If to be surrounded by chaos is to breed creativity, give me the pot-holed hectic of Roma - with a side of Aperol Spritz - and say no more. After many months away from the tap tap tap, this vibrating city has sent me racing to the keyboard.
I love lawlessness, boundless energy, and the opportunity to live freely and unbridled. But life with a pram presents a whole new perspective. These days the sheer audacity of parking a car in the middle of a four-way intersection, or directly across the only ramp in an otherwise barely navigable cobbled pavement, feels less bold and more downright selfish. Roma is challenging my soul space.
If Australia is a nanny state, Italy has taken the nonna, stripped her bare and beheaded her. It’s every man for themselves in this thriving metropolis and it has taken me a few weeks to embrace the mayhem and revel in her majesty. My Italiano temper has been a’flaring at the sight of yet another cigarette butt or dog poop, a scooter parked in the middle of the pavement, overflowing garbage bins, appointments that run more than two hours late and taxi drivers who curse at you for preferring to pay with a credit card rather than giving their cash-business legs.
My breath work is in overdrive as we navigate the “casino” of motorways and reckless driving that knows no limits. We can only laugh at the daily administrational obstacle courses, the bureaucratic minefields and the new laws that are constantly instated, only to be flouted by each, and every, Roman within days.
Our little man is entitled to an Italian passport and to provide him access to the European Union is a legacy we can’t deny. But if I even began to outline the insanity of the multi-faceted application process we must endure to grant him this birthright, from booking an appointment at the police station to hunting down a special stamp from the local tobacconist, I’d simultaneously bore you and send myself into a further spin of mystified frustration.
And yet, here we are in bella Roma, where around every corner is yet another magnificent architectural outburst to properly take your breath away. I am suspended in time, thrust back into an era of powerful emperors, superb artists and inexplicably divine architects of dreams and realities. I leave my cravings for a more civil society to welcome the passion that comes with resisting authority, seeking the alternative routes, and taking risks that are somehow life-affirming rather than plain crazy.
To understand the Italian way is to disentangle one half of my ancestry, to demystify the roots of my hot-blooded ways, my disdain for authority, my quest to live every day surrounded by beautiful things, people, food and drinks. Lots of drinks, especially orange ones, orange ones that come with a side of olives, every day around 5pm.
My eyes can barely handle the spectacular sights. From the stylish peacocks who strut the fashionista laneways, to the gigantic statues sculpted with exquisite perfection and the glorious fontanas overwhelmed by selfie-snappers, I’m whiplashed with wonder. I’ve become an expert at following the sun to the next piazza, the one far enough away from the tourist morass to escape the restaurant touts, but close enough to experience the aura of empirical splendour.
I wasn’t to know that this city would eke itself under my skin so viscerally. I didn’t expect to buck up against the lack of civil works with such venom, to rage against the graffitied local parks, the dog-poo laden playgrounds and constantly hustling beggars whose determination and desperation rises to meet the pulse of the city they may or may not have chosen to make their home.
But Roma has got me good. And now that I know how to drink in the beast, straddle the crazy and appreciate that somewhere within the sheer pandemonium there is a bigger picture that encourages the good life, ending each chaotic giorno with a fantastic meal, spectacular wine and plenty of laughter, we can truly usher in la bella vita. Bring it on Roma.
rome, italy : march 2023