End of a Journey

I convinced myself that I wouldn't do that 'dumb American' trick while in London. The one where I look left for traffic. But of course I did, multiple times.

Surprisingly, despite the language similarity, London is the most foreign of the cities I have visited on this trip. True, it's easy to ask for directions. And I can insist on student discount with confidence, not to mention in grammatically correct sentences. Perhaps what's foreign isn't the landscape, but rather my own role, that of a tourist. I didn't know anything about London, and in fact, I walked past Big Ben the first day (and took a picture of it!) without ever realizing what it was. Nothing about London itself quite connected for me as I wandered its patchwork of old and new.

In the end, everything was too expensive. Even getting into heaven costs money these days; St. Paul's Cathedral charged an exorbitant 9£ ($18!), while its frosted-glass door proclaimed that "This is none other than the house of God. This is the gate of Heaven" which seemed to be a return to the times when the church sold indulgences (or did we ever leave that time?). I decided I was satisfied standing on its threshold looking into heaven.

I stumbled across two new places that I loved (and they didn't charge me--although I did make donations). I went to the British Museum because I thought the Magna Carta was there, and stumbled across the Rosetta Stone instead! Eventually, I did find the Magna Carta at the British Library, along with pages from Da Vinci's notebook, and other "Treasures" which siphoned five hours of my time without my knowledge.

So, 6 Starbucks, 10 pictures sneaked in at Westminster Abbey, half of a Rosetta Stone, and a changing of the guards later, I still feel like a stranger. But maybe that's a good thing since familiarity breeds complacency as I discovered upon my return to Seattle. Being in Rome and Paris, every step was an adventure, a challenge to decipher the signs and customs, pulling me out of constant comtemplation. But back in Seattle, I slip back into my old ways, although the trip has taught me to open my eyes occasionally and see the reds of the fall leaves that I have missed the last three years.

Finding the Sandman

À Paris, 28
       I wore a lime green tank top and shorts. I escaped Seattle (whose weather you’re no doubt familiar with) and into the cold and wet of Paris. The cities are both cold and wet, except that they are different types of colds and wets. Paris is unpredictable. The sun dominates the morning, deceiving the unseasoned traveler into wearing tank tops, and shorts. But some time midday the sky decides it cannot hold the water any longer. And it lets it spill. Like a true Seattlelite, I let it soak my skin. It will save me a trip to the pool later. Parisians can’t hold their water, it’s a fact. They huddle like ants, in twos, threes, under the two inches of awning in front of McDonalds. I walk into the sea. Fully clothed.
       I went to the Eiffel Tower in a lavender tank top and shorts, of course. There are only so many things that can be washed by hand. Again, the rain comes. I think it’s my shorts that does it. There, you see me. No, I did not put my thumb on the lens. That’s the rain like a lace held over a bride’s face. Zoom in—I have a hint of a smile, a reminder of home. And really, I think my tank top looks better with polka dots. My crazy hair (when is it not crazy?) would make Einstein proud.

A Roma, 24
       It is too dark to see. The train rumbles too much, threatening to jump off the tracks. The light overhead bathes the cabin in an eerie, cold blue. I work as if by candlelight. The Roman Forum, Caesar, Cicero, the Republic. My legs dangling over the bunk to maximize workspace, but to no avail. The (nice) French family has taken over this cabin. Lights off at nine. But I need to see, and read and write. Ne parlons pas anglais. I had planned to work a little, watch the countryside transform before my eyes, sip a little tea as the train coasted leisurely. But one problem: no light. Oh, and no tea. And not leisurely.
       I stumbled into this gated city. Up escalators, out doors, into taxi. But I have been back, and there are no escalators. Do these escalators exist only in my mind? The city wrings water from the blue skies and deposits the drops on me. At night, I hang out to dry.

