Well, I'm kind of back in Los Angeles now, and besides some recent articles I've written and other musings, everything I've written about Rome is all here in this blog. So thanks for readin' and maybe some time I'll try this whole blog thing again.
Ciao Ciao,
Kimberly
Monday, June 7, 2010
Thursday, April 22, 2010
A Writing Assignment - Wine Tasting For Beginners
Living in Italy has taught me one thing about wine: people drink a lot of it. They know what they like, what it goes with, and how much it should cost. As far as I’m concerned, there are two types of wine: red and white. At restaurants I let my friends pick for me, and I either like it, or I don’t. However, this method is not without its flaws. What do I pick at the grocery store? When a friend comes to visit? Does red or white pair better with a romantic comedy on a Friday night in?
I decided to face this problem head on and organize a wine tasting. Two of my friends are taking a wine tasting class and it was high time to put them to the test, while trying to learn some pointers along the way. The date was set, three wines were bought, and I was given official Wine and Spirit Education Trust Tasting Notepaper to get me started.
The first wine, a Chianti, looked delicious when poured into a glass. The first thing I learned is one way to sound particularly snooty was to judge a wine’s color. Was this red purple, ruby, garnet, or tawny? Was it clear or dull, its intensity pale, medium, or deep? I took a stab at it: “Jolly Rancher grape purple!” Their reply was quick, “No, it’s ruby. Chiantis are famous for being ruby.” Oh.
How about the aroma? (To sound like an expert, say “the nose”) A long sniff and I immediately identified my first smell, “grapes, lots of grapes.” Unfortunately for my untrained nose, this was the only thing that I could think of, and brought me stern glares from across the table.
My companions had better luck with the sniffing then I did. Black fruit, leather, earth, butter (factoid: this means it was aged in an oak barrel), raspberries, currents, mushrooms, and green peppers. All this from a glass of wine? You better believe it. I soon realized you can pretty much name some known wine scents and would usually be right. The power of suggestion is very strong here and if anyone says you’re wrong, just point out that what you eat can greatly change the taste and smell.
After the nose had been analyzed I was finally allowed to move onto the taste. Instead of gulping my glass, I was instructed to take small sips which I then chew for no more than three seconds, to taste the optimum amount of pure flavors in the wine. After all the subtle sniffing, my first taste hit me like a foot on a grape. The wine was amazingly bitter, so much so that my tongue started to feel like the fabled leather they had smelled earlier.
Here’s something to impress with at your next party: tannin and acidity are often confused, but there is a big difference. Tannin leaves your mouth dry and can be a good thing. Acidity makes you salivate and is a bad thing. I learned to remember this by asking myself a simple question: would I like being dropped into a vat of acid? Of course not, because acidity is the bad one.
There is also the question of the body. Now, stop thinking about curvy bottles because this means the thickness. Think about milk when judging: does it have the consistency of skim milk, whole milk, or something in between? I said two percent which they translated into snob worthy term: “medium minus.”
The longer finish a wine has, the better the quality. Unfortunately for my taste buds, this one lasted forever, but at least I wasn’t drinking slop. Food pairing? Dark red meat or a very strong cheese, anything to lessen the bitterness of my glass.
Many notes, an hour, and two wines later and I said this, “I’m getting some pineapple, maybe mixed with some floral hints.” It was then that I realized I was becoming one of them. Wine has a lot more to it than its color. The way it’s grown, the stress the vine is put under, even the trace it leaves on the glass can tell you a lot about how it will taste. I learned a lot that night, and while I now feel a little more confident about selecting a bottle of my own, I think the most valuable thing I learned is this: with a few vocabulary words, the ability to improvise some fragrances, and a willingness to lie through wine stained teeth, anyone can make a sophisticated splash at a party, even if you did just show up for the booze.
I decided to face this problem head on and organize a wine tasting. Two of my friends are taking a wine tasting class and it was high time to put them to the test, while trying to learn some pointers along the way. The date was set, three wines were bought, and I was given official Wine and Spirit Education Trust Tasting Notepaper to get me started.
The first wine, a Chianti, looked delicious when poured into a glass. The first thing I learned is one way to sound particularly snooty was to judge a wine’s color. Was this red purple, ruby, garnet, or tawny? Was it clear or dull, its intensity pale, medium, or deep? I took a stab at it: “Jolly Rancher grape purple!” Their reply was quick, “No, it’s ruby. Chiantis are famous for being ruby.” Oh.
How about the aroma? (To sound like an expert, say “the nose”) A long sniff and I immediately identified my first smell, “grapes, lots of grapes.” Unfortunately for my untrained nose, this was the only thing that I could think of, and brought me stern glares from across the table.
My companions had better luck with the sniffing then I did. Black fruit, leather, earth, butter (factoid: this means it was aged in an oak barrel), raspberries, currents, mushrooms, and green peppers. All this from a glass of wine? You better believe it. I soon realized you can pretty much name some known wine scents and would usually be right. The power of suggestion is very strong here and if anyone says you’re wrong, just point out that what you eat can greatly change the taste and smell.
After the nose had been analyzed I was finally allowed to move onto the taste. Instead of gulping my glass, I was instructed to take small sips which I then chew for no more than three seconds, to taste the optimum amount of pure flavors in the wine. After all the subtle sniffing, my first taste hit me like a foot on a grape. The wine was amazingly bitter, so much so that my tongue started to feel like the fabled leather they had smelled earlier.
Here’s something to impress with at your next party: tannin and acidity are often confused, but there is a big difference. Tannin leaves your mouth dry and can be a good thing. Acidity makes you salivate and is a bad thing. I learned to remember this by asking myself a simple question: would I like being dropped into a vat of acid? Of course not, because acidity is the bad one.
There is also the question of the body. Now, stop thinking about curvy bottles because this means the thickness. Think about milk when judging: does it have the consistency of skim milk, whole milk, or something in between? I said two percent which they translated into snob worthy term: “medium minus.”
The longer finish a wine has, the better the quality. Unfortunately for my taste buds, this one lasted forever, but at least I wasn’t drinking slop. Food pairing? Dark red meat or a very strong cheese, anything to lessen the bitterness of my glass.
Many notes, an hour, and two wines later and I said this, “I’m getting some pineapple, maybe mixed with some floral hints.” It was then that I realized I was becoming one of them. Wine has a lot more to it than its color. The way it’s grown, the stress the vine is put under, even the trace it leaves on the glass can tell you a lot about how it will taste. I learned a lot that night, and while I now feel a little more confident about selecting a bottle of my own, I think the most valuable thing I learned is this: with a few vocabulary words, the ability to improvise some fragrances, and a willingness to lie through wine stained teeth, anyone can make a sophisticated splash at a party, even if you did just show up for the booze.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
The American - In Italia
I've gotten published in a magazine!
For a writing assignment on voice, we chose an author to parody and apply their style to our own Roma experience. I chose Salinger's style in The Catcher in the Rye and it got published by The American!
As of writing this entry, it can be found on the front page of their website, but here is a direct link:
http://www.theamericanmag.com/article.php?article=2372
For a writing assignment on voice, we chose an author to parody and apply their style to our own Roma experience. I chose Salinger's style in The Catcher in the Rye and it got published by The American!
As of writing this entry, it can be found on the front page of their website, but here is a direct link:
http://www.theamericanmag.com/article.php?article=2372
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
"Parlare Inglese?"
A peculiar thing happened today: a sassy old lady marched up to my friend Allie and I and confidentially said in the most American Italian I’ve ever heard, “parlare inglese?”
I was completely taken aback. Usually I am stopped on the street to be asked for directions, by other Italians, but this was the first time an American had stopped me. I felt like somehow she could’ve used some sort of American sense and known I was a fellow citizen. I had to stop myself from blurting out “of course!”
Having lived in Italy for a couple months now I’ve realized how much I really like being American. It really is so much a part of my identity and the delight I got from being mistaken for an Italian has faded to sadness, like an important part of my is being ignored. The disappointment (and sometimes disgust) I see on their faces, once I tell them (in Italian) that I’m American, is annoying.
This lady was one of the things I loved about America: old enough to be my grandma and the pluck and humor to keep her smiling in a country that looks down on her as a tourist more often than not. Just by looking at her you knew she would be fun to talk to with a sharp wit that’s always surprise great to discover within a sweet old lady. So when she asked me if I spoke English, it made me want to declare with pride “Yes! Yes I do!” and help her in every way humanly possible.
Unfortunately she wanted to locate a hotel, something I ignore regularly since I live in an apartment. We talked to her, trying to find some kind of hint that would point us in the right direction. Now it became more about the pride of living in Italy. I’m not a tourist! And yet I couldn’t give directions to a fellow American. So what am I?
I was completely taken aback. Usually I am stopped on the street to be asked for directions, by other Italians, but this was the first time an American had stopped me. I felt like somehow she could’ve used some sort of American sense and known I was a fellow citizen. I had to stop myself from blurting out “of course!”
Having lived in Italy for a couple months now I’ve realized how much I really like being American. It really is so much a part of my identity and the delight I got from being mistaken for an Italian has faded to sadness, like an important part of my is being ignored. The disappointment (and sometimes disgust) I see on their faces, once I tell them (in Italian) that I’m American, is annoying.
This lady was one of the things I loved about America: old enough to be my grandma and the pluck and humor to keep her smiling in a country that looks down on her as a tourist more often than not. Just by looking at her you knew she would be fun to talk to with a sharp wit that’s always surprise great to discover within a sweet old lady. So when she asked me if I spoke English, it made me want to declare with pride “Yes! Yes I do!” and help her in every way humanly possible.
Unfortunately she wanted to locate a hotel, something I ignore regularly since I live in an apartment. We talked to her, trying to find some kind of hint that would point us in the right direction. Now it became more about the pride of living in Italy. I’m not a tourist! And yet I couldn’t give directions to a fellow American. So what am I?
Kabab
Italians don’t eat a lot of meat. Italy is known for pasta and while many do contain meat, it’s mostly for flavor purposes and to screw with vegetarians. You can always opt for the second course, which is purely meat, but while it may be so delicious you could cry, there is only enough for a few tantalizing bites of heaven.
But there is a way to get your meat fix in Italy: doner kebabs. For about four euro you will get a burrito-type meal typically filled with two types of cabbage, lettuce, tomatoes, a white dairy herb sauce, and tons of delicious salty lamb, cut right off of a large rack of meat slowly turning on a spit. Other variations include adding a spicy red sauce, dried peppers, and anything else lying around the kitchen, served also on plates or in a panino.
These savory wraps can be found down small side streets and in lots of cafeterias in many piazzas, such as Piazza Barberini, where I sometimes go in between classes. It’s one of the few things you can order in Italy that will actually leave you satisfyingly full and I absolutely love them.
But there is a way to get your meat fix in Italy: doner kebabs. For about four euro you will get a burrito-type meal typically filled with two types of cabbage, lettuce, tomatoes, a white dairy herb sauce, and tons of delicious salty lamb, cut right off of a large rack of meat slowly turning on a spit. Other variations include adding a spicy red sauce, dried peppers, and anything else lying around the kitchen, served also on plates or in a panino.
These savory wraps can be found down small side streets and in lots of cafeterias in many piazzas, such as Piazza Barberini, where I sometimes go in between classes. It’s one of the few things you can order in Italy that will actually leave you satisfyingly full and I absolutely love them.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Cheap Wine
Italian wine, ah yes, Italian wine. Whole sections in tiny markets are dedicated to the stuff and for prices that put toothpaste and shampoo to shame. The first thing I learned about Rome is the prices. Sure I was warned about that Rome was an expensive city, but I’m from Los Angeles, expensive is what I’m used to! Unfortunately when people say expensive, they mean it. Six euro for Herbal Essence? Damn.
Luckily wine is cheap as dirt here. Whether it’s pride or value, I don’t care. I never really drank wine in America, but here it’s everywhere, and is occasionally cheaper than water when shared with others in a restaurant, plus tastes better, so bottoms up!
There is a wine class offered at my school, and while I chose other classed over it, I plan on working together with its students in the near future to write my food piece for Travel Writing. To prepare, I decided to buy a bottle of wine beforehand. Something that is the bottom of the barrel, so I would be able to have something to compare with when it actually comes time for the wine tasting this week. This task interestingly proved difficult as everything sounded fancy to me, an uneducated student of wine. I thus reverted to the thrift store at the metro stop on Re de Roma. Incidentally, this store has amazing deals on everything from eggs to laundry detergent, being the only place I’ve found decently priced peanuts (don’t even get me started on other variations of nuts). I did succeed in finding cheap wine, simply called “Rosso”, clever. Incidentally, I am also a little over tipsy having quickly downed three fourths of a bottle.
Lesson learned: cheap wine tastes cheap. In Italy, if you go to a thrift store, you will find thrift wine. This particular variety, described as “fresco e leggero” tastes like the $8 wine I tasted near my 21st birthday: not very good. However, this wine didn’t cost $8, if it did then it would be good, instead it cost a little over one euro, the same price as these tortilla chips I am eating right now, interestingly labeled “tortilla chip - naturale”, which are also interestingly almost gone now.
Wine analysis: At 10.5% alcohol this wine is good if you’re interested in alcohol, as the taste is sure to convince you to gulp it. The color is red, a normal red to my eyes. I detect aromas of leather and old grapes. It’s “legs” are hard to analyze, which is probably a bad sign. Tannin? I have no clue. It is very bitter though and goes very well with chocolate, which makes me forget about the wine. Hopefully I’ll learned more from my upcoming wine tasting.
Something to take away from this: don’t drink wine alone while writing an essay. You will find it helps, at first, but then leads to distraction. Also, there is no one to tell you to share with, and one sips always leads to another after a certain point of “tasting”.
Luckily wine is cheap as dirt here. Whether it’s pride or value, I don’t care. I never really drank wine in America, but here it’s everywhere, and is occasionally cheaper than water when shared with others in a restaurant, plus tastes better, so bottoms up!
