Envoi

The beginning of an adventure is easy to write about. You have hopes and expectations of what will happen. You're imagination is working overtime, mind like a child about to go to Disneyland. The possibilities are endless. But endings are tough.

The journey is over. Bilbo has returned to the shire. There's nothing left to do but write out the story, wrap it up nicely, slap a bow on it and call it done. Sounds simple enough, but I have been trying to write this for quite a while. If this were being penned by hand, I would have killed a forest with all the trashed ideas. So, this is why endings are hard.

I guess this envoi has to be written, so I'll just start at the beginning. I was eleven when I was first introduced to Rome. I used to sit in my Latin class wishing I could have taken French like everyone else. But by the end of the year I had fallen in love with Ancient Rome. Through the rest of my middle school and high school career I studied the language and the city I loved. Although I strayed from the path for a few years I found the old adage true: all roads lead to Rome. I spent half my life unknowingly working toward this trip, and now that it's come and gone, I think I'm in shock.

I've done a lot these past few weeks and I have the blisters and bruises to prove it. I caught the roman plague and survived. I managed to not burn to a crisp in the Mediterranean sun. I visited countless sites and got lost on multiple occasions. I've learned a lot about historical and I might have learned more about contemporary Romans:

Italians do not know how to queue. The concept eludes them.

Everything runs on their time, not yours. Learn to deal with it.

Old ladies are rude. I'm still miffed about the taxi.

If you're at a restaurant they will stop at nothing to feed you.

Personal space is almost nonexistent.

Natural blonde hair confuses them.

Gelato can be whatever meal you want it to be.

Every couple in Italy is more in love than you and your partner are.

You will never be as dapper as the men in three piece suits riding mopeds.

The secret to how Italians look better than you is all the stairs and hills in Rome.

These are just a few golden nuggets of wisdom from my time in Rome, and it makes up maybe a hundredth of the information I've learned overall. This class and trip have taught me more than any class I have taken yet, and I am very grateful for it.

I suppose this is the part where the envoi should get deep and emotional, and I should sit with a box of tissues and a pint of Ben and Jerry's ice cream. Unfortunately, for you I have neither near me, so we'll just skip over the crying portion. Feel free to use your imagination and get a box of tissues and a pint (or gallon, judgement free zone) and cry as you pretend to read a paragraph of me bearing my soul. I'd imagine I would mention how much effort I, and everyone else, put into this class. How we all worked together during those early mornings, the hikes up hills in the blistering heat, and how we all had each others backs. I would also probably say that no one left Rome as the same person they arrived as. That this was a life changing experience for everyone. I would mention that this was a truly incredible experience, and that I'm incredibly grateful to have been a part of it. But, I am most definitely not getting emotional right now and I am not saying those things. You're imagining it while you weep and spoon ice cream into your mouth with an industrialized ladle. That is you, not me. I am an emotional rock. The tarpeian rock to be exact.

So, to sum up the Rome trip: I came, I saw, I conquered. By that I mean: I arrived, I was infected with the plague, I overcame it and had an amazing time in the city. I walked the city under the sun and the moon. I saw the sights. I got lost multiple times, I got unlost multiple times. I ate my weight in gelato and gluten-free pizza. I made some questionable decisions, but I regret none of them. I had ups and downs, moments where I wanted to go home, but I stayed and I'm so glad I did. I wish I could have stayed longer, but that was not in the cards.

So, that concludes my story of my visit to Rome.

The End?

Voyeur: Creeping on Old Men in Ostia

There was nothing particularly special about him. He was an old man -probably in his late seventies. He wore khaki pants and a white polo that clung to his body as it was drenched in sweat. Yet, he still wore his grey windbreaker. On his feet he wore semi-new white sneakers covered in the dust from the ground around him. On his waist he was sporting a black fannypack, which was slightly unzipped letting tufts of tissues stick out. He wore clip-on sunglasses over his aviator style regular glasses. In his hand was a camera filled with beautiful pictures of the ruins and many pictures of the ground and his feet.

