Secret Passageways

Secret passageways live in movies and novels, not here! Not now, not for real! But she shows us the passageways, and we walk through them. I tell Christina that I want secret passageways of my very own; she nods in accord. But do I? I wonder how safe these passageways were. After all, a passageway of exit is always a potential passageway of entry. And what then?

The Flood Markers

Imagine unearthing these torn documents and damaged frescoes. I picture an art historian kneeling to her chest in mud and sludge, clutching an ancient scroll and sobbing; even in her sorrow, she is careful that her tears should not fall upon the precious document. Instead, they fall down her cheeks and dabble past, adding to the devastation of the flood water.

Railway Graffiti

It is the signature of a brave culture, the art of lurking in dark alleyways. An illegal art, where practicing to perfection is against the law. Defacement of property. And yet, it is beautiful. Beautifully vibrant, challenging viewers in its glorious array of brilliant colors. It fears none.

Rows of graffiti- practicing grounds along the railway track? I dream of being able to take only a camera and myself, hop the fence, and document every piece of railway graffiti. It is beautiful, both astonishing and heart wrenching to pass. It heartens me to know that such art is more than possible or probably; it is. And yet it tears me apart to know that it is just out of reach, my forbidden fruit of paradise. I wish I was brave enough to learn my own graffiti in the midst of the night, but I lack the courage even to climb a low fence and photograph to my heart's content. For now, I can only dream, and practice my sharpie graffiti.

THE COLOSSEUM: MONUMENT AND MYTH

The Colosseum is often considered the defining symbol of ancient Rome, due partly to the psychological insights raised by the gladiatorial games that made it famous, but also in its role as an architectural wonder. Despite our revulsion at the ancient use of murder as a form of entertainment, we are inexplicably drawn to the violence. It is as if we are walking a fine line between reassuring ourselves that the Colosseum was built for a brutal society completely unlike our own, and knowing that the capability for such sadism might still be lurking in our modern culture.


HISTORY

Nero, the Roman emperor, never understood frugality. What he lost in love and support from his subjects, he made up for in lavish projects of self-indulgence. One of these projects was the Golden House, his gigantic palace built in the center of Rome, where the Great Fire of 64 A.D. had demolished everything that had previously stood on its ground. After Nero and the three temporary emperors fell, Caesar Vespasianus Augustus, or Vespasian, rose to power. Eager to dispel any resemblances to the despised Nero, Vespasian began construction of the Colosseum, a public venue of entertainment and a gift to his subjects. He had the lake of Nero’s Golden House drained, and the Colosseum took its place. Unfortunately, Vespasian died prior to the completion of his colossal amphitheatre. His son succeeded him, and the Colosseum was completed the following year during the reign of Titus Flavius Vespasianus Augustus , or simply Titus.

The Colosseum was neither the first nor the last amphitheatre to be built. Prior to construction of the Colosseum, there had been multitudes of temporary amphitheatres, but none were too massive or too permanent. In Rome, gladiators performed in the Forum while audiences watched from wooden benches that were dismantled at the close of each day. The proliferation of such temporary amphitheatres may seem impractical, but the Roman senators had very strong political reasons for refusing to build a permanent amphitheatre. In a republic like ancient Rome, citizens had a direct influence on elections and laws. This fact was exacerbated by the dual role of citizens as both voters and soldiers. The power of the Senate depended on the willingness of the soldiers to fight. If the citizen-soldiers were to collectively revolt against the Senate, the republic would crumble and the government would be powerless. Fearful of a potential uprising, the Senate avoided constructing buildings large enough for the majority of citizens to meet and conspire. However, with the advent of Roman emperors, this fear reversed itself. By midway through first century BC, the Republican system of government had imploded. Free elections by the people quickly turned into rigged elections by bribed senators. By 80 AD, when the Colosseum was completed, the monarchy was firm enough for emperors to risk confronting their subjects as a collective. In addition, it was essential that the emperor see and be seen by the people, especially as a means of perpetuating the myth that the emperor was always accessible to his subjects. The Colosseum was the perfect sized forum. It was a place where subjects could view their emperor with gratefulness as a benefactor, for patronizing the Colosseum games, but also recall the power of the emperor as their ruler.


EVENTS

When the Colosseum was completed, Titus held a massive opening ceremony, which was to have lasted a hundred days. Estimates for how many animals were killed during these celebrations range from 9,000 to 500,000. There are various accounts describing the shows given during the celebrations, though most are probably exaggerated. According to Dio’s account, the Colosseum was intentionally flooded, and ships and animals were brought in to stage a mock battle, recreating a famous naval encounter of fifth-century BC Greece. He also describes battles between cranes and elephants, and other magnificent creatures, though it is difficult to imagine how one might persuade a crane to fight within the open Colosseum. Martial’s book of poems, The Book of the Shows, describes scenes in which stories from mythology would be re-enacted. In one myth, the god Poseidon vengefully makes the wife of King Minos of Crete fall in love with a bull, and then give birth to Minotaur, a mix of human and bull. In Martial’s book, this scene is acted out between a woman and a live animal. It is unknown how literally these stories should be taken. There is evidence for dramatic executions of criminals in along these lines (presumably, the woman would not survive the encounter), although it is difficult to imagine how one might force a criminal to act out his or her own death. Possibly, these descriptions refer to people acting as animals, made “real” only by Martial’s fantastical imagery.

