Just before I left Rome, I started again to think of home (my town, Maine, as well as the United States). I remembered things like rock music, blueberries, and my mother's laugh. I yearned to hear the Rollings Stones or Fleetwood Mac, or to play ultimate frisbee on the beach. It was as if I had just awakened from amnesia – I had begun to remember my other life, my life in the States, and all its details, and I saw things there I had not seen before. An American culture formed before my eyes as the memories reappeared and danced around. Italian culture had been the center of my universe for four months with only minor interruption, but once I started to look back, a culture appeared there too, where I had never really seen one before.

So maybe that's it. Maybe the best benefit of studying abroad is not learning about another culture or language, as valuable as that is, but illuminating your own culture that we so often take for granted. Living in a different culture shows you the contrasts with your own, and thereby makes you realize that yours even exists.

Now, I'm home. I traded the car exhaust of the streets of Rome for the smell of pine trees in the spring. Instead of surroundings of ancient relics and marvels, I have New England's bricks and woodland, and Maine's beaches. Yes, I do miss Rome – how could I not? But at the same time, I'm glad I'm back here. There's something to be said for being comfortable again. I never felt uncomfortable in Rome, true, but it never felt like home; it always felt temporary, like an extended vacation. Rome was never easy, either: Speaking in a foreign language in most daily interactions with other people is tiring, exhausting even. Rewarding, of course, but to order a coffee in English again – as effortless as a wave of the hand – was truly a joy.

In a city of just over three million people there are over three hundred churches, many of them dating back five hundred years, and some of those a thousand years more. Rome was and continues to be a religious capital on the order of Jerusalem or Mecca. Washington DC has politicians and lawyers; Rome has priests, monks, and nuns.

Saint Peter's Basilica is Rome's Wailing Wall or Dome of the Rock. A Renaissance construction, it dwarfs everything around it all the way to the tall apartment buildings in the suburbs. Its dome pierces the skyline and almost conquers it completely if it were not for the nearby Janiculum Hill. Inside it is even more massive – you have no choice but to feel like a flea on the cosmic blanket that is this church. Its easy to assume that it had to have been built by giants in some previous age. I was there last Friday, sitting in a chair to the right of the main aisle, listening to mass.

The Pope was there, of course, with a retinue of cardinals in their typical red suits. He was in his plush red throne, reserved only for the rump of his Holiness, at the front of the basilica beneath a massive bronze and gold canopy (a Bernini masterpiece of the 16th century) – he too was only a white speck of a figure in the church's wide landscape.

The mass, as it turned out, was a special traditional mass held only on Good Friday and only special days of the year. Much to my surprise, it ended up being two and a half hours of Latin chant instead of readings in Italian. Though my patience wore thin as the sun set on the other side of the dome's massive windows, the experience was unique. I could imagine the farmers and merchants of the Middle Ages, the nobles and scholars of the Renaissance attending mass in this space and being awed by its unearthly perfection, its colossal size, and its spiritual aire.

Its all very impressive and special, yes, but if you're an Italian its just part of everyday life. The Pope is a celebrity beloved by all Romans, but really a lot like the next door neighbor, a beloved member of the community. In such a tightly knit city, God's chief earthly representative becomes as close to everyone as the fishmonger or the fruit vendor down the street. That does not mean they lack reverence for the man or the other clergy. Much to the contrary. When Pope John Paul died, Romans swarmed Saint Peter's Square and held vigils for days well before the media or the pilgrims arrived. Then when Pope Benedict was elected, the Romans all dropped their work, closed their shops, and went as fast as their feet and mopeds could take them to the Square.

I remember a story from weeks ago: I was walking by the Vatican one night when I saw ahead of me two police cars parked along the side of the road. As I approached, I made out five uniformed policemen. At the moment I passed, a cardinal complete with red hat appeared and was greeted by the policemen. I walked in silent awe as the policemen each in turn bowed and kissed the cardinal's hand. Then they chatted like old friends until I was well out of sight.

Politics in Rome usually takes the form of posters. Everywhere there are poster boards - like miniature billboards - that have been covered with poster after poster pasted to one another. I walk down the street and there are literally piles of posters eight inches deep hanging down off these boards. Political candidates and parties love these as a form of advertisement, and frequently wallpaper entire streets with dozens of the same poster in rapid succession. Of course, its only days before they're ripped, covered, or graffitied.

