|The view of Via Amedeo Cencelli from my balcony|
To be fair, though, when people ask where I'm living in Rome, I have to tell them the nearest Metro stop (Arco di Travertino) because after nearly two weeks, I still haven't committed the street name (Via Amedeo Cencelli) to memory. Meanwhile, Narathiwat Road in Bangkok remains etched in my brain -- unless, of course, it's 3am after too many Johnnie Walker and Cokes and B-52s at that nightclub where I spent so many Bangkok nights but whose name I now can't remember either, and I'm trying to tell a taxi driver where to go!
In Rome, every picture, and every statue, tells a story. High drama must have been the stance of the days of the historical and mythological figures represented by the monuments around the city. They're usually depicted pointing, pontificating, turning, cowering, perpetually in motion. Every statue seems to have an accompanying tale, and if they were ever collected in several pictorial volumes, it could very well end up being the other greatest story ever told.
Why do there now seem to be as many Turkish kebab stands in Rome as there are pizzerias? Not that I'm complaining. The best pasta I've had in Rome was cooked for me in my rental by a Roman hip-hop dancer named Tiziano (penne with tuna sauce, and, at my insistence -- and his initial disgust but eventual delight -- Parmigiano cheese), and the best pizza I've ever had anywhere was still in New York City.