He shuffled along the road lines with ancient buildings. His steps were small as his body was uncertain. He had just been diagnosed with Alzheimer's. He knew he could not put off his trip to Italy any longer. It was not he who had wanted to go in the first place, it was his late wife. He was an orphan and did not care where his family was from, but his wife, she care quite a bit. Unfortunately, a few months back she had died suddenly from stroke. They had always planned to go to Italy to visit her family's homeland. Her entire family was Italian. 

When she died, he was too overcome by grief to think of visiting the country. But, he no longer knew how long he could remember her dream. So, he set out on his own, refusing company from his family, touring Italy, taking as many pictures as possible. When he gets home, he plans to leave the pictures on his wife's grave.

Momentary Blindness: The Orange Garden

Above me, the wind rustles the leaves of the trees and the faintest smell of oranges passes me. The gust of wind brushed my hair into my face, tickling my nose. I can feel the sun on my face, but my body is cool. I can tell the leaves of the orange trees are shading my body. It is cool enough that when the wind blows an automatic shiver runs down my spine. When there is no breeze I can feel my skin radiating the heat it absorbed from the sun earlier in the day.

The ground feels cold on my naked feet. This part of the park must not be touched by the sun. I also can't feel any grass, but cold and dry leaves. I also feel sharp and dry pine needles sticking into me. I hear them crunch and break under my break when I shift my weight.

Although I am removed from the busy city below, I can hear distant sounds of sirens. First, they are close, then they fade into the distance. Close by, I hear the shift of the gravel and the pedaling of bikes. Groups ride by every so often. The murmur of voices is constant. Some are in Italian, some are in languages I could not identify.

All of a sudden I hear soft crunching behind me, but I cannot feel the vibrations a person would make were they walking near me. The noise confuses me as I could feel no breeze. The. I hear the soft cooing noise that I know all too well. He crunching and cooing continues as it circles me like a shark. I hear it flap its wings and the rustling of leaves. I open my eyes to see it staring at me from a branch.

Giornale Four: The Aristocats

Rome has been constantly surprising me. The amount of stairs surprise me. The sudden deluges surprise me. People's inability to queue surprises me. Mopeds parked on the sidewalk surprises me. What people consider a parking spot surprises me. Even what people can consider a road sometimes surprises me. I've seen cars go where no car should go, and I'm quite certain it will haunt me for the rest of my life. Rome should expect my bill for therapy in a short time.However, what I found most surprising was Santa Cecilia in Trastevere.  

Unsurprisingly, we got lost on our way to the church and ended up walking around it a few times before we found it. This was to be expected from us as we have made it our habit visiting our sites like cats. We walk around it a few times. Hesitating, we put one paw forward, as if to enter, but quickly change our minds. Then the process repeats five to twenty-seven times. Paw far, paw close, paw near the ground, paw near my chest, an inch from the ground, thirty inches from the ground, and on and on. When people see us, crippled by our indecision, we stop, eyes wide, pupils dilated, they see us, and so, we stay still as statues until the person looks away. Then, we bolt into our site before anyone else can look upon our shame. It's a good system and it's been working for us, but I really could do without all the hair balls though.

So, after quickly bolting into the courtyard of the church, we stopped to take in our surroundings. We had ended up in a picturesque little square. It was a little bit of paradise in Trastevere -a cute little fountain surrounded by a vibrant grassy area.

Happily, I found out the interior matched the exterior. Inside the church was an oasis of my eyes. Unlike in the other basilicas I have visited, my eyes were not assaulted by gaudy decorations. The church was small and simple. It had nearly no gold and paintings. It was refreshing.

We also happened to walk directly into a mass, and not wanting to be rude, or scurry away like the scaredy cats we are, we acted like walking into a mass was exactly what we planned all along and took a seat. We sat and listened to the nuns sing for a while. The church was empty except for us and a few nuns letting the nuns voices fill the marble church. The light that lit the church was entirely from the windows and the sky. It was a surreal experience. If heaven existed, I imagine it would feel a lot like that moment. It turned three girls, who acted like wild cats into content fat house cats. But, as time went we felt the moment was too personal. This was not our ceremony, and as beautiful as it was, we could not stay. A cat will stay where it is happy, but I'll be damned if it shows a hint of emotion. So, we scurried out of the church and returned to our lives as the rough alley cats we are. Watch out Rome.

