Late Night Ancient Roman Ruins in Italy

The Roman Ruins ruined me.

If I’m writing this, it means I’m alive, and have just completed a three day road trip-romance across Spain and France with someone I met at a bar two days before. But we’ll get to that later. 

A week earlier, I was leaving Croatia after traveling solo to a music festival. I had a week left in Europe before I needed to return to New York, and so I decided to *follow the music.” (Cue Thank You For The Music by ABBA). I made my plans extremely last minute so I could see how I was feeling that day, and roughly planned to make two more shows in Europe. 

The first stop was to see Polo and Pan, one of my favorite artists of all time. They’re a French electronic DJ duo, and I can only describe their music as dreamy and transcendent and really, really fun to dance to. I saw they were playing in Rome, and it wasn’t hard to get to from Croatia, so I took the two hour flight to Rome. 

I felt a little crazy for making this much effort, and a true groupie, but saw it as an excuse to explore Italy, too. And, unsurprisingly, I was blown away by all the beauty in Rome. Not just in the museums, but all the details in the doorways, in the water fountains. Everywhere I looked, it was a work of art. 

I knew that the best way to know a city was to get shown around by a local, and so one night I went on a date with a man who lived in Rome named Allesio. We met at the colosseum, and then he told me he had a hidden spot to show me just a few minutes away. As we walked, he told me he needed to ask me something. 

“Is it true that Americans really eat pineapple on their pizza?”

I laughed. Allesio was born in Rome, and loved it there. Unlike many people I met traveling who wanted to live somewhere new despite how beautiful their hometown was, Allesio was proud of being in Rome and happy to stay. “Yes,” I told him. “It is true.” His eyes widened in shock. 

A few moments later, we arrived at a spot overlooking the Roman Ruins.

But there weren’t other tourists around, like the swarms of people at the colosseum. Just a handful of friends drinking. “It is very common for Roman people to come here with a few beers.” I understood why. We stood watching the lit up remains, and listened as music drifted in softly from a distance. I couldn’t believe this unbelievable historic site was used for a casual hang, or in my case, a date. After this night, I never wanted to go on a first date around modern, stable architecture ever again. The ruins ruined me. 

I was in Rome for four days, and tried to spend it speaking to as many locals as possible. From this, I learned a few things. The first was that Italian people absolutely hate French people (or at least the ones I spoke to). It only came up because sometimes an Italian person didn’t speak a lot of English, so I offered to speak French, if that was easier. Which would cause them to launch into how they hated French people for being pretentious, cooking with too much garlic, having bad food in general. The list went on. 

One night at a bar, a guy told me his own reasoning. “The French have so many paintings, and they need to have the Mona Lisa, too? The Mona Lisa is Italian, it should be in Italy!” His friends nodded in agreement next to him. I couldn’t help but smile. I tried to imagine an American guy at a bar being mad at another country for holding onto an American painting. 

When I came home that night, I entered my hostel that I was sharing with three other people. While I didn’t always love staying in hostels, it was a nice way to meet people when traveling solo and a good way to save money. Usually it was always a great experience, but when I came home that night, one of the guys in my room approached me as I was getting ready for bed and tried to kiss me. When I pushed him away, he backed down. “Sorry, you just looked really sexy, and also I’m drunk,” he muttered.

I went to bed shortly after, but in the morning I told him that was unacceptable, especially in a hostel situation. Of course, you should always get consent in any situation. But when you’re sharing a room, you’re meant to feel safe, and that was crossing a line. Traveling alone isn’t always wonderful, but thankfully the times that this happens, I feel I’m able to assert myself and stand firm. 

I’m never always sure what to do in these situations, but I told the other girl, Pauli, in the room to stay away from him. She was from Paraguay and didn’t speak a lot of English, but this she understood. For everything else we talked about, like needing to communicate how she enjoyed the way Italian men dressed, we had Google Translate.

