Sunset

A flash of orange brilliance lines the sunset, pushing the sky in a gradient of goldenrod, sea green, aquamarine, and violet, fiercely defying the falling darkness of night.

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.

The Lullaby of Priests

SAN MINIATO

The chant is serene and mostly monotone. The acoustics of the church are incredible: the lullaby of the voices in song carries through the marble hallway, pausing only to sweep in a circle around the cylindrical columns throughout the chapel. A mixture of complex and simplistic columns cut into the chapel space, forming retreating rows of gothic archways from my vantage point on the marble staircase.

It is a sweeping tide, the way things travel through crowds of humans. Disease, depression, piety, and love. A row in the bleachers stands up in respect; a row in the back follows suit. A few debate while one on the opposite side stands defiantly. Next to her, a man reluctantly rises, then a women a few seats down. Finally, a row stands. It is a wave, a disease of respect, with perhaps just a dash of piety thrown in for good measure.

The voices meet in unison, each leaping through the air to the conclave at the triangulation point. They reach their destination, forming a whole, and drift together in a hazy cloud.

Now, one voice is soft and broken. He wails in thinly veiled fear, suffering, and supplication. They are like a chorus. And then the rushing tide calms and the audience takes a seat for the main event. He preaches, while the others serve only as a background to enhance his words.

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

MADONNA DEI PELLEGRINI

(CARAVAGGIO, 1604-1606)

I knew it was a Caravaggio! The darkness and the form of the figures and the use of the shadows to enhance the light are both clues to the master. Spotlights hidden behind the marble railings illuminate the entire area; push a button to light up Caravaggio’s masterpiece, specifically. Otherwise, the painting lies masked in the shadows. When illuminated, the light glows through the painting as if Caravaggio had used bioluminescent paint. The beam of light highlights the washcloth, the baby, and the mother’s sidelong glance. The Madonna and child might very well be earthly, but their expressions are heavenly. They bask in the light, glowing as if divine, while the figures kneeling in supplication are dirty with their rough clothing and dusty hands.

Caravaggio guides his viewers through the piece using the focus of light and the darkness of shadows. Immediately, my attention is drawn to the face of the Madonna. Her pupils are obscured by seemingly-closed eyelids, and her bent neck points in the direction of the child. He, in turn, looks down upon the two kneeling figures. Each of his outstretched legs point at one of the pilgrims below. Caravaggio has mastered direction; my gaze follows his brushstrokes naturally. The Madonna and the pillar she leans against both stand vertically. She leans slightly, as if to lend herself support and ensure the safety of the baby she carries in her arms, swaddled in a pure white blanket. She stands up, majestically, emphasizing her importance over the tattered visitors below.

Someone puts a coin in the offerte box, and lights up the painting. It is magical; the light actually travels up from the awed gaze of the pilgrims. Following its path with my eyes, I find that the light doesn’t end there; it rises up through the baby and mother, who are both bathed in golden sunshine. There is an effect even more drastic than the enhancement of the luminous paint; the glow of the paint forces the shadows to retreat even further into darkness. The dirt on the feet of the supplicants glimmers in the revealing beam. In the background, a previously invisible patch of torn bricks reveals itself by the glow of the light.

Everything about the Madonna is luminous, but her brightness and posture are the only direct clues to her divinity. Otherwise, she is barefoot and simple, in the plain robes of a commoner. Her halo is a wispy, nearly invisible circle above her head. Later, I learn that Caravaggio scandalized his audiences when he presented this common Madonna. They found her too plain, too earthly. They were unwilling to look beyond her external adornments and surroundings, or they would have discovered her radiance beneath. I wonder if any of Caravaggio’s critics ever took the time to examine the Madonna in the light.

The four figures are enclosed by a frame, which is deliberately and nearly symmetrically cracked near each of its upper corners. The frame’s strange intentional imperfections contribute to the murky effect of the shadows surrounding the Madonna and child. Everything is overcast; the darkness of the shadows, the dust on the palms of the supplicant pilgrims, the torn brick wall, and the broken frame all serve as a contrast to the two holy figures. Caravaggio knew that light and dark are far more effective in creating a masterpiece than any amount of gilding and ornate extravagance. He knew this and he applied this knowledge when he painted Madonna dei Pellegrini, for in this painting, he created a masterpiece.

