The Pickpockets in Rome

An American woman at the train station warned us about the pickpockets.  An older woman approached a man wearing a gray backpack.  She distracted him with conversation while her daughter sneakily unzipped the man’s bag and tried to extract anything valuable. 

When I boarded the train, my tour manager Kat thanked the American woman for the heads-up.  Since I was fascinated by the thieves’ methods, I asked the American to describe their strategy.  After she finished, I remarked that pickpocketing makes for a good story to tell as long as you’re not the one being robbed. 

“Don’t say that,” Kat told me, “Now you might get pickpocketed.  That’s bad karma.”

“I don’t believe in karma,” I said, even though her comment increased my paranoia.  I slipped my hands into my pockets and squeezed my wallet and phone.

“Well, I believe in karma,” Kat said.

“Then it’s a good thing I made that comment and not you.”

I gripped the handle to steady myself on the shaky train.  I tried not to think about the germs forming new colonies on my sweaty palms. 

Aaron, my ever reliable traveling companion, wasn’t disgusted that Italy was filled with pickpockets.  He was annoyed because locals continue to let it happen.  As the innocent tourist was being tricked, many people stood by and watched until a fellow traveler told the man what was happening.  Due to the local’s complacency with thieves in addition to the swarms of persistent gypsies, Aaron dubbed Rome as a “shit-hole with history.”

After a fifteen minute ride, we boarded Rome’s metro, which at the time of this writing has only two lines with plans to build a third.  The city’s subway system is so sparse because each time workers dig a new line they find more ancient ruins.  The metro trains are covered in graffiti, and the subway station is dingy and filthy. 

I eyed all my fellow passengers with distrust.  Each time the train opened its doors, I turned my back away from the exit to prevent anyone from snatching my bag.  Since the foot-traffic funnels and then jams when the crowd disembarks, this is a ripe opportunity to swipe a wallet out of a loose pocket.  I stepped onto the platform in possession of all my belongings and headed into the city.    

On the first day in Rome, Aaron and I visited the Roman Forum, which housed the politicians during the Roman Empire.  At first I thought this would not interest me.  They are merely piles of ancient rocks.  But as I began to read some of the descriptions, I realized these were the oldest crumbled structures I’ve ever seen. Some of the ruins are nearly two thousand years old.  As we searched for the toilets on the premises, I was kicking small stones on the dusty path. 

“We’re walking on the same ground that people like Julius Caesar walked on,” Aaron said. 

“I wonder why people get a kick out of that,” I said.  “Do they think they’ll inherit certain powers by touching the same ground that Julius Caesar touched?”

I overheard a woman gasping with amazement as she took a few photos. 

“Not everyone gets a chance to see this,” she said to her companion. 

Later, I told Laura about this comment, and she assured me that anyone can see the ruins if they save up the money.  The flight to Rome may be pricey, but the entry fee to see the Roman Forum and the Coliseum is only twelve euros.  If you really want to see the ruins, affording this vacation is only a matter of a disciplined work ethic and modest spending. 

To be honest, my aunt paid for half of this vacation.  After working in Europe for a few months when I was a young child, she promised me this present if I graduated college.  While earning my degree, I saved the rest of the money by bussing tables for three years at a wage of six dollars an hour plus a share of the waiters’ tips, which averaged to be roughly $75 per day.  Despite my good fortune and supportive relatives, I still had to work to see Rome. 

“I cleaned toilets and changed bed-sheets,” Laura said, “And I managed to afford this trip.” 

Certainly there are others out there who make a lot more than me or many of my friends on this trip.  Their issue is time, not money.  Although seeing the ruins is not an accomplishment comparable to sailing around the world or summiting a dangerous mountain, the site is worth a visit.  The ruins are scattered throughout a large field, and you can peruse them freely.  There’s nobody selling souvenirs, and nobody in a suit who follows you around and reminds you not to touch anything. 

There are crypts and headless statues situated around humble gardens.  My favorite structures were the cracked columns that stood alone and the arches with Latin words inscribed upon their surface.  The arches were broken, and words were cut in half.  I wondered what happened to the missing piece and what the full sentence read.  I suppose that’s what historians and archeologists do:  they find incomplete clues from long-ago eras and try to piece the fragments together to create a fuller vision of the past. 

When I visited the Coliseum the next day, I tried to imagine what the show would’ve been like during the Roman Empire.  It’s safe to say we don’t have entertainment like the Romans did.  Not even American football or MMA fighting can compare to the spectacles housed in one of the world’s most impressive venues.  Both these sports offer bloodthirsty fans to witness violence from a safe distance, but the severity of these games is much milder. 

Usually the gladiators were slaves or prisoners of war who fought to the death.  The stadium often housed dangerous animals such as bears, lions, tigers, wolves, cheetahs, and ostriches.  The animals would either kill each other, or they would rip apart unarmed humans as the crowd watched from their seats.  Perhaps the gruesome exhibition of such lawlessness was useful in suppressing criminal desires.  Or maybe the Romans had a deranged taste in entertainment.

It is believed that gladiatorial games were meant to placate the public and to benefit the emperor’s reputation as a generous fellow.  Many poor folks would attend the games because they were given free food.  Despite the generosity of the wealthy, the lower-class citizens had to sit in the nosebleed sections.  The politicians and religious figures had better views.  The gladiators were stationed in the eastern and western wings like modern baseball players sitting in their dugouts. 

Seeing the ruins was morphine for the imagination in my attempts to mentally recreate the past.  While I walked around Rome day-dreaming, I wondered what the Romans were doing now.  Where are they working?  Where are the modern office buildings——the ones that are functional and not falling apart?  There was plenty of traffic in Rome, but I had no idea where everyone was going. 

What I knew of Italy before this trip was derived from my European history textbook and a few films like Fellini’s 8½ and The Great Beauty, winner of the Oscar for Best Foreign Language Film in 2013.  Because the foreign films were so groundbreaking and beautifully shot, I pictured Italy as a majestic place.  Really, I viewed all of Europe as this utopian hub of intellectual enlightenment. 

Yet certain European countries like Italy did not live up to the preconceived notions I pieced together in my mind.  I spent two days in Rome suspicious of strangers and constantly clutching my pockets.  Several of my friends had phones and wallets plucked out of their purses.  Our group bought I <3 Roma T-shirts for a party at the campsite, but I refused to buy one because I knew I would never wear it again.  Besides, I had only been here two days.  How could I honestly say I loved a city I barely knew?  I was smitten with the old Rome, but the new one rubbed me the wrong way.     

Aside from the food, fashion, and films, perhaps Italy is living off of past glories——the ancient ruins found buried under the dust.  During a salacious party, the old Italian bachelor in The Great Beauty says that Rome has the best trains in the world.  He joins a line of people latched onto each other as they dance to the music in a circle. 

Many years ago, the old man wrote a successful novel, and ever since he has produced nothing.  He survives off the royalties from his book, so he does not have to work.  Instead, he parties endlessly.  He makes plans to change his life and to produce something meaningful again, but he doesn’t.  He realizes his best work is behind him.  Rome has the best trains, he says, because they never go anywhere.  They always end right where they started.