Do as the Romans do. Walk miles every day over the black cobblestones, over the layers of history hidden beneath them. Eat pizza and pasta and gelati. Drink espresso and wine and big blowsy Aperol spritzes. While you’re sipping, listen to your husband read to you about Caravaggio, whose studio was a stone’s throw from where you’re sitting. When in Rome, do not tear your hair and rend your clothing over the American election. Has a single Italian person asked you about it? No, not a one. Is the sun bathing the white ramparts of the Vittorio Emmanuel II monument? Yes, it is. When in Rome, do as the Romans do. Look up that sentence, and you’ll find that it’s an expression that dates from the fourth century AD. And what a useful one it is, especially when you’re actually in Rome, as Rustin and I were, two weeks after the November election.  When we were planning this trip, we had dared to hope that we’d be in a celebratory state of mind. Al contrario. As we dragged our roller-bags to the light rail station, at 4:45 on a Tuesday morning exactly two weeks after Election Day, I felt like we were fleeing the scene of a massive explosion: deafened, bruised, glass and debris still embedded in our skin and hair; all we wanted was to get away from the smoke and sludge. I felt like I ought to feel guilty, because surely we should’ve been pitching in, getting people to safety, not flying off to [...]