When in Roma

When in Roma...

Not that I ever need any justification to buy shoes, but after falling down full out flat onto the street twice and twisting my ankle countless times in the inadequate half-boots I had brought I figured new boots would be far cheaper than a hospital trip and I was up for the quest. It's Sunday and hordes of people, scads of tourists, are on the streets making it even more difficult to navigate the dips and holes of uneven stones joined together with only crevices of cigarette butts and trash.

Annoyed husbands sit in shoe stores, used to the routine by now they wait for their wives to try on half a dozen shoes. There is no self service. You must wait for a salesperson to get your size after dragging them to the outside window, where all the merchandise is displayed, to point out the ones you want to try on. Your personal Prince Charming then dives into the basement, up stairs or into closets to retrieve the boxes. Possessed by the demon spirit of shoes, I float from shop to shop. The variety of boots alone is staggering. I have to dodge crafty salesmen who try to sell me boots that are neither the color I asked for nor the style when they're out of my size. I remember a small shop by the Pantheon from when I spent several weeks in Rome 4 years ago. There are no less than 5 pair I would love to buy but fortunately there's only one in my size. I wear them out of the store.

Instantly, I am transformed into an Italian women. I walk like an Italian. No one thinks I'm German anymore because people now address me in Italian, tourists ask for directions, traffic stops to let me cross the street and my Italian cell phone rings with invitations to dinner (“Pronto!”). Only 24 hours in Roma and I have evolved into that Italian creature. I remember my way around all the streets and piazze because my boots know the way.

I have since moved to another hotel called Papa Germano – cleaner and not so close to the train station. Papa Germano must have known I was missing out on the pre-ski conditioning classes at home and so gave me a room on the 4th floor of his building with no elevator. Either that or he thought my new boots needed to be broken in more. It's a very European experience – even though I have a private room I share a bathroom with a shouting Italian couple, a German family of four, a strange Japanese duo and someone I only hear slam the door after midnight. At 7 a.m. Pavarotti's ghost walks the hall singing in full bel canto and the sink in my room makes bubbling noises when someone uses the bathroom next door.

Today I walk to the Vatican... just to see what the Pope's been up to and to make sure the Tiber is still flowing. Everywhere on the street Italian couples are in passionate embraces indifferent to the public. The Japanese tourists must find this interesting and the Germans don't seem to even notice or care. But the world stops for these lovers who, in their entwined kisses, are like Bernini sculptures. I head off toward Saint Peter's Square, looking for absolution and a larger suitcase.

Photos below: Vatican Priest; Pantheon Warriors; Glorious Shoes