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In
every
major
city
in
the
Western
World
,
some
things
are
always
the
same
.
The
same
African
men
are
always
selling
knockoffs
of
the
same
designer
handbags
and
sunglasses
,
and
the
same
Guatemalan
musicians
are
always
playing
"
I
’
d
rather
be
a
sparrow
than
a
snail
"
on
their
bamboo
windpipes
.
But
some
things
are
only
in
Rome
.
Like
the
sandwich
counterman
so
comfortably
calling
me
"
beautiful
"
every
time
we
speak
.
You
want
this
panino
grilled
or
cold
,
bella
?
Or
the
couples
making
out
all
over
the
place
,
like
there
is
some
contest
for
it
,
twisting
into
each
other
on
benches
,
stroking
each
other
’
s
hair
and
crotches
,
nuzzling
and
grinding
ceaselessly
…
And
then
there
are
the
fountains
.
Pliny
the
Elder
wrote
once
:
"
If
anyone
will
consider
the
abundance
of
Rome
’
s
public
supply
of
water
,
for
baths
,
cisterns
,
ditches
,
houses
,
gardens
,
villas
;
and
take
into
account
the
distance
over
which
it
travels
,
the
arches
reared
,
the
mountains
pierced
,
the
valleys
spanned
-
he
will
admit
that
there
never
was
anything
more
marvelous
in
the
whole
world
.
"
A
few
centuries
later
,
I
already
have
a
few
contenders
for
my
favorite
fountain
in
Rome
.
One
is
in
the
Villa
Borghese
.
In
the
center
of
this
fountain
is
a
frolicking
bronze
family
.
Dad
is
a
faun
and
Mom
is
a
regular
human
woman
.
They
have
a
baby
who
enjoys
eating
grapes
.
Mom
and
Dad
are
in
a
strange
position
-
facing
each
other
,
grabbing
each
other
’
s
wrists
,
both
of
them
leaning
back
.
It
’
s
hard
to
tell
whether
they
are
yanking
against
each
other
in
strife
or
swinging
around
merrily
,
but
there
’
s
lots
of
energy
there
.
Either
way
,
Junior
sits
perched
atop
their
wrists
,
right
between
them
,
unaffected
by
their
merriment
or
strife
,
munching
on
his
bunch
of
grapes
.
His
little
cloven
hoofs
dangle
below
him
as
he
eats
.
(
He
takes
after
his
father
.
)
It
is
early
September
,
2003
.
The
weather
is
warm
and
lazy
.
By
this
,
my
fourth
day
in
Rome
,
my
shadow
has
still
not
darkened
the
doorway
of
a
church
or
a
museum
,
nor
have
I
even
looked
at
a
guidebook
.
But
I
have
been
walking
endlessly
and
aimlessly
,
and
I
did
finally
find
a
tiny
little
place
that
a
friendly
bus
driver
informed
me
sells
The
Best
Gelato
in
Rome
.
It
’
s
called
"
Il
Gelato
di
San
Crispino
.
"
I
’
m
not
sure
,
but
I
think
this
might
translate
as
"
the
ice
cream
of
the
crispy
saint
.
"
I
tried
a
combination
of
the
honey
and
the
hazelnut
.
I
came
back
later
that
same
day
for
the
grapefruit
and
the
melon
.
Then
,
after
dinner
that
same
night
,
I
walked
all
the
way
back
over
there
one
last
time
,
just
to
sample
a
cup
of
the
cinnamon
-
ginger
.
I
’
ve
been
trying
to
read
through
one
newspaper
article
every
day
,
no
matter
how
long
it
takes
.
I
look
up
approximately
every
third
word
in
my
dictionary
.
Today
’
s
news
was
fascinating
.
Hard
to
imagine
a
more
dramatic
headline
than
"
Obesita
!
I
Bambini
Italiani
Sono
i
Piu
Grassi
d
’
Europa
!
"
Good
God
!
