The End is Only the Beginning

The world is an interesting place. It surprises me, disappoints me and reminds me why I'm lucky a hundred times in one day. But it's also a place where being lonely is easy, being sad comes quickly and being happy is an internal struggle impacted by external events. 48

My goal, with every journey outside the safe, overbearing confines of my own home, is to find a little bit more to be happy about. I learned from a young age that exploring made me happy, so I try to explore something new at all times. Maybe that's just a nice way to address the fact that I have commitment issues. 61

Our problems, our heart breaks never leave us where they found them but I have found that leaving the place where they started makes them disappear faster. We become wiser as how to solve them. At this stage in my life I am supposed to be figuring out who I am and what my purpose is. So far I'm not certain I have any idea. Which is new for me. I started planning my life in 8th grade. And while most of that plan was vague, I still made it to college, I've made new friends and can effectively hold my tongue in appropriate situations. But the question then becomes what next?114

Rome is my answer to that question. Coming back to the US was hard in December and will be harder in another week. Rome for me represents the past, present and future, much like it does for the history of Italy and Roman people today.

I can see the classical influence, the un-unified collaborations, the nationalism and the joy. I see those things in everything I encounter and so desperately want to hold onto them.

In Plato's ever famous symposium there is a story about love and monogamy. I'd like to briefly admit that it's my favorite thing that I have read by Plato, and I've read a lot. It's my favorite because it addresses the human condition at it's most basic social construct. We search for love. We search for love in everything we do. I can say that I do not know who belongs on my back, who I was ripped away from, but in Rome I felt less concerned. After a week I stopped searching, stopped pining for the missing pieces and focused on the pieces that were falling together in front of me.

For the first time in a long time I stopped planning the future and just smiled. Well, i still kept planning, but I also smiled. I saw myself transform from someone who is good at being alone but wants more to someone who can see more when alone. I saw the classical past combined with my own present and hopefully that produces a future.

Rome captured something inside of me but in return allowed me to produce more. Rome moved me from writing for a class to writing for myself, which in turn became the first time I enjoyed my creative writing in years.

Sitting in a classroom in a city that I have spent my whole life in, imagining Rome and how it would impact me was hard. I've traveled before yes but always come away with something different. I wasn't sure however what I would come away this round. I often felt that I had no control over the vast amount of information that was thrown at me. Sometimes I was drowning in it, other times I was floating well above it all. There was no consistency. But I know it was necessary.

Right now, while writing this, I am heading towards Scotland after a brief stop off in Qwara, Malta. My biggest regret other than not spending more time there is that I know nothing about the history of the islands or the culture of the people. I assumed I would get around to it, or visit more museums but that never happened. So I wandered around a beautiful city with Middle Eastern and North African architectural influences, British English and a language with Arabic roots.

I like to wander, I like looking at the streets. The way people decorate the facades of their homes, the way stores market their products, the graffiti. I love it all, because it shows me what they want me to see or not see. But I like having context more. I am where I am in life largely because of my aggressive and obsessive desire to consume as much knowledge as possible. I, with all of the cells in my tiny body, believe that without context, you are simply lost in something that's only slightly out of reach. It's a frustrating feeling I didn't realize I hated until traveling to a country I knew nothing about.

As for the copious amount of information I was told to consume concerning Rome, without it I would have gotten less out of the experience. While I love to explore, I think that any discoveries that are made are uninformed if they don't include any knowledge of the past. I believe in bottom up solutions, in Rome, I started from the birth of Romulus and Remus and came up to the surface. The surface is a place of layered confusion and hope. And something I want to be apart of.

Sometimes the world doesn't make any sense, like taking a bus to a plane that was less than thirty feet away, but with the right context, it doesn't have to. I have left Rome but not for good. I will be back, and I will be wiser for it.

A Rose By Any Other Name..

I sat around the table with people at least ten years older than me, and at least thirty years wiser. But that did not stop me from sharing each and every opinion I had, it honestly never does. It’s on the list of things I’m working on. Earlier that morning I had the pleasure of wandering through the church of Santa Maria in Trastevere, which contains stunningly powerful wall and ceiling art. The conversation casually led to Catholicism and the architecture of churches in Rome, something I have been paying a lot of attention to recently. I started to talk kindly of the buildings I had seen and express my interest in them from an academic perspective but the deeper we fell into the rabbit hole the more I thought about the church in Trastevere.

 Walking around Trastevere you acquire a sense of light hearted fun that is being had by the locals and the many tourists. Sitting upon the sets of the fountain right outside the church you can people watch for hours, looking directly at the church itself, never imagining what is inside. The exterior is faded, dark and does not remind one of a church. The inside however, has painted walls, various reused columns and gold leaf designed ceilings. The stimulation felt by my eyes during the first five minutes after sitting down was overwhelming. That’s the point though. While the outside blends in with the surrounding atmosphere, the interior is something other worldly, something heavenly. The columns lining the main cella were a combination of Corinthian, Ionic, and Doric, suggesting that throughout the church’s creation, other temples were used in the building process. Outside of the cella, the walls were painted with various iconic religious scenes. 

I sat in my chair, listening to my usual peanut gallery, letting my eyes glide around the large space. It was a lot for me, but at the same time it reminded me of every other Catholic church I had encountered. There is a certain beauty within each church that cannot be ignored, seeing the detail and knowing that someone spent hours or days working on a single fresco, forces you to appreciate it. There’s something else there too though. The gold tone ceilings, the columns, the universal scenes of madonna and child are just examples of the strength and persistence of the Catholic church.    

A rose by any other name is still a rose, imperialism by any other name is still imperialism. The grandiose interior of this church, along with several other churches that we came across on this trip are meant to symbolize the power of the Catholic church, that seeps into various aspects of peoples lives. Thomas Mann wrote a short story about a man who stayed utterly within himself until a new, more erotic painting of the madonna and child. The main scene, where he confronts the store owner, demonstrates just how intensely imerpialist the Catholic church is, not just in what words were written or the behavior of the characters, but also in the fact that this took place in Germany during the early 1900s.  

(S. Maria in Trastevere)

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.