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.