Ro-ma, Ro-ma-ma

"There's always something going on in Rome." I've said it before, and I'll say it again.

I elevated my language status this weekend to fluent. It's a long story. Digging through my bag on the train, I realized I left my passport in my top dresser drawer in Florence. The hostel manager said I could stay the night if I had my passport number and date of issue. Only a couple hours later, my housemate texted me those superimportant numbers.

But the receptionist that evening didn't believe me, said I was making up the numbers. I had to argue with him. "Call Giancarlo," I said, "Call him now. I'm telling the truth." One phone call and five minutes later, the receptionist asked me to write down my passport number and issue date on a piece of paper that would serve as my temporary passport that night. The guy upped the price 5 euro. I obviously had to pay.

That night found me along the Tiber River with four college friends and three bottles of local wine. We talked about phases of the moon, horoscopes, the Roman Empire and the American Empire.

I posed with Conor in front of some graffiti. It read "We are mods." Keep an eye out for it on Facebook.

Conor and Rob had been experimenting with the concept of the man-purse since the beginning of their European excursion. The verdict? Useful, even if it transgresses traditional gender boundaries. What could I say? I was proud of them. I had to be. Each night in Florence, I sleep under a leopard-print blanket. Not by choice, though, not by choice.

"This is the first time we've been in a country when we had someone with us who could speak the language," my friends said. I did what I could. I translated the name of Bernini's fountain to "the sucky boat." I was antsy to speak Italian, but more importantly, I wanted to make sure no one fleeced any of us.

My friends liked people-watching as much as I do. "What's his/her nationality" was a favorite at the Trevi Fountain. In Piazza Navona, the girl eating a gelato by herself could've been waiting to meet someone. Or she could've been sad. She had square, black glasses. "Italians know how to wear glasses," I told Conor as I adjusted my own crooked pair.

Seeing my close college friends in Rome was disorienting. It didn't seem like a reunion, the gravity of that word just didn't seem to apply. We were just meeting up; it was time shared, one of those summertime get-togethers, not at all a reprise, or an epilogue. This is what it's like, being a grad.

Later, on the four-hour train ride back to Florence, I passed through towns whose names I never heard before, only saw on the labels of wine bottles in the States.

-a