Loose Cans

When in Rome, they say. Well, for two months now, I've followed that dictum at every stop along the way. I've slurped my noodles, shoveled rice into my mouth, hocked and spit huge wet loogies, burped and farted in every conceivable kind of establishment, crapped in the woods, boiled my water, scrubbed my clothes with Dr. Bronner's in the sink or stamped them in the shower and strung them up to dry, gone commando, gone without bathing, squatted over craters in the ground, stared right back at the staring children, made every effort to speak the native language, gone shirtless in Shanghai and worn long pants under the desert sun, blown smoke rings with old Arab men, ignored red lights, run into the street and dodged through screaming traffic, taken flying leaps at buses, evaded hawkers, avoided scam artists, coughed up baksheesh, shouted down unscrupulous salespeople, and haggled over everything, and I mean EVERYTHING.

And so here I am in Rome, more than prepared to make every effort to do as the Romans do, and what do I find? The prices are marked and fixed and fair. The toilets are spanking clean, a fat roll of paper hanging listlessly on the wall. There's a laundry machine, with dryer in my hostel, where the showerhead releases a strong, controlled stream of warm water, whenever you want. The people all look like me, more or less--in any case I don't stick out. I'm nothing special. My attempts to speak my excruciatingly rusty Italian are met with an indifferent shrug. The metro runs regularly, the people are civil to each other, the cars occasionally stop at red lights, the street names are clearly marked, the tourist attractions, and they are legion, are largely free of charge, as well as free of hawkers. The only hawking I've seen was, outside of the hotel tout I told to shove off last night, was the Indian guys all over town today selling umbrellas. But that's because it was raining like hell. Most bafflingly, the tap water is apparently potable.

Basically, there's no real challenge. It's not a problem, it's just weird. Disconcerting. I'm used to being on edge all the time. Here, they make it so easy for you. I think Europe, is less a place to travel than a place to live. The east is the reverse, despite the fact that I am now giving serious consideration to jumping on the Beijing bandwagon this summer. The traveling, unless one really enjoys antiseptically clean, airconditioned hotels and tour buses, with guides and groups, bells and whistles, English language menus and obsequious service, is just a little more empty. All the same, though--the Pantheon was heartstopping.

UPDATE: I know I don't edit often, but I want to change one word. "Empty" is too basic and lazy a word to describe the swissotel-and-tour-bus style of travel. The proper word is Somnambulistic. It's just sleepwalking. There. Now I feel better.