Speaking of which, graffiti is another public way that Romans participate in politics. Italian political parties and coalitions identify themselves not by their name, but by their logo, which lends itself charmingly to graffiti. In Rome, I have found the graffiti to be very legible, and most often about one of three things: politics, soccer, or some kid's undying love for another. Graffiti has been in Roman blood since the time of the Caesars. Everywhere there are anarchist symbols, icons of the Christian Democrats, the Socialists and the Communists, and colorful insults of all sorts of figures, though primarily Silvio Berlusconi, the (former) leader of the government.

Silvio is a man both hated and loved. In my very non-professional analysis of the Italian psyche, it’s clear to me that Italians love fame - and Berlusconi's got it. He's the richest man in the country, owning everything from soccer teams to television stations. He's also a very attractive man, having had both a facelift and hair transplants (though those may, or may not, be rumors). He's shrewd, smart, charming and charismatic, and thus has a devout following akin to the groupies of the Beatles. But he's not exactly perfect: he has been accused of illegal activities both in business and in government; he has led the government into a period of zero economic growth and non jobs; and he has often made comments that are...shall we say, unbecoming of a head-of-state, such as the day not long ago when he accused the Chinese people of boiling their own babies. Or before that, when he compared himself to Jesus. Or the time when he said he'd abstain from sex with his wife until the election was over. The Italians love drama, and Berlusconi gives it to them.

His opponent, Romano Prodi, ran a campaign totally opposite that of Berlusconi in every way. He himself is a quiet man, an intellectual with thick glasses and wrinkles – the Italians call him “The Professor”. He made small appearances in small places, spoke softly and without the panache and hyperbole of his opponent. He made himself look to be everything that Berlusconi wasn’t, and that included wisdom and the ability to govern. When coupled with the ailing economy, this, more than anything else, was the fulcrum of the entire campaign.

So there I was last Friday in the Piazza del Popolo, one of the biggest squares in Rome surmounted with an enormous 3,500-year-old Egyptian obelisk. That afternoon Prodi’s coalition was having a pre-election rally: they had bands playing, free stuff and political information/propaganda, balloons, and enormous flags emblazoned with party logos. It was quite an affair, and overwhelmed the humble piazza. The last polls had been taken some days before: in Italy there is a law (I think) preventing polling near the election date, as it is feared they might skew undecided voters. Those polls had placed the two coalitions neck and neck, though with Prodi’s party a nose ahead.

Then came the election days, Sunday and Monday (another law, I believe, allowing everyone ample opportunity to vote on the most common days off from work). By Monday night, the news had gradually leaked out: the election was “razor-thin”. And it was. Even as I write this the result is in dispute: Prodi’s coalition won the lower house of parliament by just a few seats (25,000 votes), and the upper house by two seats out of three hundred fifteen. The nation voted en masse, with a turnout of 84 percent. Berlusconi, typically, refuses to concede and is vocally contesting the results, claiming that there were irregularities, while Prodi already is rallying his troops for the new government.

Reporting live from Miami-Dade County, Italy. Stay tuned.

In Rome, bread is rich. It comes in large, thick loaves made with generous amounts of olive oil and salt, giving a thick texture and rich taste. The crust is hard and crunchy, but the inside is soft and doughy, like a good bread should be. This is a bread that is delightful all by itself. But the Romans also get creative with their bread. They often make what essentially amounts to plain pizza dough, baked with copious amounts of olive oil on top, and served just as is. Simple, but absolutely delicious.

The Florentines and the people of the Tuscany region, however, prefer their bread unsalted. Salt, if you know nothing about cooking, is what brings out the flavor in everything. Not only this, but they do something to the dough - I'm not sure what exactly - that makes the resulting bread airy and light. Therefore, Florentine bread is crumbly and almost totally tasteless: its like eating air. But the Florentines never intended you to eat their bread alone. Its faults make it perfect to put things on top of it: leftover pasta sauce, olive oil from the bottle, cheeses, meats, whatever. It is the simple vehicle of the condiment, and will no doubt increase the joy of that addition, without overpowering it.

But in Ravenna, the ancient Byzantine capital of Italy on the Adriatic coast, bread becomes decidedly weird. Its flat. In fact, its made from just flour and water and a pinch of salt, then cooked fast on a greased griddle. Imagine a tortilla. Yes, you can eat this stuff by itself, and its not bad, but its really meant to be the canvas for what the Ravennites call the "piadine", what we Americans know to be a wrap. They stuff all sorts of things (olives, meats, cheeses, vegetables, greens, spices, whatever) onto a large round disc of this bread and roll it up. Whether this is a modern invention or not, I do not know, but the result is just scrumptious. You wont find this bread - or any bread - at dinner, however. For that meal the Ravennites prefer thin, crunchy breadsticks.

