Family Day" by hard-line Catholics in protest
over not just gay unions but also non-married heterosexuals living together.
The organizers feel this leads to perversion and molestation (by men of women
who are not their legal spouses) and pedophilia (by men of children who are not
their legal offspring). I kid you not. It was only 10 years ago that divorce
became available to Italians. In the unintended consequences
department, this has led to a curious decline in infidelity since
Italian men now realize that their wives will leave their asses, with their
children, if they don't behave.
"Italians
are very conservative," our friend reminds me, when I express surprise at
the march, and the high incidence of men shopping with their wives. My
French husband would rather eat Wonder Bread than shop with me -- which is fine since I prefer to shop alone; but that has
also meant practically NO SHOPPING AT ALL IN ROME, a crime punishable by repeated
viewings of The Godfather, Part
III, without benefit of I
or II. Anyway, on a
typical Saturday afternoon in Rome, men shop with their wives, who come out of
dressing rooms to model the outfit in question for their husbands, who decide
whether she should buy it or not.
Even though
that's not the first thing that comes to mind when I think of Italians, I guess
they are conservative -- after all, they kept Berlusconi in power longer than
any other leader since 1945. Our friend explains in the same way the high
incidence of people who hang their laundry to dry in the sun outside their
apartments instead of using dryers, including her, even
though I know she can afford to buy one. "Italians are very
old-fashioned," she says.
Our friend is a
fluent-in-Italian woman who comes from L.A.
She moved back to Rome
several years ago, back to an apartment she has owned since the early 90s.
"My place is very small," she warned us several times when inviting
us to stay. But like in L.A., as opposed to New York, Paris or San Francisco,
her beautiful old world apartment with high ceilings, balconies and wood
shutters was quite spacious for the price she paid -- although I understand
this is not the norm, as apartments in coveted neighborhoods (like anywhere in
old Rome) get tinier and more exorbitant, price-wise, as time goes on. Sound
familiar?
In L.A., when tourists flock
to Mann's Chinese Theatre, they are as likely to see Superman as Marilyn Monroe
posing for pictures or walking the streets (in character) at the end of their
shift. In Rome,
expect to find Roman guards in character when you visit the Coliseum. With all
the blood that place has seen, I made sure to steer clear of them and their
steely swords, just like I do any cop in L.A.
Unlike L.A., Rome
is bursting at the seams with romantic fountains and parks; everybody
smokes; oftentimes, guys greet each other by kissing on both cheeks.
There are parasol-shaped pine trees in Rome,
which I've never seen before, as well as two-toned crows -- black and grey, as
opposed to all black.
No matter how
much we complain about traffic in L.A.,
California drivers are a zillion
times more polite than their Roman counterparts. Call me a wimp, but I would
never drive in Rome.
The honk-honk chaos on the streets was hinted at by the chaos that greeted us
at the airport, where people, 3-deep, waited at one conveyor belt delivering
luggage from ten flights!
"Welcome to Rome!" my husband
said after waiting obediently with the throngs while I sat comfortably with a
bad shoulder, waiting for him to heft the heavy stuff. At that point, he was
just making an interim report before going back to wait some more, but he had a
smile on his face. And a week later, when we left for Greece, I asked him where he would live if he
had the choice: Rome or Paris?
"Rome," he said after giving it
some thought.
"Why?"
I said.
"They're
nicer, here,"
he said.
The ruins had
cast their spell completely.