A Forum Romanum, 60
       I am sure that I am still awake. Pinch me, please, just to be sure. This afternoon, I told my restless muscles and pain-dulled bones that they need rest, but they don’t listen anymore. I remember talking, gesturing, walking, tripping. I remember people nodding, thinking, then nodding off. I was at the Roman Forum in a light blue tank top and shorts. I blended into the sky, then dropped back down, mid-conversation. I nodded my way into it, as per protocol, I think. In the background, oversized Italian policemen (with their tiny car) are arresting a subdued Indian man. It’s funny, they are dressed as tourists, with Nike checks on an orange so bright it competes with the Roman sun.
       I had no camera, for sprinters do not carry such clumsy things. (Yes, I sprinted to the Forum). We run, here, there, following the wind and the shadows of the sun. But I shall show you a picture from my mind, so that you can see the funniness of the disproportionality.
       What do you mean you can’t see clearly?
       Curious, the figures are blurry, the edges melded together.
              Sun slanting, bathing
              Tired, worn arches of history,
              All out of focus.

tw, #24

Navigating Roma

I.
Why have you
come here?

Why do you
not bring change?

II.
The Roman
can tell
a stranger

from across
the stall

or grocery store
checkout.

III.
The stranger
knows not
of customs

of sale or trade.

IV.
He arrives
on a foreign plane
and fresh
from the bancomat on the corner.

V.
The Roman
knows how
to deter
a stranger.

VI.
The essentials,
pasta
crackers
zucherro

all hidden.

VII.
Behind impenetrable glass counters
guarded
by a Roman.

To deter
the stranger.

VIII.
Romans hate
a stranger.

He arrives
at the mercato
with only
€50 bills.

He leaves
with nothing.
No sale.
No.

IX.
Romans love change
and spurn

the stranger
who has none.

X.
But the fool
who brings none
will create

his own
change.

To the chagrin
of the Roman.

XI.
The modern city
skinned

to reveal
ancient wounds beneath.

XII.
More Forums
uncovered,

columns unearthed

bits and pieces
of Nero
of Constantine
in cold marble.

XIII.
All to attract
more strangers

for the Roman
to hate.

Inspired by Anne Carson's "The Fall of Rome: A Traveler's Guide" (tw #21)

Finding Home

I marvel at the majesty of the mighty Forum Romanum,
The red and green marble of the brick-faced Curia
Much brighter and cooler than the figures in the book,
For it once felt the warmth of Caesar’s and Cicero’s touch.

I marvel at the hidden grandeur of the Medici palaces,
The gardens of marble statues that capture life itself,
And vibrant winking frescoes inked with golden dyes,
All concealed by the rough-hewn stones of modesty.

I marvel at the gondoliers in watery Venezia,
The iridescent spray from the boat teases the sun
And the cool, soft, salty canals caress my hand
As I resist the urge to slip into its embrace.

I return to the fresh scent of strawberries in il Campo,
The jars of nutty brown Nutella piled high in the gelateria,
The putt-putt-putt of vespas threatening to run me over,
And the tarnished green Bruno who watches over my slumber.


tw #25

The Gelato Quest

       The Italians are serious about their gelato, and in the interest of cultural immersion, Lisa sent the class on a gelato quest in Florence. Which gelateria is the best—Perché No or Vivoli?
       Except there was a glitch: Vivoli was closed that week, so on my assignment page, I crossed out Vivoli and penciled in ‘choice.’ Then I set off to find Perché No using the four hours of Italian that I had accumulated. The quest provided no obvious starting point, so I wandered through the shade of Via del Corso, hoping to simply stumble across it. After a few minutes, I realized that my plan was foolish, so I picked a random deserted shop to my right and entered, hoping that no one would witness the embarrassing misuse of Italian to come.
       I hesitantly walked to the shadowy back corner of the store, past vibrant ties that seemed to fade as I moved forward. Dov’è Perché No? I asked the cravatier, a balding man with an aureole of curls. His blank stare was my only response. Perhaps I should have tried a different deserted shop. Dov’è…I tried again, this time showing him the page in my hand. But he sent his palm flying to my face, screaming a silent stop! I fear that I might have interrupted his work, perhaps Florentines are like Romans? His eyes scanned the question, twice, as a smile crept onto his face.
       He exclaimed oh, Vivoli! and rocketed out of his chair. Then the smile transformed to puzzlement, but why have you crossed it out? It is the best gelato in Florence! I tried to convey, in a jumble of English and Italian, that I was not looking for Vivoli, but the man would not have it. You must go try it, he insisted, pulling my arm all the way to the door, as the ties brightened once more.
       I tried one last time, no, Perché No?
       Yes, why not? he repeated, pushing me out.
       I headed in the general direction of his finger, and eventually found my way to Perché No, but the gelato was surprisingly unexceptional. Weeks later, on my return to Florence, I tried Vivoli and the gelato was so deliciously sweet and creamy that I went back that night, and again the next morning.

