Gelato Disaster!

The title says it all. These are the kinds of things that happen when you don't pay attention.

Caravaggios speak for themselves CW#8

Judith Beheading Holofernes

A spotlight from the upper-left-hand corner sheds light onto a grisly scene. A young, smooth-faced woman is cutting off a muscular man’s head. Her brow is furrowed, but not from disgust. She instead looks confused, as if she isn’t sure whether or not she’s correctly decapitating him. Her posture sends a similar message of confusion. Her powerful arms are intentional, deliberate in their actions. She grabs a chunk of the man’s hair with her left hand, exposing his neck, while using her right to force down the blade. While some of her actions are purposeful and determined, she is also recoiling, her shoulders thrown back, trying to get as far away from the scene while still performing her task. The decapitation seems dutiful; something that must be done even though she does not want to do it. To the women’s left, an old attendant clutches a dirty brown rag, ready to clean up the mess once the deed has been done. His face is only half visible, which indicates he is probably not a major figure in this story. The attendant’s posture shows that he is waiting eagerly, ready to help when he is needed. The dying man, who I believe is Holofernes, has a look of surprise on his face. He is lying on his stomach, apparently unclothed, clutching his bed sheets with one hand and propping himself up with the other. His vulnerable position on the bed, surprised facial expression and muscular build suggest that the girl (who is probably Judith) and her attendant probably waited until he was sleeping before attacking him. They couldn’t have taken him any other way. Another possible explanation is that Judith seduced Holofernes to get close to him. Either way, Holofernes was unprepared for the attack.

In the Biblical story of Judith and Holofernes, Judith got Holofernes drunk before she was able to behead him. She knew her people, the Jews, were badly outnumbered by the armies of Holofernes and she could only defeat them through her cunning. According to the story, the sight of their commander’s bloodstained head caused the armies of Holofernes to flee.

From the story, I know that Judith had a job to do. In order to save her people, she had to defeat the armies of Holofernes and the only way she knew how was to take advantage of him while he was disarmed and vulnerable. Judith found no pleasure in the act, but wasn’t entirely repulsed either. The sense of duty which motivated her actions are seen within Caravaggio’s work. Judith is slightly recoiled, but her actions remained deliberate and purposeful. We also know from the story that she first got him drunk before attacking him. In my interpretation, I thought she may have seduced him first. (Caravaggio thought similarly, since the original painting showed Judith’s bare chest, which was later covered up). In any case, Caravaggio was able to convey the essential points of the story through the posturing and facial expressions of his figures. His paintings speak for themselves.

The Pantheon in Changing Light CW#10

Morning – The piazza out front is nearly empty this early in the morning. A small group of tourists wait expectantly in front of the big black doors. First the left one begins to move, then the right one opens. These tourists don’t rush in like those during the other times of the day. They’re in no big hurry. They just want to enjoy the empty space. There are 10 people here with me and 2 of them are janitors, sweeping up after last night. Whenever anyone speaks their voices echo so loud it sounds like someone is giving a sermon. The low murmur heard at other times of the day is nonexistent. Everyone’s sounds are distinct. There is only natural light in the mornings, but it’s early and there’s heavy cloud cover, which darkens the room. A small break in the clouds and instantly the room is bathed in light. A woman standing next to me gazes down at my writing. I don’t mind. The Pantheon in the morning is slow. I empathize because I went through a similar struggle to get here this morning. But the atmosphere is more personal and intimate. Even though people are spread out, we’re all here for the same reason: To avoid the mad herds of midday tourists and just enjoy some ancient Roman architecture.

Afternoon – The bright sun shining through the oculus puts a spotlight on the niche just above the huge doorway. With no artificial lighting, the circular room dims under passing clouds. Like most places in Rome at this time, the Pantheon is crawling with tourists, their cameras ready to capture any picture. A low murmur hums throughout the building, an array of random languages echoing in my ears. Listen harder and hear footsteps against the marble floor. People are constantly flowing into the building; it’s like swimming upstream trying to get out. Weary people rest against giant columns, their legs sprawling. Everyone is so hurried in the middle of the day. It seems like they just want their photo opportunity and then to get out of there as soon as possible. No one takes the time to slow down and enjoy what the Pantheon has to offer.

