I thought it could not be done. I could not even imagine what it would be like. Did I have the courage to make it through the entire quest? This was one of the most difficult decisions I have made during my time in Italy. I consulted my classmates and asked them if they were willing to join me. Many refused immediately and looked at me as if I were crazy. Some even tried to dissuade me, telling me that it was an insane idea and I would regret it later. I ultimately decided to be impulsive and I accepted the Great Gelato Challenge.
From the first day that I arrived in Italy, I have been a gelato enthusiast. I had my first taste when I ordered a cone of nocciola gelato from a minuscule gelateria in the Campo de’ Fiori. The creamy, cool taste of hazelnut was unlike anything I had ever tasted. This ice cream actually tasted like the flavor it advertised! When I saw a toddler walking past me with a cone of gelato that was almost as big as her head, I knew gelato would be a significant part of my Italian experience. Weeks later, I would joke with friends about going to gelaterias and ordering every flavor they offered or buying gelato by the kilo to eat in one sitting. Despite all of my grandiose plans, I always knew that I would not and probably could not ever eat that much gelato. On the night of the Great Gelato Challenge, I tested all of my gelato-eating limits.
The idea for the Great Gelato Challenge originated from a debate over which gelateria should be deemed best gelateria in Florence. There were the staunch supporters of Grom, who claimed that the sophisticated flavors at this hangout, favored by the locals, distinguished this gelateria. Others insisted that Perche No?, with its neon lights and friendly servers, was by far the superior gelateria because it offered a lively atmosphere along with reasonably priced gelato. On our second trip, Vivoli attracted a new following with its refreshingly realistic fruit flavors. After listening to the increasingly heated debate, four of us decided that we would try gelato from each of the gelaterias to decide, once and for all, which gelateria is the best in Florence.
Kelsea, Joel, Gabrielle and I (the Great Gelato Eaters?) started at Vivoli, where we were joined by the rest of the group. We decided then that we should probably play it safe and only order small servings, at least to start. Excited by my mission, I ordered a small serving of pistachio and dolce di latte gelato. This was clearly my first mistake of the night. The strong nutty flavor of the green pistachio and the sharp sweetness of the dolce di latte clashed when swirled together, but this did not deter me from continuing my quest. The gelato, perhaps because it had been sitting out all day, was more like semi-freddo and felt like slush in my mouth. I was not a fan. I quickly finished my cup of gelato (I was going to eat six flavors of gelato, there was no room for cones) and we headed off in the direction of Perche No?
We turned onto via Tavolini and easily spotted the familiar gelateria because it was the only building on the small street that glowed with neon lights. We slipped in as three tourists left and quickly surveyed their selection of flavors. I was disappointed to see that they no longer had one of my favorite flavors, green tea, so I settled for cinnamon and albicocca, which was an unusual combination that I had not tried before. The cinnamon tasted sweet and warm while the albicocca had a fresh, slightly tart taste. This became one of my favorite combinations, but my momentary happiness was interrupted by groans from Gabrielle when she realized that her misunderstanding with the server resulted in what is now known as the Great Gelato Mistake. She thought that panna montata was a type of gelato, while it was actually just regular panna. This resulted in her having a cup full of cinnamon gelato with whipped cream on top, which was too much spice by itself. I looked at my watch and realized that it was getting late, so we decided to eat the gelato on the way to our last stop, Grom.
Unfortunately, we reached Grom in less time than I anticipated. In fact, I still had not eaten most of our gelato from Perche No? I experienced my first pangs of gelato guilt as I realized that I had become a chain gelato eater: I would be discarding the cup from one gelateria while ordering gelato at another gelateria. Gabrielle and I darted behind the cover of a nearby building, too embarrassed to stand in front of Grom as we ate our gelato. I inhaled the small serving of gelato, with help from Joel and Kelsea, and we walked into Grom. I became disoriented as I walked in from the dark night into the brightly lit gelateria. At this stage in the Challenge, Joel and Kelsea dropped out, citing feelings of “fullness” as their downfall. It was up to Gabrielle and me to finish the quest. We decided that fruit flavors would probably be the lightest and the easiest to stomach at this point. I ordered the classic combination of limone and lampone. I sat down on one of the wooden benches inside the crowded gelateria and halfheartedly began to eat the gelato. The sour limone and the tart, crisp lampone matched well together, but I could not enjoy the flavor as I was suffering from gelato fatigue. This is the last one, I told myself with each bite. We ate in silence, not wanting to admit that we did not want to see another cup of our beloved gelato for at least a few days.
As we walked back to our hotel, I experienced a strange feeling of pride mixed with nausea. I did something impulsive and crazy! How many people can say that they went on a gelato marathon in Florence? I crawled into bed that night feeling sick, but smiling because, by finishing the Challenge, I could officially call myself a Great Gelato Champion!
Saturday, October 27, 2007
Creative Writing #8
We walk quickly through the last few exhibits on the way to the exit. The modern paintings we pass are a blur of color on a black background as I rush past them in a hurry to leave and meet the rest of the group outside. All of them have the same theme: bright background with splashes of color that showed people and objects in supposedly natural scenes. I glance up between long strides to catch glimpses of these paintings that I have not seen before. Man on a horse. Women wearing flowing dresses. I know that if they are displayed in the Uffizi, they are probably significant works by important painters, but I do not have time to appreciate them for their artistry. I look back to see three other students hurrying past all of the paintings, almost sidestepping through the gallery so that they can quickly absorb all of the art that surrounds them. One more exhibit. One more room. Red “uscita” signs propel me forward through the museum. I pass through a small display of paintings and barely pause to look up. When I see it, I stop immediately. I step closer and almost laugh out loud.
I have stumbled upon a Caravaggio! Bacchus, with his glass of wine and headdress of leaves, looks up at me from the tiny canvas. I was drawn to this small painting on a small table because of the dark background that contrasts with all of the bright paintings around it. The main figure, a young man dressed in a white toga, is posing for a portrait. He is fair-skinned, but his cheeks and face are flushed, probably the result of his indulgence in the wine that he is holding. A bounty of fruits is placed on the table in front of him and he wears a headdress of leaves. His left hand lightly grips a large glass of red wine as he reclines slightly to his right. His youthful face shows no sign of distress or unhappiness. I look around the room and I am surprised to see another Caravaggio painting, this time with Medusa as his subject, on display behind me. I quickly scan this image, trying to record it in my memory, before turning back to Bacchus. I am most interested in how much he resembles a real human boy. He is a beautiful boy, but he does not have the idealized, mature face that I expect from an artist portraying a god. After my limited viewing of the painting, I conclude that the painting is a portrait of the god Bacchus who is enjoying himself, as usual, by partaking of wine and a bountiful selection of fruits.
My surprise at finding a Caravaggio has inspired me to learn more about this particular painting. Scholars have hailed this piece as a prime example of Caravaggio’s developing talent with realism. His Bacchus does not look like a romanticized ancient god, but instead is a vulgar, effeminate youth who offers the viewer wine from a shallow goblet. This portrayal of Bacchus as a young man dressed as the god is consistent with the theatricality and staging of all of Caravaggio’s paintings. In my analysis, I identified this unusual depiction of Bacchus as a young man, but I did not initially notice the prominent sensuality of the Bacchus figure. Perhaps this is because I assumed that the model’s body language and flushed face were painted to show his drunkenness, as Bacchus is the god of wine. I am pleased with my analysis, especially because I know that I could not possibly observe everything in the painting because of the limited time I had to study the painting.
I have seen many Caravaggio paintings, usually during art history classes in museums around Rome and Florence, and I have always been interested in learning about the subjects of the paintings and how the artist pioneered a new style in art. However, it is a completely different experience to stand in front of a painting by myself and write down everything that I observe. On my own, I can decide which parts of the painting I am drawn to instead of learning what scholars believe or even what the artist intended to paint. When I am forced to look at a painting by myself, I am free to interpret the art in a way that makes it personal and more intimate. This is how Bacchus introduced me to my Caravaggio.
I have stumbled upon a Caravaggio! Bacchus, with his glass of wine and headdress of leaves, looks up at me from the tiny canvas. I was drawn to this small painting on a small table because of the dark background that contrasts with all of the bright paintings around it. The main figure, a young man dressed in a white toga, is posing for a portrait. He is fair-skinned, but his cheeks and face are flushed, probably the result of his indulgence in the wine that he is holding. A bounty of fruits is placed on the table in front of him and he wears a headdress of leaves. His left hand lightly grips a large glass of red wine as he reclines slightly to his right. His youthful face shows no sign of distress or unhappiness. I look around the room and I am surprised to see another Caravaggio painting, this time with Medusa as his subject, on display behind me. I quickly scan this image, trying to record it in my memory, before turning back to Bacchus. I am most interested in how much he resembles a real human boy. He is a beautiful boy, but he does not have the idealized, mature face that I expect from an artist portraying a god. After my limited viewing of the painting, I conclude that the painting is a portrait of the god Bacchus who is enjoying himself, as usual, by partaking of wine and a bountiful selection of fruits.
My surprise at finding a Caravaggio has inspired me to learn more about this particular painting. Scholars have hailed this piece as a prime example of Caravaggio’s developing talent with realism. His Bacchus does not look like a romanticized ancient god, but instead is a vulgar, effeminate youth who offers the viewer wine from a shallow goblet. This portrayal of Bacchus as a young man dressed as the god is consistent with the theatricality and staging of all of Caravaggio’s paintings. In my analysis, I identified this unusual depiction of Bacchus as a young man, but I did not initially notice the prominent sensuality of the Bacchus figure. Perhaps this is because I assumed that the model’s body language and flushed face were painted to show his drunkenness, as Bacchus is the god of wine. I am pleased with my analysis, especially because I know that I could not possibly observe everything in the painting because of the limited time I had to study the painting.
