The Terrace

The hotel that we're staying at in Rome, the Casa San Giuseppe, has a terrace on the fourth floor. Just a simple rooftop sitting area with a few plastic patio tables and chairs. A few lime trees grow in planters and small round lights glow softly around the edges.

The terrace is the greatest place in the world.

One of the few places we can go and simply sit and talk, the terrace - affectionately La Terrazza - is our little slice of heaven, our chunk of Paradise, our cliche wrapped in a metaphor. We sit out there at all hours of the day and night and just shoot the breeze with each other, discussing topics as diverse as Marvel comics, Die Hard, and Carl Jung. There is nothing that is off-limits on the Terrace, and it is quickly becoming a sacrosanct place where one need not fear reprisals for speaking freely - much like the salons and coffee shops of the Europe of old.

There's also a nearly endless supply of alcohol.

Bottles of red wine that cost less than a ride on the CTA and beer brewed just a few blocks away. Like the great waterways of Europe - the Danube, the Rhine, the Seine - the alcohol flows in powerful quantities and facilitates the quick and easy transportation of products - ideas and opinions instead of goods. It's no wonder this stuff is so popular.

Around 2 in the morning, amidst the buzzing of the Vespas and motorbikes, over the clamor of the crowds at the bars and clubs, a different sounds can be heard. A primal sound floating on the cool Mediterranean breeze. The sounds of bottles clinking gently, plastic chairs scooting, and laughter rising up into the crisp Roman night. The sounds of youth coming from the second (or perhaps third) most holy place in this most ancient of western cities - the Terrace.