Hi

I just wanted to mention that I am at a cafe right now, eating hot chocolate. It is in a mug, but it is the texture of warm mousse, and there is loud American music in the background.

I am supposed to be working...

Oranges, Electricity and White Marble

Oh, guys, I fail in my efforts to record this trip! Sometimes I do a good job, and then sometimes I get a little bogged down with the mundane (or, in the case of school, the awful) and forget to note some details.

For instance, I took a lovely walk with Jordan the other day, and for the life of me I can’t remember when it was. I think it was in September, actually. Whenever it was, it was an absolutely gorgeous day to go exploring.

I do not know the significance of this monument. I am sure that I could look it up somewhere, but I think I will leave it nameless because that is just the way Rome is: nameless novelties everywhere.

We named him Hugo.

We walked through a very beautiful residential area, suspected that politicians lived there since there were army jeeps with alert soldiers parked in a random places, found some lovely churches, walked past the famous keyhole view of the Vatican dome with absolutely no desire to look through it, and found a park in an orange grove.

Oh! It was one of the nicest places that I had seen so far. I cannot possibly describe the scent! And the view was phenomenal as well!

A little further on, we began looking for the “non-Catholic cemetery,” which is supposedly not only gorgeous but also the final resting place of plenty of famous people.

We couldn’t find it.

We did, however, find a cemetery which promptly shot to the top of my “most beautiful places in Rome” list. It was dedicated to the British soldiers who fell during World War 2.

It was so quiet, and so reverently kept, and the arching stones of the Aralian Wall seemed somehow perfect for the place; sympathetic. If you had walked in my picture down the path, you could have read with me the ranks and ages of the soldiers, and often a short line mentioning that he was an only son, and that they would meet again, and that would break your heart. Eventually there would be some sort of altar (you can kind of see the white in the picture), where there was a placard which said something to the effect that the Italian government gifted this land to the fallen soldiers in thanks, hoping that they would find peace even in a foreign land.

We left the place a little somberly, but also strangely rested, and then made our way to the only site that I had actually written down to visit before I left America: The Centrale di Montemartini.

Once upon a time, this building was the first electric power plant in Europe. Now, it is a kind of homage to the hulking black machines, and houses a superb collection of marble statuary, which had been kept in storage until recently.

The contrast in color, texture, and history is truly beautiful.

Jordan mentioned that it was these statues which finally convinced her of the beauty of the human body, and I really have to agree. I always referred to the beauty of the human body, in my mind, to the intricacies of its workmanship, to its fundamental meaning and the beauty of what it could do, but it is these greek/roman statues of real people, standing, not necessarily posing, as if their naked bodies were adornment enough, which finally told me that… we are beautiful.

Of course, the Greeks were obsessed with the ideal, so their statues are all of perfect people with perfect skin and perfect bodies, but they are still a far cry from the grotesque poses and sexually drowned models of today. I think I finally understand the concept of “chaste nakedness.”

Of course, I am definitely not saying that the Romans were entirely pure of heart. Good Lord, no! In fact, in one corner was a carefully detailed, completely undamaged depiction of a satyr in the act of detaining some maiden for definitely nefarious purposes.

It gave me the willies.

After trying and utterly failing to imagine a scenario in which someone would actually want to display such a sculpture in the foyer, I decided that it was the most expensive piece of pornography I had seen and moved on to a wall of harmless heads.

This is one of my favorites. I have since discovered that the model was Septimus Severus, and a prominent general. He must have been a good one, because he doesn’t seem like the type who would have his portrait put up all over Rome just because people liked him.

Another of my favorite pieces was this one of a girl. She’s just a girl, and she’s just thinking, and she is so modest that even hand is covered, but she’s so natural! Even senza nose her expression is perfect, and the sculpting is so skillful that you really believe that there is a soft body underneath the fabric, even though it is stone, and of course solid all the way through.

I’ve seen so many wonders, in so many contexts, in this city.

~Maria

PS. Since my camera died, the picture of Aphrodite from behind and the thinking girl are from Ye Almighty Google. I heartily apologize that the picture of the girl is so unimaginative and flat.

