Ah, Rome, the eternal city. The Forum. St. Peter’s Basilica. The Spanish Steps. The EasyInternetCafe.
Scusi?
My husband and I were on a second honeymoon of sorts, touring the ancient city, walking miles on cobblestone streets, indulging in pasta and Chianti, and hunting for deals on leather goods. In the wee hours of our second night, jetlagged and wide awake in our circa-1894 hotel room (modern by Roman standards), we did what every tourist does. We phoned home to check in with the sitter, and then we strolled down via Barberini to check our email at the EasyInternetCafe.
It’s sad but true. You can take the technophile out of America but you can’t take the geek out of the San Franciscan.
The Latest Italian Style
Perhaps it was the endless cell phone ringing — seeing all the sophisticated, black-suited Italian businessmen and the sleek Italian women with tight pants and impractical shoes talking on the phone everywhere, all day — that finally got to me. I was feeling left out, disconnected. We even saw one man, holding a cell with his left hand and chatting away, simultaneously reach for and answer another ringing phone with his right. These Europeans are absolutely giddy for their gadgets. (But it’s the little things I’m thankful for: Mercifully, they can’t talk on the phone while driving a death course on their mini-scooters.)
Indeed our early morning walk to the café is quiet, no close encounters crossing the boulevard, no other pedestrians. It seems Romans do eventually go to sleep — well, most of them. As we approach the EasyInternetCafe, light floods the pane-glass windows, which are painted with big letters: “Email, Stampa, Chatta, Naviga, HP.” Inside, we’re jolted out of our somnolent state by blazing fluorescent lights and vivid Italian décor — or “stile,” as they spell it: white-washed walls complemented (I use the term loosely) by orange trim, orange exposed ducts, orange countertops. To our right, candy, soda, coffee, and a lonely, stale-looking croissant are for sale. To the left is the billeteria, the ticket machine, which is also orange but otherwise resembles a parking-garage pay-before-you-exit machine. The tiny but bright LCD displays a half-dozen flags: Choose your language. We sink our 1 euro coin into the slot; at this hour, that buys us 150 minutes. That’s cheaper than an espresso and lasts longer than a caffeine high, too.
Then we seek a terminal among the rows and rows of tables with equidistantly spaced thin-screen monitors, bulbous Logitech Web cams, keyboards, and mice. The tile floors are littered with empty Coke cups and crumpled billets. Chairs of smooth, sculpted blond wood are all askew, and we knock into some as we sat down, causing shockingly loud scraping noises. It’s a university library gone horribly, Orwellianly wrong.
Most seats are empty, but a few scattered twentysomethings huddle here and there, typing quickly and staring intently at their screens, or past the point of no return and passed out across the countertop. They remind me of Las Vegas gamblers who can’t tear themselves away from the craps table, addicted to wasting time and losing money. Do they drop more and more coins into the ticket machine until their pockets are empty and they can’t afford another fix?
Checking my email is uneventful, other than not being able to find the “at” sign on the keyboard (why do that make such an important character so obscure, I grouse?). I had told my clients and peers I’d be away from the office, most of the 65 messages in my inbox are unimportant; they’re mostly list threads. I fire off a few requisite, “Having fun, wish you were here,” notes to family and friends, and then we clatter past a couple more chairs on the way out. The racket wakes one of the sleepers, who shrugs into a drab green overcoat and swings a grimy backpack over her shoulder as she, too, makes for the exit.
Culture Clashes?
Outside, the sky has lightened from inky black to steely gray. The air is still brisk and the streetlights still glow like sparklers, but now some cars roar by. We pass the occasional businessman walking to work and the street vendor opening his newsstand. We stop in a café, a real café this time, whose windows glow warmly from halogen lights that hang low over the black marble espresso counter inside. Annie Lennox’s voice wafts around us, an acoustic pillow, and the sage green walls soothe our eyes. Glass and chrome pastry cases gleam, and a vested, bow-tied barista prepares our Americanos with exactitude.
Which of the two cafes is an anachronism? It may seem impossible, but the answer is “Neither.” That’s what I learned on my spring vacation: that technology is so ingrained in our lives and our culture that we really can’t vacate from it anymore. It’s the kind of thing I knew intellectually, but felt emotionally for the first time as I saw that even in Rome, technology is as much a part of their world as ruins and relics.
We pay the cashier, sitting by the door at a register ensconced by gum and cigarettes, and we carry our coffee and fresh, warm apricot-filled pastries back to the hotel. Then, feeling renewed, reassured, and returned to our senses, we settle down to download yesterday’s digital photos onto the laptop.
Read more by Anita Dennis.
This article was last modified on January 6, 2023
This article was first published on April 4, 2002
Commenting is easier and faster when you're logged in!
