Space and Place in the Forum Romanum

The Forum Romanum is quite obviously an amalgamation of culture. Or, in other words, it's a right mess. I say this affectionately, of course, because even if you're planting yourself on the benches at the top of the forum —dusty, skin-stuck-together sweaty, and slumped against a fence —you can still stare out at the arch of Septimius Severus, the rising columns, and the distant remains of temples and feel amazed.

Standing on the Sacra Via, a hike of a walk for all that you have to hopscotch from one stone to the next, you get that combined sense of askew architecture and overwhelming awe. Clearly the Forum Romanum was the junkyard of monuments: the Temple of the Divine Julius Caesar and the Basilica Aemilius have a stand off on either side of the Sacra Via, the Curia Julia —once the house of the Roman senate, then a Christian church, and now an open building housing statue heads and Roman relics —stares down the housed off excavation of the site of the lapis niger (where you literally have to press up against the tinted glass to be able to see anything), and the arch of Septimius Severus looms imposingly overhead at the top of Capitoline, while a church overwhelms it from the side. The Basilica Maxentius stands modestly off to the left of the Forum's entrance, surrounded by trees, but of course it was locked up in preparation for some not-too-distant performance, a wide-screen TV taking up the western apse and fold-up chairs arranged across. If you ignore that side road and keep walking straight toward the Palatine, you'll cross the Temple of the Vestal Virgins on the right, the Regia and Temple of Antoninus and Faustina on the left, and eventually you'll keep walking straight into the gardens of the Vestal Virgins, where most of these revered women are ironically decapitated and "stare" out at a pristine rectangle of green grass. It's perhaps the cleanest part of the forum, and it's certainly beautiful, a pool at the far left end and even a (closed-off) well. The Palatine with its massive brick structure towers above, and to the left in the distance the modest but beautiful Arch of Titus sits enshrouded by trees. This corner, for all that it boasts of capital hills, lifelong virgins, and conquests of Jerusalem, is nonetheless impressive for its simplistic beauty. With the scattered remains of the forum to your back, this area feels far more put together.

It's hard to imagine what the forum was like back when structures were more than heads of columns or bases of temples. The sheer amount of haunting space that now resides in this multicultural graveyard must have been choked up by massive and multitudinous structures. Even with the remains of the Temple of Antoninus and the Basilica of Maxentius, you can stand at or near the base and feel vertigo at how tall the structures stand. To be able to walk through such displays of power everyday back in ancient times is unfathomable. And it still lasts today: on the altar of Caesar, people leave flowers and cards as tokens of his memory, having not forgotten him some two thousand years later. And I connect with that. Though the decimation of such beauty is at times disheartening, and some structures stand as single columns or piles of brick, I absolutely love the Forum Romanum. I don't feel overburdened by the amount of structures (even if I at times confuse them or am unable to tell them apart) but rather love being able to imagine Romans trailing their togas over the Sacra Via or climbing the steps into one of the temples. Maybe they too paid their respects to Caesar, or strolled the garden of the Vestal Virgins, or sat by the base of the arch of Titus. I could get lost for days in the forum (though not literally; the streets pretty much determine your route for you, with a few variations), and even if only the bones of the Roman empire lay here, surrounded by the memory of Christian domination, what remains is still a sight to see.

Mass Exodus

God, I'm exhausted. I can pretty much anticipate where the pain will encroach next, as it slowly radiates from the balls of my feet up to my lower back. Sitting down is sweet agony, because once you're down you're done--you don't ever want to get up again. And when you do, that pain just blasts down through your legs, to the point where standing still makes you feel like an elderly cripple and walking, though painful, at least leaves you numb for a while. It also probably doesn't help that I'm jet-lagged as anything. My journey to this point, in my desk seat at a Rome-affiliated American college with Roman traffic blaring and growling outside my window, has been...interesting. Definitely full of excessive walking, that's for sure.