I have seen many Caravaggio paintings, usually during art history classes in museums around Rome and Florence, and I have always been interested in learning about the subjects of the paintings and how the artist pioneered a new style in art. However, it is a completely different experience to stand in front of a painting by myself and write down everything that I observe. On my own, I can decide which parts of the painting I am drawn to instead of learning what scholars believe or even what the artist intended to paint. When I am forced to look at a painting by myself, I am free to interpret the art in a way that makes it personal and more intimate. This is how Bacchus introduced me to my Caravaggio.
Creative Writing #11
The mass surged forward, taking me along for the ride, through the security checkpoint, past the souvenir shop, past the ornate doors, into the grand church. The crowd dispersed, people walking in every direction, cameras at the ready, taking pictures of everything they saw so they could record now, observe later. I heard tour guides reciting a two minute summary of the history and architecture of the church as their group trailed behind them, barely pausing to look around at the sculptures and paintings that surrounded them. I wandered to the high altar at the far end of the church and stopped. Directly in front of me was a colossal, bronze canopy with twisted columns supporting sculpted angels on the top. It was the baldacchino of St. Peter’s, the main showpiece of the basilica.
I walked around the baldacchino, stooping to look at the Barberini family crests that decorated the base and craning my neck to see the bronze tassels that hung from the canopy. After I studied the structure close-up, I stepped back to appreciate the scale and design of the baldacchino, but I constantly moved to avoid blocking the other visitors who pushed past me to get a closer look at the baldacchino. Almost all of the tourists, presumably some Catholics and some art lovers of various faiths, looked up at the baldacchino and the dome of St. Peter’s in awe. They pointed up at paintings and looked down at the marble floors with expressions of amazement on their faces. A young man with a guidebook in his hands spun around trying to figure out what he should see first. Everywhere I turned, I could see people taking pictures and admiring the expensive and exquisite art on the walls. Nevertheless, there was something missing from this church. There were hundreds of people, but none of them were praying in this church. The basilica clearly conveyed a message to visitors, but it was not a message of piety or reverence for the holiest saints and God. Instead, modern pilgrims came to see the material representations of these figures. These visitors did not come to worship God, but instead were worshipping the art that was created in his name. They were not in awe of God’s miracles and creations in this elaborate church; they were in awe of the Catholic Church’s power and wealth. I left the basilica wondering if anyone felt comfortable enough in the lavishly decorated church to close their eyes for a moment to pray there.
My experience in the largest church in the world made me think about the smallest church that I have ever visited. On a recent trip to Venice, I went on a tour of the islands near the city. Our tour boat took us to Murano and Burano to see the famed glass blowers and then we were taken to a minuscule island that I had never heard of before our visit. We were given one hour to explore Torcello, an island that features one of the oldest churches in the Venice area. Our tour guide explained that the cathedral is the only interesting sight on the island and we could not get lost on our way there because there is only one road in Torcello. I meandered through the town, following the only road that was paved alongside a small canal that ran the length of the island. I reached the other end of the island and I saw a modest church nestled on the shore, overlooking the water. It was built with large stones and had a simple colonnade that decorated the façade of the small building. Before entering the church, I walked along the shore of Torcello, watching the light sparkle on the deep blue surface of the water and listening to the gentle lapping of the waves in the lagoon. Twenty minutes later, I entered the small church to look around. There was only one small painting in the church with small lanterns emitting a dim light that hardly illuminated the stone walls and the wooden pews. The single room was completely silent. There were no clicks or quick flashes of lights from cameras. There was no marble floor that loudly echoed the footsteps of visitors. I sat in the front of the church by myself, feeling calm and relaxed in this haven by the water. I did not recite any of the Catholic prayers that I know so well, nor did I kneel in front of the crucifix on the altar. I silently meditated on my travels thus far and I thought about all of the objects I had seen in countless museums and churches. I wondered if I would remember any of those priceless works of art or if I would only remember how I felt about them. I finally left the church and started walking back to the dock on the other side of the island. As I wandered down the single road, I realized that this tiny church on this remote island was one of my favorite churches I had seen during the entire trip. It was not gilded or decorated with the works of famous artists, but it invited me in with its humble interior of rock and wood. There was no gift shop or large piazza surrounding the building, but I could contemplate issues of spirituality and faith next to the bluest waters in the serene lagoon beside the church. This cathedral did not have a message of power or authority, but instead was a personal place of worship for all visitors.
On my visits to both St. Peter’s basilica and the Church of Santa Fosca in Torcello, I was a pilgrim searching for a place in which I would be inspired and could strengthen my faith. Both churches were built in order to fulfill specific purposes. They were both monuments built to honor the good works of two saints with unwavering faith. St. Peter’s basilica, the largest church in the world, has become a symbol of the influence and strength of the Catholic Church while the Church of Santa Fosca is preserved as an inviting, modest house of worship. As a pilgrim, I experienced a more profound religious awakening in the little church on the shore of Torcello.
I walked around the baldacchino, stooping to look at the Barberini family crests that decorated the base and craning my neck to see the bronze tassels that hung from the canopy. After I studied the structure close-up, I stepped back to appreciate the scale and design of the baldacchino, but I constantly moved to avoid blocking the other visitors who pushed past me to get a closer look at the baldacchino. Almost all of the tourists, presumably some Catholics and some art lovers of various faiths, looked up at the baldacchino and the dome of St. Peter’s in awe. They pointed up at paintings and looked down at the marble floors with expressions of amazement on their faces. A young man with a guidebook in his hands spun around trying to figure out what he should see first. Everywhere I turned, I could see people taking pictures and admiring the expensive and exquisite art on the walls. Nevertheless, there was something missing from this church. There were hundreds of people, but none of them were praying in this church. The basilica clearly conveyed a message to visitors, but it was not a message of piety or reverence for the holiest saints and God. Instead, modern pilgrims came to see the material representations of these figures. These visitors did not come to worship God, but instead were worshipping the art that was created in his name. They were not in awe of God’s miracles and creations in this elaborate church; they were in awe of the Catholic Church’s power and wealth. I left the basilica wondering if anyone felt comfortable enough in the lavishly decorated church to close their eyes for a moment to pray there.
My experience in the largest church in the world made me think about the smallest church that I have ever visited. On a recent trip to Venice, I went on a tour of the islands near the city. Our tour boat took us to Murano and Burano to see the famed glass blowers and then we were taken to a minuscule island that I had never heard of before our visit. We were given one hour to explore Torcello, an island that features one of the oldest churches in the Venice area. Our tour guide explained that the cathedral is the only interesting sight on the island and we could not get lost on our way there because there is only one road in Torcello. I meandered through the town, following the only road that was paved alongside a small canal that ran the length of the island. I reached the other end of the island and I saw a modest church nestled on the shore, overlooking the water. It was built with large stones and had a simple colonnade that decorated the façade of the small building. Before entering the church, I walked along the shore of Torcello, watching the light sparkle on the deep blue surface of the water and listening to the gentle lapping of the waves in the lagoon. Twenty minutes later, I entered the small church to look around. There was only one small painting in the church with small lanterns emitting a dim light that hardly illuminated the stone walls and the wooden pews. The single room was completely silent. There were no clicks or quick flashes of lights from cameras. There was no marble floor that loudly echoed the footsteps of visitors. I sat in the front of the church by myself, feeling calm and relaxed in this haven by the water. I did not recite any of the Catholic prayers that I know so well, nor did I kneel in front of the crucifix on the altar. I silently meditated on my travels thus far and I thought about all of the objects I had seen in countless museums and churches. I wondered if I would remember any of those priceless works of art or if I would only remember how I felt about them. I finally left the church and started walking back to the dock on the other side of the island. As I wandered down the single road, I realized that this tiny church on this remote island was one of my favorite churches I had seen during the entire trip. It was not gilded or decorated with the works of famous artists, but it invited me in with its humble interior of rock and wood. There was no gift shop or large piazza surrounding the building, but I could contemplate issues of spirituality and faith next to the bluest waters in the serene lagoon beside the church. This cathedral did not have a message of power or authority, but instead was a personal place of worship for all visitors.
On my visits to both St. Peter’s basilica and the Church of Santa Fosca in Torcello, I was a pilgrim searching for a place in which I would be inspired and could strengthen my faith. Both churches were built in order to fulfill specific purposes. They were both monuments built to honor the good works of two saints with unwavering faith. St. Peter’s basilica, the largest church in the world, has become a symbol of the influence and strength of the Catholic Church while the Church of Santa Fosca is preserved as an inviting, modest house of worship. As a pilgrim, I experienced a more profound religious awakening in the little church on the shore of Torcello.
Monday, October 15, 2007
Creative Writing #15
After I discovered many of his works in churches, museums, and piazzas across Rome, I became a devoted admirer of Gian Lorenzo Bernini. While many of his sculptures are recognizable because of their distinctly Bernini-esque qualities, they each involve the viewer in a unique way. The Ecstasy of Beata Ludovica Albertoni, located in San Francesco a Ripa, and the Ecstasy of Saint Theresa, in Santa Maria della Vittoria, are two prominent examples of how Bernini portrayed two similar stories that affect the viewer in completely different ways.
The modest church San Francesco a Ripa is an unlikely setting for one of Bernini’s famed sculptures. It is an intensely quiet church, one of the few churches in Rome that is not constantly invaded by an endless parade of tourists. As my eyes adjusted to the dimly lit interior, I saw only a few paintings in the small side chapels. I wandered through the church into a dark chapel that contained the Ecstasy of Beata Ludovica Albertoni. I was surprised to see that this sculpture by the beloved artist was not prominently displayed, but instead was placed in an unmarked chapel.