tw #24

A Public Service Announcement

They are everywhere. I have been fighting them for years, starting four years back when I first realized the dangers of these fiends. Perhaps that makes me an expert, perhaps not, but every day, before I rise, my resolute chant is always the same: they must not get me. I have tried to warn the world of their dangers, on how to avoid their sweet lure, but few believe and even fewer practice vigilance. But I will continue to fight for my sake, and for others. Please, I implore, be vigilant and do not allow them to fool you. I share with you a few of my close encounters so that you might learn, and judge for yourself the dangers these beasts present.

I. Parco Savello
I scour my surroundings, in a new city, with new scents and sounds that mask their characteristic songs and clicks. There, one hidden behind the tangled green leaves of the orange tree, whose fruits were shed many months ago. And there, one above the ledge, gazing out at the smoky Roman air that blurs the Altar of the Nation. I duck, I weave, I crunch over grey rockbeds, to throw them off my scent. Duck, weave, repeat. For now, I have succeeded, but the danger is eminent. Today, a good day: my maneuvers have allowed me to escape them unscathed.

II. Ara Pacis Augustae
I stand by the alien encased in a blood-red box, relaxed, distracted by the musical splashing of the fountain, a sweet G Major tune almost ruining all. From my left, the first one attacks in a flash! But years of practice pay off as I veer left, dodging the first, only to find a second waiting for me! I duck again, but too slow this time! I analyze the damage: only a graze, as far as I can tell, but the full effect will take a few days to reveal itself. They have become wily, working in collusion to outsmart and outmaneuver me. For now, I am annoyed, frustrated, how did I not see this coming? This new strategy changes everything, my cloaking strategy needs three steps, duck, weave, duck, repeat. Today’s mishap opens my eyes to their new strategies, and I too must develop new avenues of evasion.

III. Vatican
En route to the St. Peter’s basilica and square, Lisa decides on a detour. Gather around, stand there, she asks. I analyze the surroundings, damn, this is the worst situation. We are in open ground—far ahead is the foreboding grey of the Vatican, and in the distance behind us is the brick layered cake of Castel Sant’Angelo. The closest buildings are a distant hundred meter sprint away, two nondescript grey blocks that flank Via della Conciliazione. My senses sharpen, visual acuity improves, as I scan the surroundings despite the flashes of glare that twinkle on and off, on and off. I persist, keeping my eyes open at all costs, ignoring the prickling sweat, the dance of motorists and pedestrians, the exhaust particles tickling my throat, all threatening to break my concentration. A new situation calls for quick thinking; I use the only resource available—I disappear behind the creamy mocha of Matt(hew)’s shirt. A second later, I scan again, duck, weave, duck, mocha. But my success is questionable, did it get me?

They must not get me. They come in all shapes and colors, but always with a single eye, and occasionally emitting a blinding white light. If you see one, duck, weave, duck, no matter how strong the lure.

cw #6

The Sum of Reals Equals a Non-Real?

How do we perceive and remember reality? Is reality the recording of life by the flow of ions in our brains, each separated as a neat package? Or do these singular realities mix, to become reshaped into something new, a hallucination?

Tonight, Rome is stripped of its tourists, its erratic white taxis and heat, leaving behind trees napping under the moonlight and the wanderer alone to explore. The Forum is covered by a blanket of darkness, the ancient marble and bricks relaxed after a tense day under the glare of sunlight. As I walk by Julius Caesar, he points to the distance, where a strange shape catches my eye—I am at a loss for what its proper name is, but I recognize it immediately as the missing curl from violin faces. Naturally, I gravitate towards the sight; my eyes follow the strings downwards—six people are being strapped into harnesses, a few have instruments in their hands but in the darkness, it is difficult to see who has what. Taking their lead, I too allow the tension out of my shoulders, and focus on the murmur of the leaves and the air sweetened by the specks of history trapped within its whorls. Breath in, breath out, my rhythm slows. A note is struck, and the mobile rises, dangling precariously from a cartoonish orange crane, a sight visualized but unprocessed by my brain—both halves protesting against the impossibility and impracticality, attempting to reconcile it with the visual input. The barely perceptible harmony of Mozart filters through my mind, blending with the wind, the birds, and the whistling ruins. The conductor, recognizable not by her baton, but by her Queen of Hearts costume, motions for the start of a song. Her quartet jumps to readiness, as if moved by invisible strings. I take off my glasses in preparation for my final escape. I take one more deep breath, chin on rail, and slip into the past. The strings disappear, as the orbs of vivid blue and red float in the night, a sight that is no less strange than the previous one. I put my eyes back on and walk away; ten steps out, I turn around, to check if the mobile is still there. It is.

