Crossing a stone bridge that spanned the green waters of the Tiber, I passed two young American men, the kind with hair cranked up in tufts like they just rolled out of bed who sport T-shirts with slogans like, "Save water, drink beer. In fact, the statues and paintings looked like the women I know — all soft arms and rounded bellies, with real bosoms and full backs. If the women were more natural and less idyllic — or, rather, the ideal of a different time — then the men of Rome — in art and on the streets — were something else entirely. The boyish waiter at our neighborhood pizzeria, the blue-eyed electrician who came to fix our hot water heater, even the taxi drivers with their reckless steering and stereotypically Italian lead feet — all of them were gorgeous. read more
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