Envoi

Last night, I came home, took a hot (at last!) shower, and immediately fell asleep. I woke up early this morning, and, for a few moments just sat in my bed. Everything seemed far too normal. I believed for a moment that the last two weeks had merely been a dream. (I suppose the fact that my dreams had involved the Trevi fountain and the Pantheon didn’t help.) But, I definitely have memories that my subconscious couldn’t have created.

I remember I was terrified at the airport. I’m a worrier, (I swear, I inherited this from my mother,) and had so many fears running through my mind at that moment. I had a small panic attack (consisting of “AHH! I can’t believe this is happening!”  said on repeat to my parents.) I couldn’t believe that I was in fact going through with one of my plans, that I would soon be abroad, that nothing had canceled the trip like I was sure would happen. My other worries, though, I didn’t voice to my parents. What if I got there and found myself so out of my depth and too homesick that I wouldn’t enjoy it? What if I didn’t befriend anyone? What if I got bored? (Two weeks? In one city…?)

 I cursed myself for not taking at least one class of Italian, for not pestering my friends that took Italian this past semester for pronunciation lessons. What was I thinking, going to a foreign country where I couldn’t speak the language?!

…What if I hated it?

             

Now, I’m looking back on those two weeks, and I can, in all honesty, say: those were some of the best two weeks to my life. I made excellent friends, and had some lovely adventures. I learned (some) Italian, most of it admittedly gleaned from the repeated directions on the Metro. I got to solidify what knowledge I had of the city, and expand on it. I was able to turn Rome from a soft city to a hard city made up of wonderful art, fantastic food, gelato, and a combination of tourists and locals.

And, above all, I fell in love. I fell in love with Roma.

Beyond the obviously wonderful food and awesome coffee that I loved, I enjoyed the strange layout of the streets, the way you could know exactly where you were going, and still end up somewhere else. How everything was so close together that you could stumble on some places while walking, and indeed that for the most part you could walk everywhere. Of course, the Metro did help, as did the buses (when the right ones came.) And yet, even if I could easily get lost, I felt utterly comfortable walking around, more so than walking around Boston, a city that I have been walking in for years. Rome possesses a busy atmosphere that, at the same time, manages to be relaxing.

And, the incredible monuments! They towered over me, to a greater extent than I thought they would. I knew that they would be immense, but neither Piranesi's sketches nor any Google images truly prepared me for the real grandeur of these buildings. The breath-taking Pantheon, the gigantic Basilica Maxentius: the only thing more amazing than the size of these buildings was their age. Then, beyond the ancient places, the art! Oh, the art: the Berninis spread throughout the city, in the Vatican, in Santa Maria del Popolo, and the Piazza Navona. The awe-inspiring statues he created, that stand in the Galleria Borghese that made me come so close to crying, but that also brought me the greatest joy. And, to add to Bernini’s masterpieces, the gorgeous ancient paintings that the popes took for themselves and the (for the most part) wonderful modern art in the Galleria d’Arte Moderna, the Caravaggios, and the work of Nicola Salvi. Rome proved to be heaven for an artist. Even outside of the museums, beauty shone in building facades, and in the lines of the buildings piled upon one another.

Now, having spent just over a day away from Rome, I miss the trees (where else could you find Italian cypresses, normal pine trees and palm trees all together?) the seagull that squawked in such a bleating manner outside the room I shared with Katie every morning, without fail. (It made me laugh, every day.) I miss the way that the birds circled above the Wedding Cake and Termini even though that rather scared me, reminding me too much of vultures in a desert. And, above all, I will miss the beautiful swallowtails that swooped and twirled around the Trevi fountain (and pooped on Gia, Melissa, and me when we went there one night.) I tried to draw their graceful shapes in my sketchbook, but only managed to create blocky versions. While I won’t fully miss the Campo de’Fiori because my town has its own farmer’s market, and I will miss being able to, however briefly, converse with a stall-keeper in Italian: to be able to pretend that I was someone else, a local Italian.

I learned so much from this trip, from the actual history of the city to little realizations about myself that the trip gave me, to the way that the course changed the way I see things now. The writing assignments forced me to actively take in my surroundings, and to consciously think of how I felt in a space, and all the details that I could notice, from people to the art.

