, , , , , , , , , ,

It’s difficult for me to write in Rome. The city has too much life. I can feel its pulse as I walk to class in the morning. I get distracted, intrigued by the sounds of the thunder, of the cars. I cant help but stare at the Italians who never seem to look away. I cannot simply sit at a desk when outside I can smell such a strange form of beauty.

I’ve learned that I like places that can surprise me. Every time I walk through the labyrinth of life in Rome, I never know what my day will look like. It’s the opposite of mundane. It’s crazy, it’s busy, it’s passion, it’s profound.

It’s taking a shot with your professor after a site visit. It’s watching that homeless woman take a shit in the street. It’s the smell of kebab in the land of pizza. It’s the constant collapse of my broken bed frame that the school refuses to fix. It’s the claustrophobic trams with way too many people pressed against every surface of my skin. It’s the graffiti on the walls of ancient monuments. It’s the scooters that speed up when they notice you’re crossing the street. It’s the shouting locals who communicate with their hands. It’s the Bangladeshi migrants who try to sell me miniature models of the Vatican. It’s that Italian man following me again. It’s the electronic beat radiating off the discoteca. It’s the train station, a minutes walk from my apartment that can take me anywhere I want to go. It’s not what I imagined. It’s everything I wanted it to be.

I live in sensory overload, coked out on the vibrations of a city which never allows me to sleep. I’m scared I wont see everything, experience everything. I want to know this city in the same way I know my home. There is still so many places here I have yet to see, to feel, to touch.

I realize that I have written more about my weekend trips than about the city I have been living in, but every time I sit myself down to write I find myself staring out my window wanting to wander some more.