Chili's Bar and Grill, Tempe, Arizona, United States (or: My Sicilian Heart)

Four orders of chicken crispers on my left, four orders of chicken crispers on my right, Enough sodium and calories on each plate to last its eater a full week. In front of me, a tall glass of water. Two months later, this is the first time “La Nostra Famiglia Italiana” has reconvened, but it would appear that “Italiana” is in short supply. As each in turn dives into the pool of grease on the plate before them I begin to feel nauseous from the fumes alone; for respite I can only fantasize about that great Sicilian feast I never enjoyed.

 

Two months before I finally bring myself to scratch with pitiful words the splendor of that tiny isle, that tiny town of my father’s father’s father, where “La Nostra Famiglia Italiana” strangely communed with my Italian family, where I sprawled with Sicilian Nero in hand, on sand so smooth the blue sky danced upon its white ridges, drinking desperately the cool sea air. Salty air which meanders lazily through sun-baked streets mingling with the sweet perfume of flowers overflowing on every curb.

 

Truth is beauty, beauty truth, and here I didn’t need metaphor to feel at home; The prickly-pear cacti, prolific agave, soaring jagged mountains demanded reminisces of the Arizona landscape I know so well. That sea I had unknowingly carried reflected in my eyes for 20 years, she told me.

 

I had come eagerly anticipating the taste of Sicily’s famous cuisine, but ignorance of the great siesta forced us to leave for our flight, this wish still unfulfilled. Clearly Sicily, that mother island, was slapping me on the wrist for visiting only for a few short hours. And, in the airport, as my backpack was snatched from the x-ray machine to be searched, I knew that the stern mother would confiscate the forbidden sweets I had sneaked off the kitchen counter in the form of a jar of olives with far more liquid than the carry-on limit and a wine bottle that could quickly serve to beat the pilot into submission. However, when the officer removed them from my bag, looked, shrugged, and put them back, I knew. This was no punishment from my mother island. She was merely beckoning my Sicilian heart back home.

 

I Found Keats in my Cornflakes

I found Keats in my cornflakes. Sitting at the kitchen table, the window wide open to the cramped courtyard’s potted gardens and drying clothes. Down three flights of marble stairs (or an elevator that was a cage) the throbbing streets of Rome: Vespas and Fiats careening through its narrow veins, skidding to a halt before waves of pedestrians paying no heed, vendors shamelessly peddling their wares to any and all passers-by, couples making love with their clothes on, gypsies, parasites picking your pocket, ancient ruins presiding indifferently over everything, casually waiting for the next two thousand years. But I was in the kitchen. And I found Keats in my cornflakes.

“Beauty is truth, truth beauty”

The words seemed so cryptic when first I read them almost a year ago; I tossed them aside, meaningless. But suddenly, on this journey lined by ancient treasures whose meaning, whose history, true or not, I could never hope to fully understand, but whose beauty I could never cease to admire, they came ringing back with unprecedented clarity.

I continued to nibble on these thoughts as I finished my bowl of cereal.

Ode on a Grecian Urn

John Keats (1795-1821)

1. THOU still unravish’d bride of quietness,   Thou foster-child of silence and slow time, Sylvan historian, who canst thus express   A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme: What leaf-fring’d legend haunts about thy shape         5   Of deities or mortals, or of both,     In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?   What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?   What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?     What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?         10 2. Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard   Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on; Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear’d,   Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone: Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave         15   Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;     Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss, Though winning near the goal—yet, do not grieve;   She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,     For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!         20 3. Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed   Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu; And, happy melodist, unwearied,   For ever piping songs for ever new; More happy love! more happy, happy love!         25   For ever warm and still to be enjoy’d,     For ever panting, and for ever young; All breathing human passion far above,   That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy’d,     A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.         30 4. Who are these coming to the sacrifice?   To what green altar, O mysterious priest, Lead’st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,   And all her silken flanks with garlands drest? What little town by river or sea shore,         35   Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel, Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn? And, little town, thy streets for evermore   Will silent be; and not a soul to tell     Why thou art desolate, can e’er return.         40 5. O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede   Of marble men and maidens overwrought, With forest branches and the trodden weed;   Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!         45   When old age shall this generation waste,     Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say’st,   “Beauty is truth, truth beauty,”—that is all     Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.         50

