My semester in Rome is filled with never ending irony. I’ll search stores around the city for a power convertor. Then I’ll find one in the shop two blocks from my apartment. I’ll come in thinking it’s no problem that I’m living with guys I don’t know very well because I’m an agreeable person and I can make myself live with truly anybody. Then two months later I’ll realize how wrong I was and how one of my roommates is making life very difficult.

Another great irony happened with my last column. I wrote it with the notion that it would be my only “negative” column.

I would talk about the “bad” side of life in Rome just once, and the rest of my columns could focus on more exciting topics. It was ironic then that the day after I wrote that “bad” column, I had my worst Rome experience to date.

I woke up Monday and had bad vibes. My laundry still wasn’t quite dry.

Dryers are an unaffordable luxury in Rome, it’s all about air-drying.

My electric razor was broken. I hadn’t shaved in days. I was starting to look like a big scruffy chow. I realized I had completely forgotten my Italian homework over the weekend. I hadn’t touched it, and I wouldn’t have time to even look at it before class.

I rushed out in my slightly-damp clothes. Since it’s a twenty-five minute walk to studio, I decided it would be better to take the bus.

I had just gotten a new monthly bus pass. For fifty thousand lira, I was entitled to ride the bus, metro, or tram any time I wanted. I was starting to feel like a real Roman native.

I caught the number 87 bus, and it was crowded but not terribly so.

At this point, I had exactly two thoughts on my mind.

I was stressing because I was going to be at least ten minutes late to class. And there was this girl standing in front of me on the bus.

She wasn’t facing me, but she looked pretty attractive from my angle. Women in Rome have a scary way of having great bodies and dressing to flaunt it, no matter what their age.

Sometimes you’ll glance at someone who looks very attractive, and then you’ll see her face and realize she’s forty-five. So I was very curious to see this girl’s face to see if she was really attractive or not.

When the bus got to my stop, half the people on it were getting off.

Everybody was pushing to the door. People were all around me. I remember thinking, gee, this person behind me is pretty darn close. But hey, you’re in Europe, the people here have a little less concern about “personal space.”

As I stepped off, I glanced down and saw some lira bills floating to the ground, and they were mine.

As I picked them up, I realized I had just been pickpocketed.

In my front pocket I had been carrying my bus pass, my International Student ID, my ISU card, ATM card, and fifty thousand lira. It was all gone. I stood there, shocked and unsure what to do. Dozens of people were walking away from me.

It could have been anybody. Finally, I realized I needed to keep moving.

My initial reaction was to just roll with it. I’d gotten pickpocketed, darn, there’s nothing I could do.

I went to class, told the story to a bunch of people, and then used the studio phone to call Firstar and deactivate my ATM card. It wasn’t a terrible loss, other than that ISU card with my freshman year photo that I truly cherished. I had another ATM card here, so I was okay.

The next few days, my feelings about what had happened took many forms. I developed a fear of Italians.

Everybody I saw on the street that day, I thought, could that be them?

Could that be the pickpocket?

It made me think some very negative things about Italians as a whole, although after I got over the emotional bit, I knew it was silly to judge the entire culture just because of one criminal member of it.

I also started to wish dearly that I had seen the pickpocket. I don’t know what really would have happened if I had seen them, but I ran through many scenarios in my head, most involving tackling and pounding. The anger in me would have loved that confrontation.

I even considered getting a fake wallet, sticking it partially out of my pocket, and riding the bus over and over until someone tried to pickpocket me again. It would be a setup so I would have my own real live pickpocket to beat the crap out of.

That sounded rather fulfilling.

I’ve calmed down since then. A friend of mine who lived in Philadelphia this summer would probably say you haven’t really lived in a big city until you’ve had something stolen from you, so I’m feeling more like a true city dweller now.

And the day before, I had heard a great sermon at church about how sometimes God interrupts your life in ways you don’t understand or expect.

This seemed to fit that thought perfectly. So I’m chalking it up as another great Rome learning experience.

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Matt Ostanik is a senior in architecture from Washington, Ill.