Blame It On Rome

The Catholic Church was a cobblestone throw from my window and I was amused by the farmacia sign next to the church. I wouldn’t have far to walk for aspirin. A trattoria with a chiuso iron lantern sign hung over the doorway indicating the restaurant was closed just like the rest of Rome the New Year's Day I arrived. A mangy cat crossed the piazza, jumped on the hood of a dented Alfa Romeo and began its licking ritual. I’d soon learn that Rome was filled with stray cats who ate from tin plates of leftover spaghetti left on the street.
My first priority would be to find a shop that sold cat food and kitty litter for my cat, Jed. When I carried Jed through customs, the handsome carabinieri, Italy's military police, insisted on inspecting him for drugs! I found a shop owner who knew I was actually living in the neighborhood and not simply a tourist. He greeted me warmly every time I passed his door, but not so the two old women watching the liquor store next to my building where they stationed themselves at their card table selling cigarettes, lighters and playing cards. They gave me the evil eye every time I bought a bottle of wine. My efforts at "buon giorno" were stiffly ignored. Finally, I determined these two women did not approve of my presence, and they would never accept me in their honor-bound Trastevere enclave.
Trastevere felt like a village within Rome and tourists rarely found their way to this most ancient part of the eternal city. Once my Italian improved, it became easier to strike up occasional conversations and I was treated with kindness, if not down right flirtatious intent, by the men who liked my copper hair and my Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction black leather trench coat. Whenever I heard "complementi bella" from an Italian man, the aching loneliness I felt during those first weeks in Rome temporarily disappeared.
Knowing the Italian women would never welcome me into their exclusive Roman world I grew to admire them from a distance. They pranced along the cobblestones in high heels, short skirts, long black hair flying, gigantic sunglasses, exquisite gold necklace and hoop earrings, arm-in-arm with their girlfriends, stepping around me like the dog shit that no bothered to pick up. Their stunning Mediterranean beauty never failed to dazzle me. They were worth the show.
It wasn’t long before I met Aldo, a handsome 26-year-old waiter who lived with his mother. Aldo loved the fact that I had my own apartment. “Italian women never live alone,” he remarked. On his night off he treated me to a six-course seafood dinner and convinced me to make love with him in my loft.

...to be continued...