The opening ceremonies were atypical of the games held at the Colosseum. Generally, the games were more structured and routine. In the morning, fights involving either animals against other animals, or wild animal hunts by people, were held. During lunch, the Colosseum featured public executions of prisoners, and the afternoon brought gladiatorial fights. Supposedly, a gladiator would salute the emperor, saying “Hail Caesar, those about to die salute you!” before fighting, but the evidence for this line is minimal. A wounded gladiator was at the mercy of the emperor or the audience. A thumbs up supposedly signaled mercy, while a thumbs down signaled death. However, there is no evidence that these thumb signals corresponded to these assumed events; the signals may actually have meant the reverse.

Though most days in the Colosseum varied only slightly, events were occasionally held to celebrate an anniversary or victory, or to commemorate a predecessor. The emperor usually sponsored these games, but a wealthy family could also obtain permission to hold and fund a celebratory event for the public at the Colosseum. An emperor’s reputation could suffer or gain based on their generosity with these displays. The emperor Trajan gave the biggest bloodbath ever recorded at the Colosseum, to celebrate his conquest over Dacia (modern Romania). According to Dio, 11,000 animals were killed and 10,000 gladiators fought over the course of 123 days.

While Trajan and other emperors strategically hosted these massive shows to curry favor with their subjects, other emperors transgressed the boundary of appropriateness. The emperor Domitian, among others, had members of the Roman elite fight as gladiators. Commodus pushed these boundaries the furthest. He was said to have fought hundreds of private gladiatorial bouts, and he often fought in public displays, though with wooden swords only. Once, he opened an extravaganza by killing a hundred bears with spears thrown from walkways through the arena. The next day, he killed many harmless domestic animals, with nets to prevent disaster anyway, as well as a tiger, a hippopotamus, and an elephant. Senators and knights were required to attend the games when the emperor was fighting, though they were more tense than comfortable. At one game, Commodus killed an ostrich and then took its head and approached the senators in the audience, as if to threaten them. Though senators were forced to watch the games, commoners had a choice, and many chose to stay home. Some refused to watch out of disgust for the emperor, while others stayed away because they had heard a rumor that the emperor was planning to dress as Hercules and shoot random spectators as if he was killing the Stymphalian birds from Herculean legend.


SEATING AND ARCHITECTURE

Even if we were to assume that writers such as Dio and Martial exaggerated the figures they cited in their descriptions of the Colosseum games, the arena necessary to accommodate such lavish displays would have to be massive. Indeed, the Colosseum is forty-eight meters high, and the original building is estimated to have used 100,000 cubic meters of travertine marble, quarried nearby at Tivoli. Over the years, the Colosseum has suffered natural disasters and looting, and survived through restorations and renovations. The combination of these factors makes it nearly impossible to determine which sections are original. In addition, the Colosseum has lost almost all of its original decoration, including marble facings, rich paintings, stuccoes, and statues. We have an idea of what the monument would have looked like with its decoration based on surviving paintings of the Colosseum done during the Renaissance, when more of the stucco decoration remained intact. Today, small fragments of brightly painted plaster still survive from the corridors, perhaps a sign of vivid coloring in ancient times.

The original Colosseum had four visible arcaded stories and an underground level, which was added shortly after the initial structure was built. It is built in the shape of a series of concentric ellipses, with a series of four annular (the Latin word for “ring”) corridors. The ground floor contains all four corridors, while each additional story contains one less corridor, until the top story has just one ring. The ground floor has plain Doric columns, the first has more complex Ionic columns, the second even more highly flourished Corinthian columns, and the top has Corinthian columns interspersed with windows. The effect of the arcaded stories was to create stadium seating, so that everyone in the Colosseum had a clear view of the arena. Each corridor offered access to a different part of the monument, and stairwells lead to the higher levels. The corridors probably contained water fountains and lavatories as well. The staircases were carefully planned and situated so that the elites could directly access the lower levels without being forced to mingle with the peasants headed for the upper levels.

The Colosseum had eighty numbered arches. Seating assignments corresponded to the numbers on the arches, organizing spectators into sections. Unlike modern stadiums, it was not possible to spend more money to buy a better ticket. Instead, tickets were distributed at no cost by organizations or powerful, influential patrons. Though no entrance tickets survive, they were probably small tokens made of wood, lead, or bone, which specified a block or entranceway, level, and row number.

Upon entry, spectators would have seen the arena as the ground floor. However, below the ground floor was the underground floor, and below even that floor was a complicated system of drainage. Since the Colosseum was built on the site of what was once Nero’s lake, flooding was a problem. The bowl-like shape of the Colosseum only enhanced this potential issue. However, a vast hydraulic system was arranged even before the foundations were built. The intricate network of underground drains runs all the way around and through the center of the monument. This vast ring runs eight meters bellow the valley floor, taking water off to flow into the Tiber River.

The Colosseum’s deepest foundations are roughly in the shape of two concentric circles. Under the walls and seating, these foundations lie twelve to thirteen meters deep, continuing for six meters outside the perimeter wall. Beneath the arena, the foundations are only four meters deep. Digging just the oval hole alone would have been a massive enterprise. Most likely, some excavated earth was used to raise the ground level around the whole building, while the rest was carted away. After the area was excavated, the building of the retaining wall began. The remaining hole, around 250,000 cubic meters in volume, was filled in with concrete, lime, mortar, and sand mixed with water and volcanic rock.

Shortly after the Colosseum was built, the underground floor was added for logistical purposes. It is rich with mazes of walls, forming different rectangular compartments. Interspersed between these compartments are square areas, which formed shafts for lifts to carry animals from the underground to the arena level. Some of the other rectangular compartments were storage areas, while others were rooms for gladiators or animals to be kept while they waited for their appearance in the arena.

