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.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
