HOW TO BECOME ROMAN: AN ADVENTURER'S GUIDE

I.
My alarm reads
5:30.

Fourteen hours of
meals that come in boxes
and plastic wrap,
sandpaper seats,
and broom-closet bathrooms.

We would brave far worse
for Rome!


II.
Five minutes to landing.
Please do not leave your seats until the plane has come to a full stop.

Zoe laughs,

as
twig trees with cotton-ball foliage
and
red rooftops

pass beneath us.

The ant-people scurry
outside

our glass prison.

They are pretend.


III.
FIUMICINO
(We say, fee-oo-me-SEE-no).

Concorda?
Yes.

Brisk pace.


IIII.
Italy offers us

two

new languages.

Italian
and

Baby Italian.

We prefer
the latter.

V.
We
       zig 
              zag. 
       Fountains.
Horns!

“Chanel” purses
for
dieci euro.

We are lost
among
bags,
watches,

Italians.


VI.
Zoe has one
week

to see all of
Roma.

We hurry:
Trevi!
Colosseum!
Steps!
Campidoglio!
Vatican!

We break
only for sustenance.


VII.
Up early,
hugs goodbye,
she takes
a cab to Termini to Pisa.
Ciao, Zoe!

No time to mourn: my education as
a Roman
is just beginning.

Deposit,
waiverskeysassignmentsdibshellolast,
sleep.


VIII.
Lisa is in
storytelling
mode.

Aeneas fled Troy during the War of Helen, the woman promised by Venus to Paris.
Remus saw birds first; Romulus saw more birds. Cain and Abel; brother kills brother.
Rome is on the Palatine, one of seven hills! Murderers, outcasts, thieves, exiled, arrive.
Rape of the Sabines: Rome has women and women make peace, and babies; Rome grows.
Grows and grows and grows: Empire. Shrinks and shrinks and shrinks: City.

Déjà vu.


VIIII.
Like a short
History Channel bio.
Caesar Vespasianus Augustus, Titus Flavius Vespasianus Augustus, Titus Flavius Domitianus, Marcus Cocceius Nerva,
(if you have time even to say their full names)
in dieci minuti.

This morning is
my morning.

Il Colosseo.
I am the tour guide,
they trust
Me.


X.
ItaliaIdea: no Inglese per favore!

Come ti chiami?
Mi chiamo Klaus (we are all Klaus today: NO INGLESE! Oh… Come si dice “sorry”?).
Di dove sei?
Sono Americana.

Buonasera!
Ciao!


XI.
Firenze!
We Americans have labels stapled to our foreheads: Butchers of Words and Languages.
I have always been resentful,
but this time

I must agree.

Firenze!
carries meaning, power, anger, life, passion, Medici!

Florence.
Sigh.

Even the helicopter saints laugh at us.


XII.
Siena makes me sleepy,
like siesta.

Un cappuccino, per favore.
None for me, grazie.

My cappuccino-filled companions
sing songs we brought with us

in our suitcases,

as we skip down
the trodden brick pathway,
with rotten fruit
as mortar.


XIII.
Lunch is six fragola gelato bars and a stracciatella yogurt.


XIIII.
Home is a distant city.

It is
Uno, due, tre, quattro, cinque, sei, sette, otto, nove,
hours away,
even

by telefono.

Now,

my fifteen minute walk
con iPod
to Balmer

is

un quindici minuti walk
con amici
a Giolitti.


XV.
Let’s go to Giolitti!
Mmm, gelato. I’ll have the usual!
Cocomero- but of course. E mela verde?
Si!

I lead.

Pass the Caffé Biscione on your right,
the ristorante with the American portions on your left,
down il Vittorio Emanuele.
Turn right, leaving the Piazza Navona behind you,
until you reach the Pantheon.

They follow me
down the alleyway,
right at the split,
to gelato heaven.

Cocomero!
It is the flavor of
my new home.
They don’t serve
cocomero

in Seattle.

ROME, RECYCLED

Mindy says my word is stracciatella; Matt says it’s cosi cosi. Neither of their labels feels right. I have a hard time placing myself; I’d like to think as myself as fluid, too dynamic for a label. Perhaps that is only a wish. I speak with Joel- he tells me his word is acqua: water. Instantly, I know it’s not me; I plan too much, think too much. He finds his own path, flows through Rome like a river, constantly moving and too impatient to just wait sometimes.

