I Regret Nothing: A Memoir

by Jen Lancaster

  “I assure you, sir, I am not a street vendor and I only sell authentic designer sunglasses,” the owner says. Never will I be able to muster similar amounts of forbearance, but something tells me this isn’t the first assbag in her night, let alone her career.

  “I don’t knoooooow,” he singsongs, crossing his arms over his Theta Chi shirt. “How can I be sure? You guys can be pretty sneaky over here. Like, oily and stuff.”

  I hold up my bag, glare at the kid, and tell the shop owner, “Thank you for including this certificate of authenticity. I really appreciate your service and I’ll surely enjoy my authentic Fendi product for many years to come.”

  My words fly right over the kid’s head. He pokes around at the Ray-Ban selection, smudging up a whole row of lenses as his fingers are damp from holding his beer. “Your prices are kinda high. I can get these for a lot less outside.”

  The owner shoots Fletch and me a resigned look, like, can you believe this shit, while in Italian, I promise the owner that we aren’t all this stupid.

  We step outdoors, both of us incredulous, and Fletch says, “So that’s why they call us Ugly Americans.”

  • • •

  “I never knew it could be like this,” Fletch moans through a mouthful of pasta. “I want to bury every other spaghetti I’ve ever had in the backyard.”

  We’re sitting outside at an unassuming pasta place somewhere in the Santa Maria area of Trastevere, eating one of the best meals of our lives. My driver from the first night has been spot on with his recommendation to cross the Tiber to find restaurants. Our whole dinner, including two courses each and a bottle of wine, will run a couple euros north of what my first terrible meal did. Our pastas have been simply prepared, his with tomatoes, basil, and pancetta, and mine with Parmesan and pepper. What takes this repast from a meal to a memory is the quality of preparation and the freshness of the ingredients—that’s a theme we’re finding over and over in Rome. Nothing is complicated or overwrought, topped with foam or served with attitude. Instead, the food truly speaks for itself.

  I’ve already inhaled my first course and I’m fighting the urge to lick my plate. I’ve always heard the term al dente in regard to making pasta, but I’ve never sampled an actual example of it before Rome. The firmness of true al dente is way chewier than I would ever imagine serving, but it really is perfection. The next time I make spaghetti at home, I’ll have to remind myself that what seems wrong is actually right.

  After the waiter brings our second course, Fletch says, “How nice is it to finally have a meal without dogs staring up at us?” He slices off a piece of his steak, fragrant with garlic, oregano, and rosemary. When the waiter carried the still-sizzling dish out, we could smell it from halfway across the patio.

  The universe must have heard us because at this exact moment, I notice a rustling in the bushes next to me and a pointy face appears on the other side of the fencing. “Oh!” I exclaim. “Look at you!”

  A little fox dog is panting up at us in the way that almost seems like a smile.

  “Clearly I spoke too soon.” Fletch laughs.

  “Well, of course he smelled your steak. There’s a meat cloud of deliciousness hovering over our table. I’m surprised hungry people aren’t lining up at the fence, too.” I turn my attention to the dog. “How cute are you?” I ask. Fox Dog bats his long lashes in response, giving me that nose-down, eyes-up look that slays me every time.

  I’ve noticed that the Italians have a different relationship with their dogs than I do with mine. At home, and like many Americans, our dogs are our babies, our sweeties, our little girl or our big man. We hug them and kiss them and love them and never quite let them grow up. Over here, no one seems to infantilize their pets; dogs are treated more like companions and pets act much more independent.

  For example, Fox Dog belongs to someone at one of the tables across the alley from us. This guy’s allowed to range freely without someone like me hovering over him, trying to determine whether or not hims needs him sweater. Also, because Italians will drive on any surface large enough for a Smart car to pass, there’s the occasional vehicle coming down this alley, and still, no leash. I would be having a million panic attacks right now, but it seems like all the Romans are having is wine.

  “Look at him! So fluffy! Such big eyes! So hungry!” I exclaim. None of the dogs here are chunky, either. How is that possible? I have to monitor Libby’s every bite to keep her from turning into a full-on Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade balloon.

