Quando a la Roma

Pointless, really. I’m confronting an impossible task trying to articulate Rome to you. I’ll try, but this may have to come in stages. Actually, maybe it’s best to do it this way . . . the Forum — rain, history crumbling at your feet and rising above to the sky meeting balloon pines. Cypress lined walk in shadow and damp to Coliseum filled with arches and hateful, animal rot past. Mental exhaustion.

Collapse on hotel mattress, balcony outside a stage for tiled rooftops ascending, climbing, trying to reach the seagulls (paper white thoughts at night) flying up, up, up. Rest, food (the best — do I keep saying that?), wine, 50 twenty-year-olds singing “Happy Birthday” in the candlelight, fountains (the Four Rivers, Trevi) at night reflecting, reflection, wishing. More wine, talk, walk, sleep. Sleep.

Turn 35 looking up at the Sistine Chapel. Can’t see it all — the color, the time, the effort. I want more space between God and Adam. I want to see the space but my eyes aren’t large enough. I want to touch Raphael’s version of Michelangelo in the School of Athens. Want, want, want, until the Pieta. Satisfaction. Michelangelo’s sculpture takes my breath away. But the sadness and love and fear and tenderness of marble; how? I’m ashamed for not trying harder at the same time overwhelmed anyone could do that.  

There is more, but I’ll leave it at that, for now.

 

Pubs, churches, and sandwich shoppes

I think the English are coming.

Yesterday I ate at Oil Sandwich Shoppe (delicious — you can get some kind of cocoa oil drizzle and truffle spread!), then had dinner for 5 euro at St. James Episcopal Church with some of the students (more on that later), and ended the night in Angie’s Pub getting a free drink from the bartender with spiky hair and an orange tie. Bizarre land. Not bizarre so much as not very Italian.

Some of the students asked me to go last week to dinner with them at the church. It is very cheap and great food, so they convinced me to go this week (I took a faculty member w/me for propriety’s sake). They call themselves the orphans, and after eating there I understand why. We sat at huge tables and if you come late, you just have to find a spot. Everyone gets a place setting and they call the tables up one by one. Bottles of wine are passed out, salad eventually served, anyway, it was a strange experience and had a hint of orphanage about it. I ended up sitting with a guy from Norway, 3 guys from Italy, a girl from Seattle, so the discussion took on global proportions. Not having been to church very often in my life, the communal vibe was a tad overwhelming. Is it like that at all church gatherings?

Two of my assistants sat at the end of my table and now I can relate to all of my former bosses who were confronted with social situations with those who work for you. You don’t want to seem uptight, but you don’t want to let your guard down too much because you know the next day they will be at work and you have to still be in charge. A new feeling for me. I hope I found a balance.

Walking back I had another one of those moments, I looked up and there was the Santa Maria Novella which I had not seen yet and slipping into wonder  by rounding a corner is . . . well, I’ll let you fill in the blank. But the word should feel like beauty, adventure, and awe.

So, tomorrow I head to Rome. I’ll spend my birthday (my 5th 7-year cycle!) Saturday at the Sistine Chapel. Tonight I finally am going to the chocolate festival. So, to Claudia and Jessica — HAPPY BIRTHDAY. I’ll send you both Italian vibes.

Dark out now

Today is my god-daughters birthday and I feel very far away. Other small, beautiful occurences of the day have brought me to this place that is in partial night. First, my friend Shelby’s blog mentioned epitaphs and that always has me thinking. Especially here, where there are so many memorable dead. Their tombs were designed by the likes of Michelangelo and Donatello, death was truly meant to leave an impression on the living. That was the first shadow, but a lovely one.

In another friend’s blog he mentioned PostSecret and one of the cards being about tearing down walls. It was beautiful how he realized that not only does he have to deal with those with walls, but he puts them up himself. And who of us doesn’t? More importantly, why do we? And so that is where I’m at now. Wondering about the past and how many people I kept out with a wall of my own. Hoping that the future will leave me open to these lessons and that I’ll stop. Understanding the lovely, beautiful people out there with walls and realizing that I can’t knock them down and why should I? That is up to them. Maybe they still need them.

So it’s dark out now in Florence. Beautiful, mysterious, luminous, lovely dark. The natural place for my thoughts today. And I think the chocolate festival lasts until midnight . . . hmmm . . . chocolate and soul searching. Dolci vita.

Ciao, amore

So I finally went out and really socialized last Friday night. The photography / art teacher, Angie, helped me go on a rather unorthodox bar tour of Florence. Really, we only went to 4, but it felt like more. For happy hour, the bars put out a spread of food and you just eat whatever you want, free of charge (love that concept). One of the things I find endearing, in a rather frightening way, is how forward the men are. Young men walk up and blow kisses, give a little “ciao, amore” shout out — it’s rather amusing and I can’t help but wonder if it has ever worked for any of them. Of course, several of them are attractive, so probably. One place in particular was a blast — men were trying to teach me some kind of card game, people were buying us champagne, good clean fun all in all. Although, I must say, walking on cobblestones after wine and champagne is tricky business.