Evening – Only a trickling stream of tourists come into and out of the Pantheon. By this time in the day, there’s not enough natural light to keep the place lit, so artificial ones are placed throughout the room, casting long shadows. The whole room is darker than it had been during the day. Everything has an odd orange glow. The lighting makes the dome seem smaller but at the same time, the illusion of floating seems more believable. The darkness makes it feel more like the Catholic churches we have been visiting. There’s a lot more space to move around now without pushing other people out of the way to get a good view at anything. There are no tourist groups here this late, just random locals and couples. The occasional camera will flash, lighting the entire room. The lighting is very specific, focused on certain paintings and sculptures. A lady tells us all to get out by intercom and come back in the morning. I exit and before I can turn my head back for one last glance inside, they’re already closed. It feels rude and brusque to be kicked out like that, after spending the entire day here. But I understand, another long day in Rome has tired me out as well.

San Quattro Coronati TW#18

I stood three feet away from the edge of the sidewalk, hiding behind a short metal barrier, but even with all these extra precautions, I still remained wary of the vehicles speeding by. Vespas weaved in between traffic, whirring like gigantic mosquitoes, while aggressive Italian drivers accelerated quickly, trying to zip through the crowded intersection. Slowing down meant they would have to wait for the massive hoards of tourists – who seemed to magically appear whenever an intersection was nearby – to cross. Understanding of the angry Italian drivers’ plight, I waited patiently until the walking green man gave me permission to pass, so as to not irritate the locals even more. After I had checked both directions, I scurried across quickly, a real-life game of Frogger.

I stood staring at a simple building; four barred windows and an uninviting door were positioned on its crumbling façade. Before now, whenever I had passed open doors in Rome, I would peek inside, hoping to discover a secret courtyard, like a hidden gem. Standing before this open door, I knew I wouldn’t have even given this building a second glance and wasn’t sure why Shawn had even stopped us here. Only the little plaque beside the door, which read “San Quattro Coronati,” differentiated this holy place of worship from a prison. As I entered, I saw the remnants of a few old and dirty frescoes on the walls lining the courtyard, too damaged to decipher. The main chapel had also fallen into a state of disrepair, the cracked marble floor jutting sharp fragments into the air like the uneven cobblestone pavement around the city. I lifted my feet high, as if walking up stairs.

We stopped in front of a weather-worn wooden door, ringing the bell until a little nun, dressed in black and white habit hurried forward to let us in. When I first entered the cloister, the silence immediately swept over me. I walked lightly on the cold white marble, knowing that unnecessary noise would violate the peace preserved in this space. Seated on the marble ledge surrounding the inner part of the cloister, I closed my eyes, listening intently. I could differentiate two main sounds: the slow trickle of water, falling from a simple fountain into a pool of water and the shuffling of other students’ feet behind me. A wailing ambulance siren pierced through the walls’ defenses followed soon after by the low rumbling of a passing jet. I only noticed these distractions in the periphery of my senses, as if nothing could disturb the inner peace I was able to achieve here. In sharp contrast to the chaos of that busy intersection, the cloister in San Quattro Coronati provided refuge for my overloaded senses.

I re-opened my eyes and looked closely at the simple decorations surrounding me. To my immediate left and right were two columns, which supported the rounded arch above me. As I traced the perimeter of the cloister with my eyes, I noticed that these rounded arches repeated, following the length of the marble. Countless seats to sit and meditate in, I thought. I looked up and my gaze was met with a simple pattern of black and white alternating triangles underneath the arches. My gaze drifted back downwards, to the middle of the courtyard, where the sounds of the simple trickling fountain originated, dominating the cloister. I got up and ventured towards the fountain. Small white rocks crunched beneath my feet. Aimlessly, I wandered on the small path, circling the fountain and the small islands of grass surrounding it. All of the simple architecture was a clear contrast to the boisterous luster of St. Peters, where I felt bombarded with distractions. This church was different, giving me the ability to clear my mind and meditate.

I let my mind wander beyond the confines of that small space, questioning the intention behind the cloister. Was this place built to free our minds from the world or maybe our souls? Was this built so that people could clear their minds and use them to find God? Did the open roof provide a freer path for our prayers? Maybe this was a place where the divine comes down to meet with the mundane, a place where people can connect with God. There was no more dramatic place than this, where you feel so free from the constraints of the world that you could connect with God.