A thick wooden board lay over the underground maze, forming the arena level. This would have been the first level visible to spectators. Three inches of sand lay over the wooden board, to soak up the blood and urine from the games. A tall wall surrounded the arena, keeping spectators safely distanced from the fights ensuing below. However, even a thick wall is not always enough to prevent an angered animal or a vengeful gladiator from climbing or jumping into the crowd. Other measures would have been in place to prevent a tragedy. These probably included a set of ivory rollers set around the arena, an extra fence jutting out toward the arena, and a wide net.

The next three levels were all filled with seating areas. Class differentiation was built into the Colosseum, with seating determined by rank. The elite seating was in the boxes on the northern and southern sides of the arena, at ringside. Elaborate northern and southern entranceways led directly to these elite boxes. It is believed that the southern entrance was for the emperor, due to the discovery of an underground passageway which gave direct access to the ringside from somewhere outside the building. This passageway was an insertion, probably soon after the building was opened, and it was decorated elaborately. Originally, the walls were faced in marble or alabaster, later replaced with frescoed plaster, and there was lavish stucco in different spots, while the floor was covered in mosaic. This passage was added to give the emperor safe passage to his private box. The northern box probably accommodated minor royals or the Vestal Virgins.

The senators and Vestal Virgins sat in wooden benches near the arena, while knights, the next official rank, sat behind them. Each descending rank sat on the next highest level, until the top of the seating area, which was reserved for slaves, non-citizens, and women. Relegating women to the poorest seating of the arena ensured that the audience (at least the elite crowd) was overwhelmingly male, since no woman of any pretensions was likely to enjoy sharing seats with the lowest classes of society. A little above the peasant seating, on the highest level of the outer wall, sockets were used to attach an awning over the audience. The awning provided some shade for the seating, but the center had a circular hole to ensure that light could still enter the arena.

The Colosseum was built with every factor in mind, including strategically placed passageways, an elaborate drainage system, and rank-based stadium seating. Now only one question begs an answer: who designed the Colosseum? Much to experts’ dismay, this query remains unanswered. We do know that vast quantities of slave labor, both skilled and unskilled, made up the majority of the workforce. Individual sections and arches were probably subcontracted to different groups. While the voussoirs (crucial to structural stability) in the arches are virtually identical, each individual arch varies by quite a bit more, reflecting variety based on the size of the travertine blocks delivered from quarries.


THROUGH THE AGES

Though the Colosseum began as a venue for emperors to host gladiatorial games, it has since held a variety of meanings and uses. Though the last gladiatorial game was held in the 420’s, animal hunts continued to be held for at least another century. Except for a bullfight held much later, our last evidence of an animal hunt is from 523. The Venerable Bede predicted, “While stands the Coliseum, Rome shall stand / When falls the Coliseum, / Rome shall fall, and when Rome falls – the world” (Quennell 89). Indeed, the Colosseum fell into disuse with the rise of Christianity and the fall of the ancient Roman Empire. Constantine, the first Christian emperor, passed legislation against the gladiatorial shows. However, it was highly ineffective and rarely enforced. Ultimately, it was civil war and barbarian invasions that drained Roman resources, effectively ending the shows through a lack of funding.

There are traces of animal stalls, shacks, and haylofts from the sixth century. Occupation of the Colosseum in this manner continued for centuries. Ownership is documented in legal records referring to small houses, gardens, courtyards, and boundary walls nestled both inside and around the monument. This smaller housing transformed into a much larger scale during the mid-12th century, part of the Colosseum was incorporated into the Frangipane palace. However, they lost control of the Palace a century later to the rival Annibaldi family, who then eventually sold it to the Christian “Order of St. Salvator”.
By the Middle Ages, the original use of the Colosseum had been completely forgotten. In 1332, a bullfight was held in the Colosseum, but ironically, those who held it seemed to have made no connection with the ancient use of the venue. Eighteen humans and eleven animals were killed during these games. There have been no recorded games held in the Colosseum since then.

The term “Colosseum” was actually adopted much later. The Colosseum began as the “Hunting Theater”, or simply the “Amphitheater”. However, during the Middle Ages, it was referred to as the “Coliseum”, from colo, the Latin word for worship. The building was thought to have been a Temple of the Sun, originally roofed with a gilded dome, and home to pagan demons, with a huge statue of Jupiter in the center of the arena. It was not until the fifteenth century, when Italian Renaissance humanists studied classical texts, that the Colosseum was once again recognized for the amphitheatre it had originally been.

Christianity took up the Colosseum as a holy monument, symbolizing the sacrifice of so many early Christian martyrs for their God. However, there are no actual accounts claiming that Christian martyrs were ever executed in the Colosseum; it is only assumed, since it would have been the logical place for executions to occur. Regardless, the role of the Colosseum as a symbol of death and brutality reversed with the rise of Christianity. The Catholic Church began to celebrate the Colosseum as a shrine to the martyrs who had died there. From 1490 until midway through the 16th century, Christian passion plays were regularly performed at the Colosseum, on Good Friday. In 1519, the small chapel of Santa Maria della Pieta, housing a resident chapel hermit, was constructed at the eastern section of the arena. Pope Clement X had a wooden cross placed atop the building with painted text to commemorate the religious significance of the Colosseum. In the 1750s, Pope Benedict X1V added another inscribed plaque. It was not until the 1870s that the religious décor was torn down and the resident chapel hermit was evicted. Catholic groups held pray-ins and the Pope protested the removal of religious symbols from the Colosseum, but both were to no avail. However, the Pope still visits the Colosseum every year on Good Friday.

