#1: Roman Journal

“Mindy! Come on, don’t be lame. Come to the journal shop with us!” Familiar Seattle voices spoke from behind a row of parked Fiats, Alfa Romeos, and the tiny toy-like Smartcars that could comfortably park in less than half the space its neighbors required. In the hodgepodge of vehicles, Vespas plugged up every available gap much like how I stuffed spare underwear in my suitcase a few frantic hours before my flight. Thus, an imposing solid wall of metal and rubber and black glass obscured all but the very top third of the journal shop’s front window. I couldn’t see the coveted leather-bound journals everyone was anxious to buy our first week in Rome. Everyone, it seemed, except for me. Now, I love leather and all its appeals – especially the buttery smooth feel and the smell that brings back fond memories of early childhood, when I would read the newspaper in my dad’s lap, my face buried in the leather jacket he always wore, even in the house. But brain said yes, wallet said no. How much my wallet would say no I had no idea.

Perchè no? Why not have a look? Somehow everyone was able to pile into the tiny shop all at once; we must have looked like the books on the shelves around us. I was the weary bookend pushing everyone closer together as I stepped across the threshold. All was quiet except for a few whispers and some ruffling of pages. This was a shop, not a library or a church! But we fell silent as if in solemn reverence of a distinguished scholar’s study, with its hardwood floors and intricate furniture. Everything looked ancient, slightly chipped, worn down.

Tiny journals! The pages were half the size of the credit card in my pocket, and the edges were uneven, as if touched by a flame. I loved the rough texture. Over and over the smooth leather rolled in my hand. Che peccato! The underside was marred by the price sticker. 21 euro! Handmade? Probably. Troppo for my budget. I didn’t even bother to look closely at the larger journals, didn’t want to fall in love with something I could not have. My credit card was burning a hole through my jeans, and I hastily left the shop, before the temptation to buy became overpowering.

I ran over to the office supply store, the only thought in my head being the fact that I needed a journal right away, to start organizing my scattered paper slips filled with jots and thoughts. The run quickly turned into a run-walk when I recalled that running to a destination is a very un-Italian thing to do. Had I ever seen a local in a hurry? I could not be sure, because no matter what they always sauntered along, never running. Sono studentessa, non sono turistica.

La cartoleria. The façade was all glass with the large shop logo far above the display window. No cars were there to hide it from view. The propped-open glass door welcomed me inside, and an array of bright cardboard winked from the many tables. This merchandise lay flat on low tables against the walls; it was meant to allow an easy browse through, unlike the shelves of the leather journals. The latter would require a footstool, and maybe a call for assistance to pull one off a high ledge. This arrangement was much simpler, and right away the 3 euro notebooks caught my eye; now this was something in my price range. “Abbiamo chiuso! Cinque minuti,” an elderly lady in a pink sundress informed me. Quickly now, choose a cover. Birds? A landscape? A can of spray paint? Oh, at the bottom of the pile, Van Gogh’s “Starry Night.” The enticing shades of blue and black would be excellent encouragement to extract the notebook from the depths of my bag and begin writing.

A bored-looking ponytailed girl at the cash register jingled a set of keys, as if that would further accelerate my headlong rush to the counter. Probably a studentessa my age, she was clearly displeased with having job responsibilities during summer vacation. She chewed a wad of neon-yellow gum and smacked her lips, opening her mouth wide and showing her tongue (which had turned the same color as the gum) as well as most of her teeth with every chomp. Revolting. Eager to leave the shop and the girl as soon as possible, I shoved the coins into her hand, taking off into the street before “grazie” had fully left my lips.

My first all-Italian transaction! That was the first thing I wrote about in my brand-new journal. Looking at that entry now, the pencil blemishes that litter that inaugural page are a testament to how excited I was at making progress towards surviving in Italy. Vignettes, images, and interesting Italian words will follow.

Fast forward to four weeks later and picture a stone park bench in the heart of Rome. My hands were tired from taking notes without a flat surface to write on, so I propped my feet up and flipped through the now-worn and battered journal. It was quite a shock to see almost all the pages covered with notes, observations, and funny situations – “Ci vediamo, see you later” one line read. There is a half page bearing the heading “The Gelato Mishap,” light humor at a friend’s expense follows. I’ve never used up an entire notebook before! I’m getting close this time, and am more than satisfied with the results – this is Rome’s doing, my greatest source of inspiration to date, powerful and unprecedented.