Saint Peter in Chains

I took a quick jaunt the other day to see Michelangelo’s Moses.


(I just love how I can do that; just duck off to see something incredible)

Most people forget that he is actually a piece of some pope’s tomb.

Of course, I had seen pictures of the statue, and right now you are looking at yet another picture, but I never really grasped how great it is. It really is true that you have to see it in person to truly appreciate it, because it is a sculpture, not a painting. It is 3D, not 2D. You have to move around it, see it from different angles, measure yourself against it, realize, “Oh, gee. This is It,” to get the full effect.

The church itself was actually very quiet, but beautiful. When I visited for morning mass a few days later, there were only a few old people there for the mass, plus someone quietly sweeping the floor. Later in the day, groups come to snap pictures, but they left fairly quickly since the rest of the church is… well… bare by Roman standards.

I actually really enjoyed it.

Oh, and by the way, below the alter is a display with the iron manacles supposedly worn by Saint Peter on two different occasions.

…Hence the name of the Church. Priorities, people.

~Maria

Potabile

Rome has plenty of spectacular sights, but it is full of little things that are just plain cool, too. One of these things is its water system. Not only does it still draw huge amounts of its water from the aqueducts built by the Romans, but all the water in the constantly running fountains found at every turn are drinkable.

I don’t just mean the decorative fountains. I have drunk from the Fontana di Trevi, true, but I mean that there are ancient drinking fountains everywhere.

They are about waist high.

Most have a notch, so that if you block the spout with your finger, a stream shoots up from the joint of the spout like a modern drinking fountain.

This is quite amusing to watch, because the water pressure is pretty darn strong, and there are always enough foreigners who don’t have the skill to direct the water properly to give hysterics to the passer-by.

A few of the fountains have a spout in the shape of an animal.

I think it is supposed to be the mother wolf of Romulus and Remus, but I always think “bear” when I see it.

The water is cold and delicious, not to mention much cheaper than bottled water.

-Maria

Happy Birthday to Me!

I am now 21 years old. Cool.

Would you like to see the presents I have gotten today?

The paper is a rhyming list of 21 things about me that Cassie at least, the poet, loves about me. It references so many things in our short life together, that regardless of how sincere it may be, I can't help feeling like it is one of the most thoughtful gifts I have ever received in my entire life.

The roses are from Max. (And just so you don't feel the urge to do any romantic fantisizing, he is presently in a wonderful relationship with a girl he is very much in love with, so the roses are only a tribute to his romantic nature.)

Oh, and I am wearing a necklace made by my sister that has been labeled "kickass" by my fellow housemates.

Oh, and I am in Rome right now.

My life so great!
~Maria

Halloween in Rome

... does not exist.

No, wait, I take it back. The day before, I saw a little girl with a devil horn headband. A few of my compatriots also promised that they saw a store with Halloween costumes, but if you were a woman, you had a choice between "witch" or "bride," so what does that tell you?

I carved a very expensive pumpkin because it was Halloween, darn it.

Snapshots

+everyday as we walk to school, groups in pristine lab coats, smoking delicately

+tall tables in tiny cafes, proudly devoid of chairs, the perfect height for elbows supporting a shot-glass of expresso

+two men chasing pigeons from the ancient carvings about the doorway: one wielding a laser pointer, the other clapping two blocks of wood

+holy haste: a small alter boy with the big crucifix, hurrying to the back of the church

Journal

I can’t keep a diary to save my life.

I think it may have something to do with the fact that if I am happy, I like to share the happiness with others, and if I am not, I try to ignore the fact. Boring day? Why bother writing about it? Great day? I try to enjoy it as much as possible, not to duck away from the festivities to write about it.

You all know this. I hardly ever blog.

However, I am fully aware of the usefulness of a touchstone, something that will remind me, something that will bring the memories flooding back, so I am desperately trying to keep a journal of this trip. Since I fail miserably at diaries, I am further trying to make it an art journal. Note the 'trying,' because although it has lasted much longer than any of my poor abandoned diaries, I still struggle to remember to add to it, and struggle with how. I think I just need practice, because I do like it.