Despite the religious significance of the monument, the papacy turned the Colosseum into a quarry during various points in time. Papal records dating up until the 17th century reveal permission forms to “quarry stone from the Colosseum”. In 1452, Pope Nicholas V signed permission for 2,522 cartloads of stone to be removed from the Colosseum to make limestone for St. Peter’s Basilica. During the 17th century, Pope Urban VII allowed his family, the Barberini, to take fallen travertine marble from the Colosseum to build their new Palazzo Barberini. One cynical comment reads cleverly in Latin: “Quod non fecerunt barbari, fecerunt Barberini” (“What the barbarians did not do, the Barberini have done”).

Religious groups were not the only special interest groups to claim the Colosseum as their own. One of the Colosseum’s long-standing claims to fame is its flora. Due to the micro-climate within the walls of the monument, or perhaps more fancifully because of seeds which once fell from the fur of exotic animals used in the games, an enormous range of plants thrived in the Colosseum. Some of the plants are even extraordinary rarities. The flora of the Colosseum were first catalogued and published in 1643 by Domenico Panaroli, of the University of Rome. Panaroli recorded finding 337 species. In 1815, another professor, Antonio Sebastiani, listed 261 species. The reduction in number may have been due either to poorer observation or to the major excavations of the monument, which would have disturbed the flora. Forty years later, Richard Deakin, an English doctor and amateur botanist from Sheffield published The Flora of the Colosseum. The illustrated work listed 420 different species (though modern scientists reduce this number to 418 unique species). He was especially keen on symbolic value, focusing especially on one flora called “Christ’s Thorn”. Deakin dreaded the excavation work which would ruin his beloved species. He had good reason to be worried; in 1870, archeological authorities ordered the removal of the “weeds” in the Colosseum. Today, the Colosseum is virtually a flower-free zone.

The Colosseum has been many things. It began as a gift from an emperor to his subjects, continued as a haven to the poor, a palace to the rich, a symbol of Christian triumph over paganism to some, as a quarry to others, and a ground of study to botanists. It has withstood time and the elements, and it held countless functions, but one thing the Colosseum has never been is completely forgotten. Today, it undergoes daily scrutiny by countless visitors, all of whom are awed and perplexed both by the resplendent genius of the architecture and by the psychological implications of such a structure. Even now, a myriad of myths surround the Colosseum, some based in fact, some shrouded completely in mysticism. And so the Colosseum stands: a collection of myths wound tightly into one of the grandest monuments of ancient Rome, destined to stand for generations to come.


SOURCES

Beard, Mary, and Keith Hopkins. The Colosseum. United Kingdom: Butler and Tanner, 2005.

Cozzo, Giuseppe. The Colosseum: The Flavian Amphitheatre. Rome, Italy: Fratelli Palombi Editori.

Hibbert, Christopher. Rome: The Biography of a City. New York, New York: Norton and Company, 1985.

Quennell, Peter. The Colosseum. New York: Newsweek, 1971.

Tranquillus, C. Suetonius. The Lives of the Twelve Caesars. Trans. Alexander Thomas. Williamstown, Massachusetts: Corner House Publishers, 1978.

Wheeler, Mortimer. Roman Art and Architecture. New York, New York: Thames and Hudson, 1985.

Silenced Army

BRITISH MILITARY CEMETARY

Life and Death rarely agree, but here they compromise. They watch us silently from underneath the luscious trees, all of them sharing the cross that is so prevalent in Rome. Nothing and no one can faze them; they are a silenced army. The flowers grow respectfully; none dare to surpass the height of the mighty stones, the graves of the fallen brave.

The Secret Garden

AVENTINE HILL

The path looks like something from The Secret Garden. At the end of the steep, slippery cobblestones lies a locked gate. Tantalizing, like the hallucinatory mirage in the middle of the Sahara; but no, this is no mirage. It is tangible. Around the corner, we enter.

This is not The Secret Garden; no, it is our secret garden. My mouth waters in anticipation for the unbloomed oranges, but there is no trace of fruit. Just like the mirage garden, the promise of the oranges lingers just out of reach. The hidden fruit of seasons past and seasons to come mocks us disparagingly.

Junko told me of Tuscany, the land of the twig trees with the fluffy tops. Our garden is full of them! As if the foliage is not enough, there are huge potted mini-trees, bursting with air, our substance of life. At the end of the pathway, marble lines the seating area. I sit atop the world, looking out. To my right, marble steps meet my eye. To my left, a sharp drop leads to oblivion.

The marble is alive; I can feel her pain through every crack, every tear in her weary body. It is as if centuries upon centuries of insects spent their lives ripping at the marble, chipping away at her perfection. But perfection be damned! She still stands, her character ever more alive, and she is more beautiful than ever. It will take a much more massive insect to do her true damage; for now, the smaller ones scurry back in shame, back to the leaves they used to enjoy chewing.

The Day of Wandering

Today we drift through Rome: swirls of mist, wandering through the alleyways. We are grounded only by the cries of pain emanating from below: the cries of feet unused to the coarse manners of jeering cobblestones, which take pleasure in our pain. Yet, even they cannot drag us to their level; we soar too high, our wings just a finger-width away from their desperate grasp. We soar, and yet our day began quite simply.

The same kind receptionist, who greeted us yesterday, pointed us to our breakfast caffé. Our nonexistent knowledge of Italian joined forces with the exclusive menu, the first we’ve encountered which did not offer English, to reject us. I keep glancing at the menu, somehow hoping that it would suddenly translate itself, or grant me the ability to decipher the items listed. No such luck there. However, the friendly man behind the counter took pity on our poor souls. We nodded along to the phrases he offered, relieved at the close call. In this manner, we ordered: a chocolate croissant for the each of us, cappuccino for Zoe, and orange juice for me.