I sat there for an hour, barely noticing how quickly the time had passed. The sun was now embracing me with its warmth. Shawn said it was time to go. The peaceful state my mind was able to obtain was lost as I walked through the door, treading carefully on the broken marble floor. I could have spent the whole day in there, just thinking. For an instant, the real world seemed too much and too difficult to deal with, like the moment just before you turn the lights on, afraid of overwhelming your eyes.

Snapshots of the City TW#23

Piazza Navona:

Cafes crowd the small alleyway and we barely squeeze through. Unexpectedly, we emerge into a wide, windswept square. Too bad the central fountain has been boarded up, the soaring obelisk looks most impressive. The wind carries music. We head that direction. We squint to protect our eyes. A man behind a small fold-up table gestures wildly with his hands, a magician, possibly? Of course I’m wrong; you know how blind I can be without my glasses. A hand puppeteer, in fact. His hands move to the music, the little finger men and women dancing. The music fades and the people on his hands transform, but who are they now? A familiar song starts and instantly I know: Michael Jackson would be performing soon. Watching the hand puppeteer is a multimedia event. The intro to “Smooth Criminal” is accompanied by artificial smoke, sweet like vanilla and powered by a foot-pump on the ground. Even the finger version of MJ is a showman.

Wind blowing white smoke
I am mesmerized by hands
Captivated.

Campo Dei Fiori:

I’m meeting friends by Bruno, whose somber expression is a sharp contrast to the lively and raucous square. Little boys with accordions are standing in front of the outdoor dinner tables, entertaining tourists in hopes of earning a few euros. They must compete with the construction in the buildings above, the short pops of hammers hitting metal like playing with your first cap gun. A renegade dog escapes its owner and attacks some leftover spaghetti in the street. The owner yells at the dog as if it is a naughty child, until finally leashing it and yanking it away. A large herd of tourists pass, the alpha female easily noticeable because of her prestigious ornamentation (a Burberry umbrella) and loud voice, barking to her followers. Couples walk by slowly, whispering in each others’ ears as if a sound-proof bubble surrounds them, blocking out the madness around us all. Time to go Bruno, friends are here.

Overwhelming noise
Brings the piazza to life
Attacks the senses.

Trevi Fountain:

Cold gelato on an even colder night. Why do we torture ourselves so? We pace around the edge of the pool, eating our midnight snack. The clear blue water cascades down the marble, crashing into the waters below like a mini waterfall. Ripples flow to the edge of the fountain, adding texture to the glowing water. Look how ridiculous these tourists are, right hands above their heads, posing for pictures like ancient Roman statues.

Man-made waterfalls
Try to imitate nature
Not nearly as nice.

Pantheon:

It’s an early morning for me, as it is for the rest of Rome, I suppose. The square is nearly empty. I wait expectantly, standing before the huge black doors before me. It’s 8:29 and 55, 56, 57, 58, 59 seconds… I lose count as movement breaks my concentration. The doors open slowly, as if the Pantheon can also feel my early morning pains. It feels like the sun had gone down only a few hours ago. It was probably more obvious to the Pantheon, as its eye is much larger. I step inside the round space, cloud cover dimming the room. And as I sit and wait, I see the room brighten as more light filters in. The cloud cover is breaking and the Pantheon is slowly lumbering awake. Soon, more tourists fill this space, adding even more life to the building.

Early morning Rome
Who says buildings aren't alive?
Wake the Pantheon

The Evolution of My Journal CW#1

When I started the trip, I was highly skeptical of the whole concept of journaling. I had some preconceived stereotypes about it; most prominent among them was that journals (a synonym for ‘diaries’) were used by girls to write down their feelings. My upbringing in an Asian-American family, where expressing emotions openly is generally discouraged, possibly played a key role in promoting this stereotype. I just wasn’t comfortable sharing my thoughts publicly; even though journals are really meant to be seen by the writer only, it still felt like I was airing out my dirty laundry for everyone to read. Because I thought so little of journaling, I initially didn’t want to put very much effort or money into it. So when we were all asked to go out and purchase a notebook, the first thought that came to mind was, “Why should I get one of those expensive journals? It’s just a stack of bound paper anyways… I probably won’t even use this when I get home.”