This is my favorite spread so far.

To the left is a record of a very nice day that I spent just wandering around, the first day I visited the Piazza di Spagna, only a few days after touchdown. I think that the colors pretty accurately represent my feelings. The butterfly drawing as a still-life of the earrings that I was wearing, with the observation “I feel beautiful here,” which means quite a bit, actually.

To the right is a page that I painted to commemorate our first visit to the beach. Now, I would like to think that I would be one of the last people to deny the power of words, but I just don’t have the right ones to describe that day. The warmth of the sun and the sand, and the cool, careless power of the water, and the easy company of some great people that were only just getting to know each other…

-Maria

Nanowrimo

It stands for NAtional NOvel WRIting MOnth.

This month is November, as you may have guessed, and is a month dedicated (for those brave enough to accept the challenge) to writing. Sometimes this means writing horribly, desperately, frantically, or despairingly, but it means writing. The principle of the things is that most of the actual crafting of a novel is in the revision process, but that too many would be authors (such as myself) are too discouraged by the horrible first draft prose, lack of support, time constraints or simple distractions that they stop in despair at the first step: Write.

Nanowrimo volunteers to guilt, encourage, pester and drive you to write 50,000 consecutive words over the course of 30 days, no matter how horrible they may be. (The words or the days. take your pick.)

Need encouragement? Pep talks from published authors such as Neil Gaiman.

Worried about your progress? Word count validations and a bar chart of your personal word count.

Want to talk to other authors? Forums

Need inspiration? Forums

Plot problems? Forums

Yes, I have accepted the challenge. Yes, I am in Rome. Yes, I am in college. Yes, I have papers to write and friends to not ignore and sights to see, but completing a novel is a real goal of mine, and after my abysmal failure last year (only 2,000 words? Really, Maria?) I feel the need for another go.

(Of course, it would be much easier if I had a plot in mind… but let’s not be picky.)

Wish me luck!

The Student's Guide to Food in Rome: Part 2

Since I am still a practically destitute college student, my experience with the Italian cuisine is chiefly through the little shops which line the roads of Rome.

My favorites, and the most common, are the pizzarias and gelaterias.

Inside any of the streetside pizzerias, you are confronted with a huge glass counter, behind which reside huge rectangular pizzas with everything from ham to egg-plant on them, the choices dictated by none but the cook. Voice your choice and the guy behind the counter will slice off a hunk and charge you by its weight. Take it porta via (to go) and he will cut it in half, press the pieces goodness-sides together, and fold a  wax paper envelope around it for you.

I am getting hungry telling you about it! Contrary to popular opinion, it is just as easy to get bad food in Rome as it is anywhere else, but I have emerged so many times with a messy sandwich of crunchy crust, mozzerrella and chunks of tomatos and basil, and I am not looking forward to leaving the experience behind.

Gelaterias are  another experience all together.

First of all, there is none of this "chocolate or vanilla" nonsense. Even the humblest gelateria, consisting of nothing but a counter, has at least eight flavors, and to ask for only one will get you a confused "Solo?"

The servings are smaller, but they are much denser. The servers scoop the gelato out with paddles, but it is still much softer than American hard ice cream. The shops have cones, real cones with pointed ends, but it is much more common to savor the experience in a cup with a plastic, brightly-colored gelato spoon.

The other day, I took a long walk across the city, bought some margherita pizza for dinner, ate it by the Fontana di Trevi, was chased off by the Italian police (no eating on fountains), treated myself to some stracciatella gelato, scrambled out of the way of a lady who wanted to open her shop (I was sitting on the ledge, leaning against the door), and then made my way home with the satisfaction of a day well spent.

-Maria

(Last Post Out-take)

Hehe
-Maria

The Student's Guide to Food in Rome: Part 1

This post is not about what you think it's about. This post is about my own cooking.

It's not awful. That's all I can say.

