Roman Holiday


In the movie Roman Holiday, Audrey Hepburn plays a European princess who wants to escape her royal life and Gregory Peck is the American reporter who convinces her she can. Peck pretends he doesn’t know who she is, playfully leading her around the city. Hepburn follows, spending her day anonymously amidst the sights.

I wanted Rome to be just like this movie – lively, charming, and capable of delivering a day-in-the-life experience. I blamed Hollywood, as well as Italian chain-restaurants, for this desire to see Italy through balconies and vineyards and espressos and uncommonly beautiful people. This Italy came in a clean, attractive package. This Italy promised an escape from the mundane. This Italy had been mass-produced, and therefore couldn’t possibly be true.

Much of the refusal to believe in this Italy was born in Paris four years ago. After studying the French language and culture for seven years, I finally went there, believing in France the same way I could believe in Italy. And after having high expectations, I went to Paris and hated it. It was gray, crowded, and touristy. I hardly used my French, the Parisians kept visitors at a distance, I nearly got mugged, I was harassed on the metro, and nothing was like it looked in the movies.

As a consequence of the Parisian experience, I was determined not to be disillusioned about Italy. I was not going to imagine romantic streets or refer to Audrey Hepburn movies or write in sidewalk cafes. I expected Italy to be filthy and uncomfortably hot. I would probably get mugged. Everything would be cheap, but expensive. I expected to be disappointed. I expected to fear for my safety.

But when I flew into Rome on July 10, I knew I had been wrong. Seeing the colorful city from above -- the Coliseum and St. Peter’s Basilica and the Roman Forum -- I realized this city was special, a city with an energy unlike anywhere else in the world. It may have looked like the Italy of America, but in no way did it feel like the Italy of America.

Throughout the week, we saw the Coliseum, the Roman Forum, the Piazza del Venezia, Trevi Fountain, the Vatican Museum, St. Peter’s Basilica, the Spanish Steps, Piazza Navona, and Trastevere. We ate pizza and pasta and drank wine and espresso. We explored side streets and discovered piazzas and fountains and markets where no one spoke English. We dined at restaurants where ivy hung from above and the waiters were handsome and polite.

I loved this city.

Nothing was rebuilt and there were no strip malls. No one cared about a crack in the wall. The buildings were ancient, but the people were young. The enormous population moved in a rhythm that complimented their forward, assertive, and embracing nature. The juxtaposition of this lively culture with these ancient wonders was exhilarating.

Certainly, there were downfalls of Rome – due mostly to tourists and hot weather. The Sistene Chapel, for example, was so crowded that there was nothing sacred or beautiful left to it. Everywhere, people took pictures – even if they didn’t know what they were snapping. The Vatican was overpriced. It was hot and we were constatly thirsty. I kept wondering how the city would look without feeling like a party with too few chairs.

Despite these headaches, though, I soon loved Rome more than any city I had been before. I was inspired to imagine great ideas because of what was around me. Mopeds wove through traffic, men wore Armani suits, and women donned chic sunglasses. Every night, opposite our hotel, a family watched the street below. They hung out the window as waiters lured customers into their side-walk restaurants. Musicians played guitar for the diners, sang in Italian, and moved down the street with a hat full of change.

It was exactly what I dreamed it would be. It was a Roman Holiday -- just like Hepburn and Peck had promised.