This is Italy. If every region of Italy has its own way of making bread, the staple of life for thousands of years, then each region also must - and does - have unique ways of doing everything. Each region, almost each city of Italy has its unique culture and lifestyle, down to such trivial things as bread. In my experience, traveling to a few of these regions ignites some sort of primal desire to acquire and collect, and thereafter comes the compelling need to visit all the nooks and crannies of this tiny country in an effort to find all the little regional idiosyncrasies. But these different peoples are not entirely different, they are still united by some common traits, practices, and philosophies. One of those, unquestionably, is the universal worship and love of bread.

Florence is, above all, Medieval. Its buildings are not the warm terra cotta of Rome, but the grey stone of Tuscany. The center of the city, in addition to being tiny, is a maze of medieval streets and cobblestones, made even grayer by the rain. The people of Florence are a very cosmopolitan bunch, being as they are at a world center of fashion. The food of Florence is nouveau or traditional, but never both; there is expense, and there is frugality, and they rarely coincide. There is tremendous pride in Florence, a city that was a center of more recent history, the Renaissance. It was, like Italy has been in general, awe-inspiring.

But one night, while sharing a few drinks with an American friend in an Irish pub, I began to think of that awe. I have in my life lived in rural Maine, and urban Washington D.C. and Providence. I know places like New York, where modernity permeates every aspect of life. The smell of urban air like that in Washington is familiar to me – sounds like the squeaking of the metro, the sight of light reflecting off giant glass skyscrapers, the matte mood of concrete parking garages and suburban sprawl. That, of course, is why the sight of something so exotic as Florence or Rome brings that feeling of awe.

People, it occurred to us, live in these places that seem to us pure fantasy. There are children, adults, and old men and women in Florence and Rome. Life goes on. We wondered whether or not being surrounded by such things that we call great art and impressive ancient monuments makes Italians take such things for granted. Having seen large Florentine school groups over the weekend in the various galleries, I can say with some certainty that this is so.

But – and here's the interesting part – what happens when these same Italians who know only their world of ancient architecture, Medieval cities, and Renaissance masterworks, come to our place, come to Washington D.C. or New York. No doubt, they are as awestruck with our world as we are with theirs. Imagine having grown up with only tall buildings made of age-worn stone, and then seeing for the first time buildings ten times taller made of shimmering glass. Or imagine never having seen or even conceived of something like Time Square, or the Empire State building, or modern art.

As the cider lost its fizz on the table and the conversation bubbled over, we both saw that as small as the world has become, it still is a vast, awestruck place.

Today in the streets I found a certain life that wasn't there a few days ago, when winter still held its strong grip over the city. Vendors in the open air market were all smiling -- they are, after all, the first beneficiaries of the warm weather. More schoolchildren were liberal in their enjoyment of their afternoon break from studies, going to cafes and trattorias and enjoying a few hours in the sun. I, for my part, took off my winter coat, and strolled the city on foot in just a t-shirt. There was still a slight chill from the breeze for those like me without extra layers, but the feeling of freedom from the cotton and wool bonds of winter was well worth it.

Such a marked change from one day to the next, based on nothing but the ambient temperature, really shows the fickleness of travel, and the true benefit of studying abroad. No tourist or eager college student would think of going to Cancun, Mexico in the throes of Winter. Similarly, a tourist's experience in Seville, Spain or in Orlando, Florida will be completely different when the weather's cold than when it's warm. Come to Rome in February, and you'll see a quiet city, relaxed but lacking that particular cosmopolitan spark that one expects. But move your week's vacation just a few weeks forward and you'll find yourself in a teeming sea of humanity, buzzing and chirping all their business in the open air and filling the streets with vigor.

But if I were just the common tourist, I would only see that one snapshot of urban life; living in any city for many months gives you a certain perspective of the good and the bad, the high points and the low, that makes it all more worthwhile. Yes, there's studying, but that is timeless and can be done anywhere. Peering into how people in another country live, and watching how they and the calendar evolve in tandem is wisdom far beyond academic knowledge. Look around, be observant, watch how the natives act -- they're the real reason you took the plunge and went abroad. But don't keep them inside that hermetically sealed glass jar for careful study and examination: Whether it's cold or warm outside, and whether or not you're in Rome, do as they do.