This same sort of attitude continued into some of my first entries of my journal, which were simply short, meaningless observations. Reading over them now, I realize that they really add nothing to my experience here; I simply wrote for the sake of writing:

“Italian class was difficult to understand.”

“First time on a train, doesn’t seem much different than a plane.”

These statements couldn’t even be called observations, because they offered no detail or imagery. After reading them, I didn't have any better sense of where I had been and the experiences I had there. I could have written these things down in Seattle; there was nothing uniquely Roman about them.

As I took the time to muddle through the first few pages, however, the evolution of my entries became clear. Slowly and naturally, as I wrote more, the better it became. While Shawn gave us a few things to keep in mind, the transformation that occurred in my journal took little effort on my part; it was a byproduct of continuous writing. Over time, my entries began to include more adjectives, beyond the generic, ‘beautiful,’ and ‘amazing.’ My writing gradually became more descriptive as I began making connections to other things, and started drawing heavily on the use of senses other than sight to bring the reader into my experiences.

“I shot up this morning as the perfect storm of noises congregated beneath my open window. Glass beer bottles shattered upon impact as, what sounded like 20 garbage-men stood outside shouting in their deep voices. Meanwhile, a Vespa, whirring like a giant mosquito, flew past at the exact same time as a low-rumbling Mack truck drove by.”

Every time I read over this entry, I feel like I’m there again that morning, being woken up at 6 am to the ‘perfect storm of noise.’ The transformation of my journal from a list of uninspired facts into snapshots of my time here in Rome has been truly surprising. At the beginning of the program, journaling was a chore which was required to get a good grade in Creative Writing. But as I look over the evolution of my journal, I recognize that writing down my thoughts and observations and being able to articulate them is one of the most meaningful things I’ve accomplished while in Rome. Photographs capture the same image for everyone, but being able to reconstruct my experiences with my own words has helped make this trip more memorable. When I go home next week, people will ask me, “How was Rome?” and instead of saying, “Rome was fun,” I'll be able to use stories from my journal to better illustrate the experiences I had here.

Sculpture and Movement CW#17

My Experiences with Bernini

The last time I went to the Villa Borghese, I saw Bernini’s masterpieces for the first time in my life. I did not know who he was or his reputation for sculpture, but I knew I liked his work because he had the ability to manipulate marble so that it appeared to be moving. For example, in both “Apollo and Daphne” and in “Pluto and Proserpina,” it was obvious even to my untrained eye that these two males were pursuing/capturing their unwilling lovers. I did not know the mythological origins of the statues, but I recognized them as great works of marble in action. In a way, the first time I saw these statues was probably a similar experience to the people of the Baroque period seeing the latest Bernini for the first time. The only difference between my first viewing of the Apollo and Daphne and Berninis’ contemporaries first viewing was that they would have been familiar with his previous works, holding a certain expectation about what they were about to see. I had no previous expectations for Bernini so all his works were more impressive to me, viewing them for the first time. I had never seen marble, which I had always believed was a hard, rigid substance, manipulated in that way before. Bernini’s contemporaries would have probably been in a similar state of shock by his ability to once again breathe life into stone. I took the time to observe the intricate details he had sculpted to give life to his statues: the slender fingers transforming into delicate leaves, the fingernails and toenails, and the veins in the figures’ arms and legs that were a part of a figure so real they gave the illusion of actually carrying blood. I easily spent the whole day staring at these statues, walking around them and discovering their little details until the museum finally kicked me out. I had always discounted the value of art, but when the Bernini’s at the Villa Borghese were ‘unveiled’ to me, the experience gave me a real appreciation for such fine works.