It's only Tuesday the 24th now, but Sunday morning feels like years ago. My day started obnoxiously early. I was awake and dozing at 7:30, due to paranoia and general terrible sleep habits, and by the time I rolled out of bed I was already being ushered to get a move on. That meant throwing last minute belongings into my duffel (including too few clothes and one now-broken fan), saying goodbye to the brother (who must've loved that early wake up call), and running back and forth to make sure I have all the paperwork and documents. My mom and I get to Logan fairly early—which is, for us, a record—so of course I have to wait a million years in the American Airlines line to check one very modest 30lb bag. By the time my mom had driven around, parked, and walked back, I was still in line and playing over in my head all the different ways I could lose my belongings. And after that fun excursion, it was off to security, where I was awkwardly hit on by a rather bored TSA agent:

TSA: So where are you going?
Me (standing like an idiot with legs out and arms overhead): Italy!
TSA: That's cool. You going with a boyfriend or alone?
Me: Alone...
TSA: Ah. So do you have a boyfriend?
Me (swearing in my head at this point): No...
TSA: Well, can I have your number?
Me: No. Sorry.

Yeah. Probably the most exciting part of my departure from Logan airport, and even then it was awkward. But then my mom and I touched down in JFK, which is absolutely massive and could probably hold three Logans easy, and kind of gaped at everything and got lost for a while until we figured out a way to get to Manhattan. It probably wasn't the best idea to start off my Rome trip by walking for four hours—through Times Square, no less—with about 14lbs worth of laptop, cords, and paper on my back, but all the same it was fun. I'd like to do it again some time, when I'm not alternating between hungry-irritable and exhausted-irritable, and when the weather is a little more sunny. Still, I had fun walking the avenues with my mom, and we ended the day with Madame Tussauds, which I'd always wanted to see.

But then it was back to JFK, where the three-hour wait for our plane would begin. We all got through security relatively intact, though I again encountered another hiccup by setting off the alarm twice: the first time, I forgot about the cell phone in my pocket; the second time, I don't know what the hell it was, but they decided to swab my hands for anything potentially dangerous—an unintentionally hilarious situation all and all, as I had to stand around for a minute or two in this half-circle glass partition and watch everyone else walk by. Thankfully I wasn't declared a terrorist—that would've made getting to Rome tricky—and could therefore follow everyone else into the airport lounge, where we commandeered about four rows and excitedly anticipated the arrival of our plane.

Veloci-Rapture

It's too bad that God supposedly decided to bring the Rapture to Earth a day before our Rome trip. Would anyone would get a refund if they happen to ascend to heaven? I doubt it. As for me, at least if I have to endure hell on Earth for the next few months I'll get some Italian pizza out of the ordeal. One more day!

Raining on my Parade

Massachusetts, while I love my native state, is undoubtedly PMSing.

I hate these days: where the slick-metal coldness seeps all the way into your toes and the foliage greens glow preternaturally against a slate-gray sky. Rainy-weather days where it's difficult to roll out of bed in the morning, because you know the misty drizzle will follow you throughout, whether just in the goosebumps on your skin or in the very fabric of your mood. Days like these, I can't wait for Italy. It comes up in work conversation, where I look forward to cramming files into cabinets becoming cramming legs into plane seats. I daydream about flawless sun shining down on ruined marble and the markets of Castel Sant'Angelo. I want so badly to feel that sun on my skin, to leave behind gray spring days that know no sun.

Then, of course, comes the traveler's guilt. It feels strange to pack up and go after having just gotten home, sleeping in my own bed or sinking down into my couch thinking suck it finals, you don't rule me anymore. In some ways, I'm not quite ready to leave, either. I like picking up my brother after school and just driving him places, yielding to his whim when I, if I had to go somewhere urgently, would rather walk or snag a ride than subject anybody to my driving. I root through cabinets just for the sake of having cabinets, not so much hungry as toying with the idea of wanting food. I cook, and sit down to dinner with my family, and it feels so comfortable that sometimes I feel guilty for wanting to go—for feeling that irrepressible leap of excitement that dances in my chest when I think Italy, and green trees, and sun on the Capitoline. I know I'll be back in two weeks, and that my time in Italy will go by so fast that I'll regret even thinking about any doubts that I have; and maybe it's just these gray-weather days, but I can't help but wish for a little more time.

