The Feel Good Way

Before I moved to Argentina in 2009, we went to Rome regularly. Annually, actually. I’m obsessed with that city. The layered history. The chaos of it all.

Europe isn’t exactly short on history, but Rome? Rome is different. Buildings from completely different eras just stacked on top of each other. Messy, chaotic, gorgeous. A medieval church next to Roman ruins next to a Baroque fountain. No plan. No logic. Just centuries piled on top of each other like a beautiful accident.

I love it. I also love a little chaos.

This time though? I was disappointed. Heavily.

The well-dressed Romans -the ones who made the city feel alive, ánd different from other European cities- seem to have vanished. You know the ones I mean. Women in heels clicking down cobblestone streets. Men in perfectly tailored jackets just grabbing an espresso. Everyone looking like they were born knowing how to tie a scarf.

They’ve been replaced by mass tourism. And look, I get it. Rome is stunning. Everyone should see it. But what I hate about mass tourism isn’t the crowds : it’s the complete lack of… awareness. People wandering around in beachwear. Flip-flops at the Pantheon. Gym shorts at the Trevi Fountain. Looking like they just rolled off their couch at home and accidentally ended up in one of the most beautiful cities in the world.

No idea how to dress for a city. No idea how to behave with respect for the place, for others, for themselves.

My memories aren’t shattered, don’t worry. I still think and dream about how it used to be. And honestly? The Romans are still there. You just have to look a little harder. In certain neighborhoods, they’re everywhere. You recognize them immediately by their perfect appearance. The tailored coat. The effortless elegance. The “I woke up like this but also spent 45 minutes getting ready” vibe.

But I catch myself reminiscing. Getting nostalgic. Dangerous territory.

Remember when they were always on the phone? I mean always. This was before smartphones, way back when phone booths were constantly occupied. Then everyone had a mobile glued to their ear. Sometimes you’d see someone standing in a phone booth with the landline at one ear and their mobile at the other.

I used to giggle every time. Italians just seem to communicate non-stop. Like silence is a personal offense.

You know you’re getting old when you start thinking about how good things were before.

Fast forward to now. We’re on the plane. And in front of me? An Italian. A real one.

He’s on the phone the entire time we’re boarding. Non-stop. And he’s wearing sunglasses. Inside the plane. I realize this is also peak Italian man behavior. I can’t help but smile. It doesn’t get more Italian than this.

I have no idea what he’s saying -my Italian is rusty- but I’m fascinated. What is he talking about so intensely? What requires this level of animated conversation before takeoff?

Italian men are my type, I’ll admit it. The dark hair, the hands that move when they talk, the passion about absolutely everything.

But here I am. Married to a blonde, blue-eyed man.

Life’s funny like that.