June 11 Part II: Europride featuring Lady Gaga

[Author's note: due to popular demand I have re-posted this entry after a brief hiatus]

And suddenly, there I stood. Surrounded by, immersed in, a haze, a sea, a fog of bodies marching, singing, dancing, cheering; Rainbow banners, Rainbow colors, male thongs, men in dresses, lumberjacks, policemen, balloons of penises wearing tuxedos; whips, pearls, boas, scarves, gender no longer a relevant distinction; Spice Girls, Ricky Martin, party buses, an endless crowd; lips meeting, shutters clicking, and I just wanted to cross the street.

Like so many of Rome’s monuments, the scale of this spectacle registered on the cosmic level: A tidal wave of riotous rainbow semi-trucks and demonstrators on foot. Some groups organized with coordinating outfits led by LGBT club banners--I couldn’t help but reminisce on days gone by when my Cub Scout troupe marched in similar fashion in my hometown’s Veteran’s Day parade--but otherwise there seemed to be no order at all, just perpetual waves of passing faces supporting the cause.

I stood on the curb amongst the cheering throng. Waiting for the end of the parade was hopeless, it could be hours. With no other option, I discreetly slipped into the passing tide and worked my way across the street.

Yes, you heard correctly, I marched in the 2011 Roma Europride Parade.

Back in my apartment:

“Hey man, you wanna see Lady Gaga tonight at the Circus Maximus? We’re leaving in like 5.”

“Mm—depends if I finish dinner in time.” I fully intended to go. But I wasn’t quite ready to admit it.

Now it was his turn to cover up: “I mean, you know, Lady Gaga’s not my thing, like at all. I just wanna go so I can say I did. Plus it’s free, I’d never pay money to see her.”

“Oh no, of course not, I totally agree, we’ll see if I even go.” I downed my bowl of pasta in one swift swallow. “Look at that, finished in time, guess I might as well tag along.”

Stretched as a parade, the true scale of the demonstration was shrouded. But here, sprawling across the legendary Circus Maximus, it’s overwhelming; electricity pulsating through an eternal mass. My roommates and I plunge forward, deeper and deeper into the sea of bodies pressed against each other, the sweet smells of sweat and marijuana mingling in the twilight.

Ciao, Roma. When I first embarked on my artistic and musical journey as a young Italian-American woman, I did not know yet the passion and the fervor for equality, for social justice that would grow so deeply inside of me.

Finally we’ve wriggled, jostled, shoved, forced our way to the center near the stage. But, as I mention to my roommate, I'm not a tall guy and I can't see a thing. The man in front of me, in makeup and a tight sleeveless gay-themed shirt, overhears, turns seeming concerned, and suggests I join a few girls sitting on a fence a few feet away. ‘No, really…” I begin, but he’s already asked them for permission and suddenly I have a perfect view of the stage still empty except a grand piano and flashing words projected onto the backdrop, “PARTY; ROMA; PRIDE; EUPHORIA...” to the accompaniment of an electronic beat.

 As I become closer to each and every one of you through music, dance, art, and fashion, my greater mission to is to be part of the joyous mobilization of the LGBT community worldwide. We fight for freedom. We beckon for compassion. And above all we want full equality NOW.

And suddenly there she is, the famous Lady herself. I was expecting a more dramatic entrance, a more absurd outfit. But she has entered the stage quite casually sporting aquamarine hair, giant sunglasses, and a dress that only breaks maybe one rule of fashion; she approaches the podium. Her voice almost seems detached it is so calm, monotone except for a key word once or twice accentuated in a guttural yell. Only later do I realize how very 20th century it is of me to scribble notes on the back of my map when the whole thing will be posted on YouTube later that night.

We are here to proclaim our strength, our steadfastness, and our intelligence; we will not be treated as anything less than human. It is not just about one law or one example. These laws that have yet to be passed, they set a precedent, and so many young people are being affected: suicide, self-loathing, isolation, inability to find work or integrate based on fear. Modern social issues are real. They are serious. The precedent set by the government is so influential, and that is why we are here; because it regards that some of us, LGBTs, will not have an equal seat at the table--but we will. Let us come together and synthesize our histories into today. Let us be revolutionaries of love and use our human powers to save lives and encourage unity around the world.