A toast! (of sorts) to Rome: to the layers of the city, to the wonderful people with whom I traveled, to the people who humored my attempts at terrible Italian, to the night life, to the beautiful hidden spots, to the woman who was just as struck by Bernini’s work as I was and who told me so: Thank-you!

Oh, and, I won’t miss needing to have correct change.

(I never did have it.)

Giornale 5 (Santa Maria del Popolo)

I put off my last solo excursion for a few days because I didn’t want to acknowledge the nearing end of the seminar, so I ended up going on the 4^th, our last full day in Rome. I meant to go in the morning, but, instead, went with Erika in search of Caffe Sant’Eustachio. Thankfully, we found it with very little difficulty, thanks to a map and a storeowner’s quick directions. After we bought some coffee to take home, I walked Erika to the Piazza di Spagna, so that she could go to the Keats-Shelley museum, and I could take the metro to Piazza del Popolo. Unfortunately, I got there a little too late, after the church had closed for the afternoon. Having assumed before arriving there that I would be too late, I had made plans to go back and to finish packing and writing some blog entries. I occupied myself with that (and a couple orders of wonderful gelato) until 4, at which point I rushed to the metro, passing Katie and Sandy who, along with some other people, were returning from their day’s adventures. I arrived at the piazza, and stood outside the church, unimpressed by the exterior.

Entering the church, I blinked to let my eyes adjust from the incredibly bright sunlight outside to the darker interior. While I was walking around, I look down and was a little surprised by the lack of mosaics. Many of the other churches that I had seen, such as Santa Maria in Trastevere, had very lovely swirled mosaics inlaid into the floor. Throughout the rest of the church, I was struck by the beautiful masterpieces in the chapels, and in the aisles and apse. The statues of the angels were stunningly beautiful, and seemed quite Bernini-esque in their design. Unfortunately, I did not have my Blue Guide with me at the time, and so I could not look up who built the church. Later, I was able to look in the book and see that I was indeed right in thinking that the statues looked as if Bernini had made them, seeing as he had contributed to a renovation of the church interior. Among the other artwork in the church, the organ, and the bronze oak tree intertwined with the pipes of the organ, utterly floored me. I couldn’t find any mention of who created the tree in the Blue Guide, although the Internet informed me that, once again, it was Bernini’s doing. Raphael’s mosaic in the dome of the church also amazed me, as did a few of the other paintings. Despite all the other great work in the church, Bernini’s work left the greatest impression on me.

 I ended up rushing out of the church a little, since I had seen a priest come and prepare for a mass (I’m not quite sure, but that’s what I assumed he was doing.) Since I had seen the sign asking visitors not to come during prayers, I left, so as not to disturb and disrespect anyone.

However, I’ve always felt a little disrespectful when visiting churches, since I’m not religious. While I do admire the art and the structure of the building, I’m aware that I’m doing it not as a believer of some faith, but fully as a tourist, as a total outsider. And, as with other places, the fact that there were so many tourists took away from any feeling of holiness that should occupy such places of worship. I felt bad for adding to that crowd. It also rather bothered me that there were some tourists that were taking photos of things that they were asked not to photograph. Out of all the places, I feel that, even if they are not religious, the visitors ought to not take photos out of respect and reverence for the church, and for others who do find these places sacred.

Giornale 4 (Campo De'Fiori)

Walking behind Jackie and some of my classmates as we head to the Campo de’Fiori, I think back to the first time I saw it. It was after dinner on our first night in Rome, when a few of us walked back to St. John’s with Dan. I remember just walking down some streets, and then suddenly coming out onto the Campo de’Fiori. I saw a rather large and busy square, with a lot of full restaurants on all of the sides and a statue in the middle. At the far end, I saw a fountain. While I knew that it was a place that many tourists went to, for some reason at that moment, it didn’t seem particularly touristy. We walked through, past the people talking in groups and past the vendors, who were tossing spinning glowing circles into the air and shoving roses at people. That night made me think that the piazza would be similar in the day, although I imagined that it would have more people.

