As a qualifier to all this, allow me to say the following. Before I left, everyone said, "Oh, you're going to Rome? Rome is amazing," in the same reverent tone generally reserved for opera or flourless chocolate cake or some really kind bud. And yes, having returned home, I can confirm that Rome is, indeed, amazing, and I can't wait to go back.

Now onto the wry and arcane observations.

• Coffee. As famous as Italy is for its coffee, there is a serious problem with its method of distribution, namely the demitasse cup (known, in English, as the thimble). As an American, I cannot tell you the abject horror I experienced when I realized that I would have to add a sixth Italian word to my vocabulary in order to request more than a dram of espresso at a time.
• Filth. I have never seen anything like this. I understand that it's a city and all, but really: shit, shit, shit, cigarette packets, water bottles, beer bottles, and more shit, everywhere, even churches and operating rooms. (I mention this only because Americans have a slovenly reputation but unquestionably Italians are worse.)
• This leads me to my next observation: Fatness. Again, Americans are branded with the fatty label all the time, so it gives me great pleasure to say that there are in fact corpulent Italians. Particularly the children! Tobacco and high fructose corn syrup: two of America's greatest gifts to Europe.
• Driving. This merits an entire post of its own, but here is what I learned: I don't care what they say about Karachi or Bangkok or wherever; Romans are truly the craziest drivers in the world. In the tiniest cars imaginable, and drunk half the time (Driving under the influence is encouraged in Italy. They even sell a brand of beer called Drive), each driver demonstrates his or her mastery of the road by zipping about in a manner that suggests a lack of regard for pedestrians, traffic rules such as lane designations or stop signs, and even other drivers. But that's the poetry of it all--there appears to be some demented hive mind controlling the breakneck ebb and flow. It's like Koyaanisqatsi, man. And after a few days, I learned to be nonchalant about walking along a street and feeling a car zoom so close by that the hair on my arms became statically charged. I was a passenger in a Citroen station wagon (!) that the driver maneuvered through a street no wider than a Duane Reade aisle and then successfully parallel parked* on a steep incline with only one inch to spare on either end. (Not every driver is quite so evolved, however. The Great Leader was recently grazed by a side mirror and has taken to wearing a spiked bracelet.)
• Speaking of transportation, Rome is home to no fewer than 472 different bus routes and maybe three subways. And they're free of charge! Not really, but the fare is collected via an honors system and the only people I saw paying for bus rides were nuns and the Great Leader. I would, on occasion, feel guilty and punch my ticket. N and I still managed to come back to NY with two unused tickets.
• It is nearly impossible to have a meal in Rome that is a) bad and b) not a physically strenuous event. Really. Every meal we ate was absolutely delicious (more on that later) and exhausting. It raises the question: Why, if virtually all meals consist of no fewer than three courses, plus wine and sweets, are the women of Rome not enormous? J attributed it to the fact that everyone smokes and that no one truly eats; they merely push food around their plate with the hand not holding the cigarette. So, there you have it. Italian Women Don't Get Fat (Because They're Anorexic).
• Graffiti. Holy cow, this is the same city that birthed the Renaissance? The graffiti is terrible. There's no artistry to it whatsoever (though I did glimpse some halfway-decent stuff near the bus station--undoubtedly because that's the area of town where they keep the brown people) and for the most part it's either some obscure political statement about how Rome should become an agrarian fiefdom or the incontrovertible observation that Juve is shit. Sometimes it's a familiar sentiment in English. Sometimes it's an unfamiliar sentiment in English (on the way into the Termini train station I saw "HOT BOYS PUSSY LOVERS." I'm not sure if that's a gang of some sort). Sometimes the graffiti's in Italian but is totally nonsensical.
• Gnarls Barkley. I don't understand why, but they love that one song so much they play it endlessly. To me, it sounds like Seal.
• Roman men. They stare in a most disconcerting way. Even if they're with their wife or pushing a stroller or pallbearing. This machismo exhibition might be compensation for the fact that, as Italian men, they are required to walk around holding hands with each other while wearing nuthugging pink pants and carrying a purse.**

Next travelogue installment: Eating, eating, and more eating.

*Regarding parking: As skilled as they are at driving, Romans don't--or choose not to--fully grasp the concept of parking. Rather than following, oh, parking rules and regulations, Romans will leave their cars parked facing the wrong direction, at a bus stop, blocking wheelchair ramps, and three abreast on main avenues. It's marvelous.
**Shocking discovery: Roman men don't find me attractive. But they do find my friend J attractive. It was difficult at first to accept that I couldn't get harassed even if I tried. This, in turn, made me feel like a Cathy cartoon so I decided to become a passive observer of J's ogling. Kinda like Charles Gatewood.