When I looked up at the sculpture, my eyes were immediately drawn to the subject’s face, which was illuminated by a gentle yellow light coming from above. Her head was rolled back and her mouth partly open. Her whole face was contorted in an expression that I interpreted to be intense pain, but I was confused when I remembered the name of the sculpture. Her passionate expression was not supposed to convey her pain, but instead Bernini was portraying Ludovica Albertoni’s overwhelming spiritual ecstasy. I studied her face again and I decided that this was unlike any holy scene I had seen in religious paintings and sculptures. I felt slightly uncomfortable looking directly at her face, like I was intruding on an intensely private moment of overwhelming pleasure, spiritual or otherwise. Even the seraphim in the corner of the chapel, that I learned were not part of Bernini’s original design, did not participate in this private scene. In the dark chapel, the yellow light that shined on the sculpture seemed to be part of the art as well. At first glance, I assumed that there was a light that was placed behind the sculpture so that it would appear that rays of sunlight were coming from the heavens above to represent the subject’s overpowering moment of reverence and spiritual ecstasy. A lamp would also serve a more practical purpose in providing a source of light so that viewers could see the sculpture clearly in the dimly lit church. I was told that Bernini deliberately placed a hidden window behind the sculpture so that viewers would see the light shine on the subject’s face. After I left San Francesco a Ripa, I thought about this sculpture in comparison to the other Bernini works I had seen. I preferred this simple and subdued portrayal of a young woman, but it lacked the vivacity and theatricality of many of Bernini’s other masterpieces.
In contrast, the Ecstasy of Saint Theresa, in Santa Maria della Vittoria, was an ostentatious and dramatic portrayal of a similar scene, a woman in spiritual ecstasy. The Ecstasy of Saint Theresa was displayed in a bright, stage-like chapel bordered by colored marble. In this church, viewers were invited to admire the sculpture and the architecture that surrounded it. For this sculpture, the light was also a significant part of the viewing experience. However, the light distracted me from the sculpted figures because the light was the most striking part of the sculpture. The gilded rays of sunshine behind the sculpture brightened the natural light from windows in the ceiling into a more brilliant gold color. Nevertheless, when I looked at Saint Theresa’s face, I was reminded of the Ecstasy of Beata Ludovica Albertoni as I saw the unmistakable expression of pain etched on her face. Once again, I realized that I was mistaken because the sculpture was meant to show her spiritual ecstasy. I was distracted again from the two sculpted figures, Saint Theresa and an angel, by the placement of Saint Theresa in the chapel. She was resting on clouds that floated above the bottom of the chapel, which added to the theatricality of the sculpture. As I left the church, I saw a group of tourists make their way towards the sculpture.
After viewing both the Ecstasy of Beata Ludovica Albertoni and the Ecstasy of Saint Theresa, I realized that a sculpture’s surroundings often influence the art viewing experience. If the two sculptures were switched, the viewer’s experience would have been completely changed. The Ecstasy of Saint Theresa was an elaborate display of Bernini’s artistic skill and his ability to entertain viewers. The colorful marble and gilding around the sculpture enhance its grandiosity. Bernini’s Ecstasy of Beata Ludovica Albertoni is a more mature and humble portrayal of a private moment of spiritual ecstasy that does not attract much attention in the dimly lit San Francesco a Ripa. Both sculptures are valuable works of art that display Bernini’s unique talent of visually presenting a story in motion to admiring viewers.
The modest church San Francesco a Ripa is an unlikely setting for one of Bernini’s famed sculptures. It is an intensely quiet church, one of the few churches in Rome that is not constantly invaded by an endless parade of tourists. As my eyes adjusted to the dimly lit interior, I saw only a few paintings in the small side chapels. I wandered through the church into a dark chapel that contained the Ecstasy of Beata Ludovica Albertoni. I was surprised to see that this sculpture by the beloved artist was not prominently displayed, but instead was placed in an unmarked chapel.
When I looked up at the sculpture, my eyes were immediately drawn to the subject’s face, which was illuminated by a gentle yellow light coming from above. Her head was rolled back and her mouth partly open. Her whole face was contorted in an expression that I interpreted to be intense pain, but I was confused when I remembered the name of the sculpture. Her passionate expression was not supposed to convey her pain, but instead Bernini was portraying Ludovica Albertoni’s overwhelming spiritual ecstasy. I studied her face again and I decided that this was unlike any holy scene I had seen in religious paintings and sculptures. I felt slightly uncomfortable looking directly at her face, like I was intruding on an intensely private moment of overwhelming pleasure, spiritual or otherwise. Even the seraphim in the corner of the chapel, that I learned were not part of Bernini’s original design, did not participate in this private scene. In the dark chapel, the yellow light that shined on the sculpture seemed to be part of the art as well. At first glance, I assumed that there was a light that was placed behind the sculpture so that it would appear that rays of sunlight were coming from the heavens above to represent the subject’s overpowering moment of reverence and spiritual ecstasy. A lamp would also serve a more practical purpose in providing a source of light so that viewers could see the sculpture clearly in the dimly lit church. I was told that Bernini deliberately placed a hidden window behind the sculpture so that viewers would see the light shine on the subject’s face. After I left San Francesco a Ripa, I thought about this sculpture in comparison to the other Bernini works I had seen. I preferred this simple and subdued portrayal of a young woman, but it lacked the vivacity and theatricality of many of Bernini’s other masterpieces.
In contrast, the Ecstasy of Saint Theresa, in Santa Maria della Vittoria, was an ostentatious and dramatic portrayal of a similar scene, a woman in spiritual ecstasy. The Ecstasy of Saint Theresa was displayed in a bright, stage-like chapel bordered by colored marble. In this church, viewers were invited to admire the sculpture and the architecture that surrounded it. For this sculpture, the light was also a significant part of the viewing experience. However, the light distracted me from the sculpted figures because the light was the most striking part of the sculpture. The gilded rays of sunshine behind the sculpture brightened the natural light from windows in the ceiling into a more brilliant gold color. Nevertheless, when I looked at Saint Theresa’s face, I was reminded of the Ecstasy of Beata Ludovica Albertoni as I saw the unmistakable expression of pain etched on her face. Once again, I realized that I was mistaken because the sculpture was meant to show her spiritual ecstasy. I was distracted again from the two sculpted figures, Saint Theresa and an angel, by the placement of Saint Theresa in the chapel. She was resting on clouds that floated above the bottom of the chapel, which added to the theatricality of the sculpture. As I left the church, I saw a group of tourists make their way towards the sculpture.
After viewing both the Ecstasy of Beata Ludovica Albertoni and the Ecstasy of Saint Theresa, I realized that a sculpture’s surroundings often influence the art viewing experience. If the two sculptures were switched, the viewer’s experience would have been completely changed. The Ecstasy of Saint Theresa was an elaborate display of Bernini’s artistic skill and his ability to entertain viewers. The colorful marble and gilding around the sculpture enhance its grandiosity. Bernini’s Ecstasy of Beata Ludovica Albertoni is a more mature and humble portrayal of a private moment of spiritual ecstasy that does not attract much attention in the dimly lit San Francesco a Ripa. Both sculptures are valuable works of art that display Bernini’s unique talent of visually presenting a story in motion to admiring viewers.
Monday, October 8, 2007
Creative Writing #1
On my first visit to the Pantheon, I decided to also explore the world-famous Piazza della Rotonda. The square was bustling with tourists coming to visit the awe-inspiring temple, locals leaving gelaterias with their large cones full of brightly colored gelato and couples who walked purposefully through the piazza without even looking at the sights surrounding them. After wandering through the square, trying to avoid the bright glare of the sign directing tourists to the nearby McDonald’s, I found a small, darkened cartoleria that had a modest display of paper and journals that I could see through the closed window. I decided that I would return to this place soon just to browse their selection of journals so that I could possibly find one for class.
The next time I saw the cartoleria was at night, after a walk through Rome with twenty other students in my class. After our teacher recommended that we visit the small store, our class rushed the store and I was left outside wondering if I wanted to join in the chaotic search for a journal in the cartoleria. I ultimately decided to come back later when I could spend time in the cartoleria by myself, trying to choose which journal was the perfect one to hold all of my thoughts and observations about Rome. I returned the next evening, before dark.
When I stepped into the store, I first noticed that it was not a brightly lit area with different types of journals prominently on display, as I had anticipated. Instead, I found a dim, small space with one young woman working at the counter. I looked in the door to the tiny store and was surprised by the total lack of noise inside. Outside, in the piazza, restaurant patrons were conversing loudly and tourists were commenting excitedly on the Pantheon, but the inside of the store was completely silent. I could almost hear the faint swish of the cashier turning the pages of the book she was reading. I cautiously walked into the store, not wanting to disturb the rare tranquil silence I found in this haven near the crowded piazza. What I found inside was a book lover’s dream. The entire cartoleria was lined with antique-looking, dark wooden shelves that each held a stock of leather-covered journals. The journals were arranged by type and size. Lined, unlined, large, small, dark leather, lighter colored. I was overwhelmed by the smell of leather that seemed to envelop me as I stepped towards the shelves to have a closer look. I spent at least an hour in the store, just looking at all of the different types of journals and thinking about what I should write in them. I do not usually write in a journal, but I imagined myself sitting along the Tiber writing about the people and events that I would see. I would open my leather journal and be inspired to fill the blank, ivory pages with observations and my thoughts. However, I was quickly jerked back to reality when I saw that this dream that was centered around this leather journal would cost me at least 60 euro. I decided that the fantasy was not worth that much, especially when I considered that this one journal was equivalent to giving up 30 cones of gelato.