We reach the square, and I almost stumble over the cobblestones and my own feet as I try to take in the bustling piazza. I definitely did not expect the farmer’s market that took up most of the plaza! The tents left only a small space on the sides before the patio areas of the restaurants began. I follow our group down to the far end, near a sandwich and pizza shop named Forno. Seeing as I had a lot of pizza in the past few days, (and seeing as I don’t particularly like most pizza,) I decide to go get a sandwich. I stare at the options, trying to figure out what the Italian descriptions are saying. After a while, the man behind the counter asks me, “Prego?” and I make a split-second decision and point to the “vegetriana.” He hands me the sandwich, wrapped up in wax paper, and I head to the cashier to pay. I internally wince as I hand over a 10 euro bill. The cashier seems annoyed, but accepts it, and I walk back out onto the square.

Ducking into the shade of an umbrella, I bite into the sandwich. It’s DELICIOUS! Examining it, I try to figure out how to make it and find a strange sort of orangey-green leaf in my sandwich. I take a picture of the leaf with my camera, so that I could find it online later, or ask someone about it. Finishing my sandwich ahead of the rest of the group, I quickly duck into the market, to purchase the plump strawberries that I had seen from afar. While trying to find the best priced berries, I see the same orange-green leaf that was in my sandwich. Ah-ha! A sign! The little sign stuck in the crate announces that these are not leaves at all, but zucchini flowers. I make a small mental note to try and find these when I return to the states. I find some cheap strawberries, and purchase a small carton. I eat them quickly, delighting in the fact that these are definitely real strawberries, not the ones in supermarkets that taste delicious, but cold. These strawberries taste sweet, and have clearly ripened in the sun at their own leisure. I smile with delight, and go to purchase more berries, while making a promise to myself to visit the Campo de’Fiori as often as I can.

In the subsequent times when I have visited the market, I have delighted in the fact that my Italian is getting better, and that the market allows me to feel as if I’m a local. I know that I stand out like a sore thumb, but still, the ability to have a whole exchange in Italian with the sellers gives me a certain joy.

Space and Place 2 (Vatican Museum)

I was very excited to go to the Vatican Museum, because I was sure that this would be a fantastic experience. After the class split up in the courtyard with the giant pine cone, I wandered through the museum, starting in the gallery with all the ancient statues. I'm not exactly sure where I went from there, as all I did was to follow the signs for the Sistine Chapel. I tried to enjoy the art that I encountered on the way, but I ended up getting really frustrated. I felt rushed, and didn’t feel that I could give the art the attention that it deserved.

 I was really eager to see the Sistine Chapel, but I found myself really disappointed by my experience. The art was utterly gorgeous, but being literally herded by the guards to join the pack of people standing on the floor, craning their necks up, was unpleasant. I wanted the opportunity to quietly and calmly observe the masterpiece, but, unfortunately, it was impossible to do so. I tried to view as much of the ceiling as I could, and then I left promptly. I felt more discomfort when I tried to go back to the courtyard with the (drinkable) water fountain. I was left with no choice but to follow the signs for the exit, which led me past several gift shops, and past the courtyard, to the post office. At this point, I was actually a little bit scared that I wouldn't be able to get back, and I was getting really annoyed, at the fact that I felt so out of control and so guided. I did eventually end up at the courtyard, but it took me quite a while.

 Although I did have a more pleasant experience in the less crowded rooms with religious paintings, and the Faberge exhibit, overall I didn’t like the museum because of the way that they guide the visitors, and the large masses. I feel that, like the museum in the Villa Borghese, that they should limit the amount of people allowed in a time, although that would make the lines even longer.

Giornale 3 (Keats-Shelley Museum)

Entering the Keats-Shelley museum, I gave a sigh of relief to be out of the strong sun. I climbed up the stairs, and, following the signs, headed into the gift shop to purchase my ticket. There I saw a young woman scurrying around, talking on the phone and searching for something at the same time. I awkwardly stood there for a few minutes, while she finished talking and then turned to me. I felt such a rush of relief when she began talking to me in English. While I enjoy being in a foreign country, it is sometimes comforting to be able to speak English, instead of horribly mangling Italian. We chatted for a brief moment about money, and how it has taken both of us a little while to get used to paying with correct change. I bought a museum guide, thanked the woman, turned around and headed up the stairs to the floor with the exhibit. I handed my ticket to the guy sitting in one of the main chairs lining the walls of the first room. He was also very nice, and quickly told me the layout.