Going into the Villa Borghese for a second time, I held a certain preconceived expectation. I had told all my classmates that this was probably the best museum in Rome because it held some of the most life-like marble statues that anyone (even an art cynic like me) would appreciate. For a seasoned Bernini expert like myself, I expected to go to the statues, circle them a few times, observe some of the details, then move on, as I had done before. But after listening to Linda’s presentation, I realized that Bernini did not intend his audience to make cursory, superficial observations. To truly understand Bernini’s sculptures, I needed to interact with them. They were not designed to be viewed from a central perspective, but required me to move, just like they were moving. But I couldn’t just circle the statues in a random fashion. As a viewer, I needed to take the proper route around the statues to see the story unfold before my eyes. Environment was so important to these works of art that these statues were placed in positions within the rooms so that the audience would have viewed them from a one particular angle when they first entered and see the story unfold as they moved around the room. Take the story of Apollo and Daphne for example: Linda first showed us the back of Apollo, his robes of marble jutting out at us, his powerful calves thrusting forward, and his hands reaching out. We could tell he was in movement, pursuing something. As we moved counterclockwise, we saw his robe billowing behind him, arms grasping onto a woman, whose own arms were outstretched, fingers turning into leaves. As we continued to rotate, we saw the front of Daphne’s face, fearful, looking upwards to the god’s for help. Meanwhile we also noticed Apollo’s face, slightly bewildered. His hand on Daphne’s chest was not actually touching her skin, but a piece of bark that had extended up from her left leg. A final turn showed us Daphne’s leg transforming into the bottom of a tree, which is when we realized that Apollo’s pursuit is in vain; he was not able to get Daphne, as we thought he might at the beginning, when we saw a powerful man grabbing a woman. From this angle we instead observe that his attempt was really in vain.

Viewing the Bernini’s for a second time added a whole new level to my understanding of art. Even though I felt like I knew these Bernini’s from prior my experience, I was amazed at how radically different another person looked at the same piece of art. None of us knew what Bernini was actually thinking when he sculpted these masterpieces, so we’ll never know his true intentions. However, I think some art needs to be re-evaluated from a different perspective to see if there is more meaning and depth to the piece than simply surface observations.

More postcards! still no scanner CW#7

The Many Faces of the Trevi

8/24/07 11:00 pm

I can barely hear the sounds of the rushing water above the raucous shouting from around the corner. From all the noise, I anticipate the fountain will be packed. And I'm right. People are sitting on every possible ledge next to the water, admiring it splashing. It’s fairly bright out, the square lit by all the gelaterias open late for tourists. My search for the famed ‘San Crispino’ fails and I am forced to resort to some 2^nd rate gelato at the place on the left corner (do not go there!). Tourists line up with their backs to the fountain so that the edge is barely visible. Posing for cameras, visitors throw coins over their right shoulders and make a wish. The fountain is impressive at night, the figures’ shadows distorting the fountain’s proportions. The water is clear blue and almost glows from the orange spotlights. A countless number of couples appear very closely attached and may need surgery to separate. Compared to all the other fountains here in Rome, this one sounds more like a waterfall. I follow the other tourists’ lead and toss in a coin.

9/11/07 11:51 am

My attempts to eat good gelato are foiled again. Tuesdays, San Crispino is closed. Today even more tourists cram into the square. They all follow one lady with a bright pink umbrella as if they are drones. There’s barely room to walk past the fountain. Today, a table is set up selling random knick-knacks (bracelets, magnets, etc.) and a few tourists are actually buying things. I can’t hear the water at all because of all the man-made noise: kids are shouting and running around the pool, people talking. There are a lot of ‘Roman soldiers’ around waiting to take pictures (only 5 euro!). Again, I can hardly even see the fountain from where I’m standing, as people obscure my vision. Midday must be tourist time. Policemen sit on their bikes and monitor the crowd. Are they always around or just when its busy? A woman approached me and uses sign language to ask me to take a picture for her… even though she spoke English. Do I look that touristy?

9/17/07 8:00 am

Garbage trucks rumble through the square, cleaning up the remnants of last night’s madness. A huge crash of shattering glass pierces through the air as they dump numerous empty beer bottles. The building to the right blocks the early morning sun and a diagonal shadow is cast across the fountain. Only 2 Roman soldiers this morning, a rare occurrence. I often see them around the Forum… Compared to all the other times I’ve been here, it's unusually quiet right now. Morning is not the time for locals or tourists to dawdle here. The trinket stand on the corner of the fountain is just setting up now. The lighting in the morning doesn’t give the fountain the dramatic effect as at night, although the water seems bluer and clearer at this time of the day. A few policemen patrol the streets, though there’s no one around to catch. I stumbled upon a random food market with a few random fresh fruit and vegetable stands. Another garbage can full of bottles gets dumped. A new group of tourists are approaching, time to go!

