Lazy Sunday

Sunday in a convent is not at all lazy, to immediately contradict the title of this post. I woke this morning to the sound of bells (surprise surprise) at quarter to 8, and managed to roll out of bed and make myself presentable for mass within 15 minutes. All guests of the convent are required to go to mass on Sundays, which is held in a small chapel adjacent to the building. It is officiated by the tiniest priest I have ever seen. He is no more than 5'2, and although he has a paunchy belly, he also wears gargantuan glasses, behind which his whole head appears small. His voice, however, doesn't match his frame; it is loud and low. From what I could gather, using my slowly improving Italian, his homily was about Saints Peter and Paul, patron saints of Rome (as both were martyred here) whose feast it is today, and something about courage and forgiveness. That may all sound a little crude, but the priest spoke very quickly, and I really only understand the words that sound like Latin.

After mass, however, my Sunday became very lazy, as I feel it should. No attempting to talk to tourists today! I sat in the garden and listened to someone's piano lesson, occurring in one of the apartments that border the garden. I also finished my book, which returns my mental capacity once more to 'fully aware', and capaple of doing other things. Dara has seen fit to tell me about the private tour I am giving tomorrow morning, which includes the Roman Forum, the Imperial Fora, and the Colosseum. Taking my notes and my oversized Italian sunglasses, I set off for the Forum, to study in the great place itself, and planned to pick up lunch on the way.

I live off the Via Cavour, which is a main road in Rome, with two way traffic and four or five lanes, depending on who is driving. Though it is a straight shot down Via Cavour to the Via Fori Imperiali, sometimes I like to take side streets, especially when I don't have any time constraints. Today, as I was walking along one of these smaller streets, I found a hole in the wall place with some of the best looking tomatoes I have seen all summer. Seduced by their shiny skins, I went in and bought one. Since no Italian store, whether it sells shoes, books, or food, is ever devoid of mozzarella bufala, I bought some of that as well. Arriving at the Forum, I found a place in the shade, and sat down to enjoy my little feast. Having washed my pomodoro in one of the fountains, I realized I didn't have any silverware. No problem: I ate it like an apple, taking big crunchy, juicy bites, and alternating with bites of the mozzarella. I made a mess, but it was delicious.

In the shade, the breeze keeps the temperature comfortable, and I sat for a long time, reading my notes and watching the people walk by. It is impossible not to people-watch in Rome, because there are so many and such diverse people. I am getting the knack of identifying nationalities just by looking at people, although strangely, the Italians are easiest to recognise. Equally easy are the Asians, but that almost doesn't count, it is so easy. The Americans come not far behind, because they are usually wearing fanny packs and staring at maps. American girls are particularly easy, perhaps because as one of them, I hold an unfair advantage in recognising my peers, but they seem to have a summer uniform: a mid-length cotton J Crew dress, which I admittedly tried on back home. The British are paler than the Americans, and usually wear hats, whereas the Americans are all trying to get tan. They also stare intently at maps. After that it gets harder, but the Germans are fairly easy to spot, because they look.... German. That may sound like an insufficient description, but it is hard to put into words.

For now, I am off to put my feet in the fountain again, and practice more for tomorrow.