I am not a particularly discerning eater. Taste is my least cherished sense, and food is not particularly important to me (though I can certainly appreciate edible heaven when I swallow it) so I have been surviving on a monotonous regimen of supermarket supplies, the chief of which is (naturally) pasta. Until a few days ago, it was only ever garnished with butter and salt, but I got tired of that and splurged on some supplies.

Never underestimate the power of garlic.

Not only can it repel vampires, it can whisk your cooking into a whole new level. So far, I have soutéd the stuff with part of a bag of frozen vegtables and found myself with a fine new mixture with which to toss pasta, and I made a great stew with the rest of the bag, more garlic, noodles and ham bones.

The fact that this is exciting and makes me feel as if I am finally living on my own should probably concern me, but that topic is not flattering, so let me distract you with pictures of the supermarket:

Produce is sold on a very what-is-in-season basis. When we arrived, almost this entire side was covered in peaches. The next month, the smell of grapes (not the castrated grapes that we are used to, but real grapes, twice as big, with seeds) almost intoxicated you the moment you stepped into the supermarket.


You can't tell from the pictures, but this is a tiny, tiny store, and yet, the seafood ice shelf has the most incredible collection. There is everything from raw octopi to whole flouder in this pic, and once I saw a sturgeon's head, its pointed nose uselessly stabbing at the ceiling.



Keep in mind that the store in only four or five aisles wide, and marvel at the entire corner dedicated to alcohol. There is more on the other side of that wall.



 This is how we pay. There are two aisles with actual people that you can see behind the robot here, but they will stand and wait for ten minutes for you to dig out exact change, and are frustrated when you don't have it, so we feed our 50£ bills to our friend Robby as he chatters to us in an Italian voice, and he gives us back change with no problem.

Well, that's all for now! Tune in next time for Part 2: Street Food!

-Maria

PS. Notice how I didn't mention what the rest of the house is eating? It's because they're making German chocolate cake from scratch.
PPS. We make popcorn on the stove. It is awesome.

Assisi

Assisi is the most beautiful place I have ever been, so I am just going to display a  few pictures. Please savor them.

Here's the inside of the Basilica of St. Francis of Assisi, featured in the first picture:

Outside of the Basilica, there was a display of Mother Teresa's work.

It was a beautiful day, physically, and also spiritually, for me.

-Maria

Observation

The pigeons in this city don't fly much.

The closer you get, the more nervously they move, until they are running on their pink feet, heads bobbing frantically, but they don't take off. Eventually, once you have been perfectly capable of kicking or catching them for so long that they can no longer stand it, they will suddenly move much more messily and, finally, flappily and make it to the safety of the top of some wall or something. And then stop.

I'm sure that someone could make some deep poetic statement about this, or use these feathery things as devices for some poignant philosophical declarion about cities or something, but they just dissappoint me. Especially since pigeons are doves.

-Maria

Art and Architecture: Introduction

We call him Pierluigi. He is our Art and Architecture class professor, and yet the name is so Roman, and sounds like two names, anyway, and he asked us to call him "Pier"... We can't believe his first name is Romeo.

He is not at all handsome, he wears glasses which make it seem that we are viewing his eyes from the wrong end of a telescope, and he is incredibly, astonishingly, magnificently, phenomenally knowledgable. Ask him the simplest, most specific question that you can think of, and he will still have pages to excitedly tell you, if you are at all interested.

The first class, we began with the Etruscans, the Roman's predecessors, and became fully convinced that he had dedicated his life to Italian history. He knew who. He knew when. He knew why and where. He knew who found out and why. He knew who cares and where to find more information and how to tell if the information is authentic.

We moved through ancient Rome, and as we admired the sculpture he casually told us the name of the work, who discovered it, who created it, who funded its creation, what it portrays, where it has been, why it was damaged, similar portrayals, which is his favorite...

We spent a class specifically focused on the evolution of mosaics and he told us where each color of marble came from. We went to the Vatican museum and he suddenly became an encyclopedia of the development of Rennaissance art. We are only half-way through classes!

We passed the Egyption section that day, and he dropped the fact that he was an Egyptologist, and I don't think that I have quite absorbed that one yet. Does he know everything about everything in Egypt, too?!