My Folle Vole... or just a bad night CW#6

I sit on the cold marble stairs in the dim hallway leading to my apartment door, head down, shoulders slumped. I am beaten yet again by an impossible Roman lock. I quadruple-check the brass nameplate beside the door and see “No.5” scribbled on a scrap of paper there. I go over a quick checklist in my head: right apartment, the key fits. So why am I still stuck out here and not comfortably asleep in bed? I try again. Pushing myself off the floor, I approach the door, warily hesitant but hopeful, putting my obnoxiously large key in lock for the umpteenth time. One turn, two turns... My anticipation builds with each successive click of metal, right up to that moment before the fourth and final deadbolt is supposed to be pushed away… and my key gets stuck. Again. I push on the door and turn the key then pull and turn. Nothing. I bang on the door, taking short breaks to hold down the doorbell. Still nothing. I guess it won’t do any good now… it didn’t work half an hour ago either. How can no one be home at midnight?

At the end of another long day, spent treading unknown miles on uneven cobblestone streets, I want nothing more than to sleep, even if it’s on the smallest, loudest mattress in all of Rome. For a moment I consider lying down right there, grabbing a nice piece of hard marble floor and waiting for my roommates to come home. But how long will they be? That last deadbolt, unseen behind the door, taunts me, unmoving. I am too frustrated to stay here any longer, so I take to the streets. The only thing open this late? Bars. I take a seat in one around the corner, keeping my eyes peeled for any sign of my friends. I need to stay awake so I don’t miss them when they return, yet the loud music doesn’t stop me from dosing. I buy a coke and pinch myself, doing a quick assessment of my situation. How unlikely is it for me to be locked out of my apartment in the early morning of my third day in this country?

I can’t resist the urge to fall asleep in this bar, so I get up and head in a random direction, willing my tired feet to move. Maybe they’re all at the Rome Center hanging out with the girls. That’s possible, why didn’t I think of that before? With new hope, I head in that direction, only to find an empty Rome center. Maybe I missed them on the way over and they’re back at home. Nope, no guys here either. But maybe, just maybe they’re dropping the girls off at their apartment first. I try the Rome Center one last time. Still no sign of them. I debate sleeping in the Honors room that night. I seriously consider which is more comfortable, a wooden table or a marble floor.

I decide to go back and try one last time. I cross the Tiber River for the 10^th timeTiber River today. Maybe, hopefully, my roommates are home. I try my key one last time. Unable to open it, I follow with the usual routine: a few hard bangs and some doorbell ringing. But my attempts are only half-hearted. I am resigned, beaten and tired. I give up. I’m too tired to walk anymore so I take a seat on the stairs and I doze off. I don’t know how long I sit here, nor do I care once I hear familiar voices. I've never been so happy to see my roommates. When I finally get inside, I head straight for my room. And there I find Scott, sleeping in bed all along. Apparently, he didn’t hear anything when I asked the next morning… apparently.

If only I had a scanner... Ubiquitous Postcards CW#3

Roman Forum – 08/21/07

The Forum is crawling with tourists. It’s hard to even see the ruins, let alone navigate through them. Everyone’s trying to block the midday sun from burning their skin. The Curia is open today, a rare occurrence. The building seems too narrow and tall to be a senate house. Not more than 50 feet from the historic Arch of Titus, a man is being arrested for selling fake purses. He might have been from that group of men running through the Forum, their backs hunched over from carrying huge white bed sheets, full of what I can only guess to be even more fake purses. Even though there are numerous distractions from modern life, all I need to do is close my eyes to imagine what the Forum must have been like during ancient Rome. Immediately, columns begin to shoot up everywhere and buildings reconstruct themselves. Men in togas dart in and out of buildings, discussing important legal matters. Statues of great emperors and gods looking over the people. I imagine a much different place than I see today.

Coliseum – 08/21/07

Probably the most famous piece of ancient architecture in Rome; everyone has heard of the Coliseum. But hearing about it and actually standing next to it are totally different experiences. The Coliseum imposes its history on you. I can’t help but think of the movie Gladiator as I walk through the corridors and when I gaze upon the open arena below. Like in the Forum, all I need to do is close my eyes and in my mind, the building reconstructs itself, as tourists and cars disappear. The deafening roar of the people is the first sensation. The blood, sweat, and passion of tens of thousands fill the air. It feels more like a mob than the most civilized people in the world. The sensation is too much. I open my eyes and exit the building again. I am immediately approached by a Roman soldier, offering me the rare opportunity to take his picture for only 5 euro. Locals fill the area around it with stands for over-priced food and trinkets. The Coliseum is a tourist trap.

