Caps and Backpacks

He stood at the head of the group, another man was standing next to him, half listening and half heckling everything he said. In appearance they seemed mismatched. But we shouldn't judge books by their covers. They turned away and began walking, trotting if you will, along the grass ridden ancient road. His arms were dashing about, as if they were apart of another human all together. His sense were overwhelmed with years of work come to life. From behind you could see his smile. He had been dreaming of exploring his playground for months now, maybe even years. From a distance it looked like he was bobbing up and down, but that was just how he walked when excited. 

He could feel the numb twinges of hunger start in the depths of his stomach. It had been a solid twenty minutes of exploring. An early lunch was necessary he told himself. He wasn't getting old, he was still chipping away at the original fountain of youth. He wandered into the café, excited about the promise of lasagna and green beans. His trusty more than a sidekick was there to carry out the tray while he hung around in search of something to drink. He stood in front of the red coca-cola refrigerator, blocking all other tourist eyes from its treasures. He decided on a beer. “Why not?” He thought, it was 11:25am but he could think of a few places around the globe were it was well past 5pm. He spun around for an unknown reason, perhaps looking for the check out. He took one last glance around the room in case he was missing something and then proceeded to make his way to his friend, smiling at the younger people he passed.

After a brief but filling lunch he was ready to explore again, he stood up, tightened his L.L. Bean backpack straps, loosened them, and then tightened them again for sipping up the last of his espresso. He turned to look at the alcohol drenched plebs around him, then back at his friend. With one smile they both knew. It was time for another solid twenty minutes.

Alive with the Sound of Nuns

The schedule said the 280 left every twenty minutes but after two wrong attempts at navigating the city by four elongated wheels, I was only slightly hesitant to jump aboard once it rolled around. While I cannot pronounce Trastevere immediately, I enjoy muddling through it three or four times. Standing in the back, grey bird dress in arms, I held onto the red poles, watching the city run past my eyes. To my left there were four seats, all full of small children probably no more than eight at most. I looked at them as a group and then my vision moved to the other side of the street. When I looked back the smallest one was pointing at me. My first thought was that they knew I wasn't Italian. But how would they know that? I had not spoken a word and these curls are straight from the boot. Then I looked at the older girl sitting next to her, she was making eye contact with me and her pointer finger and thumb were pinching the stop on her nose where my ring is. The conversation between our eyes was missed matched. She was confused, and I was not having it. I smiled and turned straight forward avoiding any further international brown eye conventions. When I seat opened up in front of the miniature Mary Beth's I jumped for it. I sat behind a young man, nicely dressed but not familiar with where he was going. He kept his google maps open, checking it rather frequently. It was reassuring for me, that he kept his map open, I could follow the blue bubbly line of the google world and be certain that I was on the right path.

We hopped off the bus a few after roughly seven stops and began to wander around. Thinking we had found all that we were looking for we stumbled into the court yard of what we thought was an old church. There were other people there, so I assumed we had figured it out, until I walked into the door way and realized that sections of the floor were missing and the establishment was clearly under construction. We turned, questioned the map and then laughed strangely as we decided this was not the place that we were looking for. On a personal note, I love getting lost. The more beautiful the streets, the better time I will have. I know that navigating a new city would be easier if I paid attention to the street signs rather than the architecture but I can’t help it. Rome is stunningly lovely. I feel as if each corner I take, I am transported into a new city. Needless to say I enjoyed the lost wandering that occurred in search of a tiny church.

When we finally found the church, there was a couple taking a photo in front of the main fountain in the court yard. He had his plastic recently purchased water bottle resting on top of his head, arms stretched out, smile touching each ear. It shocked me at first, considering that we were at a small church, but when in Rome one should always smile for a picture. Inside Mother Abbess gathered her sisters and the walls suddenly came alive. Their voices echoed in the small, subtle structure. We sat for only a moment, not wanting to disturb the peace of it all. As we left I could hear the sounds of Andrew’s Maria ringing through my head.     

(S. Cecilia in Trastevere)

Buzzing at 80 Degrees

There is something iconic about always turning the wrong way out of the metro, similar to Molly Ringwald and her constant portrayal of the 80’s teenage ginger. The map made it look simple enough but if we are being honest with ourselves, which I am usually not, I don’t often carry a map on me. Luckily during this trip I have resided in a reverse Oreo situation where both of my cookie sides keep maps handy. Coming up upon a four way intersection we quickly noticed the fountain directly opposite of us, and then another to the right. Then one to the left, and then, as if three baroquely decorated fountains were not enough, there was a fourth one behind us. Suddenly we had found ourselves surrounded by selfie sticks, shopping bags and aggressive gargling. Momentarily searching for an exit out of rule-less traffic tourist hybrid zone, I checked to make sure that the quartet of elderly runners that had nearly stampeded us ten minutes before were not attempting a second go. Who knew museum life came at a price?