  “Do not feed the strange dog,” Fletch warns me.

  I say, “I would never,” which means, “I absolutely will.” Because hims very hungry! Hims has to keep up all him fluffs!

  Although the dog is paying strict attention to us, particularly since I started doling out scraps of pork chop fat, he’s got one eye on the alley behind us and we begin to notice a pattern. Vespas can whiz past, go-cart-sized cars, folks on bikes, etc., but the only time the dog barks is when a person of color passes.

  “He’s barking at all the Moroccan men! This dog is racist!” I say.

  “No, he’s probably just an all-around jerk,” Fletch argues.

  “Watch.”

  A group of rowdy Aussies comes down the alley and the dog has no reaction. Then a chick on a scooter goes past us so closely she practically clips his puffy tail. Nothing. A restaurant worker dragging garbage cans along behind him produces no reaction whatsoever, but when a Moroccan passes us, the dog loses his shit.

  “I’ll be damned,” Fletch admits.

  Fox Dog blinks up at me but I’m resolute. “No more chops for you, bigot.”

  “Have you been slipping him food?” Fletch asks. “What am I saying? Of course you have. You are why our dogs are fat.”

  He’s not wrong.

  Fox Dog eventually loses interest in us when he realizes the Pork Chop Express has pulled away from the station. He wanders off to perpetrate his xenophobia elsewhere.

  Fletch and I linger over dinner, enjoying our wine and each other’s company.

  I say, “The longer I’m here, the more I understand the Roman way of life. When citizens go out here, that’s the whole plan for the night. They don’t run out to dinner and rush home to make sure they don’t miss Real Housewives. Donatella says they’ll sit at the table for hours.”

  “Waiters make a living wage here, none of the two-dollar-an-hour-booshit like we used to deal with. I imagine that’s why there’s no pressure like in US restaurants to turn the table ASAP,” Fletch replies.

  “And it’s so pleasant, right?” I toy with my glass of Chianti. “I’m starting to figure out that in Rome, there’s a time for everything, like with the cappuccino.” Again, coffee is for the morning. No one drinks coffee at night because that’s the time for wine. “Seems like at home, no one ever has enough hours in the day to allot for each activity, but here, they have time in spades.”

  Fletch sighs with contentment as he checks out our surroundings. There’s a quiet buzz of conversation and clink of glasses and silverware, but the overall vibe is serene. “You’re checking off your bucket list items right and left here, but I think what you’re learning most in Rome is to slow down.”

  I nod. “Like, Romans move with purpose on the street, but otherwise no one’s in a hurry here. There’s no panicked sense of urgency like I always feel at home. I wonder how much of this dovetails into our consumer culture.”

  He tilts his head and sips his wine. “How so?”

  “Here, I don’t have a sense that people are rushing off to work a twelve-hour day, coming home and popping a Lean Cuisine into the microwave before doing more work and checking in on Facebook before going to bed so they can do it all again in the morning because they need to pay for their houses they never enjoy and the fancy cars they use almost exclusively to get to their jobs that allow them to buy all the trappings they’re a slave to in
the first place.”

  “Whew, now I’m exhausted.”

  “You know what else I haven’t seen? Home stores. I’ve not passed the equivalent of Restoration Hardware or Crate and Barrel or Pottery Barn, so I get the feeling that no one’s killing themselves working double shifts so they can consume stuff to make their homes Pinterest-perfect. Maybe the Roman message is to not let your stuff own you.”

  Fletch smiles. “Are you suddenly advocating socialism?”

  “Of course not, plus a country on the verge of financial collapse might not be the best example, but there is something to be learned about easing my pace. Maybe Americans stick out here so much not because of the wardrobe or language, but because of our frenetic energy. Like, that’s what makes us ugly. We’re not good about taking the time to just be and do. We make everyone else tense.”

  When I was planning this trip, I’d originally had every minute orchestrated, but Stacey warned me that was a bad idea. She said I’d regret not allowing Rome simply to reveal herself to me, so I cut my scheduled activities to no more than three hours per day. Yesterday, we visited the Colosseum but then we had the afternoon free to enjoy a leisurely lunch in the Campo de’ Fiori. We won’t get to see all of Rome this way, but that just means we’ll have to come back.