I decided that I needed to leave the cartoleria before I made a purchase that I would regret later, so I put down the beautifully crafted, dark brown journal and turned to leave. Just as I was about to walk out the door, a brightly colored pattern caught my eye. On a table in the front of the store, there was a small stack of paper-covered journals in various colors and patterns. They did not incite the same longing to write in them as the leather-bound journals, but they were elegant and lovely in their own way. I browsed through this stack of less expensive journals and finally found a journal that was decorated with multi-colored flowers with gold accents that made the flowers shine. The gold work reminded me of the gilded artwork that we saw so many times in churches that I reminded. I took the journal to the cashier and finally broke the silence with my embarrassingly bad Italian to ask her how much the small book cost. After paying more than I ever had before for a blank journal, I walked out of the store into the dark, chaotic piazza clutching my journal and thinking about what I should write for my inaugural journal entry.
The next time I saw the cartoleria was at night, after a walk through Rome with twenty other students in my class. After our teacher recommended that we visit the small store, our class rushed the store and I was left outside wondering if I wanted to join in the chaotic search for a journal in the cartoleria. I ultimately decided to come back later when I could spend time in the cartoleria by myself, trying to choose which journal was the perfect one to hold all of my thoughts and observations about Rome. I returned the next evening, before dark.
When I stepped into the store, I first noticed that it was not a brightly lit area with different types of journals prominently on display, as I had anticipated. Instead, I found a dim, small space with one young woman working at the counter. I looked in the door to the tiny store and was surprised by the total lack of noise inside. Outside, in the piazza, restaurant patrons were conversing loudly and tourists were commenting excitedly on the Pantheon, but the inside of the store was completely silent. I could almost hear the faint swish of the cashier turning the pages of the book she was reading. I cautiously walked into the store, not wanting to disturb the rare tranquil silence I found in this haven near the crowded piazza. What I found inside was a book lover’s dream. The entire cartoleria was lined with antique-looking, dark wooden shelves that each held a stock of leather-covered journals. The journals were arranged by type and size. Lined, unlined, large, small, dark leather, lighter colored. I was overwhelmed by the smell of leather that seemed to envelop me as I stepped towards the shelves to have a closer look. I spent at least an hour in the store, just looking at all of the different types of journals and thinking about what I should write in them. I do not usually write in a journal, but I imagined myself sitting along the Tiber writing about the people and events that I would see. I would open my leather journal and be inspired to fill the blank, ivory pages with observations and my thoughts. However, I was quickly jerked back to reality when I saw that this dream that was centered around this leather journal would cost me at least 60 euro. I decided that the fantasy was not worth that much, especially when I considered that this one journal was equivalent to giving up 30 cones of gelato.
I decided that I needed to leave the cartoleria before I made a purchase that I would regret later, so I put down the beautifully crafted, dark brown journal and turned to leave. Just as I was about to walk out the door, a brightly colored pattern caught my eye. On a table in the front of the store, there was a small stack of paper-covered journals in various colors and patterns. They did not incite the same longing to write in them as the leather-bound journals, but they were elegant and lovely in their own way. I browsed through this stack of less expensive journals and finally found a journal that was decorated with multi-colored flowers with gold accents that made the flowers shine. The gold work reminded me of the gilded artwork that we saw so many times in churches that I reminded. I took the journal to the cashier and finally broke the silence with my embarrassingly bad Italian to ask her how much the small book cost. After paying more than I ever had before for a blank journal, I walked out of the store into the dark, chaotic piazza clutching my journal and thinking about what I should write for my inaugural journal entry.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
"Must Be Americans..."
Almost every day for at least three weeks, we talked about ordering a grande gelato from our favorite gelateria, San Crispino, on our last night in Rome. It's not that we have been depriving ourselves of gelato. In fact, I can't think of a day when I didn't have one cone of gelato (or two or three cones). But those were always piccolos and tonight is definitely a grande night. After tossing our three coins in the Trevi Fountain to ensure our return to Rome, Erina, Gabrielle, Megan and I went to San Crispino's and ordered the largest size of gelato they had. At first, Megan started to back out. She claimed that she could not eat that much gelato, no matter what she promised before. She said that we would all feel sick, which isn't the best feeling when you are going to board a plane in a few hours. A promise is a promise, we reminded her and she eventually caved in. We each sheepishly asked for the biggest size they had and filled it with our favorite flavors. We walked home slowly, talking about our favorite moments in Rome.
It wasn't until we were halfway home that we noticed how people around us were staring. Families seated at outdoor tables in restaurants stared and pointed at our massive bowls of gelato. Two men walking past us did a double-take and one of them said, quite loudly, "Must be Americans." We all laughed and looked down at our 7 euro bowls of gelato that we couldn't finish. We really did look ridiculous, but a promise is a promise.
It wasn't until we were halfway home that we noticed how people around us were staring. Families seated at outdoor tables in restaurants stared and pointed at our massive bowls of gelato. Two men walking past us did a double-take and one of them said, quite loudly, "Must be Americans." We all laughed and looked down at our 7 euro bowls of gelato that we couldn't finish. We really did look ridiculous, but a promise is a promise.
No foto? No problem. (Travel Writing #23)
The Dance
A flash of light catches my eye. I move onto the balcony for a closer look. Down below, in the Campo de Fiori, a crowd is building. Six figures are in the center, dancing with sticks on fire. The idea of making art from something dangerous is both frightening and mesmerizing. The flames blur together, a circle of bright orange in the dark. Someone is playing loud music nearby. The thumping beat intensifies the performance as the dancers begin to twirl. They weave between each other, always waving their sticks high above their heads so that everyone can see. One man steps away from the other dancers and breathes fire as the onlookers applaud. I watch from high above, captivated by the light.
Wrong Turn
I laugh and talk loudly with friends as we try to find our way home in the dark. Left here, no, straight ahead. We take a wrong turn and wander into an enormous piazza. Here it is on the map. I am at St. Peter’s, the largest church in the world. Quiet! This is a place of worship. The piazza welcomes pilgrims who travel for days, months, years. I see the outline of the glowing basilica, illuminated by lanterns from within. Rows of white columns encircle the piazza, isolating this space from the world outside. Voices drift farther away from where I am standing still. The church is closed, but I can pray here. I close my eyes and hear the rush of water from the fountain to my right. This is my holy place.
I have found my home
In an unfamiliar place.
Alone in the dark.
In the Sky
We walk in groups of twos and threes playing follow the leader. He walks quickly and confidently through busy streets. I walk, stop, inch forward, stop, no cars, run. It feels like we have been walking for hours. We stop in front of a stone path that leads up a hill. There is a wrought iron gate at the end, but it is locked. Locks were made to guard precious things. What is this gate hiding? Keep moving forward, always forward. I am breathing heavily now. Just a little bit farther, I think. I hope. We finally reach the top and turn left, past the gate. Try to find another way in. There is another path, now stairs. We are quiet, no breath left for idle chatter. We trudge up flights of stairs, and finally we are here. This cannot be a part of Rome. There are no buildings, no crowds of tourists, no Vespas zooming past us. This is the most green I have seen in Rome. A grove of orange trees offers us shade from the merciless sun, but still we are moving. He leads us through the park, to a stone ledge on the other side. We peer over the edge. We can see all of Rome from this vantage point. We can see every monument, even people walking through the city. I have reached the highest point.
A flash of light catches my eye. I move onto the balcony for a closer look. Down below, in the Campo de Fiori, a crowd is building. Six figures are in the center, dancing with sticks on fire. The idea of making art from something dangerous is both frightening and mesmerizing. The flames blur together, a circle of bright orange in the dark. Someone is playing loud music nearby. The thumping beat intensifies the performance as the dancers begin to twirl. They weave between each other, always waving their sticks high above their heads so that everyone can see. One man steps away from the other dancers and breathes fire as the onlookers applaud. I watch from high above, captivated by the light.
Wrong Turn
I laugh and talk loudly with friends as we try to find our way home in the dark. Left here, no, straight ahead. We take a wrong turn and wander into an enormous piazza. Here it is on the map. I am at St. Peter’s, the largest church in the world. Quiet! This is a place of worship. The piazza welcomes pilgrims who travel for days, months, years. I see the outline of the glowing basilica, illuminated by lanterns from within. Rows of white columns encircle the piazza, isolating this space from the world outside. Voices drift farther away from where I am standing still. The church is closed, but I can pray here. I close my eyes and hear the rush of water from the fountain to my right. This is my holy place.
I have found my home
In an unfamiliar place.
Alone in the dark.
In the Sky
We walk in groups of twos and threes playing follow the leader. He walks quickly and confidently through busy streets. I walk, stop, inch forward, stop, no cars, run. It feels like we have been walking for hours. We stop in front of a stone path that leads up a hill. There is a wrought iron gate at the end, but it is locked. Locks were made to guard precious things. What is this gate hiding? Keep moving forward, always forward. I am breathing heavily now. Just a little bit farther, I think. I hope. We finally reach the top and turn left, past the gate. Try to find another way in. There is another path, now stairs. We are quiet, no breath left for idle chatter. We trudge up flights of stairs, and finally we are here. This cannot be a part of Rome. There are no buildings, no crowds of tourists, no Vespas zooming past us. This is the most green I have seen in Rome. A grove of orange trees offers us shade from the merciless sun, but still we are moving. He leads us through the park, to a stone ledge on the other side. We peer over the edge. We can see all of Rome from this vantage point. We can see every monument, even people walking through the city. I have reached the highest point.