Giornale Three: My Left Foot . . . And My Right Foot, Too?

In Rome, I find myself constantly staring at me feet. The reason for this is not that I find cobblestone extremely exciting, but that I fear if I lose focus for just a second I will trip, scrape my elbows, chip a tooth, break a wrist, or even give myself a third concussion (but third time's the charm right?). So, I walk through Rome, and watching the ground in front of me, looking incredibly out of place, but let's be real for a second: my blonde hair and pale skin made me stick out long before I started walking like a little old man with his spine permanently stuck in the shape of a candy cane.

Right foot, left foot, right foot, left foot. Each step is calculated. One cobble stone is raised higher than the others. Now there are three missing. There is a gap between two that my heel could get caught in. Raise your foot higher. Step farther than normal. Don't place your heel there.

When I eventually lift my head and look what is in front of me I find my destination. This time my destination happened to be the Santa Maria in Trastevere.

Entering into the church was like entering into a work of art. Walls were covered in art. The ceiling was beautifully painted. Marble columns, probably spolia, ran along the walls of the church. The altar was enveloped in gold and surrounded by Christian icons. The church was unlike any I had been to in my time living in the USA. It was luxurious. It was the definition of extravagance.

However, in a church filled with beautiful icons and artifacts everywhere I looked, I found myself looking at the ground. I didn't have to watch my steps in the church, I knew that. I could trust the ground not to randomly decide it no longer was content being a flat plateau, and form a mini-mountain small enough for a normal person to easily walk over, but large enough for an uncoordinated person, like myself, to dramatically face-plant hurting my body and ego. Nevertheless, my eyes were glued to the floor. Nothing made it special. It was not gold. It did not have diamonds. No jewels. No other precious metals. I have seen many more ornate floors in roman basilicas and churches. Yet, I was entranced by this one. Made of marble, and fitted with a circular tile pattern, it flowed all throughout the church. Nothing made it obviously spectacular except for my imagination of the people that have walked on the floor. Thousands of worshippers have walked, kneeled and prayed where I stood. How many lives have been lived here? How many people have prayed here? Have asked for forgiveness? Asked for a miracle? How many have felt something special, a connection to their god, on the very floor I stood on? Of course while I'm getting deep and meaningful in my head, staring at the marvelous floor, I walk straight into a marble column, pulling back to reality. This trip to Santa Maria in Trastevere taught me a lesson: it's good to reflect on the past, just know the future is equally important. In other words, it's good to look at where you're standing, but more important to look where you're going because chances are there is a giant marble pillar right in front of you.

Voyeur: Who Watches the Watchmen

The air was electric as the positive energy flowing through the crowd was tangible. Hundreds of people had come to the Vatican and were now crammed together in this piazza for the same purpose: to see, hear, and maybe touch the pope. Some people were crushed toward the front of the stage, some were moving back and forth, side to side, up and down in hopes of getting a better view of the man of the hour, the big guy not quite upstairs, el jefe, the papa, the guy with the funny car, the man with one of the largest fan bases in the world, a man who looks great in white and it's totally normal for him to kiss random babies, the pope.

Everyone in this crowd was mentally and physically preparing themselves for this ethereal experience. Everyone, except the police officers standing twenty feet in front of where I lounged on the steps, taking note of their every move.

At first there were only two guards, two medium sized Italian men wearing their navy blue police outfits with hints of red and white along the edges to jazz up the outfit. They were stern yet relaxed as they surveyed the crowed. They appeared friendly with each other. Perhaps they were partners, who had been working together for years. They talked amongst themselves. The officer on the right spoke more with his hands, which was pretty impressive considering one hand had a radio glued to it. Undeterred by his handicap, he told, from what I could tell, was one of the funniest stories his partner had heard. The officer on the left struggled to keep a sharp stance as he laughed and listened.

