Some­times, I get hit with a feel­ing that is just like home­sick­ness, yet, I am home. There must be a bet­ter word than just “miss.” I miss Italy. I really, really miss Italy. See — not the same.  I could say nos­tal­gia del cupolone, the Flo­ren­tine phrase for home­sick­ness for the Cat­te­drale di Santa Maria del Fiore, or what is known as the Duomo, but I am home­sick for all of Italy. There must be a word for feel­ings that describe home­sick­ness for a place other than your home. For now, it shall be Romesick.

Enjoy­ing Morn­ing Cappuccino

One of my favorite times of the day in Italy is the early morn­ing. Other times being, mid-morning, late-morning, noon, after­noon, mid– after…you get the pic­ture. But, early morn­ing is the time of day that, really, only the locals are out. Maybe a few tourists wait­ing for their bus to pick them up for the daily tour. Mostly, it is just peo­ple on their way to work, daily food shop or grab­bing a quick breakfast.

My Baby Sis­ter at Tazza D’Oro

Break­fast is not usu­ally the pro­duc­tion we make in the states. There are not huge trays of eggs, ham, breads, pota­toes, bacon, et al. For the most part, break­fast is cof­fee and a pas­try. What is not to love about that. Ital­ian bars can look a bit dark and intim­i­dat­ing, with a bunch of peo­ple stand­ing around , you don’t know quite what to do. You may think it is an after hours hang­out where they are still serv­ing alco­hol. But, it is really quite harm­less. Gen­er­ally, you order at the cash reg­is­ter, take your receipt to the bar and give the receipt to the barista. Quite easy, no?

In Rome, I walk across town to Tazza D’oro, near the Pan­theon. It is still a place fre­quented by locals, but suf­fi­ciently used to deal­ing with tourists after hav­ing been writ­ten about in Starbuck’s Founder, Howard Shultz’s book, Pour Your Heart Into It. It has been pop­u­lar for coffee/Starbucks afi­ciona­dos to visit, but, this ain’t Star­bucks. Most any cof­fee you get in Rome or Italy is bet­ter than Star­bucks. It must be a mix­ture of the water and breath­ing the air, because I can bring the same beans home to brew and it doesn’t taste the same.

I order a cap­puc­cino and cor­netto. Cappuccino’s are typ­i­cally break­fast drinks in Italy. And a cor­netto is like a crois­sant. Some­times topped with sugar or filled with cream. I think they have to-go cups now, but no one besides tourists use them. I stand at the bar and drink from the chipped cup and saucer. The creamy foam clings to my lips. I can feel the grainy bits of sugar I sprin­kled on top as I lick it off. The flaky cor­netto is light and airy and I imme­di­ately plan to have another one. The baris­tas are fill­ing drinks and serv­ing pas­try quickly. Peo­ple drift in and out. There is not that much lingering.

Then I begin my stroll back to the hotel. Shop and restau­rant own­ers are get­ting ready for the day, putting out plants, rins­ing off the cob­ble­stones as they greet one another. The air is a bit cool, the build­ings on the nar­row streets block the morn­ing sun. Heels and hoofs click on the stones and echo through the passageways.

The same type of morn­ing rit­u­als that go on most any­place, yet here, I am among build­ings that are cen­turies old. His­tory at every turn. I am look­ing at the same things that Cae­sar and Cleopa­tra did. Not the shops so much, of course, but the Pan­theon, the Forum, the foun­tains, the cobblestones…I think I am Romesick.