Rome moved at an entirely different pace than Irvine.
Life
in Irvine was all about moderation—the street lights were
timed to anticipate traffic flow, keeping drivers from abrupt
stops and starts; shops closed early, by nine or ten; regular
speed bumps ensured that no one went too fast through resi-
dential areas. Moderation.
Rome was all about extremes. People drove too fast, motor
scooters edging up on sidewalks and blasting their horns at
pedestrians to make them get out of the way. Tourists took
too many pictures. Meals started late and went on for hours,
the sun setting and the sky darkening before the waiter would
bring the check.
“Don’t they
want
to get paid?” I asked Mom.
People meandered on street corners, gesturing in big wide
arcs with their hands, the ash from their cigarettes threatening
to spill. People talked loudly, and laughed loudly, and embraced
and kissed in a way that made me feel so boring and ridicu-
lously American.
Mom had first come to Rome during her junior year of
college. This was where she and my father had met. That much
I knew, but none of the details. It had never occurred to me to
ask, I guess.
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