THE VOICE OF STONES

We walk along a busy street; cars whiz past us, making sounds like brushing a buzzing fly away from your ear. Buzz, buzz, buzz! We ignore them, generating our own excited chatter to cover up the noise of the city. Standing quietly inside churches for long periods of time can have that effect; voices hate to be silenced. The church is behind us. We release our poor, neglected voices into the buzzing Roman air. They complain, strained from their temporary imprisonment. A few girls huddle together and make weekend plans while walking; others giggle while sharing anecdotes.

Several students wonder aloud, asking each other where Shawn might be leading us today. A church, perhaps? Maybe a park? Questions fade as conversations weave through different topics. I ask Mindy if she wants to return to the Chiesa di San Francesco a Ripa with me after this activity, to better scrutinize the artwork in the church. She agrees. I smile and we continue walking.

A few students at the front of the group suddenly slow down; the rest of us match their pace to avoid a collision. I glance ahead in search of the source to the commotion. The only visible hints are glimpses of gold and red, which glint in the pounding sunlight. Eventually, our group comes to a complete stop. We spread out along the sidewalk. As the people blocking my view move to either side, I discover the purpose to our visit. The entire wall is lined with plaques of all sorts and sizes. Some look like cheap Chinese restaurant signs, with their attention-hungry red lettering against gold backgrounds. Others look like garden signs, with elegant, vibrantly colored flowers painted around the edges and black, handwritten calligraphy in the center. My eye scans the wall slowly. The plaques all blur together, but one stands out. It isn’t brightly colored or intricately designed. It is a simple marble rectangle, with Times New Roman lettering engraved perfectly into its surface.

In the back corner of my mind, I hear a voice. Everything else is muted. The blurry outline of a figure appears before my eyes. I am entranced; no one else seems to have noticed. Slowly, the silhouette comes into focus. It is a woman. Though young, she looks worn and ragged everywhere but her eyes; they shine through with such fierceness and intensity that I am taken aback. She stares directly at me and begins to speak.

“P. G. R.
F. G. GELA”

I was born Felicita Giudice, named for and destined to have a life of happiness. My parents, three brothers and I lived in Gela, an island town on Sicily. My father was an engraver; he usually carved gravestones. My mother stayed home to take care of us. Every day, my brothers and I would run to the shore and race one another to find the most perfectly preserved seashell, the most beautiful starfish, or even the shiniest pebble. At the end of the day, we would giggle together as we reconvened, comparing our discoveries and electing a winner. I usually won.

One day, as we were out collecting seashells, a heavy wind began blowing through Gela. Every islander knew the sign of a storm when they saw one. Luckily, I had not ventured far from town. As I ran home, a light rain began to fall. When I arrived, my parents hugged me tightly. We waited for my brothers to get home. The wind was getting stronger, the raindrops harder. Minutes later, my two oldest brothers found their way home. Relieved, I gave each one a huge hug. The five of us huddled together in the shelter, waiting for Francesco, our youngest brother. Time dragged by; minutes felt like hours as we stood together. Still, we waited. Finally, when none of us could bear it any longer, my father said he was going out to look for Francesco. We were all in tears; we knew that going out into the storm now meant slim survival chances. I almost begged him not to go, but then I thought of Francesco out alone, wandering in the violent storm. I looked up at my father, who reassured us that he would be back shortly. He nodded at me and left. That was the last time we ever saw him.

The next morning, we carefully ventured out into the devastation. My mother found Francesco huddled under the shelter of a fallen tree. Hugging him tightly, she carried my little brother home. Most of our neighbors were out searching for loved ones as well; we all helped each other. We searched for my father, but there was still no sign of him. While searching along the shore, I stopped to look out at the water, where he must have been taken. I could hardly believe how calm the sea was; her temper tantrum was over, and she slept. Falling on my knees in tears, I asked her how she could be so cruel, how she could tear my family apart, how she could take my kindhearted father, when there were so many others who so little deserved to live. She stared back coldly and selfishly; she was wordless and shameless. The Sea always gets what she wants.
We continued searching for a week, but it was futile. My mother could not stop sobbing and Francesco had fallen ill. He was feverish and delirious at times; at least it seemed so. We asked him questions, but he had not spoken a word since we found him. Meanwhile, my father’s engraving business fell into neglect. My oldest brother blamed himself; my father had always tried to teach him the trade, but my brother was never interested enough. He always came out to play with us instead of learning. Many were lost in the Sea’s fierce storm that day. Their relatives all came to our shop, begging us to engrave the tombstone for a loved one. Sadly, we turned them away. I had watched my father carve many stones, but I did not feel I could do justice to those who were lost in the storm.