David – 08/30/07

I swear I saw this same statue 4 other times before now. Apparently this is the authentic because the line to get in here winds around the block. The hallway leading up to David is lined with unfinished marble carvings by Michelangelo. It seems arranged as if to contrast how perfect David really is (he’s like a light waiting at the end of a long dark tunnel). The statue reminds me of the street performers outside, dressed in gold or gray that only move if you give them a few euro. I watch David, expecting him to move any second now. The people here are quiet, reverent even, which is a lot different from some of my experiences in the churches here. Everyone takes a slow circle around the statue, admiring it from every angle before spending a few thoughtful minutes just staring at it again from the front. Those that are leaving steal quick glances over their shoulders, trying to cement the image into their minds.

Spanish Steps – 09/06/07

Music led me here. Some Americans (by their accents) have joined together at the foot of the stairs to entertain the small groups of people randomly congregated on the steps. Not that anyone is really listening. Couples are scattered everywhere, in every position. Most, however, are just sitting together and talking, enjoying the late-night atmosphere. Only a few rowdy drinkers are out tonight. Maybe it’s too late for them. I can hear British accents mixed with the singing American voices and the rapid, rolling sounds of the Italian language. Sporadic flashes from cameras wash the steps in light, making the world visible for a second. The Steps at night aren’t quite as lively as during the day, when hundreds overcrowd its space. The Steps are where people come to enjoy a quiet night in Rome.

Civita – 09/07/07

How do I capture looking out onto the rolling hills of the Tuscan countryside in words? The picture on the front of this postcard fails to do this place justice either. I’ve taken dozens of pictures from atop this hillside town and none of them adequately conveys the experience of actually being up here. Have you ever seen a cloud’s shadow? From up here I don’t have to just stand in shadows - I can see the whole thing. An interesting experience for a city kid like me. This quiet town is deserted and dying. I’ve walked through the main road and have seen maybe four inhabitants and heard only six more live here. The only stores here are a small café, a souvenir shop and a generations old olive oil press. How/why did they even get two cranes into this town? Like all other good European towns, the tallest building in this town is a decrepit bell tower.

Piazza Navona – 09/12/07

The main fountain has been boarded up. The statues are hardly visible through the little plastic windows. A huge circle has formed around two people, dressed in matching black and red outfits. They’re about to put on a fire-dancing show. Two instructions issued: 1) “You watch us dance with fire.” 2) “You put money in the hat.” A little girl is rolling around on the cobblestone, her pink dress covered in dirt. The sounds of accordions echo through the piazza as young boys try to earn a few extra euros. A local calls out to me. “Konichiwa!” As if all Asians are Japanese. They try to get me to hold out my finger to help them make bracelets, but I’ve been here before. I know it’s a trick and simply ignore them. The piazza is so full of life all the time. Artists, magicians, and fortune tellers all set up shop around the long piazza, entertaining the masses.

Sistine Chapel – 09/12/07

My group has been given the rare opportunity to stay here alone. Everyone is silent, heads tilted backward, staring at the masterpiece of Michelangelo’s toils. There is much more to this room than the two fingers on the front of this postcard. Trying to capture the Sistine chapel with a snapshot of two fingers is almost a crime; an injustice to the other painters who contributed to the room. Everywhere I look, a kaleidoscope of colors greets me. Hundreds of figures line the ceiling and walls, begging for my attention. If they had been anywhere else besides in this room, these paintings could have been masterpieces in their own right. Chunks of the ceiling are missing, a testimony to Michelangelo’s inexperience. This is the only time I’ve been in Rome and felt like pictures rightfully shouldn’t be taken.

St. Peter’s Basilica – 09/13/07

The line to get in here is four people wide and wraps around more than half of the piazza. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many tourists in one place. The entire courtyard is teeming with people, while the inside is even more packed. I keep my eyes out for cameras to avoid ruining anyone’s pictures. The high alter spirals its way up towards the heavens. Drawing my eyes up to the dome, I can barely see all the people who walked up to the ceiling because they are so far away. This does not remotely resemble a reverent church atmosphere. Tourists here seem more obnoxious and aggressive. I’m not Catholic, but the entire scene seems fairly disrespectful. This place is crawling with Bernini’s sculptures. I barely know anything about art, but all the flowing marble around me is the most obvious clue to who the decorator was. There are too many tourists here to really enjoy this place, today at least.