Obesity
!
The
article
,
I
think
,
is
declaring
that
Italian
babies
are
the
fattest
babies
in
Europe
!
Reading
on
,
I
learn
that
Italian
babies
are
significantly
fatter
than
German
babies
and
very
significantly
fatter
than
French
babies
.
(
Mercifully
,
there
was
no
mention
of
how
they
measure
up
against
American
babies
.
)
Older
Italian
children
are
dangerously
obese
these
days
,
too
,
says
the
article
.
(
The
pasta
industry
defended
itself
.
)
These
alarming
statistics
on
Italian
child
fatness
were
unveiled
yesterday
by
-
no
need
to
translate
here
-
"
una
task
force
internazionale
.
"
It
took
me
almost
an
hour
to
decipher
this
whole
article
.
The
entire
time
,
I
was
eating
a
pizza
and
listening
to
one
of
Italy
’
s
children
play
the
accordion
across
the
street
.
The
kid
didn
’
t
look
very
fat
to
me
,
but
that
may
have
been
because
he
was
a
gypsy
.
I
’
m
not
sure
if
I
misread
the
last
line
of
the
article
,
but
it
seemed
there
was
some
talk
from
the
government
that
the
only
way
to
deal
with
the
obesity
crisis
in
Italy
was
to
implement
a
tax
on
the
overweight
…
?
Could
this
be
true
?
After
a
few
months
of
eating
like
this
,
will
they
come
after
me
?
It
’
s
also
important
to
read
the
newspaper
every
day
to
see
how
the
pope
is
doing
.
Here
in
Rome
,
the
pope
’
s
health
is
recorded
daily
in
the
newspaper
,
very
much
like
weather
,
or
the
TV
schedule
.
Today
the
pope
is
tired
.
Yesterday
,
the
pope
was
less
tired
than
he
is
today
.
Tomorrow
,
we
expect
that
the
pope
will
not
be
quite
so
tired
as
he
was
today
.
It
’
s
kind
of
a
fairyland
of
language
for
me
here
.
For
someone
who
has
always
wanted
to
speak
Italian
,
what
could
be
better
than
Rome
?
It
’
s
like
somebody
invented
a
city
just
to
suit
my
specifications
,
where
everyone
(
even
the
children
,
even
the
taxi
drivers
,
even
the
actors
on
the
commercials
!
)
speaks
this
magical
language
.
It
’
s
like
the
whole
society
is
conspiring
to
teach
me
Italian
.
They
’
ll
even
print
their
newspapers
in
Italian
while
I
’
m
here
;
they
don
’
t
mind
!
They
have
bookstores
here
that
only
sell
books
written
in
Italian
!
I
found
such
a
bookstore
yesterday
morning
and
felt
I
’
d
entered
an
enchanted
palace
.
Everything
was
in
Italian
-
even
Dr
.
Seuss
.
I
wandered
through
,
touching
all
the
books
,
hoping
that
anyone
watching
me
might
think
I
was
a
native
speaker
.
Oh
,
how
I
want
Italian
to
open
itself
up
to
me
!
This
feeling
reminded
me
of
when
I
was
four
years
old
and
couldn
’
t
read
yet
,
but
was
dying
to
learn
.
I
remember
sitting
in
the
waiting
room
of
a
doctor
’
s
office
with
my
mother
,
holding
a
Good
Housekeeping
magazine
in
front
of
my
face
,
turning
the
pages
slowly
,
staring
at
the
text
,
and
hoping
the
grown
-
ups
in
the
waiting
room
would
think
I
was
actually
reading
.
I
haven
’
t
felt
so
starved
for
comprehension
since
then
.
I
found
some
works
by
American
poets
in
that
bookstore
,
with
the
original
English
version
printed
on
one
side
of
the
page
and
the
Italian
translation
on
the
other
.
I
bought
a
volume
by
Robert
Lowell
,
another
by
Louise
Gluck
.
