Perhaps you recognize the title of this column as the phrase shouted by Russell Crowe’s character after he slaughters a barbarian army in the 2000 film Gladiator. Like the barbarians, I have had the fortune of invading Italy with several classmates for spring break. Once again, Rome was victorious.

In modern-day Italy, waiting in line is a staple of everyday life. Nowhere is this more pronounced than at a train station, where queues are enormous and slow, and tickets cannot be bought onboard the train. Think of it like a DMV, if you had a train to catch five minutes after arriving.

Thus, while waiting for tickets in Rome’s Central Station, I was free to reflect on my time in the ancient city, beginning with our arrival at the hostel on day one. The girls I was traveling with found it dirty and unkempt, but thanks to free dinner, I found it to be home sweet home. The next morning, however, was a little different.

“I hate dark skin!” I heard, waking me up.

I entered the common room, where a staff member was ranting to nervously amused French girls, “Dark skin, black hair, it’s so ugly!”

“But you are Indian!” one of them responded.

“Indian is gross! Don’t go to India, and never use the bathrooms if you do!” he said, eerily invoking episodes of Seinfeld long past. “Dark skin is dirty!”

“My friend is black,” I interrupted, hoping to avert disaster. “And she’s right over there.” And she has sass, I neglected to add.

“Black, OK. Brown skin – disgusting!” he continued, as my black friend entered the room. Two hours later, we were back on the rainy streets of Rome, refunds in hand.

Wrenching myself back to the present, a gypsy man is aggressively offering directions to confused travelers, attempting to pickpocket them. I am sourly reminded of the ripoffs we have so far endured: being charged for food we didn’t order, being denied student discounts because we weren’t European Union citizens and paying for a Colosseum tour we could have received from the back of a Gladiator DVD case. I recall a visit to Vatican City, where the only way to skip six hours of waiting in line was to pay 35 euros for a guided tour. The second night comes to mind as well, when an impromptu Metro strike forced us to use expensive taxis. Stupid, socialist Europe.

Turning around, I see young American girls emerging from an expensive shoe store. Suddenly I remember the night before, when a friend currently studying in the Maryland-in-Rome program advised us to visit the famous Piazza del Popolo for a fun nightlife experience. In actuality, this is the Roman version of the Champs-Élysées – a vast collection of (closed) high-end outfitters. Adding insult to injury, one of the girls collapsed at my side, having worn heels into the entirely cobblestone district. Better than the other friend who, after insisting everyone imbibe their own bottle of wine, passed out at the hostel.

Trying to remember better times, I ponder instead the first night out, when a mustached man in blue overalls and a red flat cap was flirting with my friends. Before I could ask him if he had any blonde princess-types for me, he actually turned and began chatting with a blonde girl wearing a tiara. Golly, she was a peach. Slowly, their interest for anyone but each other faded. Wait, this memory sucks.

Forty-five minutes prior, having sprinted to the train station, we actually thought we’d catch the earlier train departing to Naples, which would have cost just 10 euros and given us time to visit the fascinating sites of Pompeii. But the line is almost over; hope begins anew.

Finally, it’s our turn at the ticket counter, 10 minutes before the next train departs. The worker tells us there has been another strike and there are no trains. Roma Victor indeed.

Greg Nasif is a senior history major. He can be reached at nasif@umdbk.com.