An African Tourist in Rome

by Ruby Chijioke-Nwauche (Canada)

I didn't expect to find Italy

The first thing I notice about Rome is how much it reminds me of home. The heat, the noise, the mismatched architecture. We’re packed into a rickety old bus- all thirty two of us from our homeschool group in Bedford- that smells like cheese, with Dean Martin’s “That’s Amore” playing in soft tones as backup to our excited chatter and screams. We’re a peculiar group; multicultural, as young as 10 and as old as 54. As I take in the amazing structures, rich with bright colors and history alike, my eyes can’t help but linger on the alarming number of men- with skin tones as dark as mine- sitting down on the dusty streets, their hands reaching out to passersby in search of… Money? Food? Acknowledgement? I watch the reactions of the people around them. The tourists- remarkable by the looks of awe on their faces and generally chirpy attitude- stop to pay attention to the goods these men are selling, or to drop some loose change into open hats and buckets. At the hotel, the lady at the front desk starts when she sees me. I notice and ignore, but file the information away for a later time. I’m 15, the only black member of our group, the only one without an adult chaperone. Doubly alone. What was my mum thinking? But really it couldn’t have been helped because I spent a substantial amount of time explaining to her how this trip would serve to “culture” and educate me. After settling in at the hotel, we head back out into the arms of the city. I’m curious to see how well it will embrace me, or if I’ll have to endure more looks of surprise, curiosity at my presence and status within it. Along our walk, we encounter a fruit stall. It’s the most colorful thing I’ve seen yet. I had no idea bananas could be so yellow, or that the skin of grapes were dark enough to reflect the sunlight. Just like mine. Somehow we end up at the Spanish steps. I giggle at the irony. There’s a beautiful fountain in the center of the square, and I sit beside it, trying to count the wishes that people have tossed in. The water flows gently, whispering to me as I take in the stairs, contemplating how long it will take to reach the top. Imagining what the view is like from that height. There are people everywhere, as amazed at the stone structures as I am, appreciating the human innovation and ability that created such beauty. Such art. I turn my head to the right, listening and looking as June, the leader of our group, points out the Keats-Shelley Memorial house. I’m enthralled. I only have to close my eyes to picture Percy or John- writers like myself- sitting in this exact spot, listening to the water and the people and the city, writing poetry on the back of their eyelids, the kind of poetry still being read over a hundred years later. Perhaps I’m not so alone after all. The cobblestones speak to me, with every step the voices of those that came before me are present. They’re asking; what will you create with all this wonder? Dinner is at an open-air cafe. It’s 8pm and the sun is barely disappearing, the golden hour is in full bloom. I only have to pay 1 euro for a pizza the size of my face to be placed before me. It’s thin-crust, handmade with love. I can see it in the ridges and folds of the dough, I can see it in the way that the tomato and cheese connect with each other in a type of communion, one that I myself am a part of. I wash the pizza down with fresh-squeezed orange juice, observing that even the food in Rome is a different kind of art. On our way back to the hotel my eyes catch one of the men packing his belongings, seemingly in search for a place to rest his head tonight. Our eyes lock, our sameness and otherness intermingling. I smile, he smiles back. We hold each other tight, and then I look away.