Saunter & Feast
Reflecting on an autumn spent in Rome
As I write this, I’m sitting in the woods of northern Michigan where nearly two feet of snow rest on the ground, and more is steadily falling. The deck is covered in such an immaculately untouched swath of deep snow, it feels like you could swim through it. I’m caught between my desire to step outside and plunge my body into it, all the while wishing to let it remain perfectly pristine. It’s the same debate I go through upon looking at an overly iced cake: I want to smash my face into it, just to feel the sensation and be a little reckless. I blame the 1980s live action Pippi Longstocking movie for instilling this urge in me from a young age: Pippi was my hero. If she wanted to smash her face into a cake, so did I. I’m going to take the metaphor where I can and report that for my six/seven week stint of living in Rome this past fall, I went all in on smashing my face into the feast of la dolce vita. Yes, it’s mid-January (truly, how is it already mid-January?!), and I’m finally writing about Rome. This trip was transformative in a hundred different ways and took some time to process even as I was living it. I’ve let my thoughts simmer and am finally ready to share the stew with all of you. Because I have a lot of thoughts and feelings, I’m going to do this through a series of essays, so buckle up and enjoy the ride.
I have been to Italy several times in my adult life, learning more about myself and the ways of Italian life and history with each visit. My first foray was when I was 20, for a three week drawing class based in Sorrento, in January. No one travels to the Amalfi coast in January. It’s damp and cold and most everything is closed. Regardless of the uninspired weather, I spent my days struggling to render the overwhelming details of cathedrals and cloisters, drinking the best coffee I had ever tasted, and wandering the town, always drifting into someone’s tiered lemon grove. Our class took a day trip to Pompeii and I immediately ditched the tour to wander the ancient city solo, arguably more in awe of something than I had ever been. I couldn’t wrap my head around Vesuvius erupting, that it still loomed above me, and that I could stand inside someone’s former home, resplendent in frescoes painted two thousand years prior. At the end of this class, I spent a few days alone in Rome, staying in a tiny closet of a hotel room near the Spanish steps, eating gelato twice a day, and marveling at the architecture just as much as the Romans. It was honestly a weird trip: it rained nearly every day, I didn’t bond with many of my classmates, and the teachers were often absent, usually found in a trattoria drinking wine with the locals. As such, my headphones were on a lot and I still associate Radiohead’s “In Rainbows” with gray, drizzly southern Italy. I didn’t fully “get” Italy at that point, but the intrigue to further explore was certainly there.
I spent a summer abroad in Florence, went on family trips, traveled solo, and in the early fall of 2022 attended an artist residency in Tuscany called Villa Lena that actually changed the course of my life in numerous ways. My musings on that residency are something I’ll dive into eventually, but for now the key takeaway is that a few weeks in, I sat poolside in the sun and declared that I was going to move to Italy. I understood that the reality would not be days spent lazily painting watercolors at the pool in the Tuscan countryside before being served a feast of freshly grown food each evening, chatting away with a gorgeous assortment of creatives, but still: I wanted in on the Italian lifestyle. I just needed to figure out how to make it happen.
After the dreamy residency, I reluctantly stepped onto a plane bound for the US and spent the following year existing in a syrupy mess of fantastical dreaming paired with the overwhelming reality of what it is to try to move to another country these days. The whim of deciding just to stay and make a new life a la Under the Tuscan Sun supremely pissed me off in its falsehood. I quickly learned that the process of obtaining a visa is tedious, confusing, expensive, and not guaranteed. My projected departure date kept getting pushed back as I realized I was diving into this at a speed that my mind and wallet could not keep up with.
Still, I steadily emptied my apartment, holding yard sales that made me like my neighborhood all the more as I chatted with friendly strangers buying my wares. My affection for the fun parts of working retail returned as I advised people on which novels were the best for getting swept up in, how much sunlight a monstera needed, why I was ready to say goodbye to a particularly fun lamp. I was told several times that I was “inspiring” for my decision to part with most of my belongings and chase a dream to live somewhere romantically foreign. Each month I read a different memoir or novel set in Italy and drooled over each picturesque description of weathered piazzas, melting gelato, and lively trattorias.
In late spring, numerous friends sent me an Instagram story one of their friends had posted about wanting to sublet her room in Rome for the month of August. With complete disregard for how uncomfortably awful Rome is in the oppressive August heat, I was texting Viviana with gusto to get that room. In a matter of days she and her landlord, Chiara, had talked me down, suggesting a stay in the fall would perhaps be more sensible: I could stay in one of Chiara’s daughters’ empty bedrooms while they were away at school, and we could all actually get to know one another. And so, on my 36th birthday, I booked flights for an October/November stint in Rome, zig zagging across the room with an energetic glee I could hardly contain. When else could I fantasize about living somewhere, and actually get to try it on for size first? I needed clarification on where in Italy actually made sense to move to, and to experience daily life outside of the context of a vacation or artist residency. I was also hoping I’d meet someone who just so happened to have a palazzo that needed looking after and I’d magically have a fabulous new place to call home when it was time to move abroad.