  “I bet having enough time is why no one’s fat here. Stands to reason everyone would be beefy because of all the wine and pasta, but they’re not. Here we are, lingering over dinner, and we’ve actually eaten less than we would have at home in front of the television. Where are you on your hunger scale right now?”

  I try to get a sense of where I am. “Maybe a seven? I’m satisfied, but in no way uncomfortable. I’m not in the kind of food coma that’ll keep me up all night like when we go to Italian restaurants at home.”

  Fletch does this move I call Dinosaur Finger when he’s making a point. He’ll tap on the table with his first, second, fourth, and fifth fingers, while holding up the one in the middle. Reminds me of a little brontosaurus. “That’s what I’m saying. Here, having dinner is the end goal. Italians are not wolfing down Monster Thickburgers in their massive SUV as they haul their kids from soccer to Mandarin to ballet so the kids have fully rounded résumés in order to go to college so they can graduate and repeat the whole cycle.”

  “They’ve stopped the insanity.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Doesn’t seem like a bad life,” Fletch replies. “Not a great way to run an economy, but a relaxed way to live.”

  “No wonder Americans get here and lose our minds. Without the day-to-day pressure of a rigorous daily schedule keeping us reined in, we go careening all over the place like a rapidly deflating balloon.”

  “Nice visual.”

  I nod. “Thanks. Professional writer.”

  He says, “Too bad we have to go home on Sunday. Given enough time here, I believe we could solve all the world’s problems.”

  19.

  IL CAVALLO

  “You know what no one ever says about the Vatican?” I ask. “‘Wow, what great air-conditioning they have here.’”

  “How much water did you drink?” Fletch replies.

  “Four bottles, easily.” I was so thirsty shortly into the tour that I actually filled my bottles at one of the decorative fountains, and I’ll be damned if this wasn’t the freshest, most pure-tasting stuff I’ve ever had. At first I didn’t want to drink anything because our guide said we wouldn’t have access to a bathroom for two hours, but then I sweated so profusely that excess fluids weren’t an issue.

  Fletch says, “I can’t get over how rude everyone was in the Sistine Chapel. We had two rules to follow. No talking, no taking pictures. Yet everyone was talking and snapping photos. They didn’t even shut up when that cardinal came out to bless us.”

  “I sort of get the photo part. When you come face-to-face with such an iconic piece of art, I understand the motivation to capture the moment. I do. How many times have we seen the hand of God on coffee mugs and posters and T-shirts? Then to finally witness the real thing in person? I can understand the rule break. Me, I was too busy being the Sleeve and Shorts Police. Every guidebook says that you have to cover your shoulders and knees, and that you’d be asked to leave otherwise, but no one there was acting as a bouncer. Had I known, I wouldn’t have worn this heavy-ass skirt.”

  We’re currently attempting to exit the Vatican grounds after spending hours touring the museum and St. Peter’s Basilica. This is easier said than done because this place takes up miles of real estate. Not coincidentally, the thousands of the faithful who’d also been having their day o’ religion are seeking taxis to return to their hotels for some downtime before dinner alfresco, so we encounter a highly unfavorable cab-to-Catholic ratio.

  Having lived in the city of Chicago for so many years, we understand that the best way to get a taxi is not to stand in a line that is already nine-billion deep with sweaty papists. The better strategy is to walk a couple of blocks away from the venue where the competition will be less intense; see: Every Professional Ball Game, Concert, and Play I Ever Attended.

  “What was your favorite part?” I ask. I’m still bowled over by the level of detail in every nook and cranny of the Vatican and Basilica. There’s not a single surface that’s unadorned, because everything’s either frescoed, marble-covered, or gold-plated. Maybe this is where I get my decorating style, reasoning if one vintage trophy on a shelf is good, then ten are so much better.

