PHOTOGRAPHS

MOSQUITO KISSES

Someone once told me that acne was a smattering of angel kisses. I wonder if mosquito bites count. But what kind of a paradise would produce such strange angels? I look down at the swirls of mosquito bites; the red sprinkles whirl gently, forming patterns on my legs. They bravest ones journey down further; they are rewarded. Apparently, my left big toe is the tastiest; I did not know this, but the signature red swell of mosquito kisses is proof. Not one, nor two, but six marks decorate the tiny patch of skin below my nail. The persistent dots follow my veins back up the curve of my foot, up around my leg, and then they leap. They clutch the folds of my dress and invert: light skin with red dots undergoes a metamorphosis, becoming red cloth with pale dots. I match too perfectly; skin and dress in overwhelming harmony. If nothing else, one would think they would at least have the decency to give my disease a name. It looks like the measles and itches like chicken pox, but it has no label. Mosquito pox?

Red swirls of kisses
claw, dancing dangerously
across tortured skin


HANDSHAKES OF THE SINISTER TYPE

Mindy and I search for a shortcut; we are in a rush! Shall we move with the massive crowd, the tide of (mostly) tourists and (occasionally) natives, as they venture around the Vittorio Emmanuel II monument? The thought is distasteful to both of us. Instead, we dash up the massive staircase to the monument, in search of the golden staircase that might lead us down the other side of the Campidoglio. At the top of the steps, two dark doorways greet us. No time for labored decisions! We choose one and dash inside. It is dark; we read the word “musei”, but also “ingresso gratuito”. Free admission museum? We give it a chance. A dark stranger greets us from behind the desk; his hair is slick from grease and his eyes are greedy. We are about to dash past, but he halts us.

“Where are you from?”

“America?”

“No… originally.” I wonder at this, but it seems simpler to answer than to question.

“China.” The man smiles excitedly.

“I just want you to know that you have beautiful eyes.” Hmm, a little strange, but I let it pass. Mindy and I make another attempt to leave.

“Wait!” he exclaims. By this time, both of us are fairly suspicious, but I worry that he has the power to prevent us from entering the museum, so I pause one last time. He sticks his hand out to shake mine. Politely, I reciprocate, but I quickly realize that his snake-like grasp could be eternal. I pull my hand back gently, and he clutches tighter. We are locked in an underhanded battle. Finally, I manage to wrench wrist back and reclaim my poor hand. Mindy and I smile weakly at the man, and this time he lets us leave.

When strangers greet you
with greasy grins, leering eyes,
keep hands and smiles closed


GIGGLING PRIESTS

Before this trip, I didn’t know priests could giggle. But giggle they can, and giggle they do. An attractive, young priest strolls into the dull, grey courtyard. He looks like a character from an anime film, with his jet black, pointy hair, and his black tailored robes. His anxious companion, donning the same habit, chatters nervously; they are preparing for some event. My highly limited knowledge of Italian prevents me from eavesdropping effectively, but I gather that some sort of initiation ceremony must be lying in wait. A third, nerdy priest with wiry glasses joins them, and the three of them huddle together in a bent triangle, like schoolchildren at recess. The nervous one awkwardly hoists a white embroidered tunic that looks like my grandmother’s tablecloth turned into a maternity sundress over his shoulders, adding it to his ensemble. The effect of the oversized white tunic against the austere black robe forms a strange contrast, like the laughter of the priests against the monotonous concrete. None seem to notice anything irregular, though; they are too caught up in their jests and mirth. Today, the priests are merry.

Giggly priests infect
unpalatable courtyards,
make them vivacious