Rome is a city full of the awe-inspiring, the beautiful, even a little bit of the sublime. It’s hard to believe that I’m really here. It’s like when you’re in the lecture hall for the big econ test that you always meant to study for but never quite got around to. You’re staring at the scantron sheet, and you’re thinking, “I’m not really here. This isn’t really happening.” It’s that sort of denial of reality that Rome can sometimes bring about, although for different — and less painful — reasons.

Early one morning, we were walking across the bridge to Trastevere, the neighborhood across the river. I stopped right in the middle and said, “Holy schnikes! Can you BELIEVE this? We’re standing over the Tiber River, one of the most historically profound rivers in the world. How many people will ever get a chance to experience this??”

Despite all these warm thoughts and new adventures, life in Roma is never perfect. I definitely don’t spend all day sunbathing on a 2,000-year-old ruin of a Roman QuikTrip, a glass of red wine in hand and a little Italian man nearby, ready to shovel buckets of tasty pasta down my throat.

Life in Italy has its trials and tribulations, as well. One of my friends likes to talk about the three stages of culture shock: enrapturement, disillusionment and adaptation. Some days I feel as though I’ve experienced a bit of all three.

One of the cutest things about Italian culture (I may be using some sarcasm here) is something called “siesta.” Siesta is an extremely extended lunch break that turns into an all-afternoon break. Almost every store practices it religiously.

Shops will be open in the morning from 9 until 1 p.m., and then they’ll close for siesta. They’ll re-open around 4-ish,and stay open until 7 or 7:30 p.m., usually. I still haven’t figured out what exactly real Italians do with their entire three-hour siesta. I picture lots of pasta getting consumed and then maybe a nice, comfy nap. Maybe it’s like nap-time from pre-school, except it’s been integrated into the fabric of society because everybody does it.

Ultimately, what it’s done for me is created many interesting situations and frustrations. Why is it that every single time I realize I need something from the art supply shop or the local alimentari (grocery store), it turns out to be the middle of siesta time, and I have to wait an hour or two for things to open again?

This past week has taught me some more about the trials of living abroad, and it all revolves around Italian electricity. Italian power is 220 volts, and the outlets are completely differently shaped. I brought a power convertor (actually a transformer) with me so I could use my computer and razor. Too bad the convertor broke in my suitcase on the flight.

Thankfully, one of my roommates had a convertor that I could borrow.

But due to some circumstances, I no longer had access to that convertor starting this week. Which means I had to find someplace here that sold the appropriate American electrical transformer.

I went to seven — yes, seven — different electrical stores in all corners of the city over the course of several days before I found someplace that could help me get “una transformerada americana.” The store didn’t have it, but it was able to get one for me within another day. I was so, so happy to finally get it — it meant I would have e-mail access once again!

It was only just that when I got back to the apartment from picking up the transformer, our electricity had gone out. No power, no lights, no hot water, no stove, no e-mail. It was then that we learned about the difficulties of getting ahold of our apartment building maintenance person.

We ended up suffering through a good two days without electricity before discovering the “secret” electrical panel in our apartment, which was hidden behind a painting. This is in contrast to the other electrical panel, the obvious one that we had already checked. The secret one had the circuit breaker that had flipped and killed our power.

The electrical crisis is now over, and after a week of traveling across the city and learning new Italian phrases to discuss electricity, I can check my e-mail once again. However, there are still many other worries to deal with. For example, I am now worried that I seem to be developing a weird attraction for elderly women. Not so much that I’m attracted to them myself. They just seem to be coming to me. The other night on the tram, an elderly lady literally tripped and fell right into my lap.

I didn’t let that bother me. But later, I was on an extremely crowded bus on the way home from studio. An elderly woman was trying to tell me in Italian that I needed to take off my backpack, which was hitting her in the face. While I was in the process of struggling to get my book bag off while being sandwiched on all sides by Italians that really need to learn more about the art of bodily deodorization, I accidentally brushed the woman’s chest.

I apologized profusely (“mi dispiace!”), but from the look on her face, I think she liked it. I’m scared!

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