And then there's the packing. I, like I am in all things, am an extremely anxious traveler. I misplace the lists I need to prepare for my trip, I always feel like I haven't thought of half the things I need for the trip, and I always freak that I'll lose my luggage at the airport. It certainly doesn't help that I can stare at my suitcase right now and know it's not fully packed, wondering if I have the wrong clothes and if—oh, God—it will exceed the 50lb limit. Maybe I'll get to JFK and, after this one short week of preparation, think Holy shit, I am totally unprepared.

Or, maybe I'll film something like this:



All I know is, I really need to go shopping. And especially with rainy days like these, that's going to suck.

Is This Real Life? (Answer: No)

“Rome!”

“You guys. You guys. We’re in Rome.”

“Holy crap, we actually made it.”

This is it. Italy. Standing outside St. John’s, blinking back the glare of the sun as it overheats the pavement beneath my feet, I can scarcely convince myself that what I’m seeing is Europe—not just some extraordinarily tropical tourist attraction in the states. The eight hour flight across the Atlantic hadn’t been a dream (especially since, as I’d dreaded and expected, I hadn’t been able to sleep on the flight) but had instead brought us here, jet lag and all, to stand in front of the multicolored university, looking like a Lego palace in the midst of so many lush trees. I challenge the surveillance camera to a staring contest, only to lose interest and, in doing so, lose the contest as I slowly turn around and eye the car-lined streets, the walls of teeming vines that grow into trees, and the buildings that loom overhead. My eyes itch with sleep, reminding me that I’m too tired to be asleep (but could be hallucinating), but I can’t even complain. This is Roman fatigue. With every new place we’ve gone to—the airport, the bus, now the university—everything has felt distinctly Italian, and that’s no less true now. Massachusetts just doesn’t have colors like Italy does.

“All right, guys,” Dan announces, trying to capture our ceaselessly wandering attention. “I know you’re all very excited to be standing in the middle of the street—”

“We’re in Rome!” Jackie burst out with her natural exuberance, throwing her arms up in the air and laughing. Standing clustered in the alley, we burst out again into enthusiastic chatter, the nonsensical hum punctuated with triumphant fist-pumping and high-fiving. I, at least, have stopped jumping up and down.

“Okay, okay, settle down, guys. We’ve got a lot to see and a tight schedule to keep, so let’s get moving!”

“Where’re we going?” I ask.

Dan raises an eyebrow. “Well, if you’d read the itinerary—”

Jordy, leaning forward, interrupts excitedly, “Will Paolo be there?”

Muffled titters of laughter swell up and die down quickly.

“Nope. While we were on the plane I sent out a bulletin to the pope, warning him about the looming corruption of the Italian youth. Frantic mothers everywhere are now hoarding their sons away in their villas. Not a motorino in sight, ahahaha.” Dan claps his hands, rubbing them together. “But who wants to see an open square filled with a bunch of vegetables?”

“Aww yeah!” Gia shouts.

“What are you saying?” Jackie laughs incredulously, shaking her head. “C’mon, everybody, it’s Campo di Fiore time!”

We set out, down the alley checkered in a varying shaded-not-shaded pattern, shadows of leaves trailing over my toes and ankles. It’s almost without warning that we’re thrust into Italian life—I had expected a kind of toes-first wading in, from quiet residential calm to the steering and veering panic of Italian driving, but as soon as we exit the alleyway parking signs glow blue at every available sidewalk, and cars weave recklessly around tight corners. Passersby are common, hands on their bags or in their pockets, and as we march our way down the sidewalk in an amorphous, excitable mess of chatter a passing woman gives us a puzzled glance as she goes.

Nevertheless, the area is beautiful. Trees form a tunneled canopy overhead, guiding shade onto our sweating shoulders, and I can’t stop gaping at the villas we pass. “We’re in Rome!” I whisper to Nicole, unable to get over the seemingly obvious fact that we have left JFK in the dust. The night sky and city screeching has long since ebbed away, leaving only arching palm trees and pink-blooming flowers in its wake.

