There are no crosswalks in Rome-at least not in the mind of a true Italian. Sure they physically exist. They are even called "zebras" by professore, but for all conventional purposes, they may as well be invisible. One of the first lessons I learned-beside how to order i primi, i secondi, e il gelato-was to step out in front of traffic, put up your hand as if to simulate a stop sign, and then proceed to cross. The most valuable advice: never hesitate even if only for an instant, or you will most likely be grazed by a Fiat, if not hit by a moped. Italian drivers are agile, with fast reflexes and a heavy foot; most importantly, they have adapted to the masses of pedestrians that threaten their vision. Rarely driving sedans or station wagons, never SUV's, the Romans have invested in "smart cars," appearing to the untrained eye as clown cars that have a stout snout, and no leg room for the vertically gifted. These cars are perhaps the reason that the natives can swerve so well. Maneuvering around such narrow roads and amidst such chaos (for rarely do drivers remain in neat lanes) have turned Romans into pazzo (crazy) but smart drivers. And I, the ugly American, have invested in what I call double trust in these drivers: I would not hesitate in the middle, and they would avoid me with all their might-or so I hoped. Thus, I grew accustomed to this wild jaywalking, leaving behind my instinct to falter in the face of ninety-mile-an-hour danger, and instead, proudly charging ahead. This chaotic challenge of will and wits went against all the road rules my mother taught me, for if I was cautious, I would be dead. Roman Street Smarts 101 was more than a metaphor for my first weeks spent where ruins overran modernity and two different mail systems thrived, one in the name of the Vatican.

Sure I detested having to cross my forehead, chest and shoulders before venturing across the street, praying to St. Peter since he was the heart of the City that I wouldn't be obliterated by a vehicle a third of the size of a Ford Explorer. But even though that was a nuisance, those interactions and the hustle, bustle and noise (even the ambulance had a melodic tune that one could not deny), made my Roman experience that much more authentic. It was the mix of past and present, the stumbling upon underground temples and basilicas half-eaten by time, half-swamped by cats, the discovery of volcanic rocks from 100 B.C. amidst all the confusion, that made Rome magical in and of itself. I cannot ask for the pure existence of antiquity without the price of today, without the plane that transported me, without the bus system, bad as it was, that enabled me to get from Piazza del Popolo to the Vatican and back. Sure the lines and the tourists that bothered me, a constant blockade at all worthy sites (and some unworthy too), yet it is hard to prevent people, who want to see, feel and touch the same empire that Augustus once ruled over, from storming the city. I learned to accept the dualities of life, the coexistence of noise and quietude, bustle and solitude, autostrada and Circus Maximus. At one moment, you could be surveying the Baths of Caracala, with only the sound of an imagined sauna in your mind, and the next, smack in the middle of the Colosseum, being harassed by fake gladiators fighting for recognition, not in the amphitheater as in the past, but on the streets, pushing posed pictures upon oblivious tourists.

I learned what it was to be a tourist, to run through the streets sticking out like a sore thumb. Then I learned what it was to be an American tourist. Even when I tried to keep my mouth shut, an Italian could still distinguish me from the crowd, even though Sozio ran through my genes. I leaned what it means to feel ashamed of who you are and where you come from, even if in essence, Italy had true respect and admiration for most Americans in comparison to many other countries. I began to question why our values and lifestyle were so different, and began to wonder if my initial annoyances at inefficiency were merely because the urgency of time was inbred in my system. There was no urgency wandering through narrow cobblestone streets. There was no such thing as punctuality or promptness. They just didn't exist, and it was as simple as that. The beginning was the beginning, whenever and wherever it was decided, and the end, well, that came after a lot of vino and table talk. The check never came, until you asked for it, that is.

I learned what it is to get sick of being ashamed, sick of trying to hide my nationality on the streets, of having to feign muteness and indifference-underlying all of these falsities, was the uncertainty of who I truly was. I was Italian, wasn't I? I made that clear in all my interactions, until I had a fluent, free-flowing line, used with taxi drivers and men at bars alike, I was Italian-American, my aunt lives and teaches here, and has for forty years. All would look past that, immediately asking where I was from in the States. Of course, Boston took over our conversation and all that I had tried to avoid was right back in my face as if my identity was mocking me. How could I be both? I was in Italy, and there was no such thing as dual identity.

In America, we seem to pride ourselves on having multiple backgrounds, amalgamations of names, and what in the end does it all mean? Perhaps, it is how we stand out from one another and profess our individuality and difference, but what does it all boil down to when we are out of our element? Nothing, except for the fact that we are American. A nationality became an ethnicity, and I was still caught in-between, unable to reconcile the broken sense of identity, the connection between name and surname and the olive skin that professed my background, while glaring Americanism streamed from my pores.

As an American Studies major, I had my initial doubts about studying abroad-what the heck was I doing in another country half-way across the world if I could have driven cross country and taken pictures of license plates from each state? However, I don't know how I could be an American Studies major and not go abroad. There is no way to examine a society better than completely removing yourself from it and observe it from afar. Without shifting priorities, without the leisurely strolls down the Tiber, crossing bridges and oncoming traffic, falling into step with customs other than my own, I would never have been forced outside of my element or forced to face my discomforts in order to recognize all I took for granted. When you are too close to what you study, you risk missing something essential-the power of contrast.

I will miss the open piazzas on cool crisp nights, the dimly lit streets, and the light that peeks out of the monuments as if they were still inhabited and not just a renovation of the millennium. The thing about past in Rome is that it is so overwhelming and omnipresent, however, at the same time it is immobile, frozen and unable to be reconstructed. Or so I thought. Imagination proves to be a great power. First, I had to learn what I was seeing and once I distinguished volcanic rock from marble, ruins were not just crumbles but alive and waiting for resurrection.