We set off for Piazza dei Argentino, in search of someone who would sell us a journal. Instead, we found a bookstore housing a host of colorful postcards and cute greeting cards. With an amalgam of French words at Zoe’s disposal and Spanish words at mine, we managed to decipher the ultimate message given by most of the cards, but the details remained fuzzy. No matter. Like a child, I chose the cards with the most appealing pictures and purchased them. We thanked whoever had invented registers that display prices numerically on screens the customer could view, before exiting our little book haven.

With the city bustling all around, four ruins plant themselves haughtily in the very center of the Piazza. It is their right, for they have outlasted every mortal they have encountered thus far, and by this time they are clever enough to know they will outlast us as well. We pay them a visit. They are beautiful and bizarre; the juxtaposition of the four temples’ remains against the lively city is almost surreal. A tall trio of columns is the sole survivor of the family to which it once belonged. The columns stare as we pass by, challenging us to mock their loss. Instead, we capture their immense pride on the disposable digital film we carry. Their pride is justified, for the dignified columns are truly beautiful.

We drift across the ruins to view them from a new angle, and discover multitudes of cats calling the ruins home. They are oblivious to exclamations from passing viewers, caring only for their mutual agreement with the former temples. They keep the stones company, and the stones offer them housing. It is not a new role; cats have been guardians of temples for ages. We smile at them.

Streets and cobblestones and caffés and shops pass us by. We are lost, but what adventurer knew his way? Certainly the ones who did plan never found the right path. Fate does not favor those who love their own plans better than hers. Dante did not plan the wanderings of his exile, and yet he trekked through Heaven, Hell, and Purgatory just as surely as Columbus discovered the Americas instead of spicy India. So we let fate guide us. We are nearing our accidental destination.

A river. The foul stench of filthy steps clogs our nostrils, but we gleefully ignore it as we dash past the steps. As we near the rush of water, I can hear the distant roar of the river’s ironic land guardian, the vicious feline whose name sounds so like the river it defends. We are allowed to pass. Thus, we reach the bank of the river. A quick review of history sparks an inaccuracy: we mistake the Tiber for the Tigris, mother to human civilization. This is where everything began! But no, it is merely a deceptive river, so desperate for attention that it asks for a name just like its idol, like a young girl who dresses like her older sister.

Men fish in the river as we pass. The beginnings of an island loom ahead; the tiny piece of land is host to the sick. Here, lives are both saved and destroyed. We capture ourselves with the island, yet again in our erasable film. We continue. This time, the choice of a new staircase yields favorable results: the aroma is pleasant as we head back up toward civilization.

The Teatro di Marcello is nearby; Zoe can sense it. We pick our moment to cross the busy road. But where is the theatre? We drift between buildings. Ah, it was here all along. The ancient columns and arches are mere feet away, maybe inches. Oh, but those measurements should be saved for home. Here, they are not inches, but centimeters and decimeters away. If we reach across the barrier, we can almost touch the stone. I am almost afraid to try; who would disturb the broken body of a stone giant who rests peacefully through centuries of human strife? We do not walk now, but float instead through the ruins of the theatre. All too soon, the magnificent structures come to an end, and we wave our mental farewell before setting off once again.

We soar through streets, hungering for more marble beauty. The city heeds our call. We stumble across a gargantuan structure alongside a mini piazza. The steps to the piazza are astonishingly large, and structurally singular. They are slanted, creating a literal paradox of sorts: each step forward feels like a step back. We climb the nonsensical staircase. It is framed by giant statues, each of which crushes a deceptively charming-looking ship maiden crying out, imprisoned by sailors’ cruelty on a ship’s bow.

We pass the maidens, unable to silence their cries, until we reach the Piazza. Straight ahead, a fountain bursts to life, flanked by once-identical statues, mirroring one another in the symmetry so beloved by the Romans. Now, one is devoid of the intricate horn, while the other blows sweet music through its still-intact instrument. Pausing only to capture their beauty, we soon discover a museum; it is the Musei Capitolini. It opens with a mid-sized courtyard, surrounded by strange, marvelous statues. We are almost afraid to approach the statues; there is no rope barrier separating us from the ancient marble, but two decades of museum training yell, “no closer!” Cautiously, we watch as others approach the statues, some nonchalantly, some with just as much hesitation. A nearby museum employee makes no attempt to stop anyone. Inspired, Zoe kisses a gigantic lone foot; I hug an enormous hand. The beautiful courtyard waves us farewell; we would love to stay but there is so much more to see.

We glide through hallways upon hallways filled with marble. Some are heroes and some are emperors, while others are gods or goddesses. Some we know, but most we do not recognize. Hercules gives us a weary nod, back from one of his twelve tasks. Athena glares down at us from her glorious suit of armor, and Marcus Aurelius pays no attention as he passes us by on horseback. We watch as the she-wolf gives her own life-blood to Remus and Romulus, so that they may go on to found the city of Rome. We listen to Socrates as he orates to a raging crowd of indignant philosophers. They cannot come to an agreement. The First Christian Emperor’s cloudy, enlarged eyes, a symbol of his closeness to Heaven, stare just above us. We pass through rooms and rooms of artwork. One gigantic Pope Innocent judges us from his magnificent throne, while a Pope Urban mirrors him from the opposite wall. One is black marble, the other white marble. Both are equally imposing.