  “I was impressed by the hallway of maps,” Fletch says. “I had no idea the old Popes were more like kings than religious leaders.” When we went down one passage, the guide showed us intricate maps on which the Popes commissioned artists to note every single aspect of their enemies’ defenses, down to where they kept their beehives.

  “My favorite part was when the guide rushed us through the contemporary part of the museum. She was all, ‘Don’t worry about this bullshit. Is nothing important.’ We were passing paintings by Matisse and Dalì! Only in a place with this much Michelangelo can the modern guys be considered bullshit.”

  (Sidebar: I had no idea Michelangelo was not only the most interesting man on the planet, but also the most beleaguered. Our guide, the same one who told us to “Push gypsies out of your way,” then added, “with manners,” called Michelangelo a “bitchy old queen.” I’m getting the idea that Romans haven’t much of a conversational filter, which may explain my lack of one as well.)

  (Another sidebar: When Michelangelo initially declined a Vatican commission, the Pope said, “Sure, that’s cool, no probs, Mikey. But I hope you don’t mind if tomorrow we burn down the city you’re from in retribution.” Really puts my former bad bosses into perspective.)

  Fletch and I both agree that the Vatican’s absolutely a once-in-a-lifetime experience, which neither of us expected. Before this trip, I didn’t have a grasp of any history outside of what happened in my own country. But compared to Italy, the US is like five minutes old. For some reason, I always assumed history was dry and boring, nothing but a collection of dates to memorize. I could not have been more wrong and I’ll be returning home with a burning desire to learn more.

  I had no idea of the drama and corruption behind the Borgia Pope’s reign. I didn’t realize how Julius Caesar was responsible for the rise of the Empire on the heels of the demise of the Republic, dying on the Senate steps after being stabbed. Say what? Sure, I’d heard of the Ides of March, but I had no clue as to what actually occurred that day. And who could have guessed that gladiators were the ancient equivalent of rock stars, with clever vendors selling bottles of the sand on which they sweat and bled. The Colosseum was Beatlemania BC.

  Basically, I’m here wondering WHY WAS I NOT INFORMED THAT HISTORY IS THE BEST REALITY SHOW OF ALL TIME?

  Or is this yet another fact everyone else knew and, as usual, I’m the last horse to cross the finish line?

  Fletc
h and I stroll for a bit, mulling over our dinner options, deciding not if we should have cacio e pepe, which is now my favorite dish ever, but where. Satisfied that there’s no dearth of places to find Italian macaroni and cheese, we move on to discussing if this is the best day we’ve ever had. Fletch thinks it’s possible, but I’m not sure I can agree until I remove my sweaty girdle and voluminous eyelet cotton skirt. Then we debate if it would be weird to convert to Catholicism simply because of the magnificence of St. Peter’s Basilica. At this point, the heat or jet lag catches up to Fletch and he declares that he can’t go another step without coffee.

  Unfortunately, we have no choice but to take many more steps because there’s no coffee shop to be found.

  We continue shuffling down rustic cobblestone streets, in fine spirits, but tired, hot, and desperate for something caffeinated. We keep hearing Rome referred to as the eternal city. Now that I’ve been in the city for a while, I suspect this has to do with the fact that everyone here is eternally broiling and exhausted from enjoying its many treasures.

  We’re not so beat that we aren’t mesmerized at how incredibly picturesque everything is, though, and each moment we’ve spent feels like a gift as there’s so much to appreciate. For example, I love that there’s not an inch of Rome that hasn’t been embellished for the better. Even the doors are works of art.

  Design is so prevalent and inspirational in Rome that all I want to do is go home and paint murals across my monotonously white ceilings and slap gold leaf on every dreary chair in my dining room. I mean, the garbage cans are decorative, for crying out loud!

  Architecture aside, the light itself is magical. At this time of day, the sun’s no longer pounding relentlessly down, incinerating everything it touches, turning me into a human dress shield. Rather, it’s a benevolent warm glow in the sky, casting a rosy gold radiance that illuminates the ancient stucco buildings, which are all adorned with bright wooden shutters and festooned with window boxes groaning under the weight of all their fuchsia flowers.