When in Rome…

I am having some trouble crossing the streets in Rome. As I watch Romans, I assume that some sort of combination of art and instinct are involved. As vespas and motorcycles and cars and buses hurtle towards me, I try to put my foot into the crosswalk. No one seems to notice or care. Cars either dodge by or slow at the last minute. I began following Romans to see how they did it. I stuck close behind, but they didn’t seem much better at it than I. And I am scared to death. Vehicles charge from all angles. Sidewalks suddenly end and form narrow streets where an endless stream of taxis barrels along. It is a bit of a game of chicken. How far can I get? Will they really stop? The number of crushed pigeons in the crosswalks does not bode well. The other day, walking through a particularly narrow and complicated part of Rome with one of my hosts, I told him that I was afraid to cross the street. “So are we,” he replied. It seems that last year alone 66 pedestrians were killed as they walked across the street in the crosswalk with hundreds more injured. The wife of the President of the Republic of Italy was herself run down in front of the Presidential mansion. Clearly you are taking your life in your hands. And I have watched confused tourists crossing major intersections in the crosswalk when they don’t have the light. I’ll admit that there is a certain charm to all of this. The man on his bicycle, no helmet, who glides among traffic through Piazza Venezia. The girl on her vespa, chatting away on her cell phone. To all of them it is just another day in Rome. Meanwhile tonight is my last night. I’m laying low. I’m staying home.