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
The Lucky Spot
I am sitting in the luckiest spot in the Sistine Chapel. Can I have a moment more perfect than this one? According to Gabrielle, this seat on the bench underneath Perugino's Giving of the Keys to St. Peter is the luckiest place for papal hopefuls to sit during conclaves. Pope Julius II was sitting here during the conclave when he was elected and ever since then, it is known as the "lucky spot." I don't have a desire to be the Pope one day (for obvious reasons), but it feels special and meaningful to be looking up at the Sistine chapel ceiling from this historically significant spot.
After looking at the incomparable paintings on the walls and the ceiling, of course, I'm thinking about what else I need to do here before my time is up. This may be the only time that I am ever in the Sistine chapel for more than a few minutes. I am certain that if I do come again, I will be pushed through the room quickly by a crowd of tourists, with barely a few minutes to glance at all the art. What can I do in this overwhelmingly beautiful room that was created for the Church? I take a few more minutes to look around and then I pray.
After looking at the incomparable paintings on the walls and the ceiling, of course, I'm thinking about what else I need to do here before my time is up. This may be the only time that I am ever in the Sistine chapel for more than a few minutes. I am certain that if I do come again, I will be pushed through the room quickly by a crowd of tourists, with barely a few minutes to glance at all the art. What can I do in this overwhelmingly beautiful room that was created for the Church? I take a few more minutes to look around and then I pray.
Creative Writing #4
I was chatting with a friend as we walked hurriedly through the brightly lit staircase. We did not see the signs that the group was following. Instead, we talked about our schedule for the next day and the church that we visited early that morning. We walked quickly through the small door that the rest of the group quickly passed through. I walked through this portal into a room and I was slightly surprised at the abrupt drop in temperature. Suddenly, I was overwhelmed by a wave of color that surrounded me. Royal blues, deep crimson and sparkling gold shone from the hundreds of paintings on the walls and the ceiling, surrounding me in a treasure chest of color. I instinctively looked up and saw images that I have seen a thousand times crowded together with thousands of figures across the length of the small chapel. I was standing alone under one of the most celebrated artistic masterpieces in the world: Michelangelo’s ceiling of the Sistine chapel.
I walked into the chapel, still straining my neck to see some of the panels above me: the Creation of Adam, the Creation of Eve, and the Flood. These scenes were smaller and closer together than I expected, which made the entire chapel look smaller than I imagined it would be. I heard the burly guard who accompanied us growling “no photo” but I was not bothered. How could I capture all of this art, color and light in a series of photos that could only record a small, flat image? I could not waste precious time in this room looking at all of the art through the small screen on my camera. I walked around the perimeter of the chapel, trying to comprehend the idea that I was seeing all of the paintings in the Sistine chapel without the interference of thousands of other people. I could stand in the center of the chapel and look up The Final Judgment without being jostled and pushed through to the exit by the constantly moving, noisy mass of visitors. In fact, the quiet murmur of a few students sharing their knowledge of the paintings was the only sound in the room. Some students stood together in small groups while others wandered around by themselves, all stopping every few minutes to study a painting on the wall or craning their necks to see all of the frescoes on the high ceiling. Walking backwards towards the benches that lined the walls, I stared up at the images on the ceiling, trying to identify the figures and subjects that I saw in different scenes. I sat on the plexiglass-covered stone bench and I decided to write about this experience in my journal while I was in the moment.
I pulled my journal out of my bag, which took a few minutes since I did not want to stop looking around while I attempted to open my purse, and I started to write. I wrote about the bright colors and the surreal feeling of being in the Sistine chapel, but I was not satisfied with this latest entry. As I looked down at the handwritten words on the white page, they seemed inadequate; too small and simple to convey my excitement and wonder. I could not describe the exact shade of the brightest blue or how the light brightened some paintings while others were left in darker shadow. I could not explain the feeling of looking up at the Creation of Adam and wondering if Michelangelo would ever know how iconic this work would become for generations centuries in the future.
Surprisingly, I was also overcome with a desire to pray in this beautiful chapel. I am not very religious, but as I looked up at all of the art commissioned by popes and completed by a pious artist who created the stunning art as an offering to God, I was motivated by the beauty around me to give thanks to God or at least the belief in Him that has inspired so many artists to decorate the many churches around Rome. At this moment, I knew that I could never describe the emotion that overwhelmed me when I looked up at the paintings around me because it was deeply personal and private. Although I do not have a detailed record of all that I saw in the Sistine chapel, I am satisfied with my own memories of the night that I finally understood how much beauty can inspire people to believe that there must be a power greater than man.
I walked into the chapel, still straining my neck to see some of the panels above me: the Creation of Adam, the Creation of Eve, and the Flood. These scenes were smaller and closer together than I expected, which made the entire chapel look smaller than I imagined it would be. I heard the burly guard who accompanied us growling “no photo” but I was not bothered. How could I capture all of this art, color and light in a series of photos that could only record a small, flat image? I could not waste precious time in this room looking at all of the art through the small screen on my camera. I walked around the perimeter of the chapel, trying to comprehend the idea that I was seeing all of the paintings in the Sistine chapel without the interference of thousands of other people. I could stand in the center of the chapel and look up The Final Judgment without being jostled and pushed through to the exit by the constantly moving, noisy mass of visitors. In fact, the quiet murmur of a few students sharing their knowledge of the paintings was the only sound in the room. Some students stood together in small groups while others wandered around by themselves, all stopping every few minutes to study a painting on the wall or craning their necks to see all of the frescoes on the high ceiling. Walking backwards towards the benches that lined the walls, I stared up at the images on the ceiling, trying to identify the figures and subjects that I saw in different scenes. I sat on the plexiglass-covered stone bench and I decided to write about this experience in my journal while I was in the moment.
I pulled my journal out of my bag, which took a few minutes since I did not want to stop looking around while I attempted to open my purse, and I started to write. I wrote about the bright colors and the surreal feeling of being in the Sistine chapel, but I was not satisfied with this latest entry. As I looked down at the handwritten words on the white page, they seemed inadequate; too small and simple to convey my excitement and wonder. I could not describe the exact shade of the brightest blue or how the light brightened some paintings while others were left in darker shadow. I could not explain the feeling of looking up at the Creation of Adam and wondering if Michelangelo would ever know how iconic this work would become for generations centuries in the future.
Surprisingly, I was also overcome with a desire to pray in this beautiful chapel. I am not very religious, but as I looked up at all of the art commissioned by popes and completed by a pious artist who created the stunning art as an offering to God, I was motivated by the beauty around me to give thanks to God or at least the belief in Him that has inspired so many artists to decorate the many churches around Rome. At this moment, I knew that I could never describe the emotion that overwhelmed me when I looked up at the paintings around me because it was deeply personal and private. Although I do not have a detailed record of all that I saw in the Sistine chapel, I am satisfied with my own memories of the night that I finally understood how much beauty can inspire people to believe that there must be a power greater than man.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Escaping My Former Self (Travel Writing #24)
As I sat in the airport waiting to board the plane to Amsterdam for the first leg of my trip to Italy, I fantasized about my imminent stay in Rome. I imagined myself strolling along the Tiber and then rushing past the Colisseum on my way to class. My limited Italian would not hold back my complete assimilation into Italian culture for five weeks as I lived in the heart of historic Rome. The ultimate test of my authenticity would be whether other tourists identified me as one of their own or as a local who had lived in Rome her entire life. My daydream was abruptly interrupted by the flight attendant’s announcement that the flight was boarding soon.
I quickly gathered my belongings and stood in line at the gate with the mass of people trying to board the plane. I looked around at my fellow travelers and I noticed that they were all Indian. Many of the women were dressed in traditional, brightly colored saris and were talking about what they would do first when they arrived in Mumbai, their final destination. As a second generation Sri Lankan-American, I had often made these trips back to my parents’ homeland where I stayed in the same place and did not explore the cities at all. I pitied these travelers because they were clearly not trying to have their own adventures in a new, exotic country. They would never venture out of their comfort zone to create a new cultural identity, like I would during my stay in Italy. I boarded the airplane and said goodbye to my old life.
After two weeks in Italy, I realized that assimilating into Italian culture would be much more difficult than I originally thought it would be. Everywhere I went, I was constantly reminded of how I was different from true Roman citizens. Indian men walked uncomfortably close behind me and whispered “hello, miss India” or “ciao, mama” as they passed by. A grocery store clerk handed me a bottle of curry powder while I stood in front of the selection of spices in the store, trying to find seasoning for my pasta. Even the server at San Crispino’s looked at me for a minute and asked, “where are you from?” as he handed me my cup of honey gelato that I had ordered completely in Italian just two minutes earlier. I was still desperately trying to be adventurous and truly belong in Rome, but I could not break through the cultural barrier that separated me from the authentic Romans who were never mistaken for tourists as they traversed the city.
Now I look back on my time in Rome and I know I was able to assimilate into Italian culture as fully as I ever could. I am still disappointed every time the baker at the forno asks for three euro in English after I order my tramezzino di prosciutto e fichi or when the purse vendors in the street try to attract my attention because they think that I am a wealthy tourist. Nevertheless, I have had more Roman adventures than I ever dreamed about and it is time for me to return home and embrace my Sri Lankan, American and now Italian sides.
I quickly gathered my belongings and stood in line at the gate with the mass of people trying to board the plane. I looked around at my fellow travelers and I noticed that they were all Indian. Many of the women were dressed in traditional, brightly colored saris and were talking about what they would do first when they arrived in Mumbai, their final destination. As a second generation Sri Lankan-American, I had often made these trips back to my parents’ homeland where I stayed in the same place and did not explore the cities at all. I pitied these travelers because they were clearly not trying to have their own adventures in a new, exotic country. They would never venture out of their comfort zone to create a new cultural identity, like I would during my stay in Italy. I boarded the airplane and said goodbye to my old life.