Soon two more officers joined in and the mirth grew. They laughed and talked while they watched the crowd, and while the crowd changed as the pope entered the plaza they did not change. They did not move. They told stories to their colleagues and watched the crowd, guarded yet relaxed.

Piazza San Pietro, May 27

Giornale Two: An Unexpected Journey

There is an old adage that goes along the lines of saying it is not the destination that matters, but the journey. I'm starting to take personal offense to that statement. Rome is beautiful and makes me want to take pictures of everything, and the destinations always take my breath away (sometimes because of the amount of stairs I had to climb). However, my journeys are becoming more and more like Bilbo Baggins. On two such journeys we literally made it to the end of the line, and when I say end of the line, I meant the busses stop working and the real adventure to get back on task begins. But, just as Bilbo stays loyal to Thorin and the dwarves, I will stay loyal to my professors and keep on journeying, not matter how lost I become in the eternal city.

This weeks solo excursion was no different from the previous ones. By that I mean the journey was a journey from the hobbit mostly because map reading was no one's forte. Looking back had we went left twice, we would have gotten there in five minutes. But, who wants to hear about how we took two lefts and made it to the Palazzo Barberini? No one. Instead we walked right up a hill. In my head I was jumping fences yelling that I was going on an adventure. In reality I was trudging up a street looking for sketchy alleyways to walk down in hopes of getting closer to the Palazzo Barberini. Eventually we found that one alley way, the perfect alleyway to use to get to another street. This is where we encountered our Smaug. Smaug presented himself in the form of four runner in incredible shape (seriously hats off to them). They moved toward us. We moved toward them. We walked. They ran. Sensing they would not stop we put on our rings and became invisible. Just kidding. We moved close against the wall and let them pass. But it was dramatic and scary at the time.

Undeterred by our near death experience, we forged onward coming to a literal crossroads adorned with four fountains. We went right and almost as if it were in slow motion we saw our destination. However, we had one final battle: the battle of putting our bags away and finding the gallery. We were victorious. After a short time we had found the coat room and the gallery.

The museum was beautiful. The stairs reminded me of those in Albany's Capitol building, but made entirely out of white marble. The walls were adorned with statues of pagan figures like Heracles. The palace also had the three bees around the building. The motif could be found everywhere as it was on the crest of the Barberini family. Going further into the palace we were met with galleries of paintings. I personally think it should have been the gallery of shade. The paintings were mostly catholic in content, however the faces of the characters in the paintings were truly extraordinary. They were expensive of love, confusion, pain, and shock. My favorite expression was all the portraits smirking or "throwing shade".  All of these works of art were stories and all the expressions clues. It was here in this gallery that I found the treasure I was looking for and had a perilous journey for.

Ekphrasis: Bernini's Medusa

It is amazing to think that this was once just a chunk of marble. What is now an intricate bust used to be nothing of value. What begins as chiseled wavy hair becomes winding snakes, glaring at the viewer, ready to strike. They curl around each other, looking every direction. The snakes guard their owner. They watch as you move and seemingly resent and distrust you, man or woman, it makes no difference. They remember why they are on her head. They were intended to be publishers of the owner, but now they seem to have become protectors. They remember the betrayal. Not only one but two. Twice the owner was betrayed. First by man, then by her god. The world has turned its back on their owner, but they refuse to.

The snakes on her head display anger, but her face does not. Yes her face shows betrayal, but it shows the sadness, the lack of understanding, and worst the helplessness. She is no longer a sculpture, but a person. She is not a monster, as myths have tolds us, but a traumatized woman. A man rapes her in Athena's temple and she is punished for it. That does not make sense. It is a double betrayal. The confusion is visible on her face. I half expected her to look at me and ask why this happened. She looks as if she is about to burst into frustrated tears.

There is no anger on her face. Eyebrows are furrowed. Mouth is slightly open. Head slightly looking to the left. Eyes slightly squinting ready to cry. This is the face of realization. Realization that she will be alone forever. If she looks at another person they will turn to stone. She will never be treated as a human again. She will be hunted and persecuted. Deemed a monster and forced from society. This is the worst punishment possible. She is doomed to be a monster. But this is not the face of a monster. It is the face of a scared girl betrayed by those who were supposed to protect her. One busy tells this whole story. It is beautiful and heart wrenching. No price of art has ever moved me as much as Bernini's Medusa.