I plop down into the cushy chair of our kitchen/living room, thinking, as the lazy Roman sunshine filters down through the massive windows. The breeze carries with it memories, words, suggestions. What have I been in the past? I think, during childhood, my word was caution. As I grew up and hormones began kicking wildly, it became infatuation. Slowly, it is becoming independence. But how would I capture this precise moment? What of my word when I’m in Rome, this towering city of constant movement and change? Rome is the city of recycling: not in the Seattleite environmentally conscious sense of the word, but in the dynamic sense. Everything is about reuse here. The ruins of the ancient Theatre of Marcello still house residents in top-story apartments. The Castel Sant’Angelo was a mausoleum, then a fortress, a palace, and a prison. Now, it is a museum. Nothing in Rome is static, so when I’m here, why should I be? Rome begs change, and I respond.

At home, I’m meticulous. I’m an accounting major. I plan my day out: wake up for class at 10, leave at 10:20, and arrive at precisely 10:30. I walk like a New Yorker, eat like a Portlander, and dress like a San Franciscan (the city, not the order of monks). Language is a requirement to fulfill, homework is a necessity rather than a desire, and plans are made to be kept. When I study for tests, I make lists with corresponding indentations and check boxes, and then I cross them off neatly each time I complete a task. Relaxation isn’t in my schedule, or even my vocabulary.

Here, things are different. Everything is an opportunity. Nothing is set. It rains; we dash to the Pantheon. Along the way, we discover the most delicious pizzeria in Rome. We walk to Trastevere for a casual evening dinner, and wind up in the night market below the Ponte Sisto. We seek a path home, get lost, and end up discovering a graffiti lover’s paradise under the bridges of the Tiber. We stay to take pictures for two hours. Everything here is about discovery; there is no place for the rigidity of my check boxes. I find that I enjoy it.

So what am I in Rome? Here, language is a desire rather than a requirement. I want to learn to speak beautifully like the Italians. I even try to speak Italian, the language I have studied for all of sixteen hours, to owners of panino shops; at home, I have trouble speaking Spanish aloud, the language I studied for five years, even when I’m alone. I try figs, a fruit I would find normally consider terrifying. I never mix fruits with meat; at the antipasto party, I try prosciutto e melone, and go back for seconds. I even manage to barter successfully!

I want to learn everything about Rome: her history, architecture, culture, and language. I want to know how she thinks. I want to soak up every bit of Rome that I can, and take a piece of her home with me. The word absorb flashes in my mind, but I dismiss it instantly. It is too passive; it implies that Rome comes to me. My word needs more action, more initiative, and more passion. My word must be alive! Experiment? But no, that sounds too identity-crisis for my tastes. My word is tantalizingly elusive. Despair, taking on that horrendous form of a cherub head with wings that lurks above so many paintings and church facades, flutters mockingly around me. It laughs a sinister giggle. You will never find it. I sink further into the frayed fabric of the seat.

But the cherub head is wrong. The brilliant Roman sun valiantly lends her hand; a single beam of healing light pushes through the glass, vanquishing Despair. I climb the beam of light, floating to the top, where the sun whispers a single word in my ear. It is my word. I hear it, and I know: this is the one. Embrace. I embrace everything about Rome: the food, the language, the people, and the experiences. My word even has an image, an action. If I could literally embrace Rome, I would. Instead, I spend every waking moment metaphysically embracing this beautiful, recycled city. It is my city for only six weeks, and I will soak up every moment of that time, for in Rome, that is what I do; I embrace.

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

APOLLO E DAFNE

The pristine leaves strike my eye, their forms so delicate,
so fragile behind the visage
of rough travertine and tamed purity.

Her face melts into a mask of despair, of undisguised agony,
pure agony,
her skin soft and smooth with round cheeks like a baby’s.

She is half beauty, half tree, and wholly consumed by desperation.

Even as she leaps forward, she is rooted,
her legs growing scales as the earth grows around her,
snatching her as one of its own
to live and play among the hummingbirds and beds of daisies.

He runs madly,
like the wind is chasing him,
only he is the one chasing the girl who is as elusive as the wind.

Slowly, I stroll around the pinnacle moment trapped in stone,
watching as the scene unfolds before my eyes,
marble figures unaware of their awed audience.

I pause between the two figures, indecision clawing at me
while both characters beg for my sympathy to reside with them,
but I cannot make the choice.

Dafne’s terror makes my heart pound faster
as I nervously twirl my hair into ringlets,
twisting the strands until they are stiff as rope.

My body reels from the shock
of the stabbing pain in Apollo’s heart,
as he watches his love transform.

I turn away at last,
unable to endure the pain of Dafne’s plight and Apollo’s sorrow.

I do not turn back,
until at last Dafne lies in peace,
while Apollo’s heart lies in pieces.