The very first thing that a new resident of Rome is confronted with is the traffic. Roman drivers are notorious for driving excessively fast, often making for hair-raising experiences while in taxis and crossing the road. They are all very skilled drivers, don't get me wrong, but they all love speed. To add to this, it seems that a third of the population of Rome, everyone from old women to young males with stylish haircuts to priests in vestments, drives around on little scooters, Vespas and their knock-offs. These little things, which to Americans who know the girth of the Harley-Davidson seem like toys, are able to weave in and out of traffic at incredible speeds, many times avoiding collision by merely a hair's breadth. Crossing any street in Rome is an adventure unto itself – you have to read the traffic, make eye contact with the drivers coming your way, and time your walking (or running) so that you yourself weave around the Smart-cars and motorbikes careening towards you.

But every street in Rome has its own character. The Via Vittorio Emanuele, for instance, is a broad, four-lane thoroughfare, leading from the Tiber to a monument to a man of the same name. It is lined with tall, official buildings, shops of artists, towering hotels, and looming Renaissance-era churches. Then there is the Via del Corso, a narrow street that styles itself as the most fashionable district of the city. Few cars traverse this street even though it is a major artery of the city, due to the fact that large numbers of Italians are constantly walking in the road, entirely unconcerned with traffic in front or behind. Upper class fashion designers, like Gucci and many local brands, as well as big corporate names like Nike and Adidas, make sure to place their wares on this street.

Then there are the streets of Trastevere, one of the oldest sections of the city. Here the buildings are old, small, and humble. Mostly built during the late Renaissance, they are covered in a terra-cotta colored plaster and are themselves the borders of a thousand tiny, narrow streets. Across these streets every morning can be seen the day's laundry, placed out to dry in the sun. Here the sound of traffic is not heard, the din of the city disappears altogether, and is replaced by icons of the Madonna with child, preserved for hundreds of years, installed in simple walls at intersections. Especially at night, when the alleys filled with restaurants are lit by candlelight and torches, you feel as though you just stepped backwards four hundred years in time. On warm nights, vendors selling everything from jewelery to flags, from touristy trinkets to wine set up tables on the cobblestones, tempting passersby with shouts of special discounts.

So perhaps the drivers speed dangerously. Perhaps the traffic signals lie. Perhaps even the city's fleet of mopeds don't stop for a owly pedestrian crossing the street. But those same streets are robust, are unique, are alive with a vigor that surpasses that of the cold iron and concrete of the modern city. To marvel at the life held by seemingly inanimate urban topography, that is poetry.

We went to English pubs, specifically the typical corner pub called the Devonshire. We spent whole evenings there, a fluctuating pack of ten on average, lounging around a coffee table in a dimly lit pub. We talked, debated, and laughed. We listened to the pop music from all over the world that was playing, and we drank the occasional strawberry-flavored beer. We just had a wonderful time.

Another night my friend took me to a club where there were four local punk bands playing. The large room was three-quarters full of people of all ages, some with drinks in their hands, others having conversations around the few tables near the walls. The bands' quality ranged from barely tolerable to excellent, but the whole experience was well worth the evening and the seven pounds sterling.

Then I went to Paris. Paris, like London, has a quite a bit of vigor. One evening I patronized a nightclub filled with young people and rhythmic dance-pop music. Even my lack of proficiency with the French language was not a deterrent to my having a good time that night. The next night was spent at the Louvre, which on Wednesdays and Fridays is open until 10 pm, and after 6 pm on these days people under 26 years old get in free. The Louvre became my nightclub, of sorts. (French young people, amazingly enough, take their dates to the Louvre, rather than a movie.)

Three days later, I returned to Rome, and remembered what it was like. Rome doesn't have nightclubs with amateur bands. Rome doesn't have corner pubs. Rome doesn't have museums open late nights. No, Rome is not Paris or London. The entire city seems to shut down, close up shop before 11 (for the most part) - Romans like to get their sleep. There are clubs and bars, yes, but they are on the outskirts of the city, in places like the San Lorenzo district where many Italian students live, but they are not common.

Rome may not have the entertainment, the vigor and nightlife that other, more cosmopolitan cities have, but it has a different charm which is entirely unique. The people here have no desire for grandeur on the scale of Paris, or international importance like London. Instead, they pursue a more social, leisurely life, develop communities within the city, make friends of shopkeepers and local policemen. They enjoy simple things, like cheap bread and coffee, as well as a good home-cooked dinner. In Rome life is slower, not as stressful, not as exaggerated as the extremes of a modern city. Rome may not have many modern entertainment venues that young people from urban America have come to expect, but there is no place in the world better to spend night after night in a trattoria with friends, eating consistently wonderful food over a glass of wine.

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.