After two weeks in Italy, I realized that assimilating into Italian culture would be much more difficult than I originally thought it would be. Everywhere I went, I was constantly reminded of how I was different from true Roman citizens. Indian men walked uncomfortably close behind me and whispered “hello, miss India” or “ciao, mama” as they passed by. A grocery store clerk handed me a bottle of curry powder while I stood in front of the selection of spices in the store, trying to find seasoning for my pasta. Even the server at San Crispino’s looked at me for a minute and asked, “where are you from?” as he handed me my cup of honey gelato that I had ordered completely in Italian just two minutes earlier. I was still desperately trying to be adventurous and truly belong in Rome, but I could not break through the cultural barrier that separated me from the authentic Romans who were never mistaken for tourists as they traversed the city.
Now I look back on my time in Rome and I know I was able to assimilate into Italian culture as fully as I ever could. I am still disappointed every time the baker at the forno asks for three euro in English after I order my tramezzino di prosciutto e fichi or when the purse vendors in the street try to attract my attention because they think that I am a wealthy tourist. Nevertheless, I have had more Roman adventures than I ever dreamed about and it is time for me to return home and embrace my Sri Lankan, American and now Italian sides.
Monday, September 10, 2007
Thinking in Italian
In Italian class, we are taught how to say things like "I like" (Mi piace) or "I am" (Io sono), but we don't spend a lot of time learning the future or past tenses. Maybe this is because our time in Italy and Italian class is extremely limited, but I like to think it's because our teachers want us to learn how to be in the moment, no matter what we are doing. Instead of saying what we used to like or where we will be going, we have a chance to talk about what we are doing at that certain moment. Usually, I am frustrated when I don't know how to communicate exactly what I am thinking but I like this limitation.
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
A Moment of Tranquility
We are at the Basilica di Santo Quattro Coronati, in an ancient cloister in the middle of Rome. After walking through the busiest streets in Rome, I am shocked at how quiet and tranquil this cloister is. I am sitting on a dark stone bench listening to the only sound in the room (possibly the only sound in the building), the trickle of water from a twelfth century fountain in the center of the courtyard. I wonder if the quiet is due to the nuns' vow of silence or the seclusion of this small church high up above the bustling streets of Rome.
We were just told that this church dates back to 500 AD, which makes me wonder how much of this courtyard is really that old and how much has been recently added. I think it is safe to assume that the shrubs in tan plastic pots are recent additions. It is more difficult to guess when the painted patterns of red and green teardrops or the stained brown and yellow triangles were added to the underside of all the arches that frame the courtyard. There are also fragments of rocks on the wall, some with writing on it. These are probably from the excavations in the church that resulted in the discovery of all these ancient artifacts.
There is a sign that details the restoration efforts. It is fascinating to see the picture of an ancient column that was cleaned by laser. I usually think of restoration works as an expert using a delicate brush to carefully clear centuries of dirt from ruins, not the use of high-tech lasers to remove dirt quickly and efficiently.
There is one stone on the wall that is a mystery to me. In the center, there is the word(s?) LOCUSURICITFELICITATIS. It is strange because the words are carved almost haphazardly, like the carver was in a hurry to finish this particular inscription. The stone seems out of place next to smaller stones with lines of carefully carved inscriptions. Did the carver have a reason for rushing through this inscription? Was he less skilled than the carvers of the other stones I see?
I also find it strange that there is a small gift stand inside the cloister. After walking around the open courtyard, I see a table and a card stand with postcards and books on sale. Even though I know that we are still in Rome, it surprises me to see this particular part of the modern world in this quiet cloister. It seems intrusive, like it is disrupting the peace in this silent space.
We were just told that this church dates back to 500 AD, which makes me wonder how much of this courtyard is really that old and how much has been recently added. I think it is safe to assume that the shrubs in tan plastic pots are recent additions. It is more difficult to guess when the painted patterns of red and green teardrops or the stained brown and yellow triangles were added to the underside of all the arches that frame the courtyard. There are also fragments of rocks on the wall, some with writing on it. These are probably from the excavations in the church that resulted in the discovery of all these ancient artifacts.
There is a sign that details the restoration efforts. It is fascinating to see the picture of an ancient column that was cleaned by laser. I usually think of restoration works as an expert using a delicate brush to carefully clear centuries of dirt from ruins, not the use of high-tech lasers to remove dirt quickly and efficiently.
There is one stone on the wall that is a mystery to me. In the center, there is the word(s?) LOCUSURICITFELICITATIS. It is strange because the words are carved almost haphazardly, like the carver was in a hurry to finish this particular inscription. The stone seems out of place next to smaller stones with lines of carefully carved inscriptions. Did the carver have a reason for rushing through this inscription? Was he less skilled than the carvers of the other stones I see?
I also find it strange that there is a small gift stand inside the cloister. After walking around the open courtyard, I see a table and a card stand with postcards and books on sale. Even though I know that we are still in Rome, it surprises me to see this particular part of the modern world in this quiet cloister. It seems intrusive, like it is disrupting the peace in this silent space.
Monday, August 27, 2007
The Pantheon
After visiting the Pantheon and admiring its elegant design, the artist Michelangelo proclaimed “desegno angelico e non umano”, that it was the design of angels and not of man. Although it was built almost two thousand years ago with basic materials, the Pantheon is still revered as an architectural masterpiece. Despite numerous restorations and renovations over the past few centuries, the main building is largely intact and contains much of the ancient, original marble that was imported for the temple. The Pantheon as it is seen today is the result of the Roman emperor Hadrian’s substantial building program that included the construction of bridges, temples, monuments and even entire towns. In order to understand the history and significance of the Pantheon, it is important to first examine the man who is responsible for the building as it stands today.
Both Hadrian and his predecessor Trajan were from Italica, Hispania, in modern-day Spain. Hadrian’s provincial origins led to his reputation as a “man of the Empire, not the capital” which he proved with his extensive travels as emperor. The emperor who would be known simply as Hadrian was born Publius Aelius Hadrianus on January 24, 76 CE. Many of his ancestors served as magistrates and his most notable great-great-great-grandfather was a senator during the reign of Julius Caesar. When Hadrian’s father died in 85 CE, he became a ward of his second cousin, Marcus Ulpius Trajanus, known as Trajan. Trajan, a respected soldier, received orders to go to Rome and Hadrian was brought with him to the capital. Trajan eventually gained more power as a favorite of the Senate’s and eventually became the first non-Italian emperor of the Roman Empire. In order to strengthen his connection to Trajan, Hadrian eventually married Trajan’s great-niece, Sabina. By 101 CE, Hadrian had become a senator and started the break in tradition that resulted with more provincials gaining senate offices. Over the next several years, Hadrian built a successful career as an officer with victories that included the capture of Mesopotamia and the annexation of the Kingdom of Armenia. When Trajan died suddenly in 117, his wife Plotina declared that Trajan had formally adopted Hadrian on his death bed and named him as his successor. As a result, Hadrian was acclaimed emperor on August 11, 117 (Grabsky 135).
Both Hadrian and his predecessor Trajan were from Italica, Hispania, in modern-day Spain. Hadrian’s provincial origins led to his reputation as a “man of the Empire, not the capital” which he proved with his extensive travels as emperor. The emperor who would be known simply as Hadrian was born Publius Aelius Hadrianus on January 24, 76 CE. Many of his ancestors served as magistrates and his most notable great-great-great-grandfather was a senator during the reign of Julius Caesar. When Hadrian’s father died in 85 CE, he became a ward of his second cousin, Marcus Ulpius Trajanus, known as Trajan. Trajan, a respected soldier, received orders to go to Rome and Hadrian was brought with him to the capital. Trajan eventually gained more power as a favorite of the Senate’s and eventually became the first non-Italian emperor of the Roman Empire. In order to strengthen his connection to Trajan, Hadrian eventually married Trajan’s great-niece, Sabina. By 101 CE, Hadrian had become a senator and started the break in tradition that resulted with more provincials gaining senate offices. Over the next several years, Hadrian built a successful career as an officer with victories that included the capture of Mesopotamia and the annexation of the Kingdom of Armenia. When Trajan died suddenly in 117, his wife Plotina declared that Trajan had formally adopted Hadrian on his death bed and named him as his successor. As a result, Hadrian was acclaimed emperor on August 11, 117 (Grabsky 135).
Despite the centralization of power in Rome, Hadrian traveled extensively to tour the provinces and legions that safeguarded Rome. In fact, 13 of his 21 years in power were spent outside Italy in other provinces. He was distinctive as an emperor because he did not want to expand the Empire, as Trajan and many other emperors before him did, but instead he wanted to strengthen its boundaries (Grabsky 145). In 122, Hadrian initiated his building program with the construction of a wall to cover the 73 mile border between Britain and the Roman Empire. Hadrian’s Wall was a visible statement of Roman authority in that it served a barrier against small raids and isolated the Empire from other neighboring areas (Grabsky 150). During his travels, Hadrian made many improvements for various other provinces outside of Rome. He especially had a fondness for all things Greek. For instance, he wore a close-cropped beard usually associated with the ancient Greek philosophers, despite the tradition of clean-shaven emperors. He also declared himself a citizen of Athens and constructed several monuments while visiting the city. During his visit during the winter of 124 CE, Hadrian commissioned a new aqueduct, completed the temple of Zeus, ordered the construction of a new library and built a new quarter of town called Hadrianopolis. As a result of his extensive travels and his reputation as “the greekling,” some Italian subjects believed that Hadrian’s allegiance was to Athens, not Rome (Brown 57). In response, Hadrian launched a program of restoration and building projects within the capital. Within Rome, he built landmarks including the Temple of Venus and Rome, a temple to the deified Trajan, and the Castel Sant’ Angelo, which he built as a mausoleum for himself and his descendents (Birley 283). It is interesting to note that in all his travels, Hadrian paid respects to local gods by visiting principal shrines and restoring or building new shrines.
