Envoi: I left my heart in Rome

I'm sitting in my very first Northwoods Apartment, not knowing how I got here. Just two days ago I was up at 5:00 am in my room at St. John's, where I had waited until the morning to pack my things, too exhausted from 16 magical days of Roman touring (and a three hour farewell dinner the night before). Just three days ago I was maximizing my last full day in the Eternal City, taking in the shopping, food, sites, and perhaps one of my favorite things about Rome, odd as it is, the public transportation system. Now I'm back at Skidmore College in Saratoga Springs with a mixed bag of feelings.

I am still processing the fact that I spent roughly 17 days in Rome. It was my first time in the city, let alone in Europe, let alone outside of North America (I once spent less than 24 hours in Montréal). I didn't go with my family, and I didn't go with a group of friends, even though every single person involved in the travel seminar ended up being a dear friend of mine, even if just for the time being. Maybe it's difficult for me to wrap my head around the time I spent in Rome because everything was back-to-back. I had a semester at Skidmore, a week at home, and two plus weeks in Rome, only to return promptly back to Skidmore. How can I hang onto the precious memories that I made in what feels like a whirlwind of time? As soon as I got on the plane to come home I had the awful feeling that my memories were already slipping through my fingers. Was it even real? And yet I know that there's no way that I'll ever forget my time in Rome.

I think that ultimately it's hard for me to make sense of the trip because I am devastated that it's over. I cried as me and my squad hugged before going our separate ways at JFK. I cried for a short period of time on the drive up to Saratoga Springs. I almost bawled during my first shift in the Admissions Office yesterday. I had to stop writing this envoi just a moment ago to excuse myself and sob some more. I've felt very happy when talking about the trip to the few people that I've shared details with. But when I am alone and think about Writing Rome, I feel an insatiable sense of longing.

I became so comfortable being in Rome and I fell in love with the city so deeply. The travel seminar was a beautiful ending and a beginning at the same time. There's no question that this past semester was my most difficult and uninspired one yet. At one point during Reading Rome I questioned whether or not I had made the right choice to enroll in the class. I am glad that that was only a passing thought, for I can confidently say that I would retake the class and travel seminar 1,000 times over. It is undoubtedly one of the best decisions I have made, and one of the greatest times of my life. To end the semester in Rome was incredibly positive and a dream come true. It has been my life's goal to see the world and be enriched by traveling, and thus it felt so right to be there. It is an incredible feeling to be living one's dream.

The seminar was not the beginning of an awesome summer, but the beginning of a new me. I was happy in Rome. I felt on top of my game. I navigated the city with ease (a few of my friends referred to me as "Ulmon," the app containing a map of Rome that we all used religiously); I ate incredible food all day long; I was learning in action, having witnessed so many amazing sites and works of art; I didn't let the dauntingly long line or the harsh rain at St. Peter's get me down, demonstrating my exceptionally sunny disposition; I delivered a presentation that I was proud of and actually quite interested in; I made close friends (I wish they were here with me now--or better yet that we were all still in Rome together), which is a huge deal for me in and of itself, but I also made friends with people that I did not expect to even talk to; I laughed wholeheartedly; I stepped out of my comfort zone and allowed myself to be a little nervous, a little embarrassed, and a little scared; I felt affirmation that I am an independent person who is made to adventure on her own, but also with the company of some of the finest people I have met; and finally, I got to walk the streets, piazzas, and hills of Rome everyday, never wasting a second to take in the sights and sounds and smells that surrounded me. I relished in the opportunity that I was so kindly granted, and I believe that I thrived. I was my best self, or at least a preview of that best self, and what's to come.

None of this would be possible without the instructional team: Professor Curley, Professor Spinner, and Sarah Breitenfeld. Thank you all for your care, insight, and time spent on this class. I am eternally grateful for your outstanding leadership and knowledge. Please know that I will forever cherish Reading and Writing Rome.

