Before we get too far into my adventures in Roma, there was the drama before I even left the Fiumicino airport. Alitalia lost my luggage. Not just my luggage. There we stood, a plane full of travellers, exhausted, sleepless and cranky, three-deep at the carousel, waiting for our baggage. Most folks grabbed their bags, tossed them on their carts and headed out. That is, except for some 50 hapless souls -- including myself and my pregnant travelling companion -- all who stood there watching as the carousel stopped.

After several minutes of silent confusion, we tromped en masse to the desk servizio where the harried clerks could not tell us much because (they said) their computers were down. About thirty minutes later, we learned our luggage was still in New York. I could just imagine some stoned Alitalia airplane worker on the tarmac going: “Dude. Isn't that luggage supposed to be on that flight to Rome?”

Beyond this, the story becomes the universal travel nightmare. Un incubo. Once again, I am handed an experience in Italy that forces me to learn a sub-group of vocabulary.

Forgive me. The only thing worse than hearing your luggage has been lost is to have to suffer through someone else's story of their lost luggage. Suffice it to say, it didn't take me long to figure out what to wear my second day in Rome.

That afternoon, le mie valigie arrived.

I know I promised no more about the lost luggage, but this is how I learned about this quirk. While I was waiting for my bags, I took off my shoes and made myself comfortable on my hostess' couch. Her elderly aunt walked in and told me my valigie sono arrivate, and were downstairs by her apartment. I jumped up, barefoot, and started to walk down the stairs to pick them up. “Signora,” she exclaimed in what I initially took as concern (and learn later was actually horror) -- pointing at my feet, “i piedi! i piedi!” “Oh no,” I assured her, “that's okay, its not cold, I don't mind.” I retrieved my bags from the floor below, rolling them into my room. She continued to stand there glowering. Thinking I had not shown enough gratitude, I humbly uttered grazie, grazie, molto grazie. Still the stare. Finally she chided me for sitting on the sofa in my barefeet. "Sporca". Dirty. From the stairs.

When I recounted this tale to a friend who lives in Rome, she explained that the Italians stereotypically are obsessed with feet. Clean feet. Clean socks. Must wear slippers. Never, o dio, never wear your socks a second day. While we're at it: don't even think about lying on your bed in your dirty street clothes. Interessante.

When in Rome ...