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Here’s what’s strange, though. I haven’t seemed to be able to do any Yoga since getting to
Rome. For years I’ve had a steady and serious practice, and I even brought my Yoga mat
with me, along with my best intentions. But it just isn’t happening here. I mean, when am I go-
ing to do my Yoga stretches? Before my Italian speedball breakfast of chocolate pastries and
double cappuccino? Or after? The first few days I was here, I would gamely roll out my Yoga
mat every morning, but found I could only look at it and laugh. Once I even said aloud to my-
self, in the character of the Yoga mat: “OK, little Miss Penne ai Quattro Formaggi... let’s see
what you got today.” Abashed, I stashed the Yoga mat away in the bottom of my suitcase
(never to be unrolled again, it would turn out, until India). Then I went for a walk and ate some
pistachio gelato. Which Italians consider a perfectly reasonable thing to be eating at 9:30 AM,
and I frankly could not agree with them more.
The culture of Rome just doesn’t match the culture of Yoga, not as far as I can see. In
fact, I’ve decided that Rome and Yoga don’t have anything in common at all. Except for the
way they both kind of remind you of the word toga.
Eat, Pray, Love