Romeing

Part I

 

Feeling lost in a mass of humanity (i.e. tourists), I am reminded once again of my invisibility and anonymity on this planet, and I crave the company of a friend. Although I consider myself pretty independent, I am also reminded that my life means nothing without others, without the connections with friends and family. I start to think that if I were on a deserted island like Tom Hanks in the movie "Castaway," I would also invent a friend for myself, like he did with the soccer ball he called Wilson.

After arriving in Rome for the second time (I was here for a few days when I was 15, about 12 years ago), I decided to venture out this afternoon without much of a plan, trusting in spontaneity.

I went to the area of the Coliseum and wandered around some ruins, occasionally stopping to read a plaque with some historical anecdote. I wonder if I am suffering from the first world problem of being "churched out" (having seen too many churches/old ruins); I felt quite indifferent towards the stones. Perhaps it is also having grown up in the concrete jungle that is New York City, but I feel that in the end, stones are just...stones. Who knows, maybe in 2,000 years, people (or extra terrestrial tourists) will be wandering around Times Square taking Google Glass photos (version 22nd century 2.0, lol) of rusted Broadway musical signs.

I started observing the tourists (having studied anthropology in college, perhaps this has happened to those of you who also studied humanities subjects), and taking photos of some of them taking photos, when they weren't looking of course (I know, I'm creepy).

I spotted a Buddhist nun, a woman I assumed to be white, dressed in a long red robe and reading a guide. I wanted to talk to her but I didn't want to disturb her. 

Maybe today the Goddess wanted me to run into religious figures. This morning, I came back from Sardegna with my Italian friend Silvia. (She is from Sardegna but lives in Rome; we were there over the weekend. We met when I was studying in Seville in 2008.) On the tiny RyanAir plane, we started chatting with a very nice Catholic nun from the Caribbean island of Guadalupe, and she offered us chocolate Easter eggs. We ended up taking the metro with her. In addition to English, she spoke French (the language spoken on her island) and Italian. (I don't think I'll ever get over my amazement at the ability of people outside the States to just normally be fluent in 3 or 4 languages.)

(I have often contemplated becoming a Buddhist nun if I end up being a cat lady and get sick of the cat lady lifestyle. I've shaved my head twice before and found it quite liberating. Nothing like a balmy summer breeze caressing your bare scalp. Too bad society isn't ready for bald women yet, or I'd do I again in a heartbeat - much to the disappointment of my mother.)

I also want to write about the weekend. It was wonderful. I arrived in Cagliari, Sardegna on Thursday night and was greeted by Silvia at the airport.

Her mother and father were sooooo dolce (sweet). Despite not knowing much English, they tried to communicate anyway, and wrote greetings like "good day Silvia e Emily" on a small chalkboard that hangs on their kitchen wall. Silvia's father seemed to beam from the inside out, and her mother took care of me as if I were her own daughter. We ended up communicating in a mix of Sardo (the local language, more akin to Spanish), Spanish, sign language, and with Silvia's help translating. 

On Friday, we went with a few of Silvia's friends to a hilly, rocky meadow area by the sea, where we had a small barbecue and fell asleep on the grass (definitely from having drunk wine; if you know me I'm a lightweight). I think the bible got it wrong. The garden of Eden must have been in Sardegna. The sea was a mix of aqua and deep blue, the grass was bright green, the hills were covered with flowers and fat bushes, and even the rocks near the water were pinkish.

Silvia's friends taught me some useful phrases:

Scarso! (Scarzo) - an expression that literally means "not enough," said when life is good

Che figo! (K figo) - a slang expression, this means "how cool!"

Regazzi (regatzi) - "guys," for example, used to say, "What's up, guys?"

We also explored an old World War II bunker, and played some frisbee on a beach. Silvia told me that people from Sardegna don't like to leave the island, and I can understand why!

The rest of the weekend, Silvia showed me around the old city of Cagliari. I felt like I was walking through a painting. The buildings are painted warm colors: peach, banana yellow, pastel orange, rose...