Vernaccia

This is slightly embarrassing; I fell in love last evening. I met this glass of wine that made me realize exactly what I wanted from my next lover. He should be clear, complicated, fill me with mirth and soul-searching, leave me as satisfied as one glass of wine (though I did have two), and no headache the next day. Surprising to those of you who know my love for wine, Vernaccia is a white, not a red. It comes from San Gimignano, where I bought it the other day and have since been too under the weather to try. But last night opened the bottle and was caught up in the moment. Some find perfect love stories in mythology, Shakespeare, country songs, or in daily life. I think the person that developed that less than noble grape knew perfect love and poured it into a bottle. Maybe I’ve been left defenseless after David, maybe it’s this country or the language, I really don’t know, but that wine was a magic aphrodisiac that should not be wasted on mere lust.

too much to tell

I almost didn’t post anything because I’m slightly overwhelmed with everything I could tell, but at the same time I really do work all of the time and haven’t done anything except the usual living stuff. Being sick has caused me to live more like Dickinson and less like Whitman and I would try to come up with some Italian counterparts but don’t really feel like it.

But in my hermit-like state of late I have tasted arancia torocca (which is blood orange) and I’m think FFCoppola but all those oranges in his death scenes not because of the lovely color or the fact poppy for heroine was grown in orange fields but because they are really, really, really good and he may have wanted to snack on them between takes. And then there are the grapefruits, which the pink ones are more coral colored in the sweet inside and are not sour at all, some subtle tart, but it’s just for effect. If I were an artist, well, I’m sure I’d mess it all up but they are beautiful and worthy of your saliva, attention and time. Florida has nothing on citrus, sorry.

The other recent joy is the hiring of 6 student assistants. I love having help. And they are so young and diligent. I’m going to make every effort to relinquish some control and leave the library for things like lunch or to learn the language. Working from 9 to 6 or 7 is cutting into my wow time with the city.

And I finished a book, A Million Little Pieces, which has nothing to do with Italy and is slightly graphic in its depiction of drug addiction, but has passages in it that make you burst inside. A few involving the dawn. A lot involving fear and need. Anyway, if you have a strong stomach, try it. . . . and speaking of dawn, watched it this morning illuminate the top of Santa Croce and rearrange my inner being for a moment into something like light.

Sorry you only get morning posts. That’s all I have time for. Maybe one night I’ll try to post something, but for now, the nights are all mine — secret and safe.

Look down

Postcards are everywhere. True of any tourist center. There is one that shows the bell tower reflected in a puddle on the street. It’s actually quite nice as postcards go. I bought it but haven’t managed to send it off yet.

So it is raining here, which I appreciate — love a good shower. And I was kind of in a hurry to get to work this morning, slept late, running late, no coffee kind of brain haze going on and I was looking down and began noticing the reflections of these massive stone buildings around me. Then I started realizing that I’m walking on stone, not asphalt or concrete. From there I spiraled somewhere into the question of how much this place must weigh. And the age of it all hit me, and the rain and the fog. And my rushing seemed pointless. So I stopped, looked up, looked down. Place and time. You can’t ever fix it, but you can feel it. Capische?

Because everything returns to the sea . . .

. . . or at least pays homage to Moby-Dick.

I’m back to sounds and I must share this repetitive call. There is a glass door framed by metal that leads into the computer lab / library. Naturally, the floors are tile. At least 20 times a day the door sticks and slowly (lentemente) crawls closed, scrapping as it goes. The sound generated at first seemed alien. Now I realize it sounds like whale song. A symbolic reverberation of alienation and call. 

And so I find I am happy and alone and there may be liberation in solitude, but for me there is always the need for call — and feedback. So thank you for the emails, greetings and well wishes. Connections maintained over a vast distance, not such a foreign or new concept after all.

Ah, and the door closes as if on cue.

Siena

Siena and San Gimignano gifted me with a rare moment where exactly how lucky I am resonated throughout my core. And I’m not trying to rub it in, but I had a moment of clarity about the beauty and awe of life and realized at that moment, that yes, you can work hard to obtain goals — in fact you should — but sometimes everything real you’ve earned align with somewhat magical forces and give you purity of spirit and the physical self. It was my secret superpower of the day. And no, I didn’t have a camera to document it, but bummed some pics from the photography teacher.

And for those of you who love tomatoes and garlic, let’s just say I experienced a glimpse of perfection when I ate a bowl of uncut macaroni covered with tomatoes, garlic, olive oil at a trattoria in Siena. There were some of us literally cheering as the bowls were passed out. Me, I just did my happy food dance. Go ahead, hate me, but I only speak the truth.

The illuminated choir books and the interior of the Duomo are unspeakable treasures of my memory.

and in case I forgot to mention this . . .

One of my friends has already tried to send something to my home address and I don’t think I have access to that mailbox. The nephew of the landlord lives next to me and I think it is his mailbox on the ground floor. Anyway . . . all mail to me should come to the FSU address.

And the Florence airport is closed for runway repairs in March so . . . try Rome or Pisa and take a train.

Going to Siena and San Gimignano (Tuscany country) tomorrow for a day trip. Will let you know how that goes.