We slip out from under the popes’ collective gaze. We pass through an underground hallway and exit from the building opposite the entrance. The sun greets us with its familiar harshness as we step back out into the Piazza. We pause for one last moment to breathe in the splendor, before leaping back down the gigantic staircase. I consider what tragedies might occur on these slanted marble steps during the rain, and suddenly the sun seems friendlier.

Adjacent to the Piazza is another huge structure. It boasts its own daunting staircase, and possesses brilliant, gorgeous statues. Alas, it is under renovation. An entire front wall of beauty is smothered by a dreary tarp. Still, we take a deep breath and begin climbing the stairs. The view from the top is impressive. Then again, this begs the question: what isn’t impressive in Rome?

We have paid no heed to our stomachs thus far, but their angry rumbles command attention. Obediently, we search for food to satisfy their complaint. We stumble across an alleyway full of shops, and then a restaurant. Zoe orders a salad, and I ask for capricciosa, a pizza that sounds delectable. In addition to a host of familiar ingredients, it boasts egg slices. Our food arrives, and it looks just as delicious as the descriptions sounded. My skepticism regarding egg as a pizza topping melts when I try my first bite. All of the food here is amazing!

We finish our meal and walk back to the street full of tiny stores. Along the way, we discover a talented young artist displaying his small paintings for sale. We have already bought paintings from another artist, but his style is different. His attention to minute detail is incredible, and we cannot help but to buy two more paintings to bring home. He thanks us and we nod goodbye to him, before retracing our steps back down the Via del Corso. The shopping is excellent. We spend some time wandering in and out of the stores, before heading home.

Along the path back to the Locanda Senatorum, we discover a beautiful church in the midst of the bustling city. It is the Sant Ignazio di Loyola. Cautiously, we enter. It is with no regret, for the church boasts stunning vaulted ceilings, painted meticulously with religious imagery. I am delighted to come across a simple, wooden confession booth; it is the first I have ever seen. My mind wanders, and I wonder what kinds of confessions people have made here over the years. Years and centuries of sins confessed, and even more time spent in penance to wash away the transgressions.

In all of my wondering and wandering, I have almost forgotten that the church is not merely another spectacular tourist site; it is also a haven for the numerous Roman Catholics who live in or visit Rome. As I walk back toward the entrance, I pass several women. Some are in prayer, while others are standing before rows of tiny candles. They place their offering into the wooden box, then pick up a candle and use it to light other candles. After this ritual is complete, they bow their head in prayer, and make the sign of the cross with their nimble fingers. I try to watch unobtrusively, but suddenly, I feel like an intruder at this holy sanctuary. Zoe and I quietly slip back out the entrance, and head home.

***********************

We will wake up for the sunset, we say, in thirty human minutes; but even angels fall. Fall, fall, fall into crisp white pillows, fluffy from the shed feathers of their cousins’ wings. Fall into a heavenly rest that only peace can awaken. And such is the draw of our sanctuary, for we lay down our wings as our lids envelop our last connection with this earthly world we visit. We lay down our wings, and all is well, for sleep is the fruit of heaven, and we, merely two girls who must stop and rest for a world that stops and rests for no one.

The Beginning

As we near landing, Zoe and I peer out the window with excitement. We laugh eagerly as we watch the twig trees and red rooftops pass by. They look like toys; we’re visiting a play-city. Roaring, our plane finally lands, and then comes to a halt. Miraculously, we arrive at Fiumicino a half hour before expected. We marvel at the first time we have ever had a flight arrive early, let alone two consecutively. Excited, I hug Zoe and we bounce off the plane in anticipation of the day ahead. We are tired, and it is barely past eight in the morning in Rome, but even these facts cannot ruin our excitement; we want to see Rome, the historical city.

After some wandering, we find Concorda, and request a car ride to the city. A tall, skinny Italian woman tells us the flat fee to the Locanda Senatorum is seventy-five euro. I recall that my handout said sixty. Despite my reservations, and in our excitement, we agree to seventy-five and prepare to go. Then they tell us that if we wait for a few more passengers, we can split the costs. Ever the smart consumer, we agree to wait a few minutes. We sit down near the window, looking out at the cars weaving in and out through the busy airport. To our right, a father calms his child, who is yelling in Italian. The child’s baby voice discoursing in Italian is the sweetest thing I have ever witnessed. Zoe and I glance at each other and giggle; she was thinking the same. We begin to read our respective books to pass the time. A few minutes of waiting turns into nearly an hour, and our American impatience gains the upper hand. We tell them we’ll pay the seventy-five; we are too eager to reach the city. The woman behind the desk nods and sets off at a rapid pace as we struggle to follow her. Then again, it is hardly fair: she carries a single sheet of paper, while we lug our enormous baggage behind us. She yells out to a group of drivers who are standing in a circle, smoking. One of them shouts back and nods at us.

He leads us back to a spacious vehicle, and helps us store our luggage in the trunk. When Zoe asks, he tells us the ride will take thirty-five to forty minutes. Along the way, we marvel at the glorious statues and structures as we pass by. The buildings all look so ancient; I see not a single newly-built one. There is much construction, but the focus is all renovation of the old; none is creation of the new. Still yet, we are shocked at how proliferate the defacement of buildings is throughout the city: graffiti lines the ancient walls of every edifice in sight. Some look similar to the indecipherable experimentation of American block writing graffiti, only we assume they are in illegible Italian instead of illegible English; some are creative images of invented comic scenes and characters. Yet others are pure messages: bright red, no-nonsense characters without flourish. As we pass one, I wonder if it is a message of hatred, or to incite action or idea, or if it is merely a few innocent lines masquerading behind the intense paint, the shade of freshly spilled blood. At that moment, I wish I could read Italian.