However, not all of his attempts at building were successful. In 130, Hadrian tried to rebuild the ruins of ransacked Jerusalem in his name. On the site of the Jewish Temple, he began building a temple to “Jupiter and the Emperor.” The revolt by the Jews in response to his desecration of their temple resulted in the only major war of Hadrian’s career that resulted in the murder of tens of thousands of Jews. Eventually Judaea was abolished and renamed Syria Palaestina and the hatred between Jews and non-Jews grew (Grabsky 165). However, since Christians were not included in the conflict and therefore were not excluded from Jerusalem, the city became overtaken by Christians. At the end of his travels, Hadrian retired to Tivoli, an one square mile estate that he populated with replicated copies of sights seen during his travels. His estate had approximately 300 acres of pleasure gardens, reception halls, baths, a library, guest quarters for his advisors to live in and a man-made island to serve as Hadrian’s private retreat (Brown 45). In preparation for his death and eventual succession, Hadrian adopted Lucius Commodus in the summer of 136, but when he unexpectedly died, Hadrian chose a senator Antoninus who already had the favor of the Senate. Soon after, Hadrian died leaving only his nephew Annius Verus, who would be known as Marcus Aurelius, to continue his legacy as the adopted son of Antoninus (Birley 290).
Of all of his achievements and buildings that displayed his adept skill for design, the Pantheon is the most impressive and well-known. Despite all of the fascination and admiration surrounding the Pantheon, surprisingly little is known about its true origins. Its architect is unknown, but the discovery of date stamping on bricks has led historians to determine that it was built between 118 and 128 CE in the Piazza della Rotonda in the Campus Martius area. In fact, the largest historical indicator of the architect and patron of the Pantheon, the inscription carved into the façade, is misleading. The ancient Latin inscription on the entablature on the exterior reads “M·AGRIPPA·L·F·COS·TERTIVM ·FECIT”, or “Marcus Agrippa, son of Lucius, three times consul, built this.” Although it is can be assumed that Agrippa, who was the lieutenant, advisor and son-in-law to emperor Augustus, was the architect and creator of the temple that now stands in Rome, this is an inaccurate assumption. Agrippa built the original Pantheon on the same site in 25 BCE as a temple dedicated to all of the Roman gods (“pan” meaning all and “theon” meaning god). However, this original structure was destroyed by fire and eventually the restored version erected by Domitian was struck by lightning and also burned beyond repair. These temples were replaced by the present structure that was built by the emperor Hadrian in approximately 125 CE. Although he clearly retained the large inscription on the exterior portico of the Pantheon, Hadrian left few traces of the original temple.
It is unclear why Hadrian would intentionally mislead visitors about the origins of the Pantheon. The Roman emperors were not known for their modesty, and it seems unlikely that Hadrian would have humbly deflected praise for his creation, especially when considering the grandeur and awe-inspiring design of the Pantheon. However, historians have speculated that there were both personal and political reasons for Hadrian’s inscription. Hadrian was a connoisseur of architecture and it is possible that he wanted to memorialize Agrippa, the man who oversaw the construction of many buildings in the Campus Martius area. In addition, Agrippa was associated with the deified emperor Augustus and therefore the inscription served as a public reminder of the connection between Hadrian and the late, beloved Augustus (Sullivan 60). The inscription is significant mainly because it is an unusual and bold declaration that cedes credit of a significant building to another person.
The Pantheon continues to be celebrated as an architectural wonder because of its innovative design that has been preserved even after 1,875 years of continuous use. The pagan temple survived the Middle Ages when Pope Boniface reconsecrated the Pantheon as a Christian church dedicated to martyred saints in the early 7th century. As a result, while decay and modernization have eradicated all of the other ancient buildings in the Campus Martius, the pantheon remains entirely intact with only its original decorations missing.
The architecture of the Pantheon makes it a sight to behold for both architecture and history buffs and even tourists who travel to see the grand temple. The Pantheon was innovative in both its design and scale. The exterior portico has a distinctly Classical look, which is indicative of Hadrian’s reverence for all things Greek. There are sixteen monolithic Corinthian columns made from red and gray granite that was carved in Egypt. The columns are arranged in three aisles, with the center aisle leading to the front door and the other two side aisles leading to statues, possibly one of Augustus and one of Hadrian or Agrippa. Each column is 41 feet in height, 5 feet in diameter and weights approximately 60 tons. The structure sits on a foundation of ringed concrete 24 feet wide, 15 feet deep and is reinforced by a web of stress-relieving arches that are embedded in its walls (Brown 61). When it was first built, the Pantheon was raised upon a flight of five steps that are now partially buried by the natural rise in ground level. This elevation of the portico would have contributed to the awe that ancient visitors experienced when visiting this impressively large temple. Additionally, the bronze metal covering the dome and beams of the Pantheon would have also glowed brightly in the sun, thus adding to the impressive and intimidating effect of the temple on its original visitors. The design and dimensions of the exterior suggest that the interior is a rectangular, dimly lit space with a flat ceiling. However, the Pantheon was revolutionary because it was a departure from conventional Greek temple architecture that focused on the exterior as the most extravagant and decorated part of a temple. Most western architecture before Romans was mostly concerned with the exterior appearance of buildings. The Romans pioneered a new style of architecture by inventing new building types, most notably the public baths and basilicas, which placed more emphasis on the design and function of the interior. The Pantheon is the prime example that represents the shift in emphasis, as its vast exterior is secondary to the impressive interior.
The interior of the Pantheon is completely different from the expectation that a visitor has when viewing the exterior. Instead of a rectangular room with a flat ceiling, the inside of the Pantheon is a vast circular space capped by a floating dome that is amply lit by light that streams in through the prominently featured oculus. The size of the interior was also a revolutionary development in construction that serves as a reminder of Roman innovation. The large dome structure was constructed when 5000 tons of concrete, a Roman invention, was poured over a wooden hemisphere framework supported by scaffolding. The ceiling’s distinctive coffers were also created in this way with 140 convex wooden molds serving as their framework (Morgan 39). Originally, the roof was covered in sheet metal with bronze rosettes in the center of each coffer. This would have reflected the light that came in through the only source of natural light, the eight meter wide circular opening, or oculus, at the top of the domed roof. The oculus allows visitors to have a different viewing experience of the Pantheon, depending on the current weather. On a sunny day, a circular beam of bright light moves gradually across the interior making the interior of the Pantheon a giant clock face that marks the daily passage of light and time. When it is raining, rain spirals in through the oculus and is diverted by the gently sloping floors to drains in the rotunda. The Pantheon interior was also distinctive as a temple because its architecture is the main feature, which contrasts with its contemporary, conventional temples that were designed to be simple rectangular contains that feature the statue of the god to whom the temple was dedicated. Instead, in the Pantheon, it has been suggested that the gods were on the periphery in the openings against the circular wall.
There is no doubt that the design of the Pantheon was the primary concern of its architects because of the precision with which it was built. The famed Pantheon dome is a perfect half sphere which, if it were extended downward, would fo rm a full sphere that would just touch the floor
of the circular interior exactly at its center. The function of the Pantheon as a temple dedicated to all of the gods also played a part in its awe-inspiring design. The pattern of circles and squares is repeated throughout the floor and columns and the very design of the entire building, with a rectangular portico with a rotunda attached. The circles represent the heavens while the squares symbolize earth. The combination of circles and squares signifies the ancient belief in the necessary and constant interaction between the heavens and earth. The lower two thirds of the dome is inset with five rings of coffers with each coffer consisting of four receding levels of squares that are pushed together toward the upper edge of each coffer. This off-center placement of the squares in coffers all around the dome gives the visual effect of increasing intensity. The coffering abruptly stops near the peak, which enhances the illusion of the remainder of the dome being suspended without any simple means of support. The dome was most probably designed in this way to serve as a reminder of the heavens. This connection would have been clearer in ancient times because each coffer has a bronze rosette in the middle, which reflected light that came in through the oculus. These rosettes were arranged precisely like planets in orbit around the sun, represented by the oculus. This realization has led to the suggestion that the statues in the Pantheon represented celestial deities such as Jupiter (the Roman equivalent of Zeus), Saturn, Venus, Mars, Mercury, Apollo and Diana. While these features would have enhanced the religious ceremonies that took place in the Pantheon, they also served a purpose in the more public, civic proceedings that were held in the temple.The Pantheon was more public than most temples with Hadrian often holding judicial court there. As a result, the Pantheon became a visible declaration of Imperial power. The layout of the dome and bronze rosettes representing the starry heavens also makes the visual suggestion that Hadrian, who would have sat under the light from the oculus surrounded by the statues of gods, was divinely blessed as Roman emperor. In this way, the Pantheon served as an example of political propaganda. Eventually, with the fall of the Roman Empire, the Pantheon lost its political and civic importance. Fortunately, the Pantheon was preserved as a church that was in continuous use for almost two thousand years with few restoration and renovation attempts.
