Sounds of Seattle, Songs of Roma

I walk back from a Tazza d'Oro, a coffee shop by the Pantheon, en route to the Forno (bakery) to pick up some bianca (salted pizza base, as far as I can tell). This is all part of my Italian class, to go try a granita di caffe con panna; it's very dull and torturous homework to be sure.

I listen to the landscape this time, unlike the many times before. Rome is somehow quieter, yet at the same time more boisterous than Seattle. Then I think, what does Seattle sound like? There's the rumble of Metro buses...but beyond that, I have never bothered to listen. The ambient noise of the cars, of the chiming churches, of the mad dash to class has always been something to tune out rather than focus on. I always run, headphones in ear, past the pitter-patter of rain against the leaves, the VW honking at the jaywalkers, and the wind making chimes of every tree. For now, I will have to wait to hear the music of Seattle.

Rome's orchestra varies by the day and hour. During the weekday, the clanging of vendors at Campo de' Fiori begins just before eight. Today, there is the added clamor of a scaffolding being erected on a building in the far corner. The drone of the occasional vespa like the clash of cymbals to accent the harmony. The fruttivendolo yelling into her phone as she takes my two euros for the fragola; she speaks louder to compensate for the rustling of the paper bag she is packaging for me.

By 2 pm, the afternoon song begins--this time, the clang of the merchants as they disassemble their tents; a few resolute ones remain unmovable under the scorching midday sun. The relative quiet is broken as the garbage trucks rumble to life, the vroo-oo-m of the engines broken by the sound of cascading glass. Every hour or so, the many churches sound their discordant voices, and sometimes, even on the half hour. By nightfall, the noise of the crowd becomes constant, growing louder and louder, accented by a few loud chortles, and accompanied by the guitar dude, violin/a capella boy, or sax man. Tonight, there is the added synchrony of intermittent clapping--roommates engaged in some sort of primal game. And sometimes, special guests make an appearance: fire dancers twirling to a disbelieving crowd, to the beat of anonymous hip hop music and the bass from the nearby bar. By 2 am, the rumble of garbage trucks and broken glass sounds again, followed by a few hours of blissful silence until the discordant music begins anew. The only exception to the cycle is Sunday, when everything, including the Campo is eerily quiet--no sounds, no people, no nothing, just an empty square in shameful disuse.