“I knoooow!” she says, hands clapping together excitedly and then hastily returning to cradle the camera around her neck. “It’s so beautiful, I can’t believe it!”

As we pass down what seems like a maze of roads—and I’m silently relieved that Dan and Jackie arguing up ahead apparently know the area perfectly, because I would be hopelessly lost on my own—I keep eyeing the villas on either side of us. They’re the kind of houses I envision myself living in in my alternate life, where I marry a multibillion-dollar heir who is also the love of my Victorian-novel life. They’re extravagant, expansive estates, yawning across acres of lush and greening lawn. They’re gated, and I’m almost tempted to cool my hands against the iron rods and press my face close, trying to see what wealthy European life feels like, but I value my lack of criminal record. Even the hedges are trimmed into perfect geometrical figures, not a twig out of place. Such houses are fit for modern-day Caesars, and I suddenly want to live like this, here, spending my adulthood lounging in the perfect sun of an Italian spring. Hell, I would live in a cardboard box if it meant staying in Italy (actually, probably not), but a luxurious villa wouldn’t be half bad either.

“Just to let you know, what we’re walking through right now is actually one of the 22 rioni you studied. Trastevere. See? Relevant. Guess class didn’t suck so much after all!”

“Whatever you say, Dan!”

The group bursts into laughter again, and again we attract curious stares from pedestrians.

The roads bend and break into more roads until finally we turn into a wide, two-lane street, scarred with crosswalks and trolley lines. Cars are everywhere—stuck snug against the base of lampposts, parked side by side in alternating positions like two shoes in a shoebox—using the kind of parking that would get them arrested back in the states. And the trees. They seem to sprout up right out of the pavement, brushing the clouds with the heights of their treetops and rivaling the height of the buildings around us. We walk beneath their shade, wide-eyed and ignorant of our staring, as around us the street fills up with the busy lives of pedestrians.

Not so far ahead a group of young men cross the street, heedless of traffic, their rapid-fire Italian mangled every so often by bursts of laughter. A mixed group of adults sit at a café to our right, smoking their cigarettes as they lounge in comfortable conversation. Three elderly, floppy-hatted women, their shopping bags clutched tightly in their hands, give us strange looks as they edge past our twenty-something ragtag group, no doubting making comments as soon as they’re out of earshot. I feel painfully and obviously American against the splash of Italian culture, wearing my scuffed tennis shoes and favorite jeans, but I can’t keep the smile from my face regardless. I barely remember to keep my eyes forward, trying to avoid stepping on people’s heels—too distracted by the markets that line every street corner, boasting no-doubt tourist paraphernalia.

“We need to go shopping,” I blurt out suddenly, shaking my arms excitedly. “I don’t even like shopping, but we seriously need to go.”

“We do!” Nicole replies, and Emily retorts with a laugh, “I hear that.”

As we keep walking, the heat becoming more obvious despite the shade, I keep my eyes on the street and the various merchant tents. Every now and then as we walk, Italian drivers perform parallel parking maneuvers that would make the Olympian gods quake, and I remind myself to never mess with them. Ever. So we go, sometimes jostled by busy men on their cell phones hurry past but most of the time just astounded by the sounds and the colors and the smells. My feet ache, the sweat clinging to my neck in a desperate bid for shade, and my heartbeat is starting to throb in my eyes as my jetlag catches up to me, but nonetheless I’m enjoying the trip. I only wish I hadn’t forgotten my water in my room. Being a tourist is thirsty work.

After what finally seems like hours (but in reality was probably only an hour, maybe less), Dan stops and pulls Jackie with him to the edge of the sidewalk. Following his lead, our group tries to squeeze as tightly as possible up against the edge of the curb, huddled in an overheated—but no less excited—group.

