My first week in Rome, back in January, was the height of pear season. After walking up and down the market three times trying to gather up the courage to make a purchase, I approached this 30-something Italian lady behind a mountain range of fresh fruit. She looked at me with an inquisitive eye -- my expression was probably that of a man who is about to put himself in a barrel and be launched over Niagra Falls. I reacted in the only way I knew how, by pointing to the pears and saying in italian, "Three, please." She obliged, then told me the price, which only by luck did I manage to understand. The exchange -- coin for fruit -- was made silently, and I think, though I'm not entirely sure, that she wished me a good day. But her obviously frustrated facial expression betrayed her contempt for my utter lack of understanding of her fruit or her language.

Last week was the sunset of orange season. For a month citrus fruits like lemons, oranges, and clementines had been flooding into italian markets from the fertile lands to the south of Rome -- and for a month, I have been buying them by the kilogram. Just last Thursday, I bought six oranges from the same 30-something Roman woman I've patronized since January. Imagine it went something like this, though in italian and full of spring cheer:

"Good morning! What a wonderful day, thank goodness its not raining."
"So true, its a beautiful day. What would you like?"
"Perhaps six of those Sicilian Oranges, what do you call those?"
"Spremuta oranges, they are very sweet. Anything else?"
"No, thank you."
"One euro, please"
"Here you go, thanks! Enjoy the day!"
"You too, bye!"

This is why I came to Rome.