Space and Place: Swim Lesson One

The city of Rome is crowded and full of people. Some people are simply wandering, some are rushing to get places, and some are standing in everyone’s way. The streets of the city are like rapids. To walk down a side walk one must dodge, duck, dip, dive, and dodge (people, cars, buses, and mopeds) in order to successfully walk down the street. It is chaos, unplanned chaos. One can barely keep their wits about them on their wild, level five, white water rapids ride, known as walking down the street in Rome.

I’ve only been in Rome for a couple of days, but the rapids have already started to wear me down. Therefore, it was nice to have a break from the hectic waters of the city streets and flow in the calm waters of the Palatine Hill. Walking into the Palatine was like walking into a lazy river. It was spacious and void of the hustle and bustle of the city. It was not the white water rapids anymore, but a guided river. The triumphant trio (two others and I) were able to follow the brick road, though it was not yellow, to the overlook of the Roman forum.

                Although the road was established, and lead me on a leisurely stroll to the top of the hill, it was not the only path to follow. Dozens of side paths lead people around the hill. I moseyed along, not in any rush. I felt calm and distant, and at times, I felt like the emperor must have felt. Not rushed or crowded by anyone I sauntered in an open, green space, my movements dictated by me and by no one else. The flow of movement on the Palatine and in the streets of the city is as different a quiet creek and a roaring river.

Giornale One: Blondie Buddy Gets Distracted by Capitolism on the Captioline

The city of Rome is filled with old and historic churches. It holds within it a church to St. Cecelia, a church to St. Paul, a church to St. Stefano, and multiple churches to St. Lorenzo, and St. Maria. Today, while I, and the shell to my canoli (and those other people I attend college with), did visit one of the churches of St. Maria, I also visited a church of another kind –a church of capitalism (and an ancient one at that). In the morning I visited the Imperial Forum and spend a large amount of time in the Markets of Trajan located in the forum of Trajan. It was not until I visited the Santa Maria in Aracoeli that I made a (possibly non-existent) connection. In ancient Rome, the space would have been filled with venders and shoppers making deals, selling and buying goods. When Rome was at its highpoint of religious activity the church would have been filled with worshipers, the consumers, buying faith with monetary donations, from the priests, the vendors. Structurally the church Santa Maria in Aracoeli also resembled the Markets of Trajan. Both had a large central room that I imagine would have been filled with people looking to get what they needed, whether that be forgiveness from god because they had sinned , or an apple because they were human and needed to eat food. Both had, on the sides, little rooms, with a circular motif. The church used the apses to hold images of saints and sanctimonious items of the catholic faith. It was here that the consumers (whoops… I meant worshipers) bought (sorry …prayed for) their souls or had someone else do so. The market had taberna built in where merchants could sell their goods.  In the Forum of Trajan, in the Market of Trajan, people of Rome could buy their material goods. They could give their offerings –coin– to the vendors. In this way I believe the markets of the forum are similar to churches. Both have been reconstructed multiple times to keep the places alive and in the city life, and both sell a product in demand, one just happens to sell material goods, while the other sells salvation.

                I have ranted about how a church is a store enough. Now it is time for a tirade about why the market is a church. Yes, a market place is for buying and selling goods, but it is also a place of worship.” I’m just going to the market to buy some dormice for the dinner party I’m throwing tonight, how am I worshiping, Blondie Buddy?”  You might ask. Well, you’re not just going to the market, I would respond, you’re going to the Market of Trajan. Every time you visit the Market of Trajan you reinforce the image of Trajan as a great emperor. As the kids would say: “Yoooooooo, Trajan must have been a like  cool dude to build this @#$% for the people of Rome so they would have a designated area to shop for things”. And by thinking like this people begin to worship Trajan (and still do because the kids are still saying that). Funny how we have places to worship all powerful figures that are not churches.