There is a wine class offered at my school, and while I chose other classed over it, I plan on working together with its students in the near future to write my food piece for Travel Writing. To prepare, I decided to buy a bottle of wine beforehand. Something that is the bottom of the barrel, so I would be able to have something to compare with when it actually comes time for the wine tasting this week. This task interestingly proved difficult as everything sounded fancy to me, an uneducated student of wine. I thus reverted to the thrift store at the metro stop on Re de Roma. Incidentally, this store has amazing deals on everything from eggs to laundry detergent, being the only place I’ve found decently priced peanuts (don’t even get me started on other variations of nuts). I did succeed in finding cheap wine, simply called “Rosso”, clever. Incidentally, I am also a little over tipsy having quickly downed three fourths of a bottle.
Lesson learned: cheap wine tastes cheap. In Italy, if you go to a thrift store, you will find thrift wine. This particular variety, described as “fresco e leggero” tastes like the $8 wine I tasted near my 21st birthday: not very good. However, this wine didn’t cost $8, if it did then it would be good, instead it cost a little over one euro, the same price as these tortilla chips I am eating right now, interestingly labeled “tortilla chip - naturale”, which are also interestingly almost gone now.
Wine analysis: At 10.5% alcohol this wine is good if you’re interested in alcohol, as the taste is sure to convince you to gulp it. The color is red, a normal red to my eyes. I detect aromas of leather and old grapes. It’s “legs” are hard to analyze, which is probably a bad sign. Tannin? I have no clue. It is very bitter though and goes very well with chocolate, which makes me forget about the wine. Hopefully I’ll learned more from my upcoming wine tasting.
Something to take away from this: don’t drink wine alone while writing an essay. You will find it helps, at first, but then leads to distraction. Also, there is no one to tell you to share with, and one sips always leads to another after a certain point of “tasting”.
Stares
Don’t dance up stairs because you will fall. Especially don’t dance to yourself on the subway, skip past tired Italians heading for the escalators, and decide to take the stairs instead, because you will fall. And you won’t just fall, you will make a fairly impressive skip up and down a step and then trip your toe on said step and hurtle toward the ground, moved even faster by the momentum required for such a stunt. You will then be left with a stinging left palm and a right hand covered in who knows what. So don’t do this. Unless you don’t mind, of which I learned recently that I don’t.
Italians love to stare at each other all day and all night. On the metro, in a trattoria, at bus stops. They never stop ogling everyone around them. And they don’t just stare, they judge. They judged me when I mouthed the words to the song in my head. They judged me when I skipped past them, offending them by my inexhaustible energy. And they got great satisfaction when I finally met my end at the top of the stairs.
Interestingly though, I didn’t mind. I have just spent the last week thinking about Italy and Italians, and you know what? I don’t care! It used to bother me, I’d be stared into standing bored in the metro, waiting for my stop like the rest. There are rules to behavior, and if you break one, you offend everyone around you. For example, one of my teachers talked about her Italian boyfriend (she happens to be American) and how he came home one night deeply offended by a student of his. This student approached him after class one day to discuss something, asking for an extension on a paper or whatever, and he was wearing a hat. A hat! Indoors! Now I know it’s good manners to remove headwear when inside, my school banned hats on heads in classrooms, but to be offended by it? She emphasized that he didn’t just think this kid was ignorant of manners, but that he was personally offended by his headwear. So I think I’m safe in assuming that those penetrating glares directed at me are intended to be penetrating glares.
But today I did not give them that victory over me. Yes, I fell, and yes, I noticed very satisfied grins directed at my pain, but I was smiling too. Looking around me I noticed smiles quickly revert back to disapproving frowns once they saw my grin. I got up without a second down and continued dancing, skipping all the way to the second flight and out the door.
Italians love to stare at each other all day and all night. On the metro, in a trattoria, at bus stops. They never stop ogling everyone around them. And they don’t just stare, they judge. They judged me when I mouthed the words to the song in my head. They judged me when I skipped past them, offending them by my inexhaustible energy. And they got great satisfaction when I finally met my end at the top of the stairs.
Interestingly though, I didn’t mind. I have just spent the last week thinking about Italy and Italians, and you know what? I don’t care! It used to bother me, I’d be stared into standing bored in the metro, waiting for my stop like the rest. There are rules to behavior, and if you break one, you offend everyone around you. For example, one of my teachers talked about her Italian boyfriend (she happens to be American) and how he came home one night deeply offended by a student of his. This student approached him after class one day to discuss something, asking for an extension on a paper or whatever, and he was wearing a hat. A hat! Indoors! Now I know it’s good manners to remove headwear when inside, my school banned hats on heads in classrooms, but to be offended by it? She emphasized that he didn’t just think this kid was ignorant of manners, but that he was personally offended by his headwear. So I think I’m safe in assuming that those penetrating glares directed at me are intended to be penetrating glares.
But today I did not give them that victory over me. Yes, I fell, and yes, I noticed very satisfied grins directed at my pain, but I was smiling too. Looking around me I noticed smiles quickly revert back to disapproving frowns once they saw my grin. I got up without a second down and continued dancing, skipping all the way to the second flight and out the door.
Today's Response to Poetry
Two in class free writing responses to this poem: http://www.newyorker.com/fiction/poetry/2008/10/06/081006po_poem_warren
I like how she uses the word “serious”. “Serious cooking.” I don’t do “serious cooking,” and if I did it sure as hell wouldn’t be in the morning. Pour cereal, crack some eggs, whatever, just get some food in me. I don’t usually wake up early either, most of my breakfasts could properly be defined as “lunch”, but no, my real lunch will come later and my dinner is sometimes at ten. Mara (one of my roommates) gets on my case about it, “but it’s ten! You can’t eat dinner at ten!” Oh can’t I? You know my family is halfway across the globe experiencing the afternoon on the West Coast and don’t they exist just as we do? They are eating their lunch when it’s ten in Italy?! Gasp, how strange! And yet I’m hungry now and so I will eat now. Not at five, not six, I wasn’t hungry then, but now. And it probably won’t be serious cooking either.
Churches and cooking? Microwaved apostles? I don’t quite get it but maybe it’s because tympanums and so on make me think of things I learned in school, not walking by and experiencing them for the first time by seeing one. I guess that would change your view later in life and you could play with them more. I wish my lettuce was that pretty.
My personal food map (also made and shared in class):
I like how she uses the word “serious”. “Serious cooking.” I don’t do “serious cooking,” and if I did it sure as hell wouldn’t be in the morning. Pour cereal, crack some eggs, whatever, just get some food in me. I don’t usually wake up early either, most of my breakfasts could properly be defined as “lunch”, but no, my real lunch will come later and my dinner is sometimes at ten. Mara (one of my roommates) gets on my case about it, “but it’s ten! You can’t eat dinner at ten!” Oh can’t I? You know my family is halfway across the globe experiencing the afternoon on the West Coast and don’t they exist just as we do? They are eating their lunch when it’s ten in Italy?! Gasp, how strange! And yet I’m hungry now and so I will eat now. Not at five, not six, I wasn’t hungry then, but now. And it probably won’t be serious cooking either.
Churches and cooking? Microwaved apostles? I don’t quite get it but maybe it’s because tympanums and so on make me think of things I learned in school, not walking by and experiencing them for the first time by seeing one. I guess that would change your view later in life and you could play with them more. I wish my lettuce was that pretty.
My personal food map (also made and shared in class):
The Next Day
Saint Patrick’s Day isn’t celebrated much in Italy. Actually, it’s not celebrated at all past tourist themed events. Maybe that’s why I “celebrated” it this year. That, or I was pressured into joining my friends at a pub crawl. But let’s go with the first, it sounds better than elementary school peer pressure.
A pub crawl: an activity where you pay good money to hyperactive organizers so they will take you to various bars and clubs, beginning with a large establishment where they will give you as many drinks and pizza as your immature heart desires. After an hour of this, you will proceed to various other locations with the group only to be greeted with more free booze (this time shots) at each venue.
Responsible, I know.
But really it’s the next day I shall talk about. That morning, my head swimming, I left my friend’s apartment and turned the corner towards the metro, or what I thought was the corner towards the metro. Guess what? It wasn’t.
A half hour later and I began to catch on. A half hour had passed by because I naturally got distracted a couple times. First off, there is an enormous mercato filled with vendors and tables like at a flea market back home. Fish, luggage, wine, sewing kits, this place has it all and it is extremely fun to wander through, though after a couple minutes of turning corners I noticed everyone was craning their necks to stare at me. Some even walked out of their stands and said hello. It might have been the giant green eyeliner shamrock on my face, but you can never be too sure.
Mercatos are fantastic. People of every sort bustle through the lanes, it’s the fastest I’ve ever seen Italian grandmothers move. The air is filled with shouts to and fro, the smell of cappuccinos from an oddly placed café, and food being tossed to costumers, costumers who don’t always catch it. You must be agile here, you don’t know when a rogue potato might roll your way.
Finally leaving I noticed the happiest dog in the world skipping around his owner. His tail must have been going a hundred miles an hour. Dogs are widely accepted in Italy, even joining their companions inside restaurants at times. This dog decided he wanted desperately to go inside a butcher shop and when that didn’t work he decided a toddler clothes store was just as good. However, the lady resisted and dragged him onward.
This is about the time I nearly fell in a puddle, recovering quick enough to look up and see a street sign. One I didn’t know. I was thirsty and wanted to go in a supermarket. I had never seen one in this area before (near the Vatican) so I went down this unknown street. If it was unknown, it might have an unknown supermarket. There was. Today rocked!
I walked some more, realizing that I was probably lost, and looked up to see a building on a far mountain. An observatory? An observatory that resembled the mansion in Casper? How was I not informed about this? I want to visit it!
And then I almost got hit by a car. Rule of thumb, kiddos: always look where you’re walking. Another rule of thumb: traffic lights are only a suggestion to drivers in Italy, especially red.
An ancient lady with a better phone than I’ve ever owned laughed at me as she continued typing out a text. Calming down, I inspected my surroundings. Yup, I had become hopelessly lost and I sure wasn’t about to turn around. It was okay though, today was nice, the sun was shining (a rarity, oddly enough). All I had to do was head for the river. I kept repeating that in my head. Head for the river. If I found the river, I found my route to the metro, or home, it really depended on how far I had wandered as I was pushing an hour now.
I walked for what seemed like an eternity and this sudden adventure wasn’t so fun anymore once my feet started hurting. Seriously where was I? Apartments towered above me, higher then I had seen before. Empty schools appeared every once in a while, but large streets alluded me. I tried turning a corner only to come face to face with an old man chewing on his cell phone. Well that’s different. Suddenly two buttons pop off my coat and I scramble to retrieve them. I want to go home now.
Blocks of walking and an unknown amount of time later I found it: the glorious metro that shown out of the street like a beacon of hope. Fittingly it was outlined by St Peter’s in the distance and I swear I could hear angels singing. I scrambled down the stairs, shoved my monthly pass into the machine, and, for the first time in over a month, sat down in the metro.
A pub crawl: an activity where you pay good money to hyperactive organizers so they will take you to various bars and clubs, beginning with a large establishment where they will give you as many drinks and pizza as your immature heart desires. After an hour of this, you will proceed to various other locations with the group only to be greeted with more free booze (this time shots) at each venue.
Responsible, I know.
But really it’s the next day I shall talk about. That morning, my head swimming, I left my friend’s apartment and turned the corner towards the metro, or what I thought was the corner towards the metro. Guess what? It wasn’t.
A half hour later and I began to catch on. A half hour had passed by because I naturally got distracted a couple times. First off, there is an enormous mercato filled with vendors and tables like at a flea market back home. Fish, luggage, wine, sewing kits, this place has it all and it is extremely fun to wander through, though after a couple minutes of turning corners I noticed everyone was craning their necks to stare at me. Some even walked out of their stands and said hello. It might have been the giant green eyeliner shamrock on my face, but you can never be too sure.
Mercatos are fantastic. People of every sort bustle through the lanes, it’s the fastest I’ve ever seen Italian grandmothers move. The air is filled with shouts to and fro, the smell of cappuccinos from an oddly placed café, and food being tossed to costumers, costumers who don’t always catch it. You must be agile here, you don’t know when a rogue potato might roll your way.
Finally leaving I noticed the happiest dog in the world skipping around his owner. His tail must have been going a hundred miles an hour. Dogs are widely accepted in Italy, even joining their companions inside restaurants at times. This dog decided he wanted desperately to go inside a butcher shop and when that didn’t work he decided a toddler clothes store was just as good. However, the lady resisted and dragged him onward.
This is about the time I nearly fell in a puddle, recovering quick enough to look up and see a street sign. One I didn’t know. I was thirsty and wanted to go in a supermarket. I had never seen one in this area before (near the Vatican) so I went down this unknown street. If it was unknown, it might have an unknown supermarket. There was. Today rocked!
I walked some more, realizing that I was probably lost, and looked up to see a building on a far mountain. An observatory? An observatory that resembled the mansion in Casper? How was I not informed about this? I want to visit it!
And then I almost got hit by a car. Rule of thumb, kiddos: always look where you’re walking. Another rule of thumb: traffic lights are only a suggestion to drivers in Italy, especially red.
An ancient lady with a better phone than I’ve ever owned laughed at me as she continued typing out a text. Calming down, I inspected my surroundings. Yup, I had become hopelessly lost and I sure wasn’t about to turn around. It was okay though, today was nice, the sun was shining (a rarity, oddly enough). All I had to do was head for the river. I kept repeating that in my head. Head for the river. If I found the river, I found my route to the metro, or home, it really depended on how far I had wandered as I was pushing an hour now.
I walked for what seemed like an eternity and this sudden adventure wasn’t so fun anymore once my feet started hurting. Seriously where was I? Apartments towered above me, higher then I had seen before. Empty schools appeared every once in a while, but large streets alluded me. I tried turning a corner only to come face to face with an old man chewing on his cell phone. Well that’s different. Suddenly two buttons pop off my coat and I scramble to retrieve them. I want to go home now.
