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