“Oh, Dio.” The stout blond woman grumbles audibly as she jostles in the line behind me. Come to think of it, line might be too strong of a word to use here. In Italy, people do not line up, they clump. Her sentiments seem shared by the majority of the frowning crowd: middle-aged, average height, dressed in thick winter coats even though it’s 65 and sunny outside. The room is alive with the jostling of felt, synthetic puffer coats, and loud conversations.

“Oh God” is what she means: this is Rome and she is Italian, after all. It’s a dramatic sentiment, but I understand it. I can think of a few better situations in which to invoke the name of a god, any god, than during the morning coffee rush. Rome makes Starbucks feel like a zen oasis. It’s almost too easy, too relaxing, to get coffee in any other Western country after you get baptized into the beans of an Italian bar.