When one considers how many years have passed since the original construction and the number of additions and alterations to the Pantheon, it is amazing that the structure is intact and minimally altered. The exterior of the building is mainly unaltered and only the original decorative accents have changed since the original restorations by Septimius Severus and Caracalla. The exterior portico would have been more intimidating and impressive when it was first built because it was raised up on a flight of five marble steps that have since been covered by the rise in ground level. The sculptures in front of the Pantheon are also gone but their original placement and design has been speculated. For instance, remains of a statuary base and the pattern of clamp-holes suggest that there was a sculpture of an Imperial eagle with outspread wings. Along with the statues, the metal that once decorated the Pantheon is also long gone. In 663, the Byzantine emperor Constaans II removed the bronze tiles that covered the exterior of the vast dome and its lead replacement has been dated to the 8th century. In addition, in the 1620s, Pope Urban VIII had 200 tons of bronze from the supporting beams and the portico roof removed in order to make cannons. Coincidentally, these same cannons were eventually melted to decorate the tomb of the first Italian king, Vittorio Emmanuelle II, who is now entombed in the Pantheon (Speller 240). The most infamous additions to the Pantheon were the two bell towers that temporarily topped the entrance. Pope Urban VIII added these distinctly non-Classical bell towers that clashed with the Classical architectural style of the Pantheon during a restoration effort in 1626. These bell towers became known as “Bernini’s ass’s ears”, which is an inaccurate attribution because Carlo Maderno most probably designed them and Bernini was openly critical of them. In response to years of widespread criticism of this addition, the bell towers were removed during another restoration in 1882. The main building has been greatly preserved because of its reconsecration in 609 by Pope Boniface IV. This change from pagan temple to the Church of St. Mary and the Martyrs has resulted in its interior decoration featuring Christian frescoes. Also, the main apse where Hadrian would have held court is now the main altar of the church. The transformations of the area around the Pantheon have also greatly affected the way that modern visitors view the temple.
Over the past centuries, there have many several natural and constructed changes to the Campus Martius area that have changed the way that modern visitors view the Pantheon and surrounding areas. The Pantheon now occupies an entire city block and seems to tower over other more modern buildings in the Piazza della Rotonda, but its original relation to its neighboring buildings was more complicated. Other buildings were probably closely built near the Pantheon on two sides, which would have de-emphasized the exterior walls of the rotunda, thereby disguising the abrupt transition between the rotunda and the rectangular portico (Sullivan 61). In 1711, Pope Clement XI ordered the construction of a new fountain centerpiece and the creation of the forecourt piazza while Alexander VII had the level of the surrounding piazza lowered to provide a better view of the building’s façade. Modern researchers have also suggested that a low-roofed colonnade enclosed the forecourt piazza (Speller 240). Despite these numerous additions and improvement efforts, the Pantheon still stands intact in the same site it has inhabited for the past two thousand years.
Although natural decay and renovations have significantly changed the landscape of Italy’s capital, visitors can still travel to the Pantheon and imagine the splendors of ancient Rome. Centuries after the construction of the Pantheon, artists would admire the vast dome and draw inspiration from its ancient design. For instance, in his extensive research for the dome he would build in Florence, Brunelleschi traveled to Rome to study the Pantheon’s famed vault. Even today, students of architecture marvel at the ingenious, basic materials and methods that were used to build such a grand and impressive structure. Almost two thousand years after its erection, the Pantheon continues to be relevant primarily because it is a well-preserved visual link between ancient Rome and the modern, metropolitan city that was built above its ruins.
Figure 1: The famed dome and oculus of the PantheonWorks Consulted
Birley, Anthony R. Hadrian the Restless Emperor. London: Routledge, 1997. 283-300.
Brown, Dale. Rome: Echoes of Imperial Glory. Alexandria, Virginia: Time-Life Books, 1994. 45-68.
Grabsky, Phil. I, Caesar: Ruling the Roman Empire. London: BBC Books, 1997. 135-164.
MacDonald, William L. The Pantheon: Design, Meaning and Progeny. Cambridge,
Massachusetts: Harvard University Press, 2002. 12-14, 27-43, 76-92, 131-132.
Morgan, Julian. Hadrian: Consolidating the Empire. New York: The Rosen Publishing Group,
Inc., 2003. 38-39.
Speller, Elizabeth. Following Hadrian: A Second-Century Journey Through the Roman Empire.
New York: Oxford University Press, 2003. 223-241.
Sullivan, George H. Not Built in a Day: Exploring the Architecture of Rome. New York: Caroll
& Graf Publishers, 2006. 60-67.
Saturday, August 25, 2007
51 Via Marghutta
We were walking home from a walk to the Trevi fountain when we saw a plain street sign pointing to a small side street. It said "via Marghutta." Erina and I stopped and tried to remember why this sounded familiar. Did I see it on my map while planning a route to get to the Trevi? Did someone say I could find a good restaurant on this road? No, it must have been something else. Wait! I remember! Gregory Peck lives here in Roman Holiday. We have to find number 51, his apartment building. When we watched the movie, it felt like Gregory Peck and Audrey Hepburn were following us. They visited every place we had already seen. They went to the Spanish steps, the Trevi fountain. Today, we decided to step into the old Hollywood version of Rome. We took pictures outside the building, striking our best Audrey Hepburn pose, then left to continue our own roman holiday.
Sunday, August 19, 2007
Creative Writing # 2
I have finally arrived! After thirteen hours of flying halfway across the world, I was relieved just to have my feet on solid ground. I couldn’t wait to wander through Rome, seeing all of the sights that I had only read about in books. I wanted to order a cone of gelato in the Piazza Navona. I wanted to spend an afternoon walking through the Forum. How could I see everything there was to see in only five weeks? I was ecstatic to finally be in Rome. Unfortunately, the Fiumicino airport didn’t look like the exotic and bustling airport I had imagined it would be. In fact, it looked a lot like the airport back home. There were the same harsh fluorescent lights overhead, the same slow baggage carousels surrounded by weary travelers, and the same hordes of tourists trying to find their way outside. This was not how I expected to start my Roman adventure.
I waited in line with my three fellow travelers to hire a car and driver to take us to our hotels for our first night in Rome. We waited in silence, too tired from our travels to even talk. Finally, our car was ready and we sluggishly walked to the parking lot. As we walked out of the airport, I was blinded by the brightness of the natural sunlight outside. I felt like I had not breathed fresh air for months. Our driver, a man dressed in a nice black suit, led us to the shiny, silver Mercedes-Benz van that would take us to our hotel. This was definitely an upgrade from the ubiquitous yellow taxicabs back home. The four of us climbed into the back of the air-conditioned van and we headed towards the Campo de’ Fiori. I looked out my window and I was surprised to see ordinary buildings and streets. The landscape reminded me of the golden hills of California and there was even a McDonald’s on the side of the road advertising Big Macs on a familiar red and yellow sign. This was not at all how I imagined Italy, but I was optimistic about downtown Rome.
Forty minutes later, after our driver sped through traffic on the highway and then expertly weaved through pedestrians down narrow cobblestone streets, we arrived in the Piazza del Biscione. I slid open the car door and felt a warm breeze. I could hear vendors speaking in broken English to foreign customers and friends calling out to one another in Italian in the Campo de’ Fiori. In the nearby café, a couple sat outside eating lunch with their two young children. A dark-haired young woman wearing an expensive dress and high-heeled shoes strutted past us. I stood outside in the sweltering heat of the afternoon sun with all of my luggage. I was ready to explore.
Two months later, I can still remember how my enthusiasm about being in a foreign country heightened every experience. My first taste of gelato was like tasting ice cream for the first time. My first experience on a city bus was chaotic and disorienting. After a few weeks, my constant feeling of excitement subsided as I became more familiar with my surroundings. Nevertheless, there were certain moments throughout my time in Italy (usually when I passed an ancient landmark that I had previously only read about) that I remembered how it felt to step off the plane into a completely new environment. It was an overwhelming feeling of awe and excitement.
I waited in line with my three fellow travelers to hire a car and driver to take us to our hotels for our first night in Rome. We waited in silence, too tired from our travels to even talk. Finally, our car was ready and we sluggishly walked to the parking lot. As we walked out of the airport, I was blinded by the brightness of the natural sunlight outside. I felt like I had not breathed fresh air for months. Our driver, a man dressed in a nice black suit, led us to the shiny, silver Mercedes-Benz van that would take us to our hotel. This was definitely an upgrade from the ubiquitous yellow taxicabs back home. The four of us climbed into the back of the air-conditioned van and we headed towards the Campo de’ Fiori. I looked out my window and I was surprised to see ordinary buildings and streets. The landscape reminded me of the golden hills of California and there was even a McDonald’s on the side of the road advertising Big Macs on a familiar red and yellow sign. This was not at all how I imagined Italy, but I was optimistic about downtown Rome.
Forty minutes later, after our driver sped through traffic on the highway and then expertly weaved through pedestrians down narrow cobblestone streets, we arrived in the Piazza del Biscione. I slid open the car door and felt a warm breeze. I could hear vendors speaking in broken English to foreign customers and friends calling out to one another in Italian in the Campo de’ Fiori. In the nearby café, a couple sat outside eating lunch with their two young children. A dark-haired young woman wearing an expensive dress and high-heeled shoes strutted past us. I stood outside in the sweltering heat of the afternoon sun with all of my luggage. I was ready to explore.
Two months later, I can still remember how my enthusiasm about being in a foreign country heightened every experience. My first taste of gelato was like tasting ice cream for the first time. My first experience on a city bus was chaotic and disorienting. After a few weeks, my constant feeling of excitement subsided as I became more familiar with my surroundings. Nevertheless, there were certain moments throughout my time in Italy (usually when I passed an ancient landmark that I had previously only read about) that I remembered how it felt to step off the plane into a completely new environment. It was an overwhelming feeling of awe and excitement.
Sunday, May 13, 2007
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