We hit it off, and when she asked what I was doing that night, I took her to see Polo and Pan. They were playing at a bar called The Sanctuary, and being there felt more like being in Bali than Rome. There were palm trees overhead, and a large lit up pool breaking up the tables and dancing area.

They did your make up for free, and so while I was waiting on line, I started talking to these two guys waiting behind me. I ended up with an extra free ticket, and offered it to them, but they said they didn’t need it. I didn’t quite understand - were they just hanging out at the bar but not going to the show? 

The four of us hung out for a while and got something to eat, until they said they had to go. It was then that I understood they didn’t need a ticket because they were opening for Polo and Pan. They started laughing once I got it.

“We were wondering why you weren’t more excited when we told you, but maybe you just weren’t impressed.” Now that I understood, I was, indeed, very impressed. We all hung out while they set up, and I talked with one of their friends as they warmed up. He admired my ring on my index finger- it’s silver with a blue eye in the middle. I wore it everywhere, and told him how my best friend Amanda had the same one back home. 

I noticed he had rings too—a gold one, with a large red stone in the middle. I asked him about it, and he said it was a Jewish ring. It was then that I noticed the chai symbol on the side, which means “life” in Hebrew. “You’re Jewish?” I asked him. “Yes,” he nodded. “My dad is Italian, and my mom is from Israel.” I was shocked. I had never met an Italian Jew before. “Well,” he admitted, “These days I am afraid to say I am Jewish.” 

This hit me hard. My stomach felt sick, because it was so upsetting to hear this, but also because I had been feeling the same way. A few weeks ago, I had a dream that I still couldn’t shake. I was in a classroom in London, and my professor was talking about the war. He called on me and asked me what I had to say. I looked around the room and said, “Honestly, I’m just afraid to say I am Jewish anymore.” The professor just stared at me and started to cry, and then I woke up. 

The fact that this Italian man I just met was feeling the same way I was reminded me that this is probably happening more often than is being shared. I wondered how many other people in my life felt this way. I’m not sure what to do about it. But maybe sharing this in itself is helpful in some way, to show that the rising anti-semitism is real and can be felt everywhere, in our reality and in our subconscious. 

After his friends finished playing, it was time for Polo and Pan. I got as close as I could to the front, where I met two other Americans who were as crazy as me, it turned out. One was from New York, and the other from LA, and both separately made arrangements to be here for the show.

It made me so happy to see how we were all there for our love of their music. When they came on, it was incredible. While I had doubts earlier in the week for making so much effort to be there, all I could think was, this was absolutely worth it. As I spoke with more people after the show, everyone kept telling me I was glowing. I was a bit taken back. In fact, they had been telling me that all week. “You just look so happy,” one stranger told me out of the blue. “It is beautiful to see.”

Before I left Rome, I was having breakfast when a man from Manchester at the table next to me started talking to me and asked me about myself. I told him how I was a writer, and had just finished working on a book on my eye condition. When he asked why I was going back to New York, I explained it was more a medical procedure. “Oh, your eyes?” He asked.

“No, actually, a different one,” I said. My Rituxan infusion for my MS was in just over a week.

“A different one? Well, aren’t you unlucky!”

My stomach turned at this, and I picked at my muesli. Yes, I had had a lot of hard things thrown at me, but I tried to never see myself as “unlucky.” Then, he quickly added, “But you sure do seem to have a positive attitude about it all!” 

I didn’t always, of course. I thought my life was ending for a long time. I had no hope left for the future. But now, it was funny to have strangers see this other new side of me that exists too, that can still radiate positive and happiness through everything. It only reminds me of how far I’ve come. 

On Friday, I flew to Barcelona for one more show that was part of the Off Sonar festival. I thought the show would be fun, but also used it as an excuse to visit Barcelona. As we landed on the tarmac, everyone started erupting in cheers, and a flight attendant had to go on the intercom and demand someone stop smoking. I have never been on a flight before where people started smoking to celebrate and I could already tell it was going to be a good time.

More on Barcelona in part two in a few days!

Love,

Julia