✍️ Dispatch: A Florida Man in Rome

Notes from a Romanized American upon returning to the motherland

On a visit to see family in Florida a couple of years back, I stopped at a burrito joint while out running errands. I looked up from my lunch to see a large, bearded man dressed in camouflage stepping into the line. He had an assault-style rifle slung over one shoulder, and a holstered pistol and a few tactical pouches on his belt. Several diners stared openly, but he didn’t seem to notice.

Who is this guy, I wondered. Had this become normal? What was he afraid of? I couldn’t stop watching him.

Then a man in line leaned over and whispered in the big guy’s ear, and they both laughed and then fist-bumped. A woman turned around and gave him a thumbs up.

I couldn’t read the room. Were other diners as uneasy as I was? Or were they gazing at him with admiration?

I closed my eyes and took a breath. I’m not in Italy anymore.

Catch my (continental) drift? (DJL photo. IG: mistermeridian)

In a recent post, Almost Roman, I compared the long, slow process of becoming a Roman to an asymptote -- the elegant mathematical curve that approaches a line forever without crossing it. Rome is like that: welcoming but wary.

I finished writing that post on another trip to Florida, where I stopped to eat at the same burrito place (decent burritos are not easy to find in Rome).

Nothing unusual happened the second time around. But in thinking about the previous visit I decided to conduct a thought experiment. What if I tried to see my home state through the lens I used for Rome? What would be the correct geometric pattern? A parabola? A spiral? A helix? A fractal?

It was an exercise in frustration; I couldn’t find a geometric pattern that worked.

Florida, I eventually decided, is like a membrane. You press against it for a moment, and then suddenly you’re on the other side.

There’s no reason anyone -- a theme park transplant, a Latino laborer, an exchange student, a retiree from up north … even a man with an assault rifle or a journalist with a permesso di soggiorno -- can’t be a Floridian.

The more I think about it, the more I realize how generous that is. Florida doesn’t ask you to change to belong. Rome does.

To be Roman requires seven generations and knowing about seven thousand unwritten rules.

But I don’t think the city’s guardedness is about exclusion, it’s about stewardship. A city as old as Rome can’t afford to be completely permeable. Its culture survives because people must fold themselves into it over time, carefully, respectfully, sometimes awkwardly, and always with intention.

I still don’t understand the guy waiting in the burrito line dressed like a Marvel comic book villain. But I also don’t understand how anything gets done in Italy under the weight of three thousand years of laws layered like ancient strata.

What I do understand, though, is that these are the two cultures that have most shaped me.

My family moved to Florida when I was five -- it wasn’t up to me. But Rome was. I chose to move to the Eternal City. Despite that, I know I’ll never be a true Roman. But there are many ways I’ll always be a Floridian.

The two capitals that claim me: Rome and Tallahassee (EJL photos)

This is the third Dispatch post in this newsletter. These shorter pieces will appear every other Tuesday, in the weeks between the long-form features that have been published until now. Think of the Dispatch posts as snapshots with context: glimpses of places, traditions, curiosities, or reflections that still aim to shed light on Italy beyond the usual stereotypes. You’ll see another full feature next week.