Not only does he know everything, but he gets so excited about what he is talking about, though heaven knows how many times he has told it.  (Did I mention that one of his books is in its second edition, eventhough it has been out less than a year?) He'll be halfway thrgouh a sentence when - "AH! See here an excellent representation of..."

I am going to try to write a summary of each class. I really love them, though three hours of lecture and walking tours can really wear you down, and I would love to have you enjoy them as well. The only problem is that I will most likely get sidetracked by researching.

-Maria

P.S Seconds after I took that picture of him, he turned around and casually translated the hiroglyphics. Oh my goodness. He really does know everything about Egypt, too!

I don't know anything about people

I am often struck by the hands
That clamp the cold pole around mine
As I balance gently on the inside skin
Of the hurling metro car:

four fingers with wiry black hairs
on the back of the knuckles
and a worn wedding band.

strong fingers, French tipped,
a turquoise bangle dangling
from a carefully arched wrist.

a great grip with thick knuckles,
a bitten thumbnail,
a scratched watch.

They shift, our four hands, as we sway
In strange light, the skin
Stretching and moving, our thumbs
Leaving fingerprints where thousands
Have been left before.

-Maria

Modern Catecombs

I love the metro. It is cheap, it is convenient, and it is an adventure.

CHEAP: I pay only 18£ for a whole month's pass, as opposed to the more than 30$ of gas for a week.

CONVENIENT: Do you have any idea how wonderful it is to slip some money and a metro pass into your pocket and just start walking? It you get tired, there will be a metro or a bus stop near by to whisk you back. If you want to see anything specific, the clockwork carriages will take you there.

ADVENTURE: Well, first of all it is underground, and makes me think of some sort of modern labyrinth, with signs and stairs and tunnels, advertisements scrolling on the walls and magazine stands crouching by the exits.

Most importantly, it is full of people, with entire universes of emotion and history and knowledge and opinion behind their blank faces.

Sometimes there are beggers, squeezing old accordiants with some little kid in tow to hold the squashed cup.  Sometimes there are dogs, since there are dogs everywhere. Sometimes there are groups of tourists, calling to each other in foreign languages about which stop they are waiting for.

Sometimes it is late at night and the metro is almost empty, with a few tired people slumped on the chairs, sometimes in each others' laps, the lights of the stations sliding over them. Sometimes it is rush hour, and the metro is so crowded that you can't even see the pole that you have in a death grip, and your bag is wedged between your knees so that there is more room at torso level. Your elbow is accross some guy's wrist and your thigh is pressed against some lady's purse, and heaven help you if you actually have to get off.

I like it, actualy. It is fun to pull my hand back from the abyss, duck under whole collections of arms at once, and slide through, cheerfully calling, "Permesso? Scusi!"  until I get to the door and leap (the occasion always calls for a leap, complete with outstreached arms) onto the empty platform, and then turn around to watch the doors close on a solid wall of people.

-Maria

Post

See! I have not fallen off of the face of the earth, nor forgotten completely about you!

<<<
It's photographic proof: me, alive, and in front of the post office box with a handfull of postcards.

Fun Fact: The postal service of Vatican City is so much better than that of Italy, that people who live in Rome will go out of their ways to send things through the Vatican post office.

The Aeneid Revisited (upon a scorpion)

Guide me, oh muse, to open my lips!
Reach down from on high. Grant me wisdom!
How shall I sing of the horror and blood?
Only you, bright warrior, keen seer, can know.


Long had it dwelt in the house of the innocents,
Long since its discovery spread its poison of doubt.
Maria, foolish heart, had shifted the brooms,
Betrayed its presence to the light of the room,
Now bare feet no longer walk without care
Or hearts pump slowly in quiet cleaning.
The scorpion might someday reappear!

Carrie it was who sighted it crawling,
Math major, quick quoter, wearer of yellow pants.
“Guys, come here!” her voice sharp, insistent,
Calling quick feet, wondering eyes and worried friends.
“There’s something under my bag. It might be a lizard
Or it might be something worse.” A calm hand
Reached down to shift the dark nylon aside.