As we marvel at the sites, our forty minutes pass quickly. The driver mutters something to himself, looking lost. After a few turns, we arrive at a tall, rustic stone building in a tiny alley with a string of motorcycles consorting in a line along the street. I see no sign of a hotel anywhere. No large fountain, no circle of bellhops, no grand entrance with an elegant Locanda Senatorum splayed overhead. I almost question the driver: maybe he is lost? But no, he is stopping, and then he opens the trunk and takes our luggage out. I stare at the building again, with a beautiful arch for a doorway. An archway, but of course: I smile. After all, we are in Rome.

Glancing above the archway, I notice a small sign with delicate cursive writing. Ah, we are at the right building after all. We pay the driver, who patiently waits as we count out our unfamiliar euros. I am reluctant to give up the colorful bills, so beautiful as they sway in the light breeze. I wonder if we are to tip. How does tipping work here? I wish for a moment to discuss it with Zoe, but no moment arrives. Praying we aren’t adding to the “rude American” stereotype, we hand him exactly seventy-five, and the driver nods politely before re-entering his car. He drives off, leaving us staring at the archway leading to our hotel. We are both enraptured and not quite sure how to act next. Luckily, two saviors arrive in the next moment.

An attractive, well-groomed young Italian man smiles at us, asking in light English, “need help?” His tone is so polite, so leisurely, that I am shocked into wordlessness. Zoe and I look at each other, unsure of how to react. A polished young lady next to him nods at us and gently repeats the question. Our American instincts take over. My father’s voice rings in my head, reminding me that in a city, when a man asks if you need help with your luggage, his intent is almost certainly theft. He asks again, with an amused twinkle in his eye, watching me struggle to lift two wheeled suitcases over the stone steps. I politely refuse again, unsure of what else to do. I would like to imagine that I am too headstrong to accept help. Patiently, they continue to follow us slowly, clearly not believing in our ability to handle the luggage on our own.

Meticulously, we proceed. “Locanda Senatorum?” the lady asks. We nod. Less patient than he, she hoists Zoe’s suitcase over her shoulder and heads up the stone steps. Zoe follows. I drag my suitcases behind me, and stare up at the imposing stairway. Reason informs me that I cannot possibly drag the gargantuan suitcases up the stairs alone. At this point, I have already refused his help five or six times, and it would be almost ridiculous to ask. He has foreseen this. If smiles could tease people, his would be the one to do so. With a laughing yet still polite grin, he lifts my large blue suitcase and heads up the stairs. In wonderment, I follow, trying not to trip on the crooked stone steps. Are people truly that kind here? I know never to stereotype based on such a small sample size, but it is hard to believe otherwise. Even my stomach ceases its persistent growling for this city. Hunger is forgotten, drifting away in the slow air. As I climb the staircase, I am acutely aware of the loud sound my flip-flops make when they hit the steps, in contrast to the absolute silence of the two natives as they walk up. They set a brisk pace: it is impossible to both keep up and silence my shoes. No matter. I stare at the walls around me; the building is so beautiful. The whole city is a gorgeous antique.

We climb far more stories than one would expect to reach the second floor, and pause at a small doorway. The lady and man enter, and she goes behind the desk while he disappears around the corner, down a hallway, before I can thank him. Whether he is an employee or a guest, I cannot tell. We wait while she sets the desk up, and then she tells us to come back in an hour, when our room will be clean. We nod, and drop off our luggage near a quaint little end table, before heading back out the doorway. Before leaving, the lady suggests we take a business card with us. I laugh: it is a wise decision, as we have no idea where we are, or how to pronounce our hotel name. Pausing at a balcony window before we venture outside, Zoe and I wonder at the beauty of the building. Everything here seems so incredible.

Heading back down the stairs, I nearly trip on an uneven step. We exit back out the archway, and step onto the cobblestone. We pause there for a second, just to stare at our area: to soak in the luster of the ancient city, to bathe in the comforting warmth of the Italian sun, and simply to familiarize ourselves with the narrow alleyway, that we may find our way back in an hour or two.

We wander, with no specific destination in mind, until Zoe recalls the proximity of a beautiful fountain we saw from the van. It is but a few blocks away. Along the way, we notice a grand, open archway leading into some sort of courtyard. Zoe pauses to peer in, and I halt abruptly right behind her. Frustrated, an Italian man behind me mutters something, but the atmosphere and my inability to understand his words relax me more than usual. I do not know how to react, so I simply move out of the way, and he carries on. Even his tone does not seem too angry, and my offense is quickly forgotten. Staring back at the archway, we wander in and discover a small sign, indicating a tourist site, perhaps. Of course, we cannot read it, but Zoe pulls out her camera to take a photo of the courtyard and building, and our role as tourists begins. We stop and enter our first Italian store: it is a shop of four rooms, all filled with delightful figurines and toys. I pick up a cute green stuffed dragon. Everything seems so charming, like a storybook.

We stumble across the fountain, and are astonished to discover an identical fountain across the elliptical plaza. Later, we discover that this is in fact the Piazza Navona, a site we would have eventually visited, had we not stumbled upon it first. Tiny shops and restaurants line one side of the street. It looks like a movie setting: canopies cover the outdoor portion of each caffé or ristorante. Under each canopy, tiny square tables covered in adorable tablecloths are surrounded by inviting white chairs, offering a relaxing lunch. We pass by to take a look at the tiny booths in the square, like a sparse outdoor marketplace. Each booth boasts of racks of paintings in every imaginable size. They are delightfully colorful, and we wonder at the intricate detail involved in each painting. We conclude that we absolutely must purchase some paintings for ourselves before we leave. Perhaps we will fill an entire wall with paintings at our apartment next year.