In contrast to the colorful architecture, the Italian young people  I saw (at least on the island) were dressed in dark colors: chic sexy black, dusty grey, hunter's brown...Italians seem to be very fashionable, in contrast to my lazy American, rainbow hippie style "let-me-just-throw-on-a-T-shirt-and-jeans"...I asked Silvia about my observation regarding the buildings versus the people, and she said something like, "We already have so many colors on the island, we don't need to dress in them too." Lol.

I want to address the economic crisis, which Silvia said affects a lot of young people. Of course this is not surprising, given the downturn in 2006/7/8, but to hear about and see the effects brings it closer to home. Silvia explained to me that many people have gone to the UK or Australia to find work. I wonder how this global migration will affect culture...will some countries be left empty, or with only the elderly as the majority of residents?

I have escaped to a cafe to get away from the tourists, but it is probably in vain. Indeed, I am a tourist myself, and I certainly can't get away from me. (Though sometimes I do wish I could peel off my shadow like Peter Pan. What does my shadow think, being dragged around all the time?)

Well, ciao for now. Let's see if I can keep my mind open to possibility, or if I succumb to first world problem syndrome.

 

Part II

 

Disillusioned with capitalism and the thickening crowds filtering into and out of shops, I seek the streetscape for refuge, tiny galaxies that orbit in our midst and which I am often blind to in my hurry to get somewhere. I am not quite sure why I seek out the underground, the mundane details, the alternative corners, when I travel. 

 

For example, I find myself drawn to the bored stares of dark-skinned men selling fake designer pocket books and sunglasses. Where do they come from? Probably countries in central Africa or Bangladesh, India? Do they have families? Why should I, a privileged American white traveler, care? This wondering isn't going to change anything.

 

But I am drawn to people for their stories. I see people as characters in a novel, and that novel is living, with a constantly unfolding plot whose end I cannot see.

 

Like the Buddhist nun I noticed in the ruins. I wanted to know where she had come from, why she had become a nun.

 

I also found myself drawn to the street artists. I ended up buying a little crane made of (what I think is) bamboo grass from an Asian man making all sorts of animals (grasshoppers, frogs, moths)...

 

I watched some spray paint artists create moonscapes with Roman buildings in the background...sci-fi with a historical twist.

 

I watched two guys drawing a classical painting on the sidewalk, and a man dressed in orange robes, supposedly suspended as if levitating (though I'm sure there was a trick I couldn't see).

 

What drives these brave souls to pursue their art? Maybe they are doing it because they have no other choice, no other skills? 

 

At times I have thought, I just want to be an artist and sell my beer bottle cap earrings on the street; but I am too afraid, not courageous enough to not want a "stable" job.

 

These guys are probably just trying to make a living over everything else; but still, I admire their persistence to make a living off their art.

 

In my solitude, the urge to write grows stronger...somehow, the desire to write is like a way to imprint my existence, so I don't fade into the masses...is this what cave people felt when they drew pictures of hunting game and put their hand prints on cold walls lit by feeble fire?

 

Writing has always been the thread that makes me believe in myself, that guides me when I am feeling like a log floating down the stream, unable to get to the bank on either side.

 

It's not a scared feeling, simply a floating one, where I do want to be still, but I'm not anxious. I trust that the water will guide me to the right spot.

 

Today, while wandering the ruins, I decided to rest on an expanse of grass. Some other people were also resting there, or sitting, or chatting, or simply being quiet.

 

I lay down and used my sketchbook as a pillow, my arm flung over my eyes to block out the sun. Beyond the myopic horizon of my arm I could see the unbroken blue, the sky that must make pilots and birds feel so free.

 

For a while, I wasn't planning anything, wasn't thinking, hoping, regretting, relishing, analyzing...just being there on the grass, under the warm sun, and I felt so content...

 

In the middle of Rome, a patch of grass to make me smile. Who knew that's all it takes?