I was overwhelmed by the beauty and architecture of narrow streets of Rome and made about a hundred pictures of little flower pots, old walls, funny signs when I decided to take a break on a busy Piazza di Spagna. It wasn’t totally bad idea, a ton of tourists constantly browsing through the piazza, making pictures, talking different languages, resting on wide stone stairs, getting something to eat at outrageous prices.
March is not the busiest month of the year in Rome — it’s still cold enough to wear a coat, summer vacations haven’t started, and most of the tourists actually come from the sea side and take a quick tour around the city: such an elegant and educational way to give your burnt up body some shade.
Locals and somewhat rich tourists were walking along the street and checking high-end fashion boutiques; a dozen guys were selling umbrellas and selfie sticks (ah, necessities). I was sitting on a warm stair, enjoying the view and trying to get rid of intrusive selfie-stick-sellers. To complete the picture, there was a bunch of seagulls stealing food whenever they have a chance.
At this wonderful point I was completely happy to rest and watch people doing their stuff: eating, taking pictures, buying umbrellas, throwing coins into a fountain in the middle, even drawing and reading, although I personally couldn’t imagine concentrating enough to read in that crowd.
A man in his thirties nearby was obsessively trying to make an excellent selfie. I’ve noticed his dedication to capture his own beauty and the beauty of the Piazza: he took roughly thirty pictures and wasn’t satisfied obviously, when he started to look around madly, probably looking for a better spot. I was sitting in a better spot I assume, there was a statue right on my back and I’ve had an excellent view of the fountain; he hurried in my direction. I believed then he was a tourist, he had a really short hair cut, black leather jacket, comfy shoes and most of the locals in his age wearing longer hair, slimmer jeans and smoking non-stop. It took me 10 seconds to realize, that he speaks Italian, actual Italian.
>“Oh, well”.
No one speaks English here, I know.
>“I don’t understand Italian,” I said: “Non parlo l’italiano”.
He actually thought that I was joking and trying to make fool of him and started a real quick speech, probably on how it wasn’t fun and that I should stop.
>“Do you want me to take a picture of you? Do you want to take my place?”
He didn’t stop speaking very fast and Italian. I didn’t get a word and was growing frustrated to show a small green Italian phrasebook I was holding.
That worked like a charm: no Italian will carry a phrasebook in Rome.
>“Yes, please, photo”,
he squeezed. And he actually spoke English, too.
>“I thought you were Italian. You’re not?”
>“Where are you from?”
>”Do you want to see my pictures? I’m taking them everywhere in Rome”
It turned out the guy was working in a restaurant nearby. He was leaving in a suburb, but every free evening or morning he comes to Piazza or other popular places to make pictures of himself. He has thousands of his own portraits with different filters, made from the same angle. He even did the same face.
>”Is it like an art?”
No, it wasn’t art. He was probably just happy to live in such a wonderful place with long history, with a rich smell of coffee and panini on every street.
He asked me why don’t I have blue eyes and light hair, why do I look like Italian. My answer was out of his English vocabulary, I’m afraid.
If you’re wondering how does it end, it actually gets ugly from here. I was delighted to see an English-speaking person in Rome. It’s not like I was looking for one particular, but I like when it happens naturally, hate to be an annoying tourist. We’ve exchanged a couple messages, and I’ve never had time to make it to the other side of the city to actually meet that person again. I hope he’s alright.
It does amuse me though, that he was the only person from a restaurant of a cafe that spoke English to me, I was in a city center all the time (tons of tourists from worldwide, including US and UK) and I had to point to what I want, or say something like
>caffe americano, prego
And all the other time I was just left in a cloud of smoke and perfume: hungry, lost and very sorry for not knowing Italian well enough to ask for a favor.
Writing Club 