As an individual I prefer the high of museum sifting to that of any other drug. Red wine excluded. I was prepared for a morning of art I could never afford so graciously placed where I could see it and the humming sounds of people complaining about their feet. However, standing at the four corners of fountain deemed death, I was questioning my decision to leave the comfort of Giolitti’s breakfast club. Taking a hard right we bounced along seeing museum paraphernalia and suddenly things were looking up. The lion gates protecting the Palazzo had been sung asleep by a near by harp and we walked into the court yard without a scratch. The rush and fuss of the streets had subsided into a lapping layered pool of water and stone. After one single breath I felt as if I had been transported from modern day Rome into a court yard draped in magic. There was a simultaneous smile painted across each of our faces as we turned towards each other, all sixteen candles had been blown out and the gifts unwrapped. We were content in our choices, no second guessing them. 

Each staircase stole our breath, moving us from one world to the next. Renaissance paintings revolving around disproportionally drawn female bodies and babies that would eventually gain intellectual abilities that would rival evolutionary theories on child development. The bees could be hear throughout the architectural imperialistically designed home. Wandering alone from one nobleman throwing shade to another I found myself tip toeing past a well dressed Spader with knuckle ink, intensely occupied by his cellphone. His disinterest in the art work, while understandable was disheartening and slightly contagious. Jericho had met his match however, when I stumbled into an empty room. The aged mustard wallpaper led my eyes from the detailed floor to the heavens, painted in gold. In what the hanging master pieces could not achieve, the 3D musculature of winged angels had created an image worth breaking your neck over. At least for a moment.

        

(Palazzo Barberini)

Giver

At first, I felt cold. Hard and cold. A description that has been assigned to me on many occasions. Only this time, I felt alone and my mouth was closed. Not a single opinion had been voiced. I still felt cold. I rubbed my legs in an attempt to change that but the prickles would not be persuaded. Strands of hair were sweeping gently across my face, likewise shifting the leaves off in the distance. I wonder if they felt cold. I could feel the sun touching my skin rather lightly. I tried to focus on nothing other than the sun, I tried to think only about the warmth. Yet the harsh sounds of people walking past me, throwing the small conglomerate stones with their feet kept grabbing my attention. I tried to push them away. Ironic. I wanted to feel the sun. My mind was wandering, I couldn't focus. The breeze had shifted and the faint sent of oranges had crossed my path. For a brief moment I thought my mucous filled membranes were tricking me, or maybe it was my brain. Distracted again, I felt a frigid twinge of pain run up and down my spine reaching the most tender corners of my body, correcting my frenzied mind. The sun, the sun, the sun. As if repeating it in my head would amount to more than just a basic understanding of the thing touching my skin. I could feel the heat slowing creeping up my back, checking each doorway to make sure it was safe to continue. Smack. It was stopped by the tuneless sound of a language I did not understand. In a single moment I felt defeated. Slinking away from thoughts of smooth golden warmth, I pulled my legs and arms closer to my core. Eyes opened I searched for the faces I knew. Found the ones I wanted and instantly closed my eyes again. I wanted more time. Erect, I thought of nothing but how they would want to go and glacially let the sun advance upwards hitting the nape of my neck. I heard the gravel jettison around me. Then the sun was gone and the chill of shade once again took hold over the landscape. It was time to go.    

(Aventine Hill)

Attention Seekers Beware

The crowds are moving back and forth with anticipation. The young and elderly are migrating between the few spots in the shade for sitting and somewhere with a perfect view. He was sitting beside me, roughly 5 feet away, paying no attention to his surroundings. Hours before he had woken everyone up early, the pains of hunger chipping away at his small figure. He wanted something sweet, something with chocolate. The stains of which were still on his shirt. 

He sat on the steps in the shade, unsure of what was happening, he reached for an iPad from the bag beside his caretaker. The iPad, although the miniature version, was large in his hands. He stretched his legs out onto the steps in front of him leaning his faded yellow new balance sneakers on the edge. Rocking his head back and forth while moving his thumbs about the sticky screen. His vision was intensely focussed on the game. Nothing else around him existed.

The people started cheering and running as fame moved by on four wheels. But he didn't look up. He was winning his game, unaware of the phenomenon that was occurring. Another young boy with an iPad came running up and shouting at the boy and the man sitting next to him. The boy had captured culture on a slightly less jam covered screen. The seated boy looked up, shouted back and readjusted on the steps. The people previously sitting around him were now standing, obstructing his view of the crowd. But he didn't seem to care. The game was afoot.