Blocks of walking and an unknown amount of time later I found it: the glorious metro that shown out of the street like a beacon of hope. Fittingly it was outlined by St Peter’s in the distance and I swear I could hear angels singing. I scrambled down the stairs, shoved my monthly pass into the machine, and, for the first time in over a month, sat down in the metro.
Midterm - Macabre Rome: A Cut Above the Rest
My first week in Rome was pleasant enough: puffy white clouds, songbirds in the morning, people smiling in the streets, and dozens of decaying human remains waiting to greet me in churches. In America, you are hard pressed to find a lifeless body on display anywhere outside of a morgue and even then you need a really good reason to see it. I was particularly interested in the heads: the most recognizable and psychological feature now just a mere object. I viewed many sites, but below you’ll only find the spots that were a head and shoulder above the rest.
Saint Valentine, Santa Maria in Cosmedin
I decided to visit this lovely saint’s decapitated cranium on Valentine’s Day, but was surprised to find the 4th century church nearly empty, even though a line wrapped around the building for pictures with its other famous attraction: La Bocca della Verità, or The Mouth of Truth. I guess some people have better things to do on the day of love than visit the dead.
Saint Valentine has got to be the tiniest head I have ever seen, living or departed. It seems at some point a creative monk thought it would be a good idea to shove some red roses on him, almost like Jesus’ crown of thorns. Poor Valentine sadly gazes out at his audience, completely embarrassed by this game of dress up. His missing tooth and jaw added to my pity for him, his golden display case resembling a gilded cage for this once rebelliously romantic saint.
John the Baptist, San Silvestro in Capite
Chopped off by order of King Herod Antipas after a night of drinking, the location of John the Baptist’s true head is claimed by seven places around the world. The church itself is enjoyable enough though, decorated in paintings of decapitations, assassinations, and suffering saints.
I found John in a blindingly white room off to the side and was terrified by what I saw. This particular head is mummified, with a black stone-like cloth tightly covering every inch of his skull and its tilt turning a missing jaw into a permanent scream. The glass case that covers him reflects a nearby red candle’s glow out from his eye sockets (at certain angles) and I was convinced those covered holes could still somehow see me. Where those floor to ceiling bars put there to keep us out, or John the Baptist in?
Santa Maria della Concezione dei Cappuccino
Feng shui meets the macabre in this church’s unique crypt. In 1631, to save space, bodies were exhumed and, for some unknown reason, put up on the walls instead of in containers. There are entire walls filled with skulls carefully stacked upon each other, creating sturdy columns, cute arches, and delightful centerpieces to pelvis star designs. Some even have the skin left on to help you lose your appetite that much easier.
My favorite room was made clear when I was reminded of the true purpose of an idle cranium: the classic skull and crossbones. This piratey design was found in several places throughout the third area of the crypt, adorning the walls above a few lucky (deceased) monks.
For such a dark theme, the monks really did a good job of keeping the place cheerful, with ribcage flowers, hipbone fans, countless vertebrae lining the walls, and a jolly message at the end “What you are now, we once were; what we are now, you shall be.”
David With The Head Of Goliath, Villa Borghese
The last stop on our dark tour of craniums is the master of light and dark himself: Caravaggio. He seemed to have a clear grasp of what an actual decapitated head looks like for this painting, making it the perfect end for those that get lightheaded when viewing the dead. In a twisted decision by a depressed artist, Caravaggio painted the head in his own likeness as David sadly looks on. This was a point in Caravaggio’s life when he was desperate to go back to Rome, the city he was exiled from for killing a man, a feeling shown in this somber painting.
This is only a small sampling of the captivatingly decapitated heads to be found in Rome. And whether your visit takes you to catacombs or crypts, you can always rest in peace knowing that if the dead become a bit overwhelming, your exit to the world of the living is always near.
Saint Valentine, Santa Maria in Cosmedin
I decided to visit this lovely saint’s decapitated cranium on Valentine’s Day, but was surprised to find the 4th century church nearly empty, even though a line wrapped around the building for pictures with its other famous attraction: La Bocca della Verità, or The Mouth of Truth. I guess some people have better things to do on the day of love than visit the dead.
Saint Valentine has got to be the tiniest head I have ever seen, living or departed. It seems at some point a creative monk thought it would be a good idea to shove some red roses on him, almost like Jesus’ crown of thorns. Poor Valentine sadly gazes out at his audience, completely embarrassed by this game of dress up. His missing tooth and jaw added to my pity for him, his golden display case resembling a gilded cage for this once rebelliously romantic saint.
John the Baptist, San Silvestro in Capite
Chopped off by order of King Herod Antipas after a night of drinking, the location of John the Baptist’s true head is claimed by seven places around the world. The church itself is enjoyable enough though, decorated in paintings of decapitations, assassinations, and suffering saints.
I found John in a blindingly white room off to the side and was terrified by what I saw. This particular head is mummified, with a black stone-like cloth tightly covering every inch of his skull and its tilt turning a missing jaw into a permanent scream. The glass case that covers him reflects a nearby red candle’s glow out from his eye sockets (at certain angles) and I was convinced those covered holes could still somehow see me. Where those floor to ceiling bars put there to keep us out, or John the Baptist in?
Santa Maria della Concezione dei Cappuccino
Feng shui meets the macabre in this church’s unique crypt. In 1631, to save space, bodies were exhumed and, for some unknown reason, put up on the walls instead of in containers. There are entire walls filled with skulls carefully stacked upon each other, creating sturdy columns, cute arches, and delightful centerpieces to pelvis star designs. Some even have the skin left on to help you lose your appetite that much easier.
My favorite room was made clear when I was reminded of the true purpose of an idle cranium: the classic skull and crossbones. This piratey design was found in several places throughout the third area of the crypt, adorning the walls above a few lucky (deceased) monks.
For such a dark theme, the monks really did a good job of keeping the place cheerful, with ribcage flowers, hipbone fans, countless vertebrae lining the walls, and a jolly message at the end “What you are now, we once were; what we are now, you shall be.”
David With The Head Of Goliath, Villa Borghese
The last stop on our dark tour of craniums is the master of light and dark himself: Caravaggio. He seemed to have a clear grasp of what an actual decapitated head looks like for this painting, making it the perfect end for those that get lightheaded when viewing the dead. In a twisted decision by a depressed artist, Caravaggio painted the head in his own likeness as David sadly looks on. This was a point in Caravaggio’s life when he was desperate to go back to Rome, the city he was exiled from for killing a man, a feeling shown in this somber painting.
This is only a small sampling of the captivatingly decapitated heads to be found in Rome. And whether your visit takes you to catacombs or crypts, you can always rest in peace knowing that if the dead become a bit overwhelming, your exit to the world of the living is always near.
A Writing Assignment - Roman (Budget) Holiday
Movies show a lot of unbelievable things: talking frogs, light saber battles, zombies, getting by in modern Rome with only $1.50? Now that’s unbelievable.
When Princess Ann, played by Audrey Hepburn, leaves Joe Bradley’s apartment, Gregory Peck, in Roman Holiday, he lends her 1,000 lire to get by with, telling her it’s worth only $1.50 American. The sheltered princess is dazzled by the energetic street life of Rome and decides to make some purchases. As a budget conscious student living in Rome, I was amazed (and jealous) at just how far her money went. A pair of sandals, a gelato, and a haircut later and she still had change in her pocket, though sadly not enough for a bunch of flowers.
Today in Rome $1.50 would translate to 1.12 euro, a far cry from the lire of 1953. While at best this could buy you an extremely small slick of pizza or two fresh oranges at the supermarket, let’s be more realistic. Due to inflation $1.50 in 1953 is actually $11.74 in 2010. Italy has since turned to the euro, meaning a modern day Princess Ann would be traveling with about 8.70 euro in all, still not enough for her mini shopping spree.
So how can the average budget minded individual shop in Rome without help from Hollywood royalty? Well assuming you’ve found an apartment to sleep in, as Princess Ann has, you’ll still be needing food. Italy is famous for its culinary prowess but after seeing a menu you just might lose your appetite. The trick is to look for small restaurants with a simple look about them. Rule of thumb: the nicer the interior, the higher the bill. Wander through the streets of Rome, it’s a beautiful city and looking is free. Eventually you’ll walk by a cozy hole in the wall eatery that will serve up some delicious pasta at a price you’ll eat right up. Of course, if you’re aiming at sustenance instead of gourmet, there is always the supermarket. Expect to see bigger price differences than in America: a can of soda can cost fifty cents compared to three euro at a restaurant or café.
Princess Ann’s stylish shoes from a street vendor can also be yours if you know where to look. Take a note from the movie and walk right by the expensive stores to outdoor markets like in San Giovanni, conveniently located next to a metro stop if you don’t like walking. In the neighborhood by the ancient Catholic basilica there is a daily market (closed Sundays) open from around eight in the morning to two in the afternoon outside of the park on Via Sannio. Here you can find everything from shoes to luggage and also enjoy the unforgettable experience of haggling with someone who may or may not know English. Interestingly this worked to my advantage when I was able to buy sunglasses at a third of the original price because my confused stare was taken for cool determination.
Last out of Ann’s list was exchanging her long locks for a swanky new haircut. While I am told the average price for a normal haircut in Rome is about fifteen euro, I have never had my capelli styled while abroad. Maybe one day when I’m more confident in my language abilities. But for the more adventurous types I’ve heard that all salons, large and small, have a good sense of pride in their work, hopefully eliminating the chance of the dreaded crooked cut from budget salons in America, something Princess Ann’s barber wouldn’t dream of doing. Rome is a very stylish city, so it could be worth it to update your ‘do while taking a moment to rest inside, though this will instantly put you over the coveted Princess Ann budget.
Luckily many things to do in Rome are free and just walking through the city can be visually rewarding. While things are extraordinarily more expensive now, there is a lot the movie world of Roman Holiday can teach us. Princess Ann experiences Rome as only a local could, immersing herself in a Roman world filled with cafes and Vespas, a pleasurable change from the hurried life of an average tourist. And while a vendor would probably never part with a flower for free, the people, the famous sites, and the energy present throughout is enough to leave you feeling overwhelmingly happy by the end of the day.
When Princess Ann, played by Audrey Hepburn, leaves Joe Bradley’s apartment, Gregory Peck, in Roman Holiday, he lends her 1,000 lire to get by with, telling her it’s worth only $1.50 American. The sheltered princess is dazzled by the energetic street life of Rome and decides to make some purchases. As a budget conscious student living in Rome, I was amazed (and jealous) at just how far her money went. A pair of sandals, a gelato, and a haircut later and she still had change in her pocket, though sadly not enough for a bunch of flowers.
Today in Rome $1.50 would translate to 1.12 euro, a far cry from the lire of 1953. While at best this could buy you an extremely small slick of pizza or two fresh oranges at the supermarket, let’s be more realistic. Due to inflation $1.50 in 1953 is actually $11.74 in 2010. Italy has since turned to the euro, meaning a modern day Princess Ann would be traveling with about 8.70 euro in all, still not enough for her mini shopping spree.
So how can the average budget minded individual shop in Rome without help from Hollywood royalty? Well assuming you’ve found an apartment to sleep in, as Princess Ann has, you’ll still be needing food. Italy is famous for its culinary prowess but after seeing a menu you just might lose your appetite. The trick is to look for small restaurants with a simple look about them. Rule of thumb: the nicer the interior, the higher the bill. Wander through the streets of Rome, it’s a beautiful city and looking is free. Eventually you’ll walk by a cozy hole in the wall eatery that will serve up some delicious pasta at a price you’ll eat right up. Of course, if you’re aiming at sustenance instead of gourmet, there is always the supermarket. Expect to see bigger price differences than in America: a can of soda can cost fifty cents compared to three euro at a restaurant or café.
Princess Ann’s stylish shoes from a street vendor can also be yours if you know where to look. Take a note from the movie and walk right by the expensive stores to outdoor markets like in San Giovanni, conveniently located next to a metro stop if you don’t like walking. In the neighborhood by the ancient Catholic basilica there is a daily market (closed Sundays) open from around eight in the morning to two in the afternoon outside of the park on Via Sannio. Here you can find everything from shoes to luggage and also enjoy the unforgettable experience of haggling with someone who may or may not know English. Interestingly this worked to my advantage when I was able to buy sunglasses at a third of the original price because my confused stare was taken for cool determination.
Last out of Ann’s list was exchanging her long locks for a swanky new haircut. While I am told the average price for a normal haircut in Rome is about fifteen euro, I have never had my capelli styled while abroad. Maybe one day when I’m more confident in my language abilities. But for the more adventurous types I’ve heard that all salons, large and small, have a good sense of pride in their work, hopefully eliminating the chance of the dreaded crooked cut from budget salons in America, something Princess Ann’s barber wouldn’t dream of doing. Rome is a very stylish city, so it could be worth it to update your ‘do while taking a moment to rest inside, though this will instantly put you over the coveted Princess Ann budget.
Luckily many things to do in Rome are free and just walking through the city can be visually rewarding. While things are extraordinarily more expensive now, there is a lot the movie world of Roman Holiday can teach us. Princess Ann experiences Rome as only a local could, immersing herself in a Roman world filled with cafes and Vespas, a pleasurable change from the hurried life of an average tourist. And while a vendor would probably never part with a flower for free, the people, the famous sites, and the energy present throughout is enough to leave you feeling overwhelmingly happy by the end of the day.
A Writing Assignment - Acting Silly In Portugal
You ever say a word or sentence and instantly know you’ve said something stupid? The moment of realization is always a millisecond too late, as everyone is suddenly paying attention, and everyone catches and repeats the unfortunate remark.