Trajan’s Column – 09/17/07

The first time I came to Rome, I saw this and all I thought was, “Why is there a statue on a big column?” That thought testifies to how overwhelming all the grand art and ancient architecture is in Rome. I had overlooked one of the less famous (but no less important) pieces of art without asking any questions. Many others must feel the same way because the column obviously attracts less of a crowd than the Forum across the street and the Coliseum down the road. When traveling around Rome, we tourists don’t do this city justice; we stop by what’s popular and give everything else a cursory glance. It’s near the end of my program and sitting here, I have to ask myself, how many other things have I missed in my five weeks here? How can I rewind to the first week and see everything over again?

Arriving in Rome CW#2

After landing in Rome, I immediately felt a wave of heat and humidity wash over me, a sharp contrast to my cold, blanket-less discount airlines flight from Paris to the lesser known Ciampino Airport on the outskirts of the Eternal City. While I passed from the baggage claim to the airport lobby, I was surprised to realize I had never passed through customs, which was odd in a country like Italy, known for its sloth-like bureaucracy. Instead, I walked by a couple of lifeless offices, windows darkened by shades pulled low. Once in the airport lobby, it wasn't long before an onslaught of pushy Italians surrounded me; I had forgotten this part of Italian culture in my idealized memories of my first trip to Rome. Confident and assertive, the locals easily forced their way to the front of the mob that surrounded the exasperated woman managing bus tickets. As for the rest of us, we were just desperate tourists searching for another soul that we could communicate with (preferably in English) .

When the bus towards Termini started rolling, I noticed that some of my fellow travelers had made it, while many more had not survived the chaotic Ciampino. I would have helped them if I could, but unfortunately, ‘traveler casualties,’ as I like to call them, are an unavoidable part of the experience. I couldn’t spend too much time worrying about them because as we sped along the cobblestone streets of Rome, I quickly realized that I recognized none of the scenes that flashed by my window. My previous visit here had built my anticipation for all the sights, sounds and tastes that my senses would feast upon, but on this bus ride, nothing looked familiar. I began to search through my memories of Rome, with the hope that I might figure out where this bus was taking me. But all my memories came straight from the Campo dei Fiori. I recalled the bustling marketplace, full of street vendors hawking their overpriced fresh fruit and fake goods to the masses of tourists. I thought of Steve, the Canadian who owns the deli Ruggeri’s, dressed in his plain white shirt, waiting patiently as foreigners stumbled through their broken Italian to order paninis and meats, though he himself could understand and speak perfect English.

But when I was dropped off next to an inconspicuous looking building (which turned out to be Termini station), heavy-laden with luggage, I was overwhelmed by my unfamiliarity of the city. I had relied so heavily on my memories to help me navigate Rome that I felt betrayed and confused when they failed me. Of course, there were many familiar sensations and sights: wiry haired gypsy women shaking little plastic cups, ambulance sirens that shrieked out of tune notes after they had passed and crazy Italian drivers armed with cars and mopeds speeding down the street. But Termini still felt a world away from the Campo, which held my most memorable experiences.

I bungled my first attempt at orienting myself by asking a local where the ‘piazza’ was, referring to the main piazza in front of Termini where all the cabs lined up. The lady stopped smoking and gave me a look as if I were mentally impaired - I’m assuming because the word ‘piazza’ by itself means nothing to Italians. “Which one was I referring to? There are many in this city.” My next failure came after I was finally able to track down a taxi, and asked the driver to take me to the Piazza del Bis-KEE-OWN instead of the Piazza del BISH-OHN-EH, violating one of the most basic rules of the Italian language. After an 11 euro cab ride, which I ended up paying 15 euro for, I was finally in a place I recognized, the Campo dei Fiori, yet even this place looked nothing like the way I had envisioned it. The bustling market had closed up and gone for the day, leaving the Campo deserted, except for a few scraps of fruit and vegetables for the pigeons. And to top it all off, Ruggeri’s, which I had looked forward to eating at the most, wasn’t even open, leaving me with an empty stomach after a long morning in Rome.