Almost Roman
For outsiders, living in the Eternal City is an apprenticeship that never ends
Annamo bene, eh! Stamo a Roma1
I was speeding toward Castel Sant’Angelo on my motorino late one evening. Traffic was light -- just one other scooter on the road -- as I zipped toward a pedestrian crosswalk, where a woman and a teenage boy were crossing.
I drifted to the left side of the three-lane street to cross well in front of the pair, while the other rider edged to the right. Suddenly, in panic, the boy broke away from the woman and started running back to the side where they’d started. Then, seeing how far it was, he changed his mind again and bolted past the startled woman toward the left side. She froze in the middle of the crosswalk, unsure what to do.
I saw the boy’s change of direction and veered sharply to the right to pass behind him. But the other rider was already cutting left. We were on a collision course!
I pumped the rear brake and slowed slightly, just as the other rider accelerated. He shot by a meter or two in front of me and we cleared the crosswalk without incident. In my mirror, I saw the woman throw her arms around the unfortunate boy, who was sitting on the curb.
A few seconds later, I put my feet down at a stoplight, my veins still pumping with adrenaline. The other motorino was already there. I turned and shouted, “Quelli volevano morire!” -- “Those people wanted to die!”
The other driver did a double take after hearing my accent. “Aspetta!” he said. “Wait -- you’re not Italian?”
I nodded, still breathing hard.
“You may be a foreigner,” he said, shaking his head. “But you drive like a Roman.”
My chest swelled with pride.