Giornale no. 4: Santa Maria della Concezione + Capuchin Crypt

Ekphrasis no. 2

Tucked away among the ruins of Ostia Antica appears none other than a glorious human derriere. So fine, it is unrivaled (in my humble opinion) by the many nude backsides that live in the Galleria Borghese, the Capitoline Museum, the Vatican Museum, or perhaps any other dwelling of fine Roman art from antiquity. It is not a real one in the flesh, as you might have guessed, but one made of rock--white in color, presumably marble, but something about the material's color and texture suggest otherwise. It is visibly weathered, but considering the age of the ancient city it is not nearly as weathered as it could be. Aside from the weathering there is a dimple, or rather a small but sizable chunk missing, in the upper right cheek. The figure's torso is hunched over, almost as if the body is curled up. Its right leg is firmly planted, its left leg lifted forward. From a side view appears what looks like a tree stump, or perhaps a random cylinder, on which the left foot, partially broken off, is resting. A partially chipped off Latin inscription is on the front of the stump. The right arm and head have been removed. A long piece of fabric with a decorative edge is draped over the left thigh, hanging off of either side, keeping both the knee and calf exposed. The left calf muscle in particular is very defined and prominent, especially when compared to the more restful right leg. Moving around to the front of the statue, we see that the fabric covers the left arm from below the shoulder down to the wrist.

(title unknown, artist unknown, Ostia Antica)

Momentary Blindness no. 1

In great need of rest after a busy, informative, and delicious tour of the Jewish Ghetto, as well as the ascent up the Aventine Hill, I opt for a semi-secluded spot on the grass. I have sat on many types of rock while in Rome, and perhaps even a few patches of grass here and there, but it feels especially necessary to choose a softer product of the earth in this moment. The ground is sturdy and surprisingly comfortable. I have strategically positioned myself underneath the shade of the orange trees that are unique to this park. A strong breeze intensifies the coolness, giving me chills all over. I accept the chills and their rarity, for my time in the sun has been excessive. Though I try to relax and be 'zen,' I cannot help but hear sounds of a large group of people crossing through the park to exit. Their chattering peppers the air while their feet move leisurely through the small pebbles, resulting in a host of sort of pleasant clinking noises. Though I'm unable to make out what they're saying, I can tell that they enjoyed their stay. A much more mellifluous sound, bicycle bells begin to go off. The delicate and delightful 'ting' of the bells marks what sounds like the arrival of another group. I imagine them to be a friendly bunch in search of splendor in the grass. The trees begin shake in the wind. I brace myself for more chills as the gusts get stronger. I hear more evidence of humans: an airplane soars past overhead and the siren of an ambulance or police car wails faintly in the distance. Though these sounds clash with my serene and natural location, they generally do not bother me. I find them to be nothing compared to an average sampling of Manhattan or even Philadelphia's racket. The antithesis of this is the nearby birds, who sing out the most beautiful of songs. Their chirping brings me immense joy, not unlike the city that I find myself in. Out of the blue I finally catch a whiff of the heavenly oranges that grace this garden. Finally. My survey of Roman senses is satisfied.

(Giardino degli Aranci, Aventine Hill, Thursday, May 28, 2015)

Voyeur no.1: Holier Than Thou

Sticking out among the colorfully-dressed, 'can't contain my excitement' crowd was an older white-haired man dressed in a brown robe. His frock was not unlike the ones I've seen on friars in Luther; Romeo and Juliet; and the first episode of Sex and the City's fourth season. Well beyond his notable-to-me style of dress was his defiant body language. Unlike just about every other audience member, his back was turned to St. Peter's Basilica, where Pope Francis would soon address and #bless(ed) those who came to see him.

That morning he woke up at 6:00 am in the modest and inexpensive hostel he was staying at to begin preparing for his day at Vatican City. He had voyaged to Rome on pilgrimage, and he felt a need to maximize his stay. His preparations for the day involved a streamlined routine of putting on his brown friar robes, fastening his hard-working feet into a trusty pair of comfortable white sneakers, and slinging his Canon EOS Digital SLR camera across his chest, followed by a meager breakfast. As a Franciscan friar, he lived a simple life (not to be confused with the reality television show of the same name) below the poverty line. His trip to the opulent Eternal City was no excuse to participate in its long tradition of excess.

The friar was eager to take part in the morning's grand activity, but his expectations were quickly shot. When I encountered him, it was quite clear that his experience was being sullied. He stood still,  hands at his side but dangling in the air, almost in disbelief. He squinted his eyes coldly, pointing them out at the masses of people making their way toward him to join the audience. He wasn't doing a very good job of concealing his disapproving countenance. Who could blame him? We were all there; we witnessed the barrage of selfie sticks ("Will these tacky metal rods please fade out of popularity before they're no longer a joke," he wondered with disgust), the tour guides attempting to capitalize on the holy site, and the plebes who clearly had no business being there, at least in his mind. With his back to the Papal show, for lack of a better word, he silently rejected all of us narcissistic ne'er-do-wells.

