Coming back to Trastevere

I have mixed feelings about the popular riverside neighbourhood of Trastevere. The first time I ventured towards its magical little streets and overcrowded bars was towards the end of my first week in Rome. I was starting to feel frustrated - I didn't know anyone in the city and social distancing precautions made it difficult to meet new people. I spent my long days walking around aimlessly. Before I had the chance to attempt addressing baristas or shop attendants in Italian, I was greeted in English. I couldn't stand it. It was so discouraging. I didn't understand what about me was so obviously foreign? How did they know I wasn't a local before I had a chance to speak?

I headed to Trastevere for two reasons. First, two English bookshops - they seemed like a good place to meet people I might have something in common with. Second, multiple buzzing young bars where I could meet people of a similar age.

When I finally found the 'Almost corner bookshop', I entered with excitement and greeted the older lady on a ladder in Italian, then in English for good measure. She ignored me and carried on reorganising the top shelves of Fiction A-Z.

The bookshop was a mess and I didn't even want an English book. I came there to meet people and found one old lady who couldn't be bothered to say hello.

I left feeling discouraged, again. It was too early to have a drink or dinner - or perhaps I just felt too uncomfortable heading into a bar by myself - so I sat on the edge of the Garibaldi bridge and admired the pink sunset. The longer I sat there the worse I felt, and I wrote this on my phone:

Everyone is in groups

The clouds are neon pink and a busk band is playing Knocking on heaven's door

Cars and scooters are passing by quickly, rushing from work to dinner, or from home to work. They have somewhere to be

In this evening light, tan looks deeper

Girls are dressed up, anklets shining on matt brown skin, baguette bags held tightly under armpits that are no longer sweaty

I must look like I'm waiting for a date who is late

Or for a friend

The men are gorgeous and it kills me that I don't know how to integrate into this community of beautiful people and musky perfume

I am sat at a popular meeting point - gentlemen in jeans and linen shirts are making circles or smoking cigarettes before their girlfriends arrive. It's interesting to observe who will come to meet who. A tall blonde embraces the shorter dark man. A curvy woman with big curly hair shakes hands with a lanky man with glasses. It's been about 20 minutes and I've watched a good nine couples meet, smile, hug and head off for dinner

I feel the heat of tears in my nose

I made it to the Eternal city, the city I've been dreaming of for several months, even years. I'm here and I see the dolce vita, I see the far niente, but I am watching it from the outside

Every time I'm addressed in English where others have been addressed in Italian, it kills me a little. They can smell my foreignness from miles away

How long will it take to be a part of something, to be a part of a community, a group, a neighbourhood

Now the band plays Stand by me

17th September 2020 - River Tiber from Trastevere

I took a picture with my analogue camera, wiped the corners of my eyes and headed straight into the epicentre of Trastevere, passing a very busy bar. A bold man in his 40s smiled at me and said 'Ciao'. I walked on, pretending I didn't hear - a habit you learn in your late teens as a woman. But then I realised it was the first person who addressed me in Italian, not English, so I turned around and said 'Ciao' back.

I felt incredibly uncomfortable with Stefano because I know far too well there is only one reason an older man, spending his Thursday night by himself at a bar, could approach a much younger, taller woman. But I resisted the urge to escape because I really needed the Italian practice and to be fair, I really needed the company, too.

We each had a beer and talked. It turns out the only reason Stefano said hello to me in Italian was because he didn't speak a word of any other language. I was glad to find someone to speak to without the option of being rescued by English; it's the best way to learn a new language. Yes, of course - I immediately mentioned I have a boyfriend even if it wasn't true. He wanted nothing more than pleasant company, he said, and showed me a picture of his five-year-old daughter.

I asked Stefano why nobody spoke to me in Italian. He said I look extremely foreign. "Your walk and posture are different, you are taller, your face is not Italian," he said.

Much later that night, after walking several blocks with Stefano whose entire vocabulary seemed to consist of "bella, bella" and "bravissima", I made my way to the bus stop at Piazza Venezia to go home. Throughout what seemed like a never ending wait for a bus that was obviously not going to come, three men, at least my father's age, offered to "accompany me" or take me home, looking up and down my legs when proposing the offer. I called and Uber and memorised Trastevere as the neighbourhood I wasn't very keen on returning to.

A month later I came back for a job interview. The 9AM breakfast turned into a five hour chat about Rome, investing in stocks and non-vanilla sexual practices. We laughed a lot, sipped on prosecco and agreed on a working contract. I got my first job a month after moving to Rome - in the neighbourhood of Trastevere where I felt so lonely and helpless only three weeks back. I left our meeting with victory written across my face and smiled when I passed the Garibaldi bridge where I sat crying the last time I was here. Life works in mysterious ways and I couldn't make it up better.