In the weeks right before I left for Italy, I sold all of my furniture and a plethora of odd and ends I no longer needed, shipping boxes of what I was keeping to my parents’ home in Michigan. It was a haze in which I was so squarely focused on pairing down my belongings to a minimum and what awaited across an ocean, that I didn’t fully recognize that I had actually said goodbye to my previous home until I was physically in Rome, unpacking my suitcase.
Chiara and I sipped espresso in her marvelous little kitchen as I explained that the frightening bruise covering a significant portion of my left arm was from a nasty spill down the stairs days before. In my haste to check things off my list, I decided to carry my desk down to the sidewalk on my own, despite its awkward dimensions and weight requiring the help of a second person. I made it down one flight of stairs, high on my impressive strength, before slipping and falling down the entire next flight. Aside from the intense pain that made me think I had dislocated my elbow, my next thought was “but I have to go to ITALY!” Alas, I still made it to Italy, just with an arm a rainbow of colors that was, quite frankly, alarming in its appearance. It was in the 80s and humid, leaving me no choice but to flaunt that bruise to all of Rome as I traipsed around.
Despite the pain of jet lag, nothing is better than that first day arriving in a new place. Everything is charming with novelty. Block after block of apartment buildings: photo worthy because they’re pink and have cornice detailing! A neighborhood park: full on swoon because there are carved serpents playing in the fountain! A flaky pastry: deliciously exciting and a requirement to consume! A tiny cafe table on cobblestone: the most alluring table ever because it provides a view of ancient temple ruins! Vines dribbling down a wall: superior greenery because it’s Italian! A shop entirely for papal wear: surprisingly inspirational, making me question: do I have enough gold in my wardrobe?!
I was surrounded by beauty and an abundance of inspiration. A casual walk around town is upon thousands of years of history, everything built and layered upon one another. A corner is turned, and a marvel of human engineering is revealed, still standing, still shining in its ingenuity. Families slowly devour lunch in a restaurant that has been making pasta from scratch for hundreds of years. Crossing the street is a daring feat: Alfa Romeos, Vespas, and Fiats speed past with little care for pedestrians. A slice of pizza contains the most flavorful pesto I’ve ever tasted, making me giddy with delight. Cats sunbathe and nap upon the Roman temple where Julius Caesar was assassinated. Stepping into a random portico reveals splendid terrazzo floors and a hand painted ceiling with angels looking down. A bridge is traversed, only to later learn that it was built two thousand years ago, never once needing repairs. There are more churches than you can comprehend, each with their own remarkable display of decoration, gold leaf glimmering in the soft light. Fruits, vegetables, and flowers are sold in a piazza that once hosted public executions. Walking past a gelateria, I overhear tourists ask a priest for directions to the Vatican.
To spend time in Rome is to sign on for an intense over stimulation of every sense. To feel wildly alive with each exquisite detail that is revealed. To be equally energized and exhausted by it all. The city is a chaotic wonder, overflowing with art and food and history. Something it’s done for thousands of years. It’s hard to grasp and maybe more magnetic for that reason: Rome is continually elusive, so clearly a well defined character, and yet never fully knowable.
I’ll leave you with a quote from Anthony Doerr’s Four Seasons in Rome that, for me, perfectly captures the absurdly wonderful way things come together in the Eternal City: “One pope’s nephew beats another pope’s nephew at cards in 1485 and the winnings finance the construction of the Cancelleria, a three-story palace just off the Campo de’ Fiori that is the size of a city block. Can this possibly be true? Does it matter?”
Fino alla prossima volta…
— Katie
Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow. I know I’m far from the first person to sing the praises of this novel, but I only just read it and can report that Gabrielle Zevin deserves every ounce of laurels. Brush aside any hesitation you may have (like I did) because the story follows two video game designers, and settle in for an incredible tale of love, friendship, and the creative process.
Vodka Sommelier Bullshit. Normal Gossip is one of my all-time favorite podcasts and their fifth season spectacularly delivered with achingly fun pettiness. This one is exceptionally delightful and full of trifling suburban family dynamics.
Slow Salmon with Citrus and Herb Salad. My go to dinner party entrée that undoubtedly impresses anyone who eats it. It’s terrible delicious and feels fancy with very little effort. I have fond memories of eating this with dearest friends and family on special occasions, from New Year’s Day to a run of the mill Tuesday that deserved to feel elevated.
The Sharable Feast of Jeremy Allen White’s Calvin Klein Ad. The off the wall sensation that is the sexy underwear ad of the decade has been joyfully fascinating to witness. This essay breaking down why we’re all drooling over The Bear star on a New York rooftop is just perfect.
The Line Of Time And The Plane Of Tomorrow. A song from this album appears on the playlist below, but I highly recommend giving the entirety of Shira Small’s 1974 release a listen. Small grew up in Harlem before attending a Quaker boarding school where her music teacher encouraged her to record an album as her senior project. It’s jazzy and soulful with songs about laying in fields of flowers, the joy of finger painting, and thinking one’s life is just all right.
While the latest playlist I’ve made isn’t full of Italian music (trust me, that one is certainly coming) it is super mellow because that’s what this time of year calls for. It’s a playlist ideal for slow winter strolls or afternoons spent moving from the couch to the chair and back again. I hope you’ll enjoy the gentle vibes.