Horror!
Loathsome in color, slick tail over-curling,
Two pinchers lifted aloft to the virgins’ bright eyes!
“Kill it, Kill it!” they cry, daughters of Mars,
Heirs to Hercules, slayer of dragons.
Maria, just shamed, she who let the beast flee
When she first uncovered it, lifts her shoe,
Brings it down with all force to hear the sickening crunch.
What deity looked fairly on the beast in its plight?
What fault, oh muse, did he perceive in the group?
See, as the foot lifts, careful and quiet
The beast springs to loathsome life, frantic in agony!
Tail lashing, legs flailing, it slides on a smooth back!
Grapples with the air, twists its body and tail!

Then Carrie, bright warrior, calmly lays hand on a tome.
Her white hand reaching out, takes hold of a book,
Lifts it high, hoists it up, the Aenied of Virgil,
Pages crowded with heroes, weighted down with beasts.
She takes aim with clear eyes, flings the weapon with hate.
Sure, straight, deadly, it plunges from high,
Lands smack on the monster, sends it sure to dark death.
Scorpion no longer, and feared no more.


-Maria
PS. (It was only two inches long, and even that might be an estimate exaggerated by the imagination.)

Pictures and Gund

Italians walk uncommonly slowly along the street, but why hurry when it is such a nice day, and there is a park on one side of the street and ancient architecture on the other? On the other hand, though there may be seperate street lights for pedestrians, why bother waiting for the little man to turn green? Just pick your moment and stride straight through traffic -don't hurry or you'll look like a tourist- with your head held high. Timid people or foreigners who hesitate will even notice that the tiny cars and high-heeled Vespa riders automatically slow down at the sight of waiting pedestrians, and are surprized if they don't take advantage of the break in traffic.

Enough with the descriptions. You people demand pictures.

The problem is that when it comes to the famous sites, there are so many much better pictures on the internet and other places for you to look up. In fact, it is one of the small pleasures of life for me to open a huge book of gorgeous photography and be able to say casually, "Yeah, I was there."

What is awesome about being here is being here, able to touch what millions of people throughout the centuries have touched, able to experience the vastness of certain places, to note the casually perfect collections of angles in a view from a back street. Pictures really can't convey the experience. They just prove that you were there because your smiling mug has been inserted into the frame.

With the knowledge that I was about to take photos that would be exactly the same as thousands that have been taken before me, I invited my friend Bobby Gund to help me out. Somehow, the process was made slightly more enjoyable with the introduction of something that really could not be explained.

Here we are at the Fountain de Trevi.

Here we are the edge of the Spanish Steps, which are not particularly interesting in themselves, but are great places to watch tourists wander around in the heat with maps, and pretend that you are not secretly one of them.

Here we are by a magnificent fountain which caused some scandal when it was unveiled due to its sensual nymphs, but it is so big that you cannot really take a picture of the whole thing.

Here is a great one of Triton. We became rather familiar with this towering aquatic sight since we got lost together and used this piazza as a reference point. There is a street that goes right through everything called Via d. Tritone which ends here.

Did you know that unless there is a sign declaring to the contrary (I have yet to find one) you can drink the water? It is incredibly wonderful, on a hot day, to remember this when you stumble upon one of the bazillion fountains randomly scattered throughout the city.

It think that the bees, which are scattered throughout the monuments of the city, are the symbol of some rich family that paid for most of the stuff. You can even find them in the Sistine Chapel.

For your amusement: a smoking centurion. Our Art and Architecture professore, who had just finished an impassioned explanation of Etruscan art and history, had made us all laugh by suddenly admitting that he did not like visiting the Colloseum because, "Eyeh hateh theh fake Romans!"

That's all for now, folks! Tune in next time for "a day in the life," a commentary on allowing dogs on the metro, or maybe a newsclipping about how some crazy american student became a great cat burgler and stole designer clothes until she was tracked down by the police, who figured out who she was by the size of the clothes she was buying. Seriously. I didn't care about designer clothes until I was faced with streets of the stuff. Now I am wishing to be a model.