I look on my camera for proof of the night, but no proof exists. The pictures are nothing more than streaks of color against a dark canvas. Does the lack of evidence disprove the reality of my jaunts; was it indeed a manifestation of my imagination? Or simply a recreation born from pieces already present? Did the other thousands of Romans have the same dream I did? A peek out the window shows that the streets and the Campo are deserted; people who were emptied into the streets just a few hours earlier have returned to their magical clown cars.

Was last night only a dream?

cw, #4

Permanent Imagery

“Beauty is a weapon of mass destruction,” said Joseph Connors.

Beauty: the word has different meanings for everyone, and even for the same person, its meaning shifts with new perspectives and experiences. For me, beauty is found in simplicity, efficiency, and strength—properties that speak to my values and connect to my experiences. Beauty is an unexpected sight that causes me to reconsider my assumed paradigms, something that makes me think about the world from a different vantage point.

By this standard, something beautiful does not need to induce awe or be aesthetically pleasing, and in fact, according to Harriet Rubin, author of Dante in Love, Connors “meant that encounters with beauty unsettle a person.” By this standard, Chiesa di Santa Maria della Concezione is one of the most beautiful sights of Rome.

Before the class enters, the anticipation is built. It is not a joke, warns Shawn, act as you would in any other church. Lisa and Shawn go so far as to make entrance optional, but that, of course makes me more curious to see what’s inside. I scowl a bit at their warning--I prefer to judge for myself first, without moral context, without the expectation of another’s social paradigm. But in this case, all words would be overwritten by the power of the experience to come.

I walk under the doorway of the Coemeterium, and even the long warning we just got could not prepare me for the sight. The bones are not in the room, they are the room; not just a few reconstructed skeletons, but bits and pieces from hundreds of Capuchin monks arranged decoratively, artistically even. The bones do not form a passive display; instead, I am thrust into their midst, with no escape except to close my eyes. When I open them, I take a few shallow breaths and settle for writing a description in my journal, averting my eyes for another moment. Finally, I look again, at the pelvises and vertebrae used to decorate the ceiling in flower motifs, complete with elaborate borders. Stacks of skulls line the archway around a painting that is the focal point of the room. On the left and right walls, are bundles of femurs which form arches, under which lie clothed skeletons of two Capuchin monks.

The sickly scent of death intermingled with syrupy incense irritate my trachea, but the discomfort is easily ignored by the signals racing through my mind. I forcefully turn down the volume of the thoughts flooding my synapses, as I continue to the next rooms, past the lamps hanging overhead, comprised entirely of more bones. I squeeze through four more rooms, arms tucked, walking carefully, not to avoid touching the sides physically, but withdrawing myself from the reality of death. At the end of the slow walk, a plaque reads:
“Quello che voi siete noi eravamo; quello che noi siamo voi sarete.”
(What you are now we used to be; what we are now you will be)

There is no way out except back the way I have come, so I turn, forced to take second look. Somehow, the initial shock has dissipated and perhaps by design, my suppressed thoughts about life, death, and religion continue unabated. When I exit the church, I stand, numbed by the assault of thoughts that the display has induced, scribbling madly into my journal, allowing it to relieve my mind of its burden. Why am I appalled? Whose moral system have I accepted without knowing? What happens to the body after death? The soul? Is there a soul and can it be proven? Was that an acceptable use of human remains? Acceptable by whose standard? Where do these moral structures come from? And so on… Moments later, my classmates join me, and they too are unnaturally subdued, all forced to consider ideas usually left untouched. We each throw a bit of ourselves, and of our reactions into the conversation, as if testing the waters. Soon, it becomes a heated discussion: we exchange, ponder, and argue all the way to the Borghese Gallery--the meaning of life, the existence of soul, and implications and purpose of religion, our voices echo in the small bus #116, and mingle playfully with the trees along our path. I smile.

