So, this evening, as I frolic along Rome’s potentially fatal cobblestone, I come to a halt at a cross walk, the little lighted man flashing RED. I begin to jog in place, thinking that I should maintain a moderate heart rate in order to allow for a heightened respiratory performance. (Of course, after 4 seconds of looking like a soiled kangaroo, I say fuck it and simply stand, feeling the sweat start to drip at my brow) More importantly, as I wait for the city’s impossibly long light changes, a pint-sized rust colored smart car pulls up along side me. (Most vehicles in Rome would fit quite nicely in the bed of a Ford F150). I should first point out that I have a hard time taking these cars seriously simply based on the fact that they have no trunk space and their cup holders would not suffice for a Starbucks grande soy latte.

But, what made me pay extra attention to this putt-putt-mobile was the fact that the polo wearing Italian man in the driver seat was blaring the Notorious B.I.G., Hypnotize. The ultra metro-sexual man with a tailored hair-do and a car for elves was nodding his head to the lyrics:

I put hoes in NY onto DKNY (uh-huh)

Miami, D.C. prefer Versace (that’s right)

The whole scene didn’t make a whole lot of sense to me. As the little walk man turned green and I hopped back into my run, I was left thinking about the hodgepodge of culture clash I had just witnessed. In fact, numerous things in Italy don’t seem to fit, per say. For instance, a lot of women here have fake boobs. Many boobs fail to fit into shirts. The streets here are often only 10 feet wide; ill equipped for a mass of American tourism. The appliances here are fit for a child’s playhouse, making it impossible to broil a Thanksgiving bird.

Ultimately, my emersion into Italian culture leaves me feeling immensely awkward; cocking my head a bit to the left and uttering a faint “huh….”. The union of American commercial life and Roman ruins sometimes appear more clumsy than suave. (Then again, I am certain that I come off more gawky than international). For the time being, I think I’ll leave my contemplation of Amero-Roman absurdity to my time spent in tennis shoes and ear buds. For whatever reason, everything feels a little bit simpler when I can look a passerby Italian with a smile and a nod, recognizing that running brings us no barrier.

This is a picture of St. Peter’s during the Easter Sunday services. Priests, nuns and pilgrims from all over the world flooded into the city, squishing alongside curious American students like ourselves during the Vatican’s Easter Sunday services. Every Sunday, it is impossible to forget that Italy is a Catholic country and that Rome so nearly borders the Holy See. We learned to buy all essential groceries on Saturday, to expect buses to take alternate routes to avoid major street closings, and to expect the occassional loudspeaker-narrated processions. Holy Week, however, transformed our understanding of the city’s powerful relationship with the international Catholic community.