I can’t help but reflect on her words in the context of the scene around me. An accepted, acknowledged place in this convoluted web of society, with all of the institutions and benefits that go with it, that’s what the LGBT community longs for. To not be relegated to the fringes, to live openly without facing disapproval and scorn. Which is almost odd in a way to me because I more often find myself trying to escape the inevitability that deeply rooted societal traditions bring. Our lives are mapped out for us: school, college, work, marriage, kids, retirement. Our beliefs: Liberty, Justice, Democracy, Capitalism. We carry out entire conversations of accepted social phrases without really saying anything: ‘Hey, what’s up?’ ‘Nothing, you?’ ‘Just living the dream.’ ‘Keep on keeping on, right?’ ‘For sure.’

For the security social acceptance brings we forfeit the freedom to say, to do whatever we want whenever without having to worry about offending anyone. We become perfect facades that never would dream of a taboo thought or feeling, and authenticity too often becomes something of a guessing game. It seems there would almost be a strange liberation in being totally rejected by society. Suddenly you would be free to completely ignore all of the rules, to live however you pleased; you would never worry about offending anyone because you already had.

LGBTs very well may attain the social acceptance they fight for, but at what cost? Will that man over there still be able to roam the streets in nothing but lime green briefs, stilettos, and a string of pearls? Will the man I saw in a blue dress still wear a lampshade on his head just because he can? Will so many in the crowd still have the liberty to stroll freely in public with balloons of their smiling sexual organ of choice? Maybe. Maybe not.

It’s a sad comedy, me ranting about the downsides of this social acceptance readily available to me while the LGBT community fights so hard for every inch of it they can manage. I don’t mean to downplay the injustice of anti-gay violence and discrimination, especially in countries where homosexuality is a crime. But as for integration into mainstream society, the LGBT community may find it’s not quite so liberating as they had hoped. In the meantime I am investigating real estate on hermit-friendly deserted islands.

Dinner in Rome (or The Plight of an English Major)

But what was most shocking to me was that you didn’t have to do anything. Light the stove (with a lighter, none of this electric nonsense). Throw in some sausage, some peppers, mushrooms, onions; soon the tantalizing scent is billowing from the popping, sizzling pan, filling the room. Meanwhile you have some tomato sauce heating on the stove (ingredients: tomato, water), dump in the vegetables and sausage once they’ve reached golden-brown perfection. Spices--whatever is in the cabinet. Can’t read the Italian labels? Doesn’t matter, everything goes in. Now things are heating up, let the sauce simmer, salt water on the stove, wait till it’s boiling, in goes fresh pasta, out it comes again, onto plates, pour on the sauce, slice of bread, glass of wine--what more could a hungry stomach, a yearning palate ask? But the three of us crowding, jostling over these bubbling pots and pans (each much more confidant in his own cooking prowess than that of the others), we were only observers in this fantastic transformation, this synthesis of delicacy from bare raw materials.

It was with glee that I shoveled ingredients around the frying pan, watching in wonder as the peppers slowly shed their awkward stiffness and opened up, the onions relinquished their caustic, impersonal disposition, the sausage pulled itself together into something you could sit across the table from and have a conversation. This was greater than mere food preparation, I was witnessing a movement of social cohesion. These were the kindergarteners who clung fiercely to their mothers before the first day of school only to refuse the once anticipated return home at 3 o’clock, the high school freshmen afraid they wouldn’t fit in who find themselves in tears to leave their dearest friends at graduation, so many shy crushes which blossom into passionate lovers--this was us, the study abroad, a smattering of students smeared across Rome which somehow morphed into coherent, relevant social clans.

At first there were no words, we could only ravenously scoop this manna from heaven into our mouths and question what we had done to deserve this celestial meal. But as our hunger gave way, conversation slowly filled the gaps. Cam, to my right, was, at over 6 foot, an imposing figure. More than ten years older than us, he was a bit aloof, often out who knew where until who knew when in the morning. I knew that he was already a longtime bachelor and had military experience, but other than a shared love for Maxwell, I could not begin to probe at the void of time between his high school graduation and today. Matt, across the table, was my age. