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.