Some very quick impressions about my little apartment — il mio appartamento piccolo. Things will be different, not because this is another time — but another neighborhood.
I am staying in a tiny little apartment. Full of beams and slanted ceilings. Most of my attention has been focused on navigating my head around those beams, a living obstacle course.
It is fun to be living on my own. My three months in 2001 were spent in a room, tiny as well, in the apartment of a Roman woman. This time, I feel more like a resident of Rome. Once I unpacked, I ventured out to get my provisions. Tulips, dates, caciacavallo and blood oranges from the Campo dei Fiori. Tarallini di Putignano — tiny knotted crunchy pretzel-like bread product — from Il Forno. Bottled water and Danesi from the local grocer in Trastevere.
This morning I plugged in the portable heater — a bold exercise given the conservational nature of Italians. It did not work. Well, it did not generate any heat. It did, however, blow out the electricity in the apartment.
I got dressed, put on my shoes and walked down the four flights of stairs to the fuse box. On the way down there, I passed apartments where I could hear Latin music, sounds of Sunday mass on the radio and some man singing opera. I flipped the switch, walked all the way to my top floor appartamento. Only to discover that I still did not have elettricita. Turns out, after calling my landlord, the switch was in the apartment itself.
You asked for it. You wanted to live like a Roman. Welcome to life as an Italian.
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