(Papal Audience at Piazza di San Pietro, Wednesday, May 27, 2015)

Giornale no. 3: Chiesa del Gesù

Giornale no. 2: Keats-Shelley House

The first half of my day off on Tuesday was decidedly English, and I'm not even mad! I woke up with a plan to trek over to the Piazza di Spagna to visit Babington's Tea Room and the Keats-Shelley House, a museum dedicated to English poets John Keats, Percy Bysshe Shelley, Lord Byron, and Leigh Hunt.

Before heading across the Tiber, I enjoyed my usual cappuccino and croissant from Gourmet and browsed the shops on the nearby Via Cola di Rienzo. I left empty handed but excited for the rest of my day.

I crossed a bridge and made my way into familiar territory: the Piazza del Popolo. Unlike on Saturday, when we entered the Piazza from the Pincian Hill, I came to it from behind the brick walls that held smallish statues of Egyptian sphinxes. I walked through the Piazza and onto Via del Babuino, where I looked around in a lovely stationery store and passed the talking statue "Babuino" for the third time. His silly pose and smushed face never cease to make me smile. Finally at the seemingly always busy Piazza di Spagna, I walk up to the Keats-Shelley House. To my confusion, it was closed! For once in my life the Blue Guide: Rome failed me! The hours posted on the door differed only slightly from those reported in our hallowed class text. Alas, I decided to do Babington's until the museum opened.

I had taken a quick peek at Babington's once before also on Saturday, in between site reports at the Piazza del Popolo and the Ara Pacis. I found the establishment thanks to the book I've previously mentioned here, Rome's Cream of the Crop, but the Blue Guide even gives it a shout out! Due to our fond, fond love of tea, Ally and I made a point to check it out. I was glad to be sitting down for tea.

Just to the left of the Spanish Steps, directly opposite the Keats-Shelley House, the restaurant/tea room was elegantly decorated in a 19th century style, perhaps with some original elements from its 1893 opening. I not only appreciated the place's dedication to tea, but also its logo: an adorable black cat. I can't think of anything better than tea and cats together.

Since I wasn't hungry I ordered the "Special Blend" tea, which did not disappoint. Even though the prices were kind of steep, I didn't mind paying a bit more than was probably necessary. The building was beautiful and historic, I had never been to a 'fancy' tea place, and it's in a prime tourist location. It was an experience, especially considering the people to the right of me. An older Anglo man and a seemingly much younger Asian woman, huge designer shopping bags in tow, sat down next to me after another twosome had departed. I found the contrast between the woman's giant black flower-adorned Chanel shopping bag and her fake straw fedora hat, complete with an Italian flag ribbon wrapped tastelessly around it, clearly bought off of the street from a hawker or in a junky gift shop, to be quite funny. What's more, the two were engaged in the most daft of conversations. In a patronizing tone the man began detailing what the woman had bought on their trip. She just seemed sort of confused, and seemed unconcerned. She wasn't really flippant about it, but innocent and harmless, even letting out what sounded like a lighthearted giggle. She had a strange childishness to her, but at the same time she seemed to know how to enjoy herself. After revealing that her expenses were in the thousands, he calmly told her, "You're done." It's safe to say that I was ready to get out of that weird sugar daddy nightmare.

After leaving Babington's I crossed the front of the Spanish Steps, entered the Keats-Shelley House and walked up the stairs to the tiny museum. Having just reopened for the afternoon, it was empty except for me. After turning my ticket over to a girl reading a book nonchalantly on an old chair (with a British accent no less) in the main exhibit room, I quickly went into the room off to the right. It was appropriately covered in wall-to-wall bookshelves, and on the them hung placards of timelines and biographical information, and also various works of art, mostly illustrations and paintings of Keats and those related to him. In the center of the room was a case made of wood and glass that held a number of old books containing Keats' works, including Endymion.

I did not know much about Keats. I had only read his poem Ode to a Grecian Urn as a senior in high school and I knew that he was a British Romantic poet. I did not know that he had a tragically short life. Born in 1875, he died in Rome, in his bed, in the Keats-Shelley House that still stands today, at the age of 25. I learned that he moved to Rome in hopes of the warmer climate being better for his tuberculosis. Unfortunately, he died from the disease some months later.