I usually think before I speak, but when asked if I wanted to travel for Spring Break my mouth blurted out “yes!” The last trip I had was to Boston, with my constant companion: homework. I’ve never had a trip where I didn’t bring along the extra baggage of a to-do list, and I desperately needed one.
I didn’t leave Portugal with a deeper understanding of something. I didn’t learn anything, I didn’t see connections, and I didn’t gain insight into myself. I had the first ever break in my life, and it was fun.
Three of us journeyed together to Cascais, Portugal, where we spent about a week relaxing and doing nothing, saying and doing whatever popped into our mind.
“Sinestra.”
Actually it’s Sintra, but that didn’t stop me from incorrectly asking baffled locals about it. By the time I got the actual name down, my friends made sure confuse me again.
Sintra is a historic wonderland of castles and shops, but what interested me most was Quinta da Regalerira, an estate created by an eccentric millionaire in the late 1800’s. It turned out he basically created a Discovery Zone for adults complete with a secret laboratory, trick mirror floors, and underground tunnels in the maze-like park. We were little kids again: scaring each other, searching for caves, climbing up medieval-looking towers. By the time we saw everything here it was well past closing time and we had to head back down to Cascais, the foreboding Moore Castle on the top of the mountain would have to wait for another trip.
“Do They Shoot Each Other?”
My friend Maggie posed this question while we watched a sporting event on television. Skiers raced cross country while stopping to shoot targets, and unfortunately Maggie thought targets might have a more menacing definition than a bullseye.
Television took up a lot of my time in Portugal. Comfy beds mixed with a plasma television tuned to American broadcasts were the perfect recipe for many lazily spent hours as the Cascais weather turned sour. Early on it was realized that this was not a vacation to be spent running from place to place, we chose the beach because we wanted relaxation, and as long as the stress of studying abroad in Rome was forgotten, the trip was a success. Silent hours, talkative ones, even hours spent snacking on groceries instead of eating out, the hotel room became a sanctuary we could return to at any time without the guilt of missing some must-see attraction.
“I Thought There Was a Roller Coaster.”
Having gone the whole week without a memorable verbal error, Allie joined the ranks while looking through a pamphlet at a Lisbon hostel. The three musketeers were now down to two as we spent our last night in a new city. The pamphlet in question was about Go Cars, a fantastic way to announce to the world you were a tourist, and the cover featured a giant city-wide roller coast that my friend momentarily took for real.
We wanted to be tourists. We wanted to see the sights. And we wanted a talking Go Car. Luckily, all three dreams came true in the form of a bright yellow three wheeled scooter/car that I had to sign my life away to obtain after I chose to not purchase the auto insurance. The appeal is its internal GPS that triggers recordings telling you where to turn and the history behind what you are seeing. An hour or so after angering our car with wrong turns, we received the silent treatment from her after her wiring came loose. Either way, it was well worth the money to speed through Lisbon at half the height of the cars surrounding me.
Now I’m back in Rome. This morning I woke up in Lisbon at seven o’clock, went from taxi to plane to bus to metro to elevator, and hauled my luggage back into my room to unpack, learning just how unfortunate it is to combine European daylight savings time with a Portugal to Italy time zone difference. I thought about my Spring Break all the way back to Rome, trying to find some hidden jewel or life changing message behind everything I’ve done in the past week, but the first thing I keep thinking about is all the fun I had talking, listening, and goofing around with my American friends in Portugal.
I usually think before I speak, but when asked if I wanted to travel for Spring Break my mouth blurted out “yes!” The last trip I had was to Boston, with my constant companion: homework. I’ve never had a trip where I didn’t bring along the extra baggage of a to-do list, and I desperately needed one.
I didn’t leave Portugal with a deeper understanding of something. I didn’t learn anything, I didn’t see connections, and I didn’t gain insight into myself. I had the first ever break in my life, and it was fun.
Three of us journeyed together to Cascais, Portugal, where we spent about a week relaxing and doing nothing, saying and doing whatever popped into our mind.
“Sinestra.”
Actually it’s Sintra, but that didn’t stop me from incorrectly asking baffled locals about it. By the time I got the actual name down, my friends made sure confuse me again.
Sintra is a historic wonderland of castles and shops, but what interested me most was Quinta da Regalerira, an estate created by an eccentric millionaire in the late 1800’s. It turned out he basically created a Discovery Zone for adults complete with a secret laboratory, trick mirror floors, and underground tunnels in the maze-like park. We were little kids again: scaring each other, searching for caves, climbing up medieval-looking towers. By the time we saw everything here it was well past closing time and we had to head back down to Cascais, the foreboding Moore Castle on the top of the mountain would have to wait for another trip.
“Do They Shoot Each Other?”
My friend Maggie posed this question while we watched a sporting event on television. Skiers raced cross country while stopping to shoot targets, and unfortunately Maggie thought targets might have a more menacing definition than a bullseye.
Television took up a lot of my time in Portugal. Comfy beds mixed with a plasma television tuned to American broadcasts were the perfect recipe for many lazily spent hours as the Cascais weather turned sour. Early on it was realized that this was not a vacation to be spent running from place to place, we chose the beach because we wanted relaxation, and as long as the stress of studying abroad in Rome was forgotten, the trip was a success. Silent hours, talkative ones, even hours spent snacking on groceries instead of eating out, the hotel room became a sanctuary we could return to at any time without the guilt of missing some must-see attraction.
“I Thought There Was a Roller Coaster.”
Having gone the whole week without a memorable verbal error, Allie joined the ranks while looking through a pamphlet at a Lisbon hostel. The three musketeers were now down to two as we spent our last night in a new city. The pamphlet in question was about Go Cars, a fantastic way to announce to the world you were a tourist, and the cover featured a giant city-wide roller coast that my friend momentarily took for real.
We wanted to be tourists. We wanted to see the sights. And we wanted a talking Go Car. Luckily, all three dreams came true in the form of a bright yellow three wheeled scooter/car that I had to sign my life away to obtain after I chose to not purchase the auto insurance. The appeal is its internal GPS that triggers recordings telling you where to turn and the history behind what you are seeing. An hour or so after angering our car with wrong turns, we received the silent treatment from her after her wiring came loose. Either way, it was well worth the money to speed through Lisbon at half the height of the cars surrounding me.
Now I’m back in Rome. This morning I woke up in Lisbon at seven o’clock, went from taxi to plane to bus to metro to elevator, and hauled my luggage back into my room to unpack, learning just how unfortunate it is to combine European daylight savings time with a Portugal to Italy time zone difference. I thought about my Spring Break all the way back to Rome, trying to find some hidden jewel or life changing message behind everything I’ve done in the past week, but the first thing I keep thinking about is all the fun I had talking, listening, and goofing around with my American friends in Portugal.
A Writing Assignment (aka homework) - Wandering
Walking through Rome is always a tale of discovery. The roads twist and turn with the flow of the city, losing you in its comforting maze until suddenly it opens up and you are awestruck, faced with a bright piazza containing some grand fountain. This could never happen in the United States. This couldn’t happen anywhere else in Europe. Only in Rome do the streets suck you in and lose you, hiding its treasures within a labyrinth of city life.
Most of the days I’ve been here have been gloomy and full of rain, until suddenly, at the end of February, the clouds opened up and warm breeze brought out the people of Rome. It was amazing to see how quick a city could change: windows opened, clotheslines were filled, and every eatery was empty as people opted to eat outside in the sun. I had wandered through Rome before, feeling a little like a tourist my first two weeks as every monument and fountain surprised and delighted me, though I couldn’t help but panic a little when I somehow saw the Pantheon three times on the way home.
Thankfully now I can walk a little slower through the streets, vaguely knowing which way my apartment is and becoming familiar with the main roads. Each landmark is a polite reminder of the area I’m in, telling me which way I need to go if I’m lost, or where not to turn if I feel like exploring a little more.
I always prefer to take side streets over the larger roads when I’m not in a hurry. Crowds there are quick, having no interest in their stunning surroundings, but keeping their goal in mind as they charge at you. People don’t stay to a certain side and they always have more of a right to the path then you do, playing a game of chicken as a group walks straight at you till you are forced to jump off the sidewalk, narrowly missing a speeding car.
And the city changes throughout the day too. A nice stroll in the morning is the ideal time to see the ancient landmarks of the city. As you walk down Via dei Fori Imperiali the area is practically deserted and people are even able to jog in the streets. The sun basks everything in an orange glow making even the ordinary beautiful. On the weekend the silence is only broken by a few birds or a car slowly driving by while the city sleeps in.
The middle of the day brings out all the tourists, crowding areas as Romans push past the stationary people studying maps. This is the best time to visit the countless churches of the city. It is always a relief to walk into one as the cool darkness covers you and the chaos of the city is shut out the moment the door closes. These are proud places, each one adorned with beautiful sculptures and paintings, sacred relics hidden away in niches and a grand nave and apse designed to take the breath away of everyone who enters, religious or not. Even if I have a destination in mind, it’s always nice to step inside for a moment to relax when the crowds and twisting streets become too much.
At night quiet piazzas turn into noisy hangouts as people crowd areas like Trastevere, populating hip bars and cozy restaurants and crowding the streets as they yell across to one another and vendors fight to sell their wares. As I walk through the brisk night air the warm smell of roasted chestnuts on every corner near Spagna reminds me of Christmas songs and suddenly the vendors seem so out of place without snow. A nighttime stroll becomes more about the people as light allows darkness to fade away the tops of buildings and statues and chooses instead to illuminate a person twirling in the distance.
It’s easy to lose track of time when walking through Rome. The constant changes keep your interest as a street you’ve been to earlier in the day is transformed when you find it again. It’s fascinating but exhausting, and by the time night falls you realize just how badly your feet hurt from the uneven cobblestone. It’s only then that I realize I should start heading back to the predictability of my apartment, as I see Basilica di San Giovanni in Laterano in the distance, the last reminder that I’m on my way home.
Most of the days I’ve been here have been gloomy and full of rain, until suddenly, at the end of February, the clouds opened up and warm breeze brought out the people of Rome. It was amazing to see how quick a city could change: windows opened, clotheslines were filled, and every eatery was empty as people opted to eat outside in the sun. I had wandered through Rome before, feeling a little like a tourist my first two weeks as every monument and fountain surprised and delighted me, though I couldn’t help but panic a little when I somehow saw the Pantheon three times on the way home.
Thankfully now I can walk a little slower through the streets, vaguely knowing which way my apartment is and becoming familiar with the main roads. Each landmark is a polite reminder of the area I’m in, telling me which way I need to go if I’m lost, or where not to turn if I feel like exploring a little more.
I always prefer to take side streets over the larger roads when I’m not in a hurry. Crowds there are quick, having no interest in their stunning surroundings, but keeping their goal in mind as they charge at you. People don’t stay to a certain side and they always have more of a right to the path then you do, playing a game of chicken as a group walks straight at you till you are forced to jump off the sidewalk, narrowly missing a speeding car.
And the city changes throughout the day too. A nice stroll in the morning is the ideal time to see the ancient landmarks of the city. As you walk down Via dei Fori Imperiali the area is practically deserted and people are even able to jog in the streets. The sun basks everything in an orange glow making even the ordinary beautiful. On the weekend the silence is only broken by a few birds or a car slowly driving by while the city sleeps in.
The middle of the day brings out all the tourists, crowding areas as Romans push past the stationary people studying maps. This is the best time to visit the countless churches of the city. It is always a relief to walk into one as the cool darkness covers you and the chaos of the city is shut out the moment the door closes. These are proud places, each one adorned with beautiful sculptures and paintings, sacred relics hidden away in niches and a grand nave and apse designed to take the breath away of everyone who enters, religious or not. Even if I have a destination in mind, it’s always nice to step inside for a moment to relax when the crowds and twisting streets become too much.
At night quiet piazzas turn into noisy hangouts as people crowd areas like Trastevere, populating hip bars and cozy restaurants and crowding the streets as they yell across to one another and vendors fight to sell their wares. As I walk through the brisk night air the warm smell of roasted chestnuts on every corner near Spagna reminds me of Christmas songs and suddenly the vendors seem so out of place without snow. A nighttime stroll becomes more about the people as light allows darkness to fade away the tops of buildings and statues and chooses instead to illuminate a person twirling in the distance.
It’s easy to lose track of time when walking through Rome. The constant changes keep your interest as a street you’ve been to earlier in the day is transformed when you find it again. It’s fascinating but exhausting, and by the time night falls you realize just how badly your feet hurt from the uneven cobblestone. It’s only then that I realize I should start heading back to the predictability of my apartment, as I see Basilica di San Giovanni in Laterano in the distance, the last reminder that I’m on my way home.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Today I Saw The Pope/Why Nuns Hate Me
Today I went to Holy Thursday Mass for the last supper lead by Pope Benedict XVI as a part of Holy Week. It was held across the street from my apartment in San Giovanni in Lateran. Now, I’m not a religious person and I’ve never followed the Catholic faith except for educational purposes in high school. I’m agnostic, because you never can be too sure about the world, but if there is a god, I certainly don’t believe in all the ceremonious aspects of worship for it.
However, the point is, I heard the Pope was comin’ and I wanted to go.
The group I was going with decided it was best to go and wait around three, since it started at five thirty. Sounded smart, right? Wrong. Ends up we weren’t getting past the guards unless we had tickets. A kindly gentleman informed us he got his three months ago, and there was no chance we were getting in. However, we could try the American tourist office, but they probably wouldn’t have any left either.
Game plan: I rushed back to the apartment to make some calls to the Vatican and Google the tourist office while the rest questioned the crowd for extra tickets.
Result: there is no such thing as an American tourist office in Rome and the Vatican doesn’t like answering their phone, or advertising the fact that you actually need tickets for today’s mass on their webpage. Luckily, the rest had more luck. After a nun changed her mind about giving them her extra tickets, a lady with stacks of tickets in her hands gave us seven, the perfect amount to get us all in.
