ENTRATA, USCITA

It is like watching someone else’s heaven through glass windows: a dream realized for the rich and lofty, but just out of grasp for us mere mortals. The very shoes sneer at us from their pedestals; we dare not sneak a glimpse of the coats for more than a fleeting moment. Prada, Gucci, Chanel, Miu Miu, Armani, and Louis Vuitton are all in competition. They remain when night falls and the lingering shoppers finally wander back to the comfort of their homes. They stay rooted, and they argue. Gucci boasts an astounding new fall collection; Armani makes a cutting retort about Gucci’s Autumn 2006. Prada is prouder; she refuses to join in the bickering, feigning sleep instead. Vuitton stifles a yawn, while Miu Miu sighs; she misses Paris, but she always does.

In the morning, they fall silent. The words are unnecessary, wasted on the wholly absorbed shoppers who have eyes only for colors and fabrics. We stroll by, under the piercing gaze of swarms of salespeople hovering near fancy glass doors. The Vogue or Elle type of beauty resides here: flaws find no victims on this street. The displays are immaculate; they hardly need the glass barrier, for even the curious would hate to disturb them. We approach Prada Italia, watching our reflection-twins as they take their own cautious steps toward us. We never quite meet them, but they are just inches away. My friend and I watch as my mirror image pulls out her camera to record our visit. Likewise, I document hers: focused stare juxtaposed against the pristine Prada display.

We wave goodbye to our pseudo-twins and carry on. The streets are wide and open; the wind dances between us and around us. Beams of sunlight chase her mischievously, as satyrs chase nymphs, but she merely giggles and dashes playfully out of the way. She learned from Tantalus himself. We smile at her elusive charm as we bask in the trail of light left behind by the pursuit of her ardent suitor. Here, the designer stores are allowed to breathe, to live. They interact as individuals in a collective society. It is no stuffy indoor mall, with lifeless mannequins and artificial lighting. No, it is open air, unsullied, liberated. We wave farewell to Prada, to Vuitton, to Chanel, as we pass by.

We reach a piazza. It is colossal; the characteristic uneven Roman cobblestones surround us like a flowing tide. The stones nudge my toes gently through my faded black ballerina flats. The contours of my feet mesh with the shape of the Roman ground; I float with Rome; I become a part of Rome. In this unshackled space, we drift: around the fountain, with its crystal, aquamarine water and pristine, honeycomb ripples. The Spanish Steps loom ahead: a staircase to the unknown. We cannot see the top, the end. But then, what does it matter? If there ever existed a staircase without a true destination, it would be this one. It is not like the other staircases, which exist solely as a means of transportation. The Steps are the destination.














Our arduous journey up the staircase begins. We halt alternately to take pictures with the vast expanse of marble. The first tier ends, and we spill out onto the sides, for no direct path through the middle exists. Right side or left side? It doesn’t matter, for entrance and exit are immaterial in this staircase. We make a choice and carve our path through walls of lingering tourists. They pause on the steps to capture digital moments, sit on the stony steps, or nourish their parched throats with a few sips of refreshing water, the panacea of dehydrated travelers.

Our ascent continues, and the comforting sun grows harsher and crueler; he is nervous about our impending approach. Our reassurances are to no avail; he continues his cruel assault. My flesh sizzles and darkens at his touch, but I push through the torture and continue up the staircase. I wander across the marble, up the stairs, down the stairs, through the stairs. We never reach the top. We do not need to, for we are already here, where entrata and uscita are nothing more than Italian words.

The Spanish Steps are behind us. A short, leisurely walk leads us to the Chiesa di Santa Maria della Cancezione. The church boasts an alarming size; it is a mass of solemn bricks, which seize us with their collective, judgmental glare. They are fiercely protective of the souls they house within. Cautiously, I nod at them in reassurance before crossing the border into the silence.

The corridor for humans to tread upon is narrow and dimly lit, but we can hardly complain, for the twenty-one of us spread out through the simple hallway, while the ghosts of four thousand Capuchin monks crowd into the tiny chapels with a combined area of just over three times the size of the corridor for the living. They do not complain; they are austere, rigid in their vows and their lifestyles. Even in death, their bones are arranged meticulously. To the Capuchin, it is clear and simple: life and death are inevitable.

The narrow corridor with a single door is a reminder: there is no escape. The layout is simple. The hallway is one straight rectangle. We enter, we pass through, and then the end arrives. When it does, there is nothing to do, nowhere to run. The Capuchin monks didn’t build an escape at the other end. The only door out is the door in.

As we pass each chapel, bones envelop us in their chilling embrace. Femurs form an arch, housing the robed skeleton of a Capuchin monk. Above our heads, vertebrae lanterns cast their eerie glow upon us, the intruders. They predict the end; they are obsessed with the end. They know that the exit is no exit at all; it is another entrance into another life. Thus, they do not have exits. Entrata, Uscita. Here, they are one.