In which there are stairs

A few times, while I've been talking to people at home about how much good food there is in Rome, I keep getting the same question. "How are Italians not all fat?" Well. I mean, it's a valid question. Italians aren't big on low-fat or "lite" food- food is meant to be enjoyed the way it is. Dabbing grease off a pizza is an offense. I've even started drinking two percent milk, as opposed to the skim I've been drinking my whole life, just because skim isn't really done here. (It is, but it's a little of an eccentricity. Also two percent tastes way better, and I'm beginning to feel that I've been lied to my whole life.)

So, with big meals, gelato, pizza, normal, regular-fat cheese, how is it that America is known for obesity?

Stairs.

These are the stairs I have to go up every day to get to school. They may not look like much, but there's six flights there. And the rest of the walk is a mile, half of it uphill, and then another four flights of stairs to my classroom. And that's all before I walk home, get groceries, go out with friends, go sightseeing, or just do what needs to get done.

Italians can eat all they want, because they walk it off just as fast as it goes on. In these past weekends, I've walked up to nine miles a day with friends, or for around six hours while we're just milling around, seeing things. My metabolism doesn't know what to do. I'm hungry all the time.

These stairs are gonna kill me. My roommates are all runners, while I've avoiding running with everything I've got. (I have a good reason. I hate it. So much.) So while even they're winded at the top, I'm slowly dying inside. If I die here, it will be these stairs. There's a bus you can take that skips them and most of the uphill climb, but I'm really stubborn, and by the time I leave, either I will have defeated these stairs or they will have defeated me.

I'm coming for you, stairs.

And it becomes really obvious that we're Americans there. There are classy businesswomen effortlessly climbing them while I wheeze my way up. There are small children climbing these stairs. I have seen hunched Italian grandmothers climbing these stairs, while I'm trying to play "Eye of the Tiger" in my head.

(Speaking of Italian grandmothers, there's this really old lady in our building that we've passed a few times. We exchange friendly "ciao"s and go about our way. But we've seen her on the stairs. Why would you do that, ancient Italian woman? There's an elevator! That woman is probably tougher than I'll ever be)

So, in summary, when I come home, I'm gonna be the stair master. I will be so good at stairs. You just wait. Either that or I'll never want to go on stairs again. But I'm optimistic.