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鈥淥h, Dio.鈥�

The stout blond woman grumbles audibly as she jostles in the line behind me. Come to think of it, line might be too strong of a word to use here. In Italy, people do not line up, they clump. Her sentiments seem shared by the majority of the frowning crowd: middle-aged, average height, dressed in thick winter coats even though it鈥檚 65 and sunny outside. The room is alive with the jostling of felt, synthetic puffer coats, and loud conversations.

鈥淥h God鈥� is what she means: this is Rome and she is Italian, after all. It鈥檚 a dramatic sentiment, but I understand it. I can think of a few better situations in which to invoke the name of a god, any god, than during the morning coffee rush. Rome makes Starbucks feel like a zen oasis. It鈥檚 almost too easy, too relaxing, to get coffee in any other Western country after you get baptized into the beans of an Italian bar.

Part of the coffee culture in Italy, I鈥檝e decided, is the adrenaline rush.

The crowd is crushing. People standing, talking loudly, shaking out newspapers. It鈥檚 impossible to tell who is waiting and who is just hanging out. I push my way towards a clear spot in the bar. It鈥檚 a short bar, as far as Italy goes, so the space is very limited. The counter only extends a few feet down from the pastry case. Upon the wall behind the counter are a few dozen bottles of various kinds of booze: grappa, Campari, Aperol, vodka. Those aren鈥檛 just there to spice up the morning hours and make the traffic even more fun - they're a part of the 鈥渄igestivo鈥� afternoon and evening scene. You can get a caffe corretto, which is a shot of espresso mixed with grappa (or brandy), but I鈥檝e never seen it done. No grappa coffee for me today, however - although the blonde woman calling on God might need one.

I wait until eye contact is made by one of the three inexplicably well-groomed, dark-haired men behind the counter. 鈥淏uongiorno!鈥� I say, enthusiastically. Good morning! I check my watch to see the time (one can never order a cappuccino in the afternoon) and order a cappuccino and a cornetto. One hands me a cornetto, one makes the coffee and places it in front of me.

Then I stand at the bar and try to act interested in anything else, or pretend to be deep in thought, as I brace myself against the pressing masses and try to drink the coffee in (relative) peace. It鈥檚 always chaotic: euro coins flying, yelling, glasses slamming, people cutting in. You don鈥檛 sit down and wait for your name to be called: in Italy, you fight at the bar for your right to drink. And you stand. It鈥檚 perhaps the least relaxing start to the day that anyone has ever had.

In a way, though, this makes sense - why would you sit and relax when drinking something that鈥檚 supposed to stimulate you? They might have the right idea with this model of taking shots of pure coffee in the midst of mayhem. I certainly feel more alert just by entering any local Roman bar.

I鈥檓 only a few nervous sips in when the crowd dissipates suddenly, leaving a few tables in the front completely empty. I tentatively ask the bearded trio if I can sit. It feels too bold to sit without asking first as if I鈥檓 expecting some sort of table service. Of course, of course, they say. I meander to a table to people-watch, always a viable activity here in Rome.

A woman with a dog comes in and gets her breakfast, sitting at the table next to me. She shoves the Corriere del Sport out of the way to make room for her caff猫. She feeds her dog bits of a cornetto and speaks softly to him in Italian. He鈥檚 fuzzy and soft and is leaning against my leg, smiling up at me in between bites. As I鈥檓 staring at the dog, a man comes in. He鈥檚 wearing a limp, dirty white lab coat and is holding a cigarette in between the fingers of one hand. Is he a pharmacist? A doctor? A butcher? I really can鈥檛 tell. He doesn鈥檛 even order coffee, he just stands there with the cigarette burning and chats loudly to one of the bearded baristas. Inexplicably, Titanium by David Guetta is blasting over the speakers.

It takes everything in me to not burst into laughter. When people think of Italian coffee culture, it鈥檚 certainly not this. And yet, here in the heart of Rome, it鈥檚 as authentic as one can get. The fever-dream style that daily life here often takes on is just a part of the charm.

Keep your air-conditioned Starbucks, America: I鈥檒l take a 鈧�1 cappuccino with a side of elbows and adrenaline.

All about the author

Caitlin is a 23-year-old senior resident student at 糖心logo入口 - her major is International Relations and Global Politics and she's adding a minor in English.

Caitlin originally hails from California but has spent the last 5 years living (on and off) in Rome.
She now writes for AUR and Wanted in Rome as well as running her own blog.

After graduating, Caitlin plans to let life surprise her (because Rome taught her that even the best-laid plans are subject to unexpected change ... but also that fate often has a way of turning out for the better...).