People I Have Met In Rome

Lady In The Farmacia
One morning, by accident, I twice sliced open my finger with a knife and realized that it just might happen again. To prepare for this catastrophe, and to stop the blood already dripping from my hand, I decided to buy band-aids. The pharmacy is located on my street corner, which is fantastic, because I’ll probably be accounting for 90% of their business by the time I leave Rome. I put on my new purple coat thing I got before leaving America, left the apartment, stopped outside the store that had amazingly dressed all its mannequins in my coat (bastards), and walked into the farmacia. Before I could blink, she was in front of me, the lady who worked (supposedly) behind the counter, spewing out words faster then her lips moved. I caught something about how she thought my coat was beautiful and I glared at her. I didn’t think to look up the word for band-aid, and she didn’t seem to know the term, so I struggled past her to look myself. Unfortunately, she followed me, which isn’t hard, considering the store was the size of my living room, couldn’t she just stare at me from the register or talk to the other people in the store? But no, she had to scamper across the tiled floor, keeping within one foot of my face at all times. I did not like this lady and I told her so, in English. She delighted at this statement and started to admire my long white scarf, nearly choking me in the progress. At last the band-aids were found, and I shoved them in her face before she could inspect my earrings. Disappointed, she made the journey from the shelf to the counter, a three foot walk, last an eternity as she hung her head low. I paid, she threw the change at the counter, I picked it off the floor, and got the hell out of there.

Cute Old Man
Two days ago I realized I was sick. I had had classes from 9am till 8:30pm and I wanted to go home, throw myself into bed, and sleep for ten years. I waited for the subway train to arrive, pushed my way past the crowd, and slumped against a pole, a huge frown on my face, my half open eyes staring at the ground, and the happiest songs playing in my ears. I hate you iPod random selection mode. An old man was standing next to me and I glanced up sideways to look at him. He was the cutest old man I had seen in Italy, wearing an English style three piece suite, a happy smile next to rosy cheeks, and a shock of nicely combed white hair to top it all off. He smiled at me and I went back to staring at the ground. We arrived at the first stop on the way home, and someone got off the train, one door down from us. Instantly energy surged into his bones as he gleefully bounced over to the chair before anyone else could take it, clapping his hands together as he happily sat down. Two stops later and the seat across from him opened up. Quickly, he tried to get my attention from so far away. He motioned wildly to me, and when I slowly noticed and looked up, he repeatedly pointed to the chair with a mischievous grin on his face, like he had stolen it just for me. I smiled and kindly shoot my head no, indicating to him that my stop was next. He gave me an exaggerated frown, and then cheerfully waved goodbye as the train reached my stop. His gesture was so sincere and uplifting that it had me smiling all the way back to my room.

Hot Guy With Bag On The Subway
I was going home after class during my first week of school here, got on the metro at Barberini, (something I don’t do anymore since I got the bright idea to look at the map myself and realized Repubblica was not only closer, but the route was pleasantly absent of a sadistic hill/mountain) and hung onto the metal pole for dear life as the weight of my bag, full of every book I had to purchase for the term, reminded me of the stupidity of gravity. The doors closed, gibberish bellowed out through the speakers, we started moving, and I looked up from the floor. Sitting across from me was the hottest guy I had seen since arriving in Rome. He looked to be my age, had perfectly groomed hair, wore classy yet hip ensemble with a black scarf tossed lightly around his neck, and had the face of an angel...a very hot angel (maybe an angel with a modeling contract?). I furtively stared at him for some time until I noticed his leather bag. It was gorgeous, seemingly hand made for all the books currently killing my shoulder and I wanted it. Maybe if I sat down next to him, fluently speaking some cool Italian lingo, he would scoop me up in his arms, dash out at the next stop, buy me dinner, and present me with his bag as a token of his everlasting love for me. Yes, the perfect plan. Suddenly he noticed me, in what I can only describe as a charmingly spaced-out dead stare at the wall, and he suavely grinned, flashing his impeccably white teeth my way. He got up, walked over to me, and leaned against the wall. “Ciao.” I was smoothly calm and collected as I giggled out my response: “Ciao.” I’ll never forget the magic that happened next: he spoke some suave gibberish to me, I panicked, remembering I don’t actually speak Italian (and told him so, curiously in Italian), and he disappointedly left.