Observations from the Streets of Rome

It was warm. And sticky. And I couldn’t understand how they did it. A suit and tie, a blazer, a jacket, a sweater even. Normally I pride myself in being among the league of the sharply dressed, but here I can’t compete. My dress shirt is far too bulky and cumbersome next to these, perfectly-fitted. My cloth belt that came with a pair of cargo shorts is ridiculous next to these with gleaming buckles. My shoes, some strange synthetic, can never hope to compete with leather. Thank God at least I brought my self-tailored jeans.

At times it seemed ridiculous. Could it be that the men walking by with pristine greased hair, flashy sunglasses, a sleek dress shirt tucked into fitted pants, and designer shoes--designer everything more like--were just foreigners like me trying desperately to fit the perceived Italian stereotype? Maybe, but if so they were far more successful.

On the subway escalator I found myself behind a man whose round Italian features were circumscribed by pristinely maintained hair and beard, whose salmon jeans coordinated exactly with the pinstripes on his white dress shirt, whose tan blazer fit perfectly. I was transfixed with a mixture of awe and jealousy. As we stepped off, my roommate--dingy white tee-shirt, sagging black shorts, ratty flip-flops--apparently blind to this miracle of fashion, attempted to sequester my attention:

“Dude, check out the casino!”

Sacrilege to proclaim such a thing in the presence of such greatness! But his pleas fell on deaf ears, for I would not yield. Nothing in the world existed at that moment but my newfound patron-saint who, I just noticed, had casually left two buttons on the sleeves of his sport coat undone. I was in ecstasy.

“The buttons on the sleeves of his jacket…they’re actually real functional buttons…what detail…so beautiful…”

“I just think it’s great they have slot machines in the metro.”

“All the suits I’ve ever worn have had merely decorative buttons on the sleeves…I haven’t lived…”

And thus we conversed with ourselves together.

Oh, don’t get me wrong, they’re not everywhere. Rome is an international city, the streets and subway are teeming with shabby foreigners, tourists. But I could always spot them, these Italian gods of fashion, shining beacons among the grubby mob.