Now, it is a well known fact that the Italians don’t believe in lines. They are aware of them, and draw pictures of people lining up nicely in their language books, but they never practice the idea. This meant that getting into San Giovanni was harder then getting to the front of a mosh pit and the people were certainly meaner, going so far as to push tiny nuns out of the way. But somehow we made it inside, and after more pushing and shoving, managed to get seats in the center section of the church. We were all split up, as a priest picked people out of the crowd and showed them to open spots. I was placed next to a group of nuns and priests-in-training all the way in the back of the basilica. Lovely.
I’ve never been to mass. I also can’t read Italian. I found out later that at some point the Pope said all Catholics are called upon a “constant examination of conscience”, which was his indirect way of mentioning the recent church scandals. But other than that I had absolutely no clue what was going on and the guide booklet they gave me was absolutely no help at all.
A Confused Guide to Mass:
Did you know there was a choir? Yes, apparently they are hidden very well from your vision behind a column, so be prepared to freak out as haunting music suddenly fills the basilica. All the words are in the guide booklet, but you won’t know that until the nun elbows you in the ribs. Be prepared to sing along when the red letters say “L’assemblea ripete” or the nuns will become more focused on you than the Mass.
Singing, chanting, singing, talking, singing, chanting, talking, singing, stand up, sit down, stand up, sit down. This goes on for a while, maybe an hour, until the Pope decides it’s time to speak up. Unfortunately whatever it is he says will fall on deaf ears because it’s not translated and isn’t even in the guide booklet. It must have been good though, because people begin shuffling around in their seats, forming the cross on themselves, and looking to the heavens passionately. Good for you Pope, way to rock it.
Suddenly everyone gets to their knees and you follow suit. It’s time for prayer, so rest your hands on the chair in front of you, tilt your head ever so slightly down, and utilize the time to get a good look at the church and the cardinals, as this is the only time that tall guy in front of you is shorter.
What’s this? Greek? Yup, just when some of the Latin starts to make sense they decide to switch it up a little, keeping you on your toes. Cue fantasizing about being a badass secret agent in Rome. And now for a new trick: English! Yup, suddenly English pours out of the speakers explaining that the collection is going around and that the Pope asks it to be donated to rebuilding a church in Haiti. A long silence passes as the collected envelopes are presented to him. Happily, Mass continues on, this time with a complicated dance of a group of priests switching places at the podium to say a very short paragraph in their native language.
English: For all Priests, ministers of Christ the teacher, priest, and pastor: that, by their service, they might build up the People of God, which is the Church, into a holy temple of the Spirit.
It’s said in an Irish accent, and I’m not quite sure what he meant by it, but it was very relieving to understand words for once.
We go back to our old routine of chanting, talking, and singing, with some shuffling of the Vatican crew every once in a while for some reason. At one point the Pope walks to twelve priests, ceremoniously washing their feet, probably as a sign of humility or something to do with the last supper.
until we come to Communion, which you have totally forgotten exists. Old men dressed in white shuffle down the fenced off center aisle to give the entire audience a wafer. What does it taste like? Should you get one? No, that wouldn’t be a good idea, you’re not Catholic, so just calmly sit down and---woa! Apparently that nun next to you doesn’t think that’s a good idea and she certainly won’t take the whole “seriously, I’m NOT Christian” excuse for an answer. She shoves you right up to the front and pushes you till you open your mouth, glaring back at her. The priest asks a question involving Jesus and puts the wafer in your mouth, wait, did you just accept Jesus or something? That doesn’t matter right now, because the wafer tastes god awful! Swallow it quick as you stumble back to your chair.
The chorus starts up again followed by more prayer. Note: NEVER wear a dress and tights to Mass. The floor is marble and so is freezing and hard on the knees. It’s okay to give up at some point though, because the next prayer is two pages long and your reputation with the nuns can’t get much worse.
Bells ring out for a good five minutes. It’s hard to tell what to do here, or what it all means as everyone is staring ahead, stoic.
Finally, the assembly up front rises as a golden cross is carried forth. They form a line and follow it down the steps and to a room at the far left. You’re supposed to be singing during this, but barely anyone is as a massive scramble for cellphones and cameras ensues. Don’t worry, you’ll know that tiny blur amongst the crowd in your picture was the Pope. Besides, who needs clear close photography when there is Photoshop?
People begin to leave and half is nearly out the door when the procession appears again, heading to the door on the right. Luckily you’ve figured out enough Italian to read the part of the guide booklet informing you of this maneuver and have moved forward in the church to get a good look. Ends up the popester is a rather short fellow though, but at least you got a good look at the random golden umbrella that oddly follows him around. Success.
However, the point is, I heard the Pope was comin’ and I wanted to go.
The group I was going with decided it was best to go and wait around three, since it started at five thirty. Sounded smart, right? Wrong. Ends up we weren’t getting past the guards unless we had tickets. A kindly gentleman informed us he got his three months ago, and there was no chance we were getting in. However, we could try the American tourist office, but they probably wouldn’t have any left either.
Game plan: I rushed back to the apartment to make some calls to the Vatican and Google the tourist office while the rest questioned the crowd for extra tickets.
Result: there is no such thing as an American tourist office in Rome and the Vatican doesn’t like answering their phone, or advertising the fact that you actually need tickets for today’s mass on their webpage. Luckily, the rest had more luck. After a nun changed her mind about giving them her extra tickets, a lady with stacks of tickets in her hands gave us seven, the perfect amount to get us all in.
Now, it is a well known fact that the Italians don’t believe in lines. They are aware of them, and draw pictures of people lining up nicely in their language books, but they never practice the idea. This meant that getting into San Giovanni was harder then getting to the front of a mosh pit and the people were certainly meaner, going so far as to push tiny nuns out of the way. But somehow we made it inside, and after more pushing and shoving, managed to get seats in the center section of the church. We were all split up, as a priest picked people out of the crowd and showed them to open spots. I was placed next to a group of nuns and priests-in-training all the way in the back of the basilica. Lovely.
I’ve never been to mass. I also can’t read Italian. I found out later that at some point the Pope said all Catholics are called upon a “constant examination of conscience”, which was his indirect way of mentioning the recent church scandals. But other than that I had absolutely no clue what was going on and the guide booklet they gave me was absolutely no help at all.
A Confused Guide to Mass:
Did you know there was a choir? Yes, apparently they are hidden very well from your vision behind a column, so be prepared to freak out as haunting music suddenly fills the basilica. All the words are in the guide booklet, but you won’t know that until the nun elbows you in the ribs. Be prepared to sing along when the red letters say “L’assemblea ripete” or the nuns will become more focused on you than the Mass.
Singing, chanting, singing, talking, singing, chanting, talking, singing, stand up, sit down, stand up, sit down. This goes on for a while, maybe an hour, until the Pope decides it’s time to speak up. Unfortunately whatever it is he says will fall on deaf ears because it’s not translated and isn’t even in the guide booklet. It must have been good though, because people begin shuffling around in their seats, forming the cross on themselves, and looking to the heavens passionately. Good for you Pope, way to rock it.
Suddenly everyone gets to their knees and you follow suit. It’s time for prayer, so rest your hands on the chair in front of you, tilt your head ever so slightly down, and utilize the time to get a good look at the church and the cardinals, as this is the only time that tall guy in front of you is shorter.
What’s this? Greek? Yup, just when some of the Latin starts to make sense they decide to switch it up a little, keeping you on your toes. Cue fantasizing about being a badass secret agent in Rome. And now for a new trick: English! Yup, suddenly English pours out of the speakers explaining that the collection is going around and that the Pope asks it to be donated to rebuilding a church in Haiti. A long silence passes as the collected envelopes are presented to him. Happily, Mass continues on, this time with a complicated dance of a group of priests switching places at the podium to say a very short paragraph in their native language.
English: For all Priests, ministers of Christ the teacher, priest, and pastor: that, by their service, they might build up the People of God, which is the Church, into a holy temple of the Spirit.
It’s said in an Irish accent, and I’m not quite sure what he meant by it, but it was very relieving to understand words for once.
We go back to our old routine of chanting, talking, and singing, with some shuffling of the Vatican crew every once in a while for some reason. At one point the Pope walks to twelve priests, ceremoniously washing their feet, probably as a sign of humility or something to do with the last supper.
until we come to Communion, which you have totally forgotten exists. Old men dressed in white shuffle down the fenced off center aisle to give the entire audience a wafer. What does it taste like? Should you get one? No, that wouldn’t be a good idea, you’re not Catholic, so just calmly sit down and---woa! Apparently that nun next to you doesn’t think that’s a good idea and she certainly won’t take the whole “seriously, I’m NOT Christian” excuse for an answer. She shoves you right up to the front and pushes you till you open your mouth, glaring back at her. The priest asks a question involving Jesus and puts the wafer in your mouth, wait, did you just accept Jesus or something? That doesn’t matter right now, because the wafer tastes god awful! Swallow it quick as you stumble back to your chair.
The chorus starts up again followed by more prayer. Note: NEVER wear a dress and tights to Mass. The floor is marble and so is freezing and hard on the knees. It’s okay to give up at some point though, because the next prayer is two pages long and your reputation with the nuns can’t get much worse.
Bells ring out for a good five minutes. It’s hard to tell what to do here, or what it all means as everyone is staring ahead, stoic.
Finally, the assembly up front rises as a golden cross is carried forth. They form a line and follow it down the steps and to a room at the far left. You’re supposed to be singing during this, but barely anyone is as a massive scramble for cellphones and cameras ensues. Don’t worry, you’ll know that tiny blur amongst the crowd in your picture was the Pope. Besides, who needs clear close photography when there is Photoshop?
People begin to leave and half is nearly out the door when the procession appears again, heading to the door on the right. Luckily you’ve figured out enough Italian to read the part of the guide booklet informing you of this maneuver and have moved forward in the church to get a good look. Ends up the popester is a rather short fellow though, but at least you got a good look at the random golden umbrella that oddly follows him around. Success.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Evening Exploration
It was near the end of the day when I heard the music. Drifting through the closed windows in the back of my apartment was a haunting yet jazzy melody. I’ve heard this same tune before, but never figured out where it was coming from. I went out onto the balcony and listened. It was loud, filling up all the space between apartment buildings and coming from the south. I went to the front of my apartment and threw open the windows. Nothing. Not a single sound besides the cars driving by could be heard. How could something so loud on one side not reach the other, two rooms and a hallway away?
This was the day to finally investigate. I had shut myself in all day working and now I would discover the origin of the mysterious music I heard weekly. Maybe it was a band playing at a cool club. Maybe it was a weekly open air concert at a park. Maybe it was a traveling guitarist, roaming the streets in search of fans. Whatever it was, I’ve heard it for over two straight months and I had to know.
The night was clear and warm, something that had become rare during my stay here. I followed the street toward the closest point to the music I now wasn’t hearing, but no matter where I walked, I couldn’t hear it. Could the apartments be that good at blocking noise? Frustrated, I decided to just continue my walk, going down a street I had neglected these past weeks.
Restaurants, cafés, patisseries, all empty. Waiters sat outside smoking, watching me walk by. No one was on the street at all. I checked the time: 7:05 on a Sunday night.
Continuing my walk down I began to think I was on some sort of highway. There were green signs posted every once in a while telling me the direction of large Italian cities. Suddenly, the buildings stopped and fenced in field started. I looked through the bars and was shocked to see a lit castle-like structure, complete with tall circular guard posts, which I immediately hurried towards. Through twisting streets and renaissance buildings I finally reached the structure and realized it was actually a wall, the same wall by my apartment, and inside was a park, Parco degli Scipioni.
Somewhat disappointed and somewhat delighted about how common antiquity was in Rome, I decided to venture down another nearby street, turning this way and that before soon realizing I was lost. Damn. As it was the midpoint in the term I was really getting annoyed at how often I could get lost. I thought about the path I took but was still utterly confused, and so I chose a direction and stuck with it. Ten minutes later I noticed a leaf covered sign: Napoli. Highway? I live next to a highway type thing! And thus, five minutes later, I was saved.
It’s weird how much a place can change in about an hour. At 8:35 the streets were filled, the restaurants had lines, and light flooded the area. I walked back to my street by the park and faintly heard a jazzy tune drifting down to the street, out of a bedroom window above.
This was the day to finally investigate. I had shut myself in all day working and now I would discover the origin of the mysterious music I heard weekly. Maybe it was a band playing at a cool club. Maybe it was a weekly open air concert at a park. Maybe it was a traveling guitarist, roaming the streets in search of fans. Whatever it was, I’ve heard it for over two straight months and I had to know.
The night was clear and warm, something that had become rare during my stay here. I followed the street toward the closest point to the music I now wasn’t hearing, but no matter where I walked, I couldn’t hear it. Could the apartments be that good at blocking noise? Frustrated, I decided to just continue my walk, going down a street I had neglected these past weeks.
Restaurants, cafés, patisseries, all empty. Waiters sat outside smoking, watching me walk by. No one was on the street at all. I checked the time: 7:05 on a Sunday night.
Continuing my walk down I began to think I was on some sort of highway. There were green signs posted every once in a while telling me the direction of large Italian cities. Suddenly, the buildings stopped and fenced in field started. I looked through the bars and was shocked to see a lit castle-like structure, complete with tall circular guard posts, which I immediately hurried towards. Through twisting streets and renaissance buildings I finally reached the structure and realized it was actually a wall, the same wall by my apartment, and inside was a park, Parco degli Scipioni.
Somewhat disappointed and somewhat delighted about how common antiquity was in Rome, I decided to venture down another nearby street, turning this way and that before soon realizing I was lost. Damn. As it was the midpoint in the term I was really getting annoyed at how often I could get lost. I thought about the path I took but was still utterly confused, and so I chose a direction and stuck with it. Ten minutes later I noticed a leaf covered sign: Napoli. Highway? I live next to a highway type thing! And thus, five minutes later, I was saved.
