Journal entries while drinking negronis in a Roman bar
Plus, more photos of Rome.
No. 103: Journal entries while drinking negronis in a Roman bar
Heads Up: You’re reading a post from “Field Notes,” where I post transcriptions of journal entries I’ve written while visiting some place new. These writings are transcribed from my notebook.
I looked for my graffiti, MATT ZAMUDIO WAS HERE 2017, along the wall of one of the many bridges that span the Tiber River. It wasn’t there, either deliberately washed away by the City of Roma or accidently by the elbows of travelers. I was going to add, MATT ZAMUDIO WAS HERE 2017 . . . TWICE 2022. But oh well.
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Some Italians dress very aristocratically. It’s a look you don’t see often in the states. I saw man with an overcoat with three polished buttons on each cuff, slippers instead of shoes, gelled hair, multiple rings, and skinny jeans. This was different from Italian business wear—a.k.a the three-piece suit, which looks excellent. It was princely, or as princely as one can get in the modern age.
We have no aristocrats in the United States. We have billionaires, sure. But they keep things chill. It’s just not correct to go for the royal look in the land of the independent and free. When I saw the guy royal-ish guy, who looked very good, I imagined myself bringing that look to the homeland.
Immediate no.
For one, too prim. For two, my beardless face and middle-parted hair would make the aristocratic impression too perfectly. I would look a perfect pure bred. How that’s possible given I’m a hybrid, half-Mexican and half-Italian/white? I know not. In any case, I’ll stick to my black zip-up hoodie, Levi jeans, Blundstone boots, and greasy hair. Maybe it’s not typically American — or maybe it is — but it’s certainly not aristocrat.
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I am so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so grateful to the patrons who have decided to support me on Substack. It makes me understandably happy and encourages me not for crude financial reasons but because it’s remarkably beautiful to see proof that people are willing to apply a monetary value to new art and a real person in addition to stuff.
This shit is one-of-a-kind, for better or worse.
If worse, I blame you.
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I didn’t bring my nice sunglasses, so I bought some cheap ones at the tourist store. Thing is, they have blue lenses, so I’m not sure they’re really sunglasses at all. What I am sure of? They look fucking cool. I’ll share a picture in the chat.
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My waitress is really nice. Very on top of it with the negronis.
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Trastevere rules. It’s Settore G (Sector G) of Rome. The G stands for Giovanile (Juvenile), which says it all. Basically it’s a long and winding cobbled alleyway of cool bars and good restaurants frequented by “the youth.” At the bar I’m at now, Pimm’s, students at the nearby John Cabot University—which has lots of internationals, I think—get ten percent off. So, yes, I’m a JCU student with a lost I.D.
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I made some great guy friends during my last travel-fest through Italy and Europe, which is why it’s weird that this time I don’t care as much to make new friends. Maybe it’s because I’m satisfied with things at home? With myself? Or because I’m trying not to drink a shit-ton and that’s usually what happens when I get to chatting with someone new while travelling? Maybe it’s because these are usually brief relations based mostly on surviving or at least making an enjoyable hostel life?
But really, who am I kidding.
I love to meet and talk to new people. On my first night in Rome, I met two Italians, Gianluca and Dominico, who are now long lost to the tides of time.
The difference from then to now is that I’m very deliberately looking for people I can really converse with, rather than just a friend with whom I can prop up my lonely self and who can also be propped up in a mutual crutch-like relationship.
Despite having those types of friends last time, the ones I remember and miss the most are the ones who don’t fit that description. They were people like Ray from Hawaii, a long-haired hippie. Constantine from Germany, an excellent cigarette and joint roller. Tom from Botswana, the epitome of an Indiana Jones-like explorer. Liam from England, a fellow writer. Chris from central California, who was supposed to meet his long-distance lover in Italy for the first time, but she didn’t show. Banksy (not that one) from England, a photographer. Natasha, not a guy but a great friend and an amazing muralist now working in Puerto Rico.
If anything—and I may be being harsh on myself here—I was the shallow one in these relationships, loving the company and the connection but turning my head mid-conversation whenever a bellezza walked by.
I was really a horny motherfucker back then.
I guess it was my chance to get it out of my system. And I must have, because I wasn’t like that before my first Europe trip or after.