I headed into Keats’s bedroom to start with. Having utterly no previous knowledge of Keats’s life, (and knowing only a sparse few facts about Shelley’s life,) I found the museum fascinating. I began with the description written under a portrait of Keats's sister, done in her old age. He often wrote to her, and, apparently, her letters were buried with Keats, along with the unopened ones from Fanny Brawne (his fiancé, who was the daughter of his neighbor, and 5 years his younger.) I continued to read all of the descriptions that I could find, finding most of them to be more about Keats’s acquaintances, than about events in his life. I found that a little odd, although it does make perfect sense considering that he died at such a young age.

I learned a great deal from the exhibits, such as the fact that Shelley's heart was saved after he was cremated, along with a few bone fragments. These were given out to friends, while his widow kept his heart. The museum has a jar containing a fragment of his jaw bone. The museum also had some locks of hair from Shelley, Keats, and another poet named Hunt (who was not described, and was entirely unknown to me.) I was intrigued by all the mentions of their friend Trelawney, (whose grave is also at the Protestant Cemetery.) He seems like a generally fascinating fellow, and quite a character, according to the descriptions. He apparently lavishly embellished many of his tales.

I found it a little odd to have a spot devoted to Shelley in the house where Keats lived, although I understand why, seeing as both are buried in Rome and both were Romantic poets. A few of the letters about Keats’s acquaintances seemed to me to be unnecessary as they did not really add anything to my understanding of the man or his life.

I was a little rushed at the end, since I was taking the time to read everything that I could. However, by skimming the last few descriptions of some letters pertaining to Shelley, I was able to finish with a little time to spare.

Momentary Blindness

There’s a sound of cars in the distance rushing behind me. It mixes with the sound of people in the park talking, the chirping and twittering of various birds, and the crunch of pebbles grinding against each other under the feet of passersby. Somewhere in front of me a fountain burbles. The different noises do not clash, but meld together to become abstract background noise, while, for some reason, I’m drawn to focus on the sound of the water overflowing.  In this moment, I can easily imagine myself to be anywhere: standing, years ago, in the forest near my childhood home, lying on the green at Skidmore, or sitting on the boulders on the beach of the reservation across the bay in front of my house. The wheels of a stroller on the rough gravel ground, and an Italian woman harshly speaking, I assume on the phone as I could only hear one pair of footsteps, disrupts my peace. I notice a slight smell of exhaust, coming from the cars on the road behind me. A soft breeze picks up, bringing refreshingly cool air near my face, sweeping away the fumes. Still, while the fresh air is nice, it doesn’t compare to the air in many of the streets in Rome, perfumed by the numerous white star jasmine plants that grow along the walls and fences.

Voyeur (Piazza Navona)

I noticed her out of all the other tourists in the piazza because she lightly tripped while taking out here camera, and covered that up by gracefully twirling around to snap a photo of the fountain, her long, but light, dress swirling around her. Her long auburn hair compliments the hues of her yellow and brown patterned dress. She walked over with her companion, who was dressed in a royal purple jumpsuit to one of the stone benches surrounding the edge of the square. Sitting down, she took off her sunglasses, and then her white shoes. The woman then sat cross-legged on the stone bench, facing the second woman. I saw that she had a light blue rectangle hung on a similarly colored lanyard around her neck. Having seen the same sort of lanyard on other people who belonged to a Russian tourist crowd, I assume that she was part of that group.

I wondered where she lived in Russia, guessing that she probably came from one of the cities: either Moscow or St. Petersburg. Part of me also wondered why she was here instead of going to a dacha (summer house in the country,) but I, of course, completely understand the whole idea of traveling to another country, particularly to Rome.

The woman took out a cigarette and quickly smoked it while talking and laughing with her friend. They then took pictures of each other sitting on the bench, and then, upon some signal that I couldn’t see, stood up to meet up with their tour. I could also easily see the woman coming back to her hometown and showing the pictures from this trip to her family and friends, possibly during some dinner in a small apartment, or while having tea and pastries in the afternoon.