It’s weird how much a place can change in about an hour. At 8:35 the streets were filled, the restaurants had lines, and light flooded the area. I walked back to my street by the park and faintly heard a jazzy tune drifting down to the street, out of a bedroom window above.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
The Roman Catacombs
I visited the Catacombs of Domitilla at the beginning of my time in Rome. It is the largest of Rome’s catacombs, containing over 450,000 bodies and the only one to still contain bones. Amazingly, the entrance is through an underground sunken basilica that was rediscovered in the 1500’s.
The tour is pretty straightforward: you get a tour guide, he tells you about the church, the history of the catacombs, and gives you a basic run through of Christian symbols you’re about to see before taking you into the maze of tombs itself. The great part about Domitilla is it’s infamous for having funny tour guides. I guess they figure if you’re already going to be spending an hour below ground amongst the dead, you’re bound to appreciate a little bit of morbid humor.
I wonder what it would be like, leading people through a place like this everyday. When you are hired, they have you wander around the catacombs, granting you access to every floor, every room, so you can familiarize yourself with the area and choose the paths you’ll lead people through. This also serves as a mini-initiation to their group, as most people get hopelessly lost for hours in the beginning and the experienced others leave them to find their own way out.
The actual catacombs are cold and damp, which for some reason came as a surprise to me. Water dripped off the walls even though it was a warm and sunny day outside. This is actually a result of all the people that go into the complex daily, as the moisture from our breath has no where to go. The unfortunate side effect of this is that it creates the perfect atmosphere for moss, which in turn is destroying many of the perfectly preserved frescoes. I was lucky enough to see a beautiful fresco in a wealthy family tomb, as our tour guide informed us that it would be closed to visitors forever starting in March. In the top corner of the room was a huge green mass was creeping into the more colorful parts of the artwork.
Many of the tombs are unsealed and empty. This is a result of various invasions of Rome, when invaders opened thousands of tombs looking for valuables. Unfortunately for them, Christians at the time believed in being buried as Jesus was: wrapped in linen with no possessions. For some reason, after discovering numerous tombs like this, the invaders reasoned that they should continuing opening tombs, as the first couple hundred that contained nothing couldn’t possibly mean the next hundred wouldn’t as well. This is amazing logic for people who just successfully toppled an empire and managed to conquer its capital.
I think the part that stuck with me the most though was the air shafts. Catacomb workers were pretty much their own bosses, deciding where to dig and how many people they could fit into a wall. This lead to a series of unorganized, maze-like pathways that went deeper and deeper underground. To get supplies in an out, and to keep the area livable, workers carved out large shafts to the surface to let in air, light, and to provide a means to lower down supplies. The curious thing is, they also used these as a shortcut to get outside. Within the air shafts are carved small holes for feet and hands so they could climb out. It is mind blowing to think about the skill and lives of these workers, carving holes in wall as they climb up, spending their days in the dark with the dead, and figuring out how to fit another body in an already cramped section as if they were bottles of olive oil on a shelf.
Each catacomb of Rome contains something different from the rest, whether it be ancient papal tombs or the first depiction of a bearded Christ. They might not be as grotesque and flashy as the Parisian catacombs, but their subtle charm and humble modesty, combined with a good sense of humor, is sure to bring me back before the end of my stay.
The tour is pretty straightforward: you get a tour guide, he tells you about the church, the history of the catacombs, and gives you a basic run through of Christian symbols you’re about to see before taking you into the maze of tombs itself. The great part about Domitilla is it’s infamous for having funny tour guides. I guess they figure if you’re already going to be spending an hour below ground amongst the dead, you’re bound to appreciate a little bit of morbid humor.
I wonder what it would be like, leading people through a place like this everyday. When you are hired, they have you wander around the catacombs, granting you access to every floor, every room, so you can familiarize yourself with the area and choose the paths you’ll lead people through. This also serves as a mini-initiation to their group, as most people get hopelessly lost for hours in the beginning and the experienced others leave them to find their own way out.
The actual catacombs are cold and damp, which for some reason came as a surprise to me. Water dripped off the walls even though it was a warm and sunny day outside. This is actually a result of all the people that go into the complex daily, as the moisture from our breath has no where to go. The unfortunate side effect of this is that it creates the perfect atmosphere for moss, which in turn is destroying many of the perfectly preserved frescoes. I was lucky enough to see a beautiful fresco in a wealthy family tomb, as our tour guide informed us that it would be closed to visitors forever starting in March. In the top corner of the room was a huge green mass was creeping into the more colorful parts of the artwork.
Many of the tombs are unsealed and empty. This is a result of various invasions of Rome, when invaders opened thousands of tombs looking for valuables. Unfortunately for them, Christians at the time believed in being buried as Jesus was: wrapped in linen with no possessions. For some reason, after discovering numerous tombs like this, the invaders reasoned that they should continuing opening tombs, as the first couple hundred that contained nothing couldn’t possibly mean the next hundred wouldn’t as well. This is amazing logic for people who just successfully toppled an empire and managed to conquer its capital.
I think the part that stuck with me the most though was the air shafts. Catacomb workers were pretty much their own bosses, deciding where to dig and how many people they could fit into a wall. This lead to a series of unorganized, maze-like pathways that went deeper and deeper underground. To get supplies in an out, and to keep the area livable, workers carved out large shafts to the surface to let in air, light, and to provide a means to lower down supplies. The curious thing is, they also used these as a shortcut to get outside. Within the air shafts are carved small holes for feet and hands so they could climb out. It is mind blowing to think about the skill and lives of these workers, carving holes in wall as they climb up, spending their days in the dark with the dead, and figuring out how to fit another body in an already cramped section as if they were bottles of olive oil on a shelf.
Each catacomb of Rome contains something different from the rest, whether it be ancient papal tombs or the first depiction of a bearded Christ. They might not be as grotesque and flashy as the Parisian catacombs, but their subtle charm and humble modesty, combined with a good sense of humor, is sure to bring me back before the end of my stay.
The Rain in Rome
Is it really supposed to rain this much? Before I got here I expected a few weeks of scattered showers, but suddenly the sun would break through the clouds and people would sing and dance in the streets. Kind of like Mamma Mia, but the Italian city version.
This has happened a couple times (the song and dance provided by me), but it’s always been a false alarm: a few days of sun, but once you put away the heavy coat forever you hear torrents of rain coming from the open window. This was al tolerable at first, but as midterms approach at school, I’m making the realization that half my time here, in sunny Italy, is going to be spent under an umbrella.
The Italians seem unperturbed by it, though inexperienced with it. They smack the umbrellas into the side of walls, street signs, and passersby. Getting anywhere has become a game of dodging the metal tips of umbrellas that follow you wherever you move. It’s no wonder half the population seems to walk around with broken umbrellas and street vendors are at every corner dangling their wares in your face, people here must got through an umbrella per week!
It’s also become clear that the rain is out to get me, like a personal vendetta for doubting its existence. My roommates decide to stay in, I make plans to go out: cue rain. I run out of eggs or milk: cue rain. I decide to work on my homework in the living room: cue an instant hurricane outside that knocks the windows open and drenches the papers that are now flying about the room.
When I decided to come to Italy, it was a decision based on wanting something different. I wanted a different culture, a different language, a different way of looking at life that would open up new ideas for me. Well, it doesn’t rain in Los Angeles, so I guess this is something different.
This has happened a couple times (the song and dance provided by me), but it’s always been a false alarm: a few days of sun, but once you put away the heavy coat forever you hear torrents of rain coming from the open window. This was al tolerable at first, but as midterms approach at school, I’m making the realization that half my time here, in sunny Italy, is going to be spent under an umbrella.
The Italians seem unperturbed by it, though inexperienced with it. They smack the umbrellas into the side of walls, street signs, and passersby. Getting anywhere has become a game of dodging the metal tips of umbrellas that follow you wherever you move. It’s no wonder half the population seems to walk around with broken umbrellas and street vendors are at every corner dangling their wares in your face, people here must got through an umbrella per week!
It’s also become clear that the rain is out to get me, like a personal vendetta for doubting its existence. My roommates decide to stay in, I make plans to go out: cue rain. I run out of eggs or milk: cue rain. I decide to work on my homework in the living room: cue an instant hurricane outside that knocks the windows open and drenches the papers that are now flying about the room.
When I decided to come to Italy, it was a decision based on wanting something different. I wanted a different culture, a different language, a different way of looking at life that would open up new ideas for me. Well, it doesn’t rain in Los Angeles, so I guess this is something different.
Friday, March 5, 2010
Trevi Fountain
Walking through Rome, sounds can be a pretty predicable thing: cars honking, people chatting, the wind through the buildings, until, suddenly, sounds of a rushing waterfall?
Yes indeed, the infamous Trevi Fountain. You hear it before you see it and the intriguing sound draws you in till suddenly you’re in a medium piazza with a large fountain, one of the most famous fountains in the world for that matter. Unfortunately, the sounds that brought you here, aided by guidebooks, tour guides, and buses, also brings hundreds of others every single day to this little spot, turning a visit into a nightmare of navigating the crowds and vendors to a suitable spot to take it all in.
The fountain itself is absolutely amazing, to put it lightly. The first time I saw it I couldn’t speak for a moment as my mouth hung open in awe. The smooth white carvings of the massive stone gods give way as crystalline water flows through the course rocks to the sparkling blue waves below. It commands the piazza and from the side Neptune seems to hold up his hand to order his audience into silence.
But no one is listening. They are too busy yelling, stick fighting, staring at their gelato (never buy anything in the piazza while you’re here, about a block away is the best gelato I’ve ever had in Rome, so hold off temptation for this Italian obsession until you’re ready to leave), doing anything and everything except looking at the fountain. Even the people taking pictures do it only as something to cross off their list. For an instant they are as motionless as a statue, but if they just turned around and looked, they would see how true art really moves with such a still force that it is impossible to be captured with a camera. The horses charge toward the crowd and the Tritons strain to hold them still as hundreds of people sit along the cold white seats unaware of the force in front of them. It’s a madhouse of tourism, children climbing on the rocks, police whistles pierce the air, an annoying scent of tobacco everywhere, I’m constantly getting elbowed by someone and am chased out of the center by all the noise, though the second I move an inch, I’m in the way of someone’s picture. A rare few sit and soak in the artwork, and I instantly love them.
Just sit and look at something, just his leg, the musculature, the size, it’s beautiful. The more you look, the more it reveals to you. The coral on the sides, the roughness of the stone, you want to play with it, explore it, this place does not exist for visitors, but for lovers who can’t get close enough. Night falls and light dances off the caves of stone as a warm breeze drifts past. Time doesn’t deter visitors so it is best to find a seat on the side where it’s calm and lose yourself in Nicola Salvi’s masterpiece for a while before heading back into the chaos of the Roman streets.
Yes indeed, the infamous Trevi Fountain. You hear it before you see it and the intriguing sound draws you in till suddenly you’re in a medium piazza with a large fountain, one of the most famous fountains in the world for that matter. Unfortunately, the sounds that brought you here, aided by guidebooks, tour guides, and buses, also brings hundreds of others every single day to this little spot, turning a visit into a nightmare of navigating the crowds and vendors to a suitable spot to take it all in.
The fountain itself is absolutely amazing, to put it lightly. The first time I saw it I couldn’t speak for a moment as my mouth hung open in awe. The smooth white carvings of the massive stone gods give way as crystalline water flows through the course rocks to the sparkling blue waves below. It commands the piazza and from the side Neptune seems to hold up his hand to order his audience into silence.
But no one is listening. They are too busy yelling, stick fighting, staring at their gelato (never buy anything in the piazza while you’re here, about a block away is the best gelato I’ve ever had in Rome, so hold off temptation for this Italian obsession until you’re ready to leave), doing anything and everything except looking at the fountain. Even the people taking pictures do it only as something to cross off their list. For an instant they are as motionless as a statue, but if they just turned around and looked, they would see how true art really moves with such a still force that it is impossible to be captured with a camera. The horses charge toward the crowd and the Tritons strain to hold them still as hundreds of people sit along the cold white seats unaware of the force in front of them. It’s a madhouse of tourism, children climbing on the rocks, police whistles pierce the air, an annoying scent of tobacco everywhere, I’m constantly getting elbowed by someone and am chased out of the center by all the noise, though the second I move an inch, I’m in the way of someone’s picture. A rare few sit and soak in the artwork, and I instantly love them.
Just sit and look at something, just his leg, the musculature, the size, it’s beautiful. The more you look, the more it reveals to you. The coral on the sides, the roughness of the stone, you want to play with it, explore it, this place does not exist for visitors, but for lovers who can’t get close enough. Night falls and light dances off the caves of stone as a warm breeze drifts past. Time doesn’t deter visitors so it is best to find a seat on the side where it’s calm and lose yourself in Nicola Salvi’s masterpiece for a while before heading back into the chaos of the Roman streets.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Gibberish By ME
I’ve noticed that all my writing thus far as been pretty calm and pensive. True, as my teacher said today, blogs tend reveal what your personal style may be, but I’m not sure how much I like this “style” I’ve been following.
So, to break away from that momentarily, I’m going to write a post about Margaret’s recent visit to Rome, in the style of how I would talk to Margaret, if she were still in Rome. And so it begins:
It was a dark and stormy morning when I woke up to my alarm. “da hell???” I was freaking exhausted from a whole night dedicated to not sleeping and I tossed my iphone to the floor before I had this epiphany: that is an iphone, the only one you’re ever gonna get, and you just threw it on the ground.
Shit.
After making sure my baby was okay, I opened the blinds and oh my god, it wasn’t dark and stormy afterall. It was scarily bright and I scarily had to go make breakfast already as my roommate laughed and went back to sleep. Effffffff.
So, I made this toast thing with eggs and a plate under it and ate it with a fork. Yup, that’s right ol’ Margaret, a flippin’ fork. Bet you didn’t see THAT one coming, eh? By the way, never put a piece of bread on a frying pan with eggs and expect that something amazing will come out of it because it doesn’t. You just get some bread-egg thing that tastes like bread. And eggs. And some salt, cuz you put salt in it.
