I don’t wish to be one of those goofball Americans who comes to Europe and starts dumping all over his native land—because, for instance, the U.S. doesn’t have quite so many medieval cathedrals still standing, and notably failed to contribute any Renaissance painters of note. My major wasn’t history, but I suspect there may be good reasons for each phenomenon. I know that some cultural indicators of decline are much more advanced in Italy than in America—a lower native birth rate, a low marriage rate, low church attendance. But there’s one thing I’ve noticed over here which definitely stands out against my American background, and I wish I knew the explanation: The greater dignity of labor I’ve witnessed here in Rome. At drugstores, the clerks are attentive, cheerful, and helpful; they lack the glassy stare I’m used to encountering at CVS in Dallas or Nashua (NH). The waiters, while harried and busy, are much more jaunty than depressed. The service staff at the pensione where I’m staying act like they’re proud to be cleaning hotel rooms, and look you in the eye with a forthright awareness that they are your equal—as they are. They are working, and that has a dignity in itself, regardless of the social status of the job they are performing. All of this stands in marked contrast to my experience in various parts of America—the Deep South, Texas, New York City, and New England. And I wonder what explains it.

I’ll never forget the turning point in my career as a conservative journalist. It was spring 2003, Colin Powell had just deployed the best cover story the Bush administration could cook up for invading Iraq—which I foolishly believed. Most of my old friends were gung-ho about the chance to (in Jonah “Blue Dress” Goldberg’s words) “throw some shitty little country up against the wall.” Most of the magazines I’d subscribed to over the years and pundits I’d respected (with some honorable exceptions—thanks, PJB and JPII!) favored the war… and jumping on the bandwagon sure seemed like a good career move.

I had a weekly column at David Horowitz’s site, counted on favorable mentions from neocons for several projects I was working on, and had no particular fondness for the murderous Saddam Hussein. I’d been in my home town, NYC, on Sept. 11, 2001, had at least three friends who narrowly escaped death, had breathed the toxic dust for weeks, and had watched the economic devastation wreaked on the city I love by the attacks.

I’d been something of an anti-Communist jingoist in my time. The war was obviously going to happen, no matter what I said or did. And we seemed like we were obviously going to win. It promised to be a “video game war” like the first Gulf invasion—whose fireworks we watched on CNN like an old-fashioned game of “Defender,” lines creeping up hopelessly against an unstoppable barrage from the heavens. It was a done deal, a slam dunk, a juggernaut.

I remember how overwhelming the temptation was, the sinuous eloquence of the voice in my head which said, “Why bother? What’s the point? Just join the parade, and catch your share of ticker tape. Why wreck your good name over nothing, for the sake of what—a bunch of Arabs who wouldn’t whizz on you if you were on fire?” I was almost persuaded, I must admit. As a blue-collar kid, I’ve got a pragmatic streak a mile wide (they paint it on you in the financial aid office).

But then I heard another voice, which was calm, morose, and resigned. It said, “Every morning, you’re going to have to look at yourself in the face. Whom do you want to see?”