Beauty: the ability to force a reconsideration of everything we believe.

cw #5

Sounds of Seattle, Songs of Roma

I walk back from a Tazza d'Oro, a coffee shop by the Pantheon, en route to the Forno (bakery) to pick up some bianca (salted pizza base, as far as I can tell). This is all part of my Italian class, to go try a granita di caffe con panna; it's very dull and torturous homework to be sure.

I listen to the landscape this time, unlike the many times before. Rome is somehow quieter, yet at the same time more boisterous than Seattle. Then I think, what does Seattle sound like? There's the rumble of Metro buses...but beyond that, I have never bothered to listen. The ambient noise of the cars, of the chiming churches, of the mad dash to class has always been something to tune out rather than focus on. I always run, headphones in ear, past the pitter-patter of rain against the leaves, the VW honking at the jaywalkers, and the wind making chimes of every tree. For now, I will have to wait to hear the music of Seattle.

Rome's orchestra varies by the day and hour. During the weekday, the clanging of vendors at Campo de' Fiori begins just before eight. Today, there is the added clamor of a scaffolding being erected on a building in the far corner. The drone of the occasional vespa like the clash of cymbals to accent the harmony. The fruttivendolo yelling into her phone as she takes my two euros for the fragola; she speaks louder to compensate for the rustling of the paper bag she is packaging for me.

By 2 pm, the afternoon song begins--this time, the clang of the merchants as they disassemble their tents; a few resolute ones remain unmovable under the scorching midday sun. The relative quiet is broken as the garbage trucks rumble to life, the vroo-oo-m of the engines broken by the sound of cascading glass. Every hour or so, the many churches sound their discordant voices, and sometimes, even on the half hour. By nightfall, the noise of the crowd becomes constant, growing louder and louder, accented by a few loud chortles, and accompanied by the guitar dude, violin/a capella boy, or sax man. Tonight, there is the added synchrony of intermittent clapping--roommates engaged in some sort of primal game. And sometimes, special guests make an appearance: fire dancers twirling to a disbelieving crowd, to the beat of anonymous hip hop music and the bass from the nearby bar. By 2 am, the rumble of garbage trucks and broken glass sounds again, followed by a few hours of blissful silence until the discordant music begins anew. The only exception to the cycle is Sunday, when everything, including the Campo is eerily quiet--no sounds, no people, no nothing, just an empty square in shameful disuse.

The Colors of Venezia

Venice is unbelievable, as if one of my crazy notions of an alternate world has come to fruition. Of course, everyone has heard that Venice has canals and not streets, but it's quite a difference between knowing that such an oddity exists and actually traipsing through the giant maze that is Venice. I bought a map, marked with useful notes from the hotel clerk--where to find the best gelato, and so on. But it was useless; the scale was never quite right and the streets never connected in the optimistically neat way they appeared on paper. And so, I wandered, meandered, lost my way and then found it again. Although to be fair, I never knew where I was going, so was I really lost?

Then there was San Marco, and the hordes of pigeons: plump, fluffy miscreants who owned all of the pavement, the airspace, and every ledge of every building. It reminded me of second grade when my teacher put jelly beans in a jar and had us guess how many there were. 273 then, exactly 1292 now. The strategy is the same--take a small area, count how many there are, multiply by the number of areas that fit into the whole, give or take a prime number to give the appearance of randomness. It was insanity.

I took a tour to the other islands around Venice as well. To Murano, known for its glass making. To Burano, full of vibrantly colored houses--hot pinks and burning oranges that clashed horribly, yet lived side by side in harmony. And to Torcello, for its...one church, and the one house that I stumbled across, with two peacocks and a turkey in the back yard.


I never quite knew what to think of Venice. Do I like it? Dislike it? It exists purely to challenge my conceptions of normal words like 'bus' or 'street.' And there were the giant hot pink alligators, for no rhyme or reason at all.