Ok, moving on! Oh my god I thought I was gonna be late because I left with a half hour to spare, which is usually the amount of time I take to get to school which is like half the distance to Margaret’s hotel all the way by the Vatican. And I was like, oh my god, she doesn’t have a phone, what am I going to do? But I got there ten minutes early, so that was weird.
Long story short, we saw stuff. Old stuff, cool stuff, new stuff, and I finally tried using my guidebook, which miffed Margaret because I tried out using a map, which never works in Rome, which I knew, but tried anyway. Also, there was a foot, a freaking marble foot. So marbley and awesome that I couldn’t believe it. Whose foot was it? An emperor? A god? No one knew! Because it was a foot! (Actually, it was probably a god’s they think) Anyway, the utter amazingness of this foot is amazing. It’s probably the best thing in Rome. But I never actually saw it, because ol’ Margaret wanted to take it easy and not obsess over the foot briefly mentioned in the page I opened my guidebook to. But one day, yes, one day, I will find this foot. I will see the glory that is the marble foot of Rome. Yes, and then you shall see, Margaret, you shall see….
And I’m going to stop there, because I just realized I like writing in a more structured way and I’m kinda tired right now anyway. Though I learned some things. What these things are are now in my head and may come out in the numerous writing I have ahead of me. Thank you random blog post.
So, to break away from that momentarily, I’m going to write a post about Margaret’s recent visit to Rome, in the style of how I would talk to Margaret, if she were still in Rome. And so it begins:
It was a dark and stormy morning when I woke up to my alarm. “da hell???” I was freaking exhausted from a whole night dedicated to not sleeping and I tossed my iphone to the floor before I had this epiphany: that is an iphone, the only one you’re ever gonna get, and you just threw it on the ground.
Shit.
After making sure my baby was okay, I opened the blinds and oh my god, it wasn’t dark and stormy afterall. It was scarily bright and I scarily had to go make breakfast already as my roommate laughed and went back to sleep. Effffffff.
So, I made this toast thing with eggs and a plate under it and ate it with a fork. Yup, that’s right ol’ Margaret, a flippin’ fork. Bet you didn’t see THAT one coming, eh? By the way, never put a piece of bread on a frying pan with eggs and expect that something amazing will come out of it because it doesn’t. You just get some bread-egg thing that tastes like bread. And eggs. And some salt, cuz you put salt in it.
Ok, moving on! Oh my god I thought I was gonna be late because I left with a half hour to spare, which is usually the amount of time I take to get to school which is like half the distance to Margaret’s hotel all the way by the Vatican. And I was like, oh my god, she doesn’t have a phone, what am I going to do? But I got there ten minutes early, so that was weird.
Long story short, we saw stuff. Old stuff, cool stuff, new stuff, and I finally tried using my guidebook, which miffed Margaret because I tried out using a map, which never works in Rome, which I knew, but tried anyway. Also, there was a foot, a freaking marble foot. So marbley and awesome that I couldn’t believe it. Whose foot was it? An emperor? A god? No one knew! Because it was a foot! (Actually, it was probably a god’s they think) Anyway, the utter amazingness of this foot is amazing. It’s probably the best thing in Rome. But I never actually saw it, because ol’ Margaret wanted to take it easy and not obsess over the foot briefly mentioned in the page I opened my guidebook to. But one day, yes, one day, I will find this foot. I will see the glory that is the marble foot of Rome. Yes, and then you shall see, Margaret, you shall see….
And I’m going to stop there, because I just realized I like writing in a more structured way and I’m kinda tired right now anyway. Though I learned some things. What these things are are now in my head and may come out in the numerous writing I have ahead of me. Thank you random blog post.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Ancient Rome
Federico Fellini once had a dream in which he was imprisoned deep under Rome. He heard unearthly voices through the walls that said “We are the ancient Romans. We are still here.” This eventually led to the creation of Roma, his 1972 homage to the city. There is a scene in the movie where engineers are drilling underground for a subway and accidentally break into a 2,000 year old Roman house with their drill. This is an amazing thing to think about: that at any point while you are in Rome, some ancient building could be beneath your feet, lost to the world.
Before the Tiber was walled up and tamed, it used to flood Rome annually. These floods moved the earth from its banks into ancient homes, temples, theaters, etc, and brought a lot of them down. Instead of clearing everything out and fixing the mess however, the ancient Romans did what anyone today would find inconceivable: they built over it. This practice went on for years and explains why so many things are found below the city whenever anyone wants to build anything these days, an annoyance for modern Romans, but a delight to the rest of the world. For example, Pompey’s Theater (the first public theater in Rome) and three temples were discovered under Largo Argentina when construction workers began building a new hotel while Mussolini was in power. Locals were well aware of the theater’s existence, nearby apartments in Campo di Fiori were built on a semicircle, following the theater’s foundations, though the three temples came as a surprise.
As I sit in my annoyingly modern apartment I wonder what could be beneath all these floors. A forgotten villa? An ancient marketplace? A marble statue of Mercury? I’d be amazed even if was only a single sandal, preserved deep below the concrete for thousands of years.
Before the Tiber was walled up and tamed, it used to flood Rome annually. These floods moved the earth from its banks into ancient homes, temples, theaters, etc, and brought a lot of them down. Instead of clearing everything out and fixing the mess however, the ancient Romans did what anyone today would find inconceivable: they built over it. This practice went on for years and explains why so many things are found below the city whenever anyone wants to build anything these days, an annoyance for modern Romans, but a delight to the rest of the world. For example, Pompey’s Theater (the first public theater in Rome) and three temples were discovered under Largo Argentina when construction workers began building a new hotel while Mussolini was in power. Locals were well aware of the theater’s existence, nearby apartments in Campo di Fiori were built on a semicircle, following the theater’s foundations, though the three temples came as a surprise.
As I sit in my annoyingly modern apartment I wonder what could be beneath all these floors. A forgotten villa? An ancient marketplace? A marble statue of Mercury? I’d be amazed even if was only a single sandal, preserved deep below the concrete for thousands of years.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
People I Have Met In Rome
Lady In The Farmacia
One morning, by accident, I twice sliced open my finger with a knife and realized that it just might happen again. To prepare for this catastrophe, and to stop the blood already dripping from my hand, I decided to buy band-aids. The pharmacy is located on my street corner, which is fantastic, because I’ll probably be accounting for 90% of their business by the time I leave Rome. I put on my new purple coat thing I got before leaving America, left the apartment, stopped outside the store that had amazingly dressed all its mannequins in my coat (bastards), and walked into the farmacia. Before I could blink, she was in front of me, the lady who worked (supposedly) behind the counter, spewing out words faster then her lips moved. I caught something about how she thought my coat was beautiful and I glared at her. I didn’t think to look up the word for band-aid, and she didn’t seem to know the term, so I struggled past her to look myself. Unfortunately, she followed me, which isn’t hard, considering the store was the size of my living room, couldn’t she just stare at me from the register or talk to the other people in the store? But no, she had to scamper across the tiled floor, keeping within one foot of my face at all times. I did not like this lady and I told her so, in English. She delighted at this statement and started to admire my long white scarf, nearly choking me in the progress. At last the band-aids were found, and I shoved them in her face before she could inspect my earrings. Disappointed, she made the journey from the shelf to the counter, a three foot walk, last an eternity as she hung her head low. I paid, she threw the change at the counter, I picked it off the floor, and got the hell out of there.
Cute Old Man
Two days ago I realized I was sick. I had had classes from 9am till 8:30pm and I wanted to go home, throw myself into bed, and sleep for ten years. I waited for the subway train to arrive, pushed my way past the crowd, and slumped against a pole, a huge frown on my face, my half open eyes staring at the ground, and the happiest songs playing in my ears. I hate you iPod random selection mode. An old man was standing next to me and I glanced up sideways to look at him. He was the cutest old man I had seen in Italy, wearing an English style three piece suite, a happy smile next to rosy cheeks, and a shock of nicely combed white hair to top it all off. He smiled at me and I went back to staring at the ground. We arrived at the first stop on the way home, and someone got off the train, one door down from us. Instantly energy surged into his bones as he gleefully bounced over to the chair before anyone else could take it, clapping his hands together as he happily sat down. Two stops later and the seat across from him opened up. Quickly, he tried to get my attention from so far away. He motioned wildly to me, and when I slowly noticed and looked up, he repeatedly pointed to the chair with a mischievous grin on his face, like he had stolen it just for me. I smiled and kindly shoot my head no, indicating to him that my stop was next. He gave me an exaggerated frown, and then cheerfully waved goodbye as the train reached my stop. His gesture was so sincere and uplifting that it had me smiling all the way back to my room.
Hot Guy With Bag On The Subway
I was going home after class during my first week of school here, got on the metro at Barberini, (something I don’t do anymore since I got the bright idea to look at the map myself and realized Repubblica was not only closer, but the route was pleasantly absent of a sadistic hill/mountain) and hung onto the metal pole for dear life as the weight of my bag, full of every book I had to purchase for the term, reminded me of the stupidity of gravity. The doors closed, gibberish bellowed out through the speakers, we started moving, and I looked up from the floor. Sitting across from me was the hottest guy I had seen since arriving in Rome. He looked to be my age, had perfectly groomed hair, wore classy yet hip ensemble with a black scarf tossed lightly around his neck, and had the face of an angel...a very hot angel (maybe an angel with a modeling contract?). I furtively stared at him for some time until I noticed his leather bag. It was gorgeous, seemingly hand made for all the books currently killing my shoulder and I wanted it. Maybe if I sat down next to him, fluently speaking some cool Italian lingo, he would scoop me up in his arms, dash out at the next stop, buy me dinner, and present me with his bag as a token of his everlasting love for me. Yes, the perfect plan. Suddenly he noticed me, in what I can only describe as a charmingly spaced-out dead stare at the wall, and he suavely grinned, flashing his impeccably white teeth my way. He got up, walked over to me, and leaned against the wall. “Ciao.” I was smoothly calm and collected as I giggled out my response: “Ciao.” I’ll never forget the magic that happened next: he spoke some suave gibberish to me, I panicked, remembering I don’t actually speak Italian (and told him so, curiously in Italian), and he disappointedly left.
One morning, by accident, I twice sliced open my finger with a knife and realized that it just might happen again. To prepare for this catastrophe, and to stop the blood already dripping from my hand, I decided to buy band-aids. The pharmacy is located on my street corner, which is fantastic, because I’ll probably be accounting for 90% of their business by the time I leave Rome. I put on my new purple coat thing I got before leaving America, left the apartment, stopped outside the store that had amazingly dressed all its mannequins in my coat (bastards), and walked into the farmacia. Before I could blink, she was in front of me, the lady who worked (supposedly) behind the counter, spewing out words faster then her lips moved. I caught something about how she thought my coat was beautiful and I glared at her. I didn’t think to look up the word for band-aid, and she didn’t seem to know the term, so I struggled past her to look myself. Unfortunately, she followed me, which isn’t hard, considering the store was the size of my living room, couldn’t she just stare at me from the register or talk to the other people in the store? But no, she had to scamper across the tiled floor, keeping within one foot of my face at all times. I did not like this lady and I told her so, in English. She delighted at this statement and started to admire my long white scarf, nearly choking me in the progress. At last the band-aids were found, and I shoved them in her face before she could inspect my earrings. Disappointed, she made the journey from the shelf to the counter, a three foot walk, last an eternity as she hung her head low. I paid, she threw the change at the counter, I picked it off the floor, and got the hell out of there.
Cute Old Man
Two days ago I realized I was sick. I had had classes from 9am till 8:30pm and I wanted to go home, throw myself into bed, and sleep for ten years. I waited for the subway train to arrive, pushed my way past the crowd, and slumped against a pole, a huge frown on my face, my half open eyes staring at the ground, and the happiest songs playing in my ears. I hate you iPod random selection mode. An old man was standing next to me and I glanced up sideways to look at him. He was the cutest old man I had seen in Italy, wearing an English style three piece suite, a happy smile next to rosy cheeks, and a shock of nicely combed white hair to top it all off. He smiled at me and I went back to staring at the ground. We arrived at the first stop on the way home, and someone got off the train, one door down from us. Instantly energy surged into his bones as he gleefully bounced over to the chair before anyone else could take it, clapping his hands together as he happily sat down. Two stops later and the seat across from him opened up. Quickly, he tried to get my attention from so far away. He motioned wildly to me, and when I slowly noticed and looked up, he repeatedly pointed to the chair with a mischievous grin on his face, like he had stolen it just for me. I smiled and kindly shoot my head no, indicating to him that my stop was next. He gave me an exaggerated frown, and then cheerfully waved goodbye as the train reached my stop. His gesture was so sincere and uplifting that it had me smiling all the way back to my room.
Hot Guy With Bag On The Subway
I was going home after class during my first week of school here, got on the metro at Barberini, (something I don’t do anymore since I got the bright idea to look at the map myself and realized Repubblica was not only closer, but the route was pleasantly absent of a sadistic hill/mountain) and hung onto the metal pole for dear life as the weight of my bag, full of every book I had to purchase for the term, reminded me of the stupidity of gravity. The doors closed, gibberish bellowed out through the speakers, we started moving, and I looked up from the floor. Sitting across from me was the hottest guy I had seen since arriving in Rome. He looked to be my age, had perfectly groomed hair, wore classy yet hip ensemble with a black scarf tossed lightly around his neck, and had the face of an angel...a very hot angel (maybe an angel with a modeling contract?). I furtively stared at him for some time until I noticed his leather bag. It was gorgeous, seemingly hand made for all the books currently killing my shoulder and I wanted it. Maybe if I sat down next to him, fluently speaking some cool Italian lingo, he would scoop me up in his arms, dash out at the next stop, buy me dinner, and present me with his bag as a token of his everlasting love for me. Yes, the perfect plan. Suddenly he noticed me, in what I can only describe as a charmingly spaced-out dead stare at the wall, and he suavely grinned, flashing his impeccably white teeth my way. He got up, walked over to me, and leaned against the wall. “Ciao.” I was smoothly calm and collected as I giggled out my response: “Ciao.” I’ll never forget the magic that happened next: he spoke some suave gibberish to me, I panicked, remembering I don’t actually speak Italian (and told him so, curiously in Italian), and he disappointedly left.