The Chase

The ground felt hard beneath her feet. Dashing back and forth she tried to gain speed but the forest floor kept grabbing at her. She could hear him following close behind, the sound of his breathing getting louder and louder as he approached. She looked up begging the heavens to save her, she was growing weaker. Her feet were bloodied, her legs were aching and her heart was moments away from giving up. She ran along the bushes, trying to create obstacles for her assailant. But with each trap he seemed to be propelled forward, his young body molding to the chase. His muscles rippled with strength, clear and perfectly designed, as if handmade out of marble by the very gods she was screaming to. 

Her hair whipped through the trees, leaves and branches stuck in every which way. Her feet suddenly became tougher becoming one with the ground. The adrenaline pulsing through her body was calling to him, persuading him to come closer, to pounce. The roots had started to pull at her again. She fell again and again with the young god taking each advantage of each fall. From the ground she jumped forward, as she lunged into the air he caught her waist. She was trapped. Her feet could not leave the ground and her body could not leave his grasp. She looked down at her hands and watched as her white marble skin became cracked and brown. Her hair which had once been so wavy and lovely was now transforming into the branches that she had gotten tangled up in. Then she was gone.

Someone had answered. 

(Bernini sculpture of Daphne and Apollo)

Flowers Can't Talk

Two days ago when walking around the Colosso metro stop a man shouted at my companions and I asking where we were from, after not responding he shouted after us that we were from the land of silence. Comical yes, but nonexistent never the less. Rome is loud. There are thousands of people speaking various languages a mile a minute all competing with the sounds of buses, cars and horse drawn carriages. Other than an empty room or Catholic Church silence is few and far between. But I found it, the land of silence.

            Tucked away on top of the Palatine Hill in an archaeological playground designed for tourists and classicists alike, there is in fact the land of silence. The coble stone pathways allow for camera clad individuals to maneuver the site without missing any of the sights. While the sights themselves are so perfectly ruined that they do not allow for any conversation over a whisper. The space gives way to thoughts that migrate between the personal and the imaginary, making each that walk the paths an ultimate insider, but only for a moment.

            The smell found me first, just as my insider status disappeared. Roses, and lots of them, held just out reach by green bushes. Walking through I was given a distinct path around them, as if to marvel at their youthful beauty in contrast to the ancient skeletons surrounding them. This area attracted many, young couples, old women and the occasional pigeon. They moved in silence, yet their faces said it all. They were somewhere in the middle of insider and outsider, they were simply existing amongst the roses, only separated by carefully constructed barriers.

A Dress Worth Eating

There is something that seems slightly off about submerging oneself underground and then getting inside a metal car moving a hundreds of miles an hour. Yet it goes unquestioned as a mode of transportation for much of the modernized world. The first step of the journey was finding the metro station, which was simple enough when being guided by someone who had previously lived in Rome. The second step however, passing through the somehow judgmental electronic gates that allow one to enter the metro train, sent a small jolt of fear, anxiety and distain through my internal system. Thankfully, inserting the thin paper card through the ticket reader was not actually challenging. Making it down the steps, blondie buddy in arm, I arrived at the boarding dock for the train- or treno if you will. Over the sound of the first train pulling away there was yelling and grappling slightly to the right of our externally American group. Two women were fighting over a bag. One looked angry, as if her bag would be returned if she contorted her face more aggressively, the other however, through the yelling, in one moment looked surprised and then concerned. I cannot attempt to understand or analyze her expression in a way that would justify her actions, but her look struck me.

            The area outside of the Colosseum metro stop was a sight one should really only behold from behind glass. The facial expression of the thief mid job was still reeling through my mind as I attempted to maneuver the groups of angry Italians, misguided tourists, pushy street vendors and the constant fear of being pick pocketed. Keeping myself within arms length of my counterpart, I ventured across the street and up against scaffolding that prevented any eye wandering. Luckily that meant my city walking face was not subject to any distractions. While her face still loomed behind my own, I wondered how many more times I can watch other people get taken advantage of before it happens to me. Knowing how my relationship with the universe works, I’m sure it’s no more than 5.

            5 minutes however, was just enough time for all thoughts of semi-institutionalized thievery to jettison from my mind. In history classes I enjoyed learning about Trajan, in comparison to some of the others handling the power of Rome, his choices didn’t result in wincing. I cannot say what I expected from the markets, mostly because I’m not sure there was space in my occupied brain for expectations, but Trajan did not disappoint. The maze like structure provide ample opportunity for both an increase in knowledge, as well as empathy for the Minotaur. His experience however, was probably less colorful. Side by side with fragments of column drums and Vittoria ulta’s right foot were dresses sown from pretzels and bracelets made from bagels. While modern fashion is a concept rivaling theorhetical physics for me, the choice of placement of the collection within Trajan’s market is rather Italian. Layering old and new can extend to more than just architecture and paint. For the Romans, it means everything, because you cannot fully understand Rome without both the past and present. Much like an elderly wise man, the city from just one building is a complex coffer requiring a culmination of time and good food to exist.