Once we have passed the paintings, we reach the fountain. We proceed to capture images of one another in front of the strange stone figures bathing in the fountain. Camera-happy, Zoe turns around and takes a photo of one wall of a vendor’s paintings. The vendor quickly shouts out, telling her “no photo.” She nods in apology, but his tone is not harsh. Anger has no place here. We move along.

All we have had to eat for the last day was the few snacks we brought with us, and atrocious meals both on the plane and in the airport. The restaurants here call to us sweetly, and we answer by reading the large menus posted in the street. Having skimmed five menus, we choose the least expensive venue to satisfy our appetites. A waiter waves at us to sit at a tiny table with a yellow-and-white checkered tablecloth draped across. Our colorful map guide to the city is more expansive than this tabletop. Still, the effect is enchanting. He hands us a menu that looks more like a small novel. It lists drinks, lots of drinks, and then first courses, second courses, and dessert. Thankfully, small English descriptions appear alongside the Italian dish names, though we had discussed how it would be fun to order something without any clue what it might be. Our mystery menu will have to be postponed for another day.

Excited, we choose our dishes and close the shared menu. After awhile, it becomes clear that the waiter will not ask our orders without prompting. We signal him. I order mushroom pasta, and Zoe asks for spaghetti with bacon sauce and a cold cappuccino. Neither of us is a fan of coffee, but we hear Italian coffee must be tried. Having no clue how to pronounce my dish name, I merely point. He offers a pronunciation, but I cannot even begin to repeat it. Zoe’s is simpler: we can at least discern the word “spaghetti.” She makes an attempt to pronounce her dish name, and he gives us an amused laugh before departing to put our orders in. The food arrives, in far smaller portions than would be acceptable in America, but it is absolutely delicious.

The ambiance is so comforting. It is our first day, and we are tired, for naps on a plane do not do justice to true sleep. Still, any stress and pent-up energy built up by traveling has dissipated from my body, drifting off like steam with a destination tag far from Italy. We relax, watching groups of people float through the Piazza. We play a game: spot the foreigner without listening to their speech. It is not a difficult game, and I wonder how much we, two English-speaking American girls of Chinese descent, must stand out in this crowd.

Though small in proportion, our food takes a long time to enjoy. The very breeze smells of relaxation. By this time, we have discovered that waiters do not arrive unless requested. We signal the waiter, who winks at us before collecting our plates. We ask for a dessert menu, and order a crushed lemon ice to split. It is sour to the point where my lips sting, yet it is delicious, and nothing like any dessert I have tried previously. We ask for the check, and the waiter winks at us again as he mysteriously pulls receipts out from under a vase of flowers atop the table. “When did he slip the receipts there?” Zoe wonders aloud. I shrug. “Thirty-one,” he tells us. We pay him and he makes change and thanks us. Do we tip? The eternal question plagues us. Zoe recalls her guidebook informing her that a ten percent tip is typical here. We don’t have exact change, so we leave five euros under the vase, then excuse ourselves. Still unsure of protocol, we watch to make sure the waiter has received his tip, but quickly become too self-conscious and return to the hotel instead.

Heading back up the stone steps is tedious: we are tired, and the steps seem taller than the ones we are accustomed to. When we arrive at the hotel doorway, it is shut off: first by a door, then by a barred gate. Zoe rings the doorbell, and the same lady promptly answers. She shows us into our room, and I stare at the cozy décor as we pass through the short hallway.

Our room is not large, though you would never guess from the size of the keys. They jangle against one another as she turns them in the keyhole. We enter. The white, hardwood floors are pristine; for the first time since I was a child, I press my bare feet against the ground of a hotel floor. To even think of being near the usual grimy, spotted hotel carpets curdles my blood. This time, there is nothing to cringe at. This simple detail amazes me: why does no one else think to line hotel room floors with wood?

Two twin beds lay against a mahogany panel on the wall, and two small shelves jut out, covered by lamps, one with a telephone. Above the beds lie our guardian angels: little cherubs with dark, fluffy wings, lamenting their sad fate for being trapped inside, destined to remain in a painting as lifetimes of Italians and visitors enjoys the sites and sunshine. Zoe picks a bed, and then tells me her guardian angel trumps mine. I laugh, and my angel winks at me: she is deceived by his appearance.

The tall ceilings give the room an illusion of grandeur. We have a small armoire, a tiny television, and a full-length mirror. Drawing back the curtains reveals a large window, looking into the alleyway. The air coming through the window is clean and refreshing. We encounter the bathroom, questioning the presence of three seemingly unnecessary stools. The sink is lined with complimentary toiletries, each packaged in a tiny, lovely black or orange box, with the opposite color for a ribbon. The whole room is inviting.

We change out of our musty traveling clothes, and begin to make plans for the rest of the day. Zoe uses her camcorder to make a record of our hotel room. Soon, however, the promise of a relaxed sleep takes over and we find ourselves napping until 8:30 at night, when nothing is open. When we finally awake, we take turns looking out the window into the little alley. I feel the cool breeze kiss my face, and I brush the outside walls of the building with a soft palm. It is perfectly uneven, with little knolls of paint reaching out to hug my fingertips. Contented, I go back inside and lay down on the pure white sheets, masking a firm mattress. Zoe and I discuss. Regretfully, we decide that our tour of the city must start tomorrow, and that we will be better about our sleeping schedule next time. Thus, we return to a state of unconsciousness, smiling in our dreams of our plans for when we awake.