Friday, February 19, 2010
The View From My Apartment
I can read for hours in my apartment’s living room, never noticing how much time goes by. The room itself isn’t that spectacular: white walls, cheaply framed abstract art, a table, some chairs, two couches, and a TV in the corner. The light always stays the same, reflecting off the walls and keeping everything moderately bright. That is, until sunset, which is when the latestness of the hour finally makes itself known.
It’s amazing. All throughout the day cars honk their horns, construction on the street corner continues to make a giant hole grow, ambulances seemingly drive in circles around the street, people yell at each other at the top of their lungs, and just when I don’t think I can take anymore of it a warm orange glow fills the room. Silence falls over the street as pink clouds sift past my window. It really does happen in an instant. One moment I’m reading over my homework, and suddenly I can’t see the words clearly as the room becomes dark and gray.
The glow doesn’t last for long, and if you run to get a camera you miss it. That said, I had my camera with me this time, but it still couldn’t capture the warm look of the room. Outside the sun raced toward the Americas as I snapped a couple photos. San Giovanni in Laterano changed from tan to pink to orange to gray in the span of five minutes and the moment I leaned out my window towards the left I was in awe. I think I stopped breathing for a second as I stared at the horizon, camera forgotten. These are the moments when I remember I’m in Italy. The rest of the day I’m just in another city, quickly navigating through crowds, doing homework in my apartment, impatiently waiting for the metro to arrive. The language barrier isn’t even an issue for me anymore, since I rarely pay attention to what people are saying at home. Instead it’s moments like these, when I can’t even begin to imagine how all those Renaissance painters could even begin painting when they had that impossible view as their guide. I glance at my camera’s screen. It’s a nice image, but it’s just a tiny part of the sky that is surrounding me, making silence golden, and time slow down. And by the time I look up again, it’s all gone. The streetlights are on, the sky has darkened, and clouds blow in for tonight’s storm. It’s just a normal cityscape again as I shut the window on the ambulance that drives by and turn on a light.
It’s amazing. All throughout the day cars honk their horns, construction on the street corner continues to make a giant hole grow, ambulances seemingly drive in circles around the street, people yell at each other at the top of their lungs, and just when I don’t think I can take anymore of it a warm orange glow fills the room. Silence falls over the street as pink clouds sift past my window. It really does happen in an instant. One moment I’m reading over my homework, and suddenly I can’t see the words clearly as the room becomes dark and gray.
The glow doesn’t last for long, and if you run to get a camera you miss it. That said, I had my camera with me this time, but it still couldn’t capture the warm look of the room. Outside the sun raced toward the Americas as I snapped a couple photos. San Giovanni in Laterano changed from tan to pink to orange to gray in the span of five minutes and the moment I leaned out my window towards the left I was in awe. I think I stopped breathing for a second as I stared at the horizon, camera forgotten. These are the moments when I remember I’m in Italy. The rest of the day I’m just in another city, quickly navigating through crowds, doing homework in my apartment, impatiently waiting for the metro to arrive. The language barrier isn’t even an issue for me anymore, since I rarely pay attention to what people are saying at home. Instead it’s moments like these, when I can’t even begin to imagine how all those Renaissance painters could even begin painting when they had that impossible view as their guide. I glance at my camera’s screen. It’s a nice image, but it’s just a tiny part of the sky that is surrounding me, making silence golden, and time slow down. And by the time I look up again, it’s all gone. The streetlights are on, the sky has darkened, and clouds blow in for tonight’s storm. It’s just a normal cityscape again as I shut the window on the ambulance that drives by and turn on a light.
Monday, February 15, 2010
Laundry Day
It stops being a vacation once you have to do laundry. It’s the moment where you realize can’t just throw your dirty clothes in a suitcase, hop on a plane, and leave it all till later. I did laundry a little over a week ago. And it sucked.
As far as I can tell, Roman washing machines are miniature plastic death traps covered in numerous buttons and knobs that trip the circuit breaker every five minutes. The machine itself, conveniently located in the bathroom for some reason, is just as big as a washing machine back home, with an interior one fifth the size that resembles a shiny metal cheese grater.
This, of course, made me nervous with my clothes. My roommates had already tried using it the day before I did with frightening results. This is what I woke up to that day:
“Oh my god! My underwear is blue! My underwear and EVERYTHING is blue!!!”
By the time I had stopped laughing and went to investigate, I had come to this conclusion: yes, everything was, indeed, blue, and no, I was not going to touch the questionable detergent they bought in the local marcado.
After a trip to the supermarket and a careful reading of the poorly written instructions left by our landlady, and I felt confident enough to try out the machine for myself. I carefully picked out items I would not miss, just in case they magically changed during the wash, slid out the drawer on the machine, and was promptly confuzzled all over again.
You see, all washing machines here have a drawer on the front of the machine that you slide out to pour in all the stuff you’re going to wash your clothes with, four sections in all. Each area is marked by a simplistic symbol, like a flower for instance. However, the instructions had not bothered to mention what each symbol stood for. Google answered that question for me, though I still have no idea what the square on the far left is used for.
The number one thing I hate spending my time doing is shopping for clothes. Specifically the type of clothes shopping when you have specific things you need to buy. I also was never planning on shopping for clothes while in Rome and spending more money then I needed to. For these reasons I was absolutely dreading the outcome of my laundry day.
Two agonizing hours later I rushed to the washing machine and opened the door. After a flood of water poured out (this, unfortunately, is normal for our beloved machine) I inspected the clothes and let out a sigh of relief, my clothes were fine. The next hour was spent kicking the “out of order” dryer, wringing out my drenched towels and shirts, cursing the torrents of rain that made the clothes line obsolete, and carefully hanging things I needed on the bathroom heater.
All said and done, it took three days for everything to be washed, dried, and put away. It probably won’t take as long now that the rain isn’t as strong anymore and I’ve figured out how best to utilize the heaters, but I’m still not looking forward to tomorrow, when I have to do laundry all over again.
As far as I can tell, Roman washing machines are miniature plastic death traps covered in numerous buttons and knobs that trip the circuit breaker every five minutes. The machine itself, conveniently located in the bathroom for some reason, is just as big as a washing machine back home, with an interior one fifth the size that resembles a shiny metal cheese grater.
This, of course, made me nervous with my clothes. My roommates had already tried using it the day before I did with frightening results. This is what I woke up to that day:
“Oh my god! My underwear is blue! My underwear and EVERYTHING is blue!!!”
By the time I had stopped laughing and went to investigate, I had come to this conclusion: yes, everything was, indeed, blue, and no, I was not going to touch the questionable detergent they bought in the local marcado.
After a trip to the supermarket and a careful reading of the poorly written instructions left by our landlady, and I felt confident enough to try out the machine for myself. I carefully picked out items I would not miss, just in case they magically changed during the wash, slid out the drawer on the machine, and was promptly confuzzled all over again.
You see, all washing machines here have a drawer on the front of the machine that you slide out to pour in all the stuff you’re going to wash your clothes with, four sections in all. Each area is marked by a simplistic symbol, like a flower for instance. However, the instructions had not bothered to mention what each symbol stood for. Google answered that question for me, though I still have no idea what the square on the far left is used for.
The number one thing I hate spending my time doing is shopping for clothes. Specifically the type of clothes shopping when you have specific things you need to buy. I also was never planning on shopping for clothes while in Rome and spending more money then I needed to. For these reasons I was absolutely dreading the outcome of my laundry day.
Two agonizing hours later I rushed to the washing machine and opened the door. After a flood of water poured out (this, unfortunately, is normal for our beloved machine) I inspected the clothes and let out a sigh of relief, my clothes were fine. The next hour was spent kicking the “out of order” dryer, wringing out my drenched towels and shirts, cursing the torrents of rain that made the clothes line obsolete, and carefully hanging things I needed on the bathroom heater.
All said and done, it took three days for everything to be washed, dried, and put away. It probably won’t take as long now that the rain isn’t as strong anymore and I’ve figured out how best to utilize the heaters, but I’m still not looking forward to tomorrow, when I have to do laundry all over again.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Some More Thoughts On The Metro
I prefer walking to my apartment over taking the metro or bus. The metro reminds me of my internship in New York City, of going to work, and the bus reminds me of the few times I was forced to take public transit in Los Angeles. When I’m at home, I drive. Do I need eggs and milk? I drive. Do I want to see a movie? Drive. I think the only time I don’t hop into a car is when I meet up with my friend Kaitlyn, and even then I only walk half a block so we can meet in the middle. But today I am in Rome, and tomorrow I will be too. Walking seems to be the best way to, for once, enjoy the city I am living in. When I strolled by the Coliseum yesterday, I was able to gaze at every crevice and crumbling piece of stone contained on it. I had time to imagine myself there, when it was built, wondering what I would see inside. When I was in a taxi, barreling down the road, away from the airport, I was able to glimpse at the Coliseum as we whisked by, but it didn’t seem real to me then, like an image on the TV, separated by glass. The only time I knew it was real was when I walked up to it and actually touched it.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
The Metro
In Rome I feel like the metro is never there to help you. Want to get from point A to point B? Well, just follow this overly complex route of buses, trams, and subway systems and you’ll get there in no time! Except when you try walking there, and oddly arrive in half the time. The buses hide the button to signal you want to stop so you’re left to desperately claw at the window as you watch your destination roll past. A painless ride on the subway turns into motion sickness and utter chaos in the cars as the conductor abuses his control over the slow down/speed up lever in between stops. And just when you think you’re on the right side of the road for the tram, it magically appears on the other side, even though you triple checked the sign above the stop.
Today I took the metro home from school. I decided to finally break out my iPod and listen to some music as I rode the subway from Barberini to San Giovanni. Everything that played was extremely upbeat and had me tapping my toes while I mouthed every word of the songs. I didn’t care that numerous people were blatantly staring at me, I was in my own world and quite frankly, it rocked. For once the ride was smooth and I was ready and at the door when my stop was reached. I was in such a good mood that I walked all the way up the two long escalators to the top, each step in sync to the rhythm of Extraordinary Machine by Fiona Apple. That is, until I reached the exit turnstile and slammed right into a non-moving piece of metal, almost toppling over it and straight into concrete. I looked at the screen attached to the revolving bars. A green check mark. I checked the ones on either side of me. Green check marks. I tried again, pushing it with my hands. It didn’t budge. Everyone else was swarming past me, gliding with ease through their correctly chosen means of escape. After waiting for everyone else to leave, I was finally free to tentatively try another turnstile and gleefully run up the stairs into the rain as Kids by MGMT started up in my headphones.
Today I took the metro home from school. I decided to finally break out my iPod and listen to some music as I rode the subway from Barberini to San Giovanni. Everything that played was extremely upbeat and had me tapping my toes while I mouthed every word of the songs. I didn’t care that numerous people were blatantly staring at me, I was in my own world and quite frankly, it rocked. For once the ride was smooth and I was ready and at the door when my stop was reached. I was in such a good mood that I walked all the way up the two long escalators to the top, each step in sync to the rhythm of Extraordinary Machine by Fiona Apple. That is, until I reached the exit turnstile and slammed right into a non-moving piece of metal, almost toppling over it and straight into concrete. I looked at the screen attached to the revolving bars. A green check mark. I checked the ones on either side of me. Green check marks. I tried again, pushing it with my hands. It didn’t budge. Everyone else was swarming past me, gliding with ease through their correctly chosen means of escape. After waiting for everyone else to leave, I was finally free to tentatively try another turnstile and gleefully run up the stairs into the rain as Kids by MGMT started up in my headphones.
Friday, February 5, 2010
A Week Has Passed
It hasn't quite hit me yet that I'll be spending an entire term here in Rome, a month maybe, but not over that. I'm finally getting the hang of things like navigating the streets, finding a real supermarket, and never understanding a single word anyone says to me when I'm on my own. I've studied the vast history of Rome through so many classes and perspectives that it's weird to be here finally. It's like it never really existed in real life, only in a book or on a slide, something that might have been real once, but has been lost to time, like the fabled Atlantis. So naturally the first few days here were spent convincing myself that the building out my window wasn't a fake model or a CGI still from a movie, but the insanely huge, insanely real Basilica di San Giovanni: the mother church of the whole catholic world, technically ranking higher than even St. Peters. And it is right there, outside my window, across the street.
My first week has been a blur, and it's weird to think about how much I've done. I've seen St. Peters and the Sistine Chapel, I've seen one of my favorite statues of all time, the Ecstasy of St Theresa (conveniently located a block from my school), been to countless landmarks, went to classes, and started sorting out my new life in this apartment. More than once I've found myself literally jumping up and down with delight as I stumble across something I learned about in AP Art History that no one else around me has ever heard of. Seeing as I'm still giddy whenever it snows, even after 3 years in Vermont, I don't think I'll ever calm down when I see something I know in Rome.
My first week has been a blur, and it's weird to think about how much I've done. I've seen St. Peters and the Sistine Chapel, I've seen one of my favorite statues of all time, the Ecstasy of St Theresa (conveniently located a block from my school), been to countless landmarks, went to classes, and started sorting out my new life in this apartment. More than once I've found myself literally jumping up and down with delight as I stumble across something I learned about in AP Art History that no one else around me has ever heard of. Seeing as I'm still giddy whenever it snows, even after 3 years in Vermont, I don't think I'll ever calm down when I see something I know in Rome.
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