Well, it's nice to be home. Like I have told many people, Rome is amazing. It is frustrating, beautiful, harsh and sometimes unfriendly. The grass is not greener on the other side: It's still just grass. And for grass to be green, you need a lot of...fertilizer.
I now have an appreciation for Pittsburgh drivers, who are not, in fact, the worst in the world. Roman drivers are awful. The best thing that can be said about them is that they do a remarkable job of not causing MORE accidents and automobile fatalities than they already do; I suspect the low speed limit is responsible for this more than driving skill.
Romans have never met a driving regulation they liked. Far beyond the Pittsburgh left turn and red-light running, Romans drive on pedestrian-only streets, park on the sidewalk, drive in reverse down the interstate to get back to missed exits (Yes, even Pittsburgh drivers would just do a U-turn), cut across 5 lanes of traffic to turn, squeeze six lanes of cars into three marked lanes on the road, triple park on through-streets (none of that amature double-parking!), and eat lunch while parked IN the roundabout. Pittsburgh, you've got it made!
But the worst have to be the men. Convinced of their own superiority and the common belief that testosterone is a substitute for common courtesy, Roman men are the most dangerous thing on the road in Italy. They do not merge, yield or honor right of way. And forget turning signals and pedestrian rights. These do not exist to the Roman man.
My personal favorite story is this: A Roman gentleman needed to go to the Tabacchi (tobacco and betting shop). Instead of parking his car legally and walking from the gas station parking lot, a strenuous jaunt of less than 100 feet, this man parked his Porsche IN the left turn lane during rush-hour traffic, blocking traffic for the 10 minutes he needed to get his smokes and bet on the ponies.
Ahh, Rome!
But my least favorite example of Roman chauvanism has to be what happened today. How can Romans be sexist while I am back in America? Well, I'll tell you.
When we first got to Rome and our air shipment of clothes, kitchen goods and linens finally arrived three weeks late, I met the movers at the door and showed them where to put the boxes. And, overjoyed to have a tea cup and working tea pot, I started opening boxes.
Now in Rome, women do not do anything, except for baby their adult sons and congratulate them on having a sperm count. No, Roman women are very lazy, having housekeepers to run the house, nannies to take care of the children, and maids to do everything else.
A Roman woman is expected only to give birth and demonstrate her husband's wealth by dressing up and wearing scads of jewelry on a daily basis. She never has chipped or unpolished nails; her hair is immaculate; jeans are outlawed entirely.
So the movers, seeing me in jeans and a sweatshirt, sporting a ponytail with no visible bling save my wedding ring, assumed I was the maid.
This is now applicable, because, as always happens during a move, things were broken and things went missing. And the insurance company is not covering the claim because...the maid unpacked everything! And she took it.
In the future to squash all misconceptions from the get-go, I must insist that all people refer to me as Dottore McXXXX: All university graduates are called Dottore, which means doctor in Italy.
And Dottore will continue to unpack her own boxes, thank you very much!