We tried to nurse Francesco back to health, but his condition continued to deteriorate. The island hospitals were all busy with survivors of the storm; none of the hospital staff had the time or expertise to help Francesco. One kind nurse told us that my little brother’s voice suffered from trauma, and that we should seek help in Rome. We no longer had a reason to stay on the island, so we took her advice. We packed up all of our belongings, sold the shop to a visiting entrepreneur, and boarded a ship to mainland Italy.

We arrived on the shores and found our way to Rome. Francesco’s health was getting worse. One day, he fell into a deep sleep and we couldn’t wake him. Panicked, we rushed him to a Roman hospital. They told us he was in a coma and it was up to God to save him now. I felt like I would never stop crying, but our family had to be fed. My oldest brother and I went out searching for jobs; my brother apprenticed for a shoemaker, while I ended up working in a small jewelry shop.

Every Sunday, we attended mass at la Chiesa di San Francesco a Ripa. It was named after St. Francis, my brother Francesco’s patron saint. After every service, I stayed longer to pray for Francesco to get better. I prayed to the Virgin Mary, hoping she might understand the love for a young son. She had the power to plea for Francesco’s life on my family’s behalf. This I knew, and this I trusted in.

Every year, on Francesco’s birthday, we all went out and bought him gifts. We left them around his bedside, ready for when he awoke. Every night, I kneeled beside my little brother’s bed and prayed for him. Three years passed this way. My brothers began to despair; they worked more and visited less. Still, I continued to visit Francesco nightly to pray for him. I knew Mary would not abandon us, not with frail little Francesco still in need of so much help.

One Sunday, a month before Francesco’s eighth birthday, I finished praying for my little brother’s health and stood up from the church pew. I picked up my bag and headed toward the door. Halfway through the aisle, I was stopped by a voice.

“Felicita.” I turned. It was the resident priest. I could not remember a time when I had been in the church without him there.

“Yes, Father?”

“Do not despair. Your prayers will be answered.” He smiled discreetly and nodded before turning back around. A warm, comforting breeze washed through my mortal body, and I knew that he was right. Francesco would be okay.

Two weeks later, I went to visit Francesco as usual. I brought him flowers; his room needed more life. I gave him a light kiss on the forehead before turning around to set the vibrant bouquet on the windowsill. Just as the priest had beckoned me with my back turned, another voice called my name.

“Felicita?” The voice was raspy, though unmistakably young; years of disuse had left a scorched throat. Still, it was recognizeable.

“Francesco?” I wanted to wrap my arms around him in a gigantic, smothering hug, but years of tiptoeing around my frail brother warned me otherwise. Cautiously, I approached him. No, that voice couldn’t be real. My Francesco, awake? But he was! I knew I should run to find my other brothers and my mother, but I was selfish in my elation. I wanted a few more endless minutes with Francesco. He smiled weakly at me, and I smiled back. “Wait here,” I whispered guiltily, and dashed off to collect my family for the joyous reunion.

When Francesco was well again, we spent all of our evenings perfecting engraving together, in honor of our father. Proudly, Francesco announced that he would carry on the Giudice engraving business when he was older. My mother was so elated that she released a river of tears. That night, Francesco and I began carving our father’s tombstone, for when we returned to Gela.

A year later, we came across a beautiful, clean slab of marble. It was too clean, too perfect for any mortal. I told Francesco of a beautiful wall of prayer stones I had seen on my daily walk to la Chiesa di San Francesco a Ripa during the time that he had been sick. We still went to the church for Sunday mass; he told me he remembered the street altar. Right then, we knew what our next engraving would be.

We spent the next month working on the perfect gift to the Virgin. We wanted nothing more than to show her gratitude for answering our prayers. We wanted something simple — something that would show our thanks modestly, for she was never immodest. So we settled upon P. G. R. Per Grazia Ricevuta: For Your Consideration. And to sign our piece: F. G. Gela: a thank you from Felicita Giudice of Gela, but also for her beloved little brother, Francesco Giudice.


Felicita closes her brilliant eyes, draws her hood up, and begins to fade. Her blurry outline becomes a part of the wall; she vanishes into the city air. I am immobilized by her visit. My mind has too much to process; it cannot deal with mundane activities like movement. Around me, the chatter of my classmates grows louder, juxtaposed against the hum of the cars. The brightness of the Roman sun beats back into focus. Felicita is gone, but the plaque, the imprint of her life, remains on the wall. Here on this wall, hers is just one voice among many.