“Well, we still have a ways to go before we hit the Campo," he says, "but since it’s our first day in the city and you’re not yet used to the heat, I guess we’ll allow you a twenty minute break. Feel free to check out a café—or, if it’s your preference, la gelateria—and we’ll meet back here when you’re done. Andiamo, Romanissimi!”

CC265: No Turning Back

I almost didn’t apply to this seminar.

To think, all that time spent worrying over where I would study for fall semester, wondering if it was worth it to raise the few thousand dollars that would take me to Rome, I almost didn’t go. In fact, I owe Curley for even convincing me (and I mean that with the utmost sincerity, Professor, for all I’ve given you grief). Even after I applied—and wrote that spectacularly pretentious entrance essay—I didn’t really get what Rome meant. Sure, I had been there before. I’d seen the Colosseum, eaten the pizza—God, the pizza—and been to the Vatican. I’d even given Italian the good ol’ college try and then quickly gave it up, because I was making an ass out of myself. And I loved it, all of it, even that time I got harassed by street vendors over a stupid piece of string (and no, I'm not still bitter). But I didn’t really know anything about Rome back then. I remember standing in the Roman Forum, the Roman Forum, and startling when I realized we had arrived. This was it. In that corner, there’re the remains of some rectangular building called a “basilica.” And oh, hey, an arch! I don’t know whose, but it sure is impressive.

That’s all different now. I feel prepared this time, or as prepared as an outsider can be. I still know far more about ancient Rome than I do about the modern city—one of the downsides of liking dead things too much (that's the non-creepy like)—and I'll still stick out like a sore thumb in my ignorant-American jeans and slack-jawed awe of such a thriving city, but I feel more confident this time around. Just as I wasn't prepared for this travel seminar. I'll admit, I thought this was going to be an easy-A class. Oh, there would be "reading"—about the best places to find pizza, the monuments, and just enough history so that we could pretend we were prepared. You know, fun, "travel-seminar" stuff. Instead, this class ended up being one of the most difficult courses of my college career. There wasn't even a movie to tide us over, when Lizzie McGuire could have taught us best how to live and love in Rome. I bet she didn't have to take a midterm or final before she hopped on the back of a motorino.

Regardless, I've learned so much since the beginning of the semester. This isn't high school, where I knew none of the piazza names and thought the Forum Romanum was the only forum. Please. We studied 800+ years of history and memorized countless structures for our midterm, and we saw the pagan gods give way to the crush of Christianity. Through all the reading and agonizing, memorizing and melodramaticizing, we've finally reached this point, on the horizon of our trip, where Italy stretches thin and hazy at the edges of our imaginings, just waiting to take shape. I look forward to the moment we touch down in the airport—all the better for being an Italian airport—and I get to take the first small steps out, sharing my excitement with the friends I've made.

Rome.

I want to see everything. The Fountain of the Four Rivers. The Pantheon. The Ara Pacis. I want to sit on the lip of Bernini’s Fountain of the Tortoise, resting my hand on a stone-carved shell and feeling it come alive beneath my fingertips. I want to count the obelisks—a kind of Where’s Waldo, Rome Edition. The Italian students—I want to see them lounging in front of some museum, smoking together as they watch us pass with jaded familiarity. Maybe see an old couple sitting together on a bench, reading their separate books or just sharing the silence. Melt in amongst the touring crowds crammed underneath the Colosseum, trying to catch a glimpse of the sand that soaked up the blood of gladiators. Read the graffiti. Dodge homicidal traffic and the obnoxious beep-beep of smart cars. Taste the gelato. Touch the sky with my arms stretched out on the steps of the Capitoline, beneath the stares of solemn statues—so that I can feel, for the briefest of seconds, the presence of the city’s long-forgotten gods; the ruins; the memories. I’ve spent so long in a classroom that I’ve forgotten that Rome, thriving, vibrant Rome, is real, ready to unravel beneath our feet.

Only ten more days. I can’t wait.

P.S. Melodramaticizing may not be a word, but it should be.

Let Me Die

I just deleted all my blog posts like a fucking moron. Holy shit.

Starting over, I guess. Because WHY would I save them on Microsoft Word? Sonuvabitch.