After landing in Rome, I immediately felt a wave of heat and humidity wash over me, a sharp contrast to my cold, blanket-less discount airlines flight from Paris to the lesser known Ciampino Airport on the outskirts of the Eternal City. While I passed from the baggage claim to the airport lobby, I was surprised to realize I had never passed through customs, which was odd in a country like Italy, known for its sloth-like bureaucracy. Instead, I walked by a couple of lifeless offices, windows darkened by shades pulled low. Once in the airport lobby, it wasn't long before an onslaught of pushy Italians surrounded me; I had forgotten this part of Italian culture in my idealized memories of my first trip to Rome. Confident and assertive, the locals easily forced their way to the front of the mob that surrounded the exasperated woman managing bus tickets. As for the rest of us, we were just desperate tourists searching for another soul that we could communicate with (preferably in English) .
When the bus towards Termini started rolling, I noticed that some of my fellow travelers had made it, while many more had not survived the chaotic Ciampino. I would have helped them if I could, but unfortunately, ‘traveler casualties,’ as I like to call them, are an unavoidable part of the experience. I couldn’t spend too much time worrying about them because as we sped along the cobblestone streets of Rome, I quickly realized that I recognized none of the scenes that flashed by my window. My previous visit here had built my anticipation for all the sights, sounds and tastes that my senses would feast upon, but on this bus ride, nothing looked familiar. I began to search through my memories of Rome, with the hope that I might figure out where this bus was taking me. But all my memories came straight from the Campo dei Fiori. I recalled the bustling marketplace, full of street vendors hawking their overpriced fresh fruit and fake goods to the masses of tourists. I thought of Steve, the Canadian who owns the deli Ruggeri’s, dressed in his plain white shirt, waiting patiently as foreigners stumbled through their broken Italian to order paninis and meats, though he himself could understand and speak perfect English.
But when I was dropped off next to an inconspicuous looking building (which turned out to be Termini station), heavy-laden with luggage, I was overwhelmed by my unfamiliarity of the city. I had relied so heavily on my memories to help me navigate Rome that I felt betrayed and confused when they failed me. Of course, there were many familiar sensations and sights: wiry haired gypsy women shaking little plastic cups, ambulance sirens that shrieked out of tune notes after they had passed and crazy Italian drivers armed with cars and mopeds speeding down the street. But Termini still felt a world away from the Campo, which held my most memorable experiences.
I bungled my first attempt at orienting myself by asking a local where the ‘piazza’ was, referring to the main piazza in front of Termini where all the cabs lined up. The lady stopped smoking and gave me a look as if I were mentally impaired - I’m assuming because the word ‘piazza’ by itself means nothing to Italians. “Which one was I referring to? There are many in this city.” My next failure came after I was finally able to track down a taxi, and asked the driver to take me to the Piazza del Bis-KEE-OWN instead of the Piazza del BISH-OHN-EH, violating one of the most basic rules of the Italian language. After an 11 euro cab ride, which I ended up paying 15 euro for, I was finally in a place I recognized, the Campo dei Fiori, yet even this place looked nothing like the way I had envisioned it. The bustling market had closed up and gone for the day, leaving the Campo deserted, except for a few scraps of fruit and vegetables for the pigeons. And to top it all off, Ruggeri’s, which I had looked forward to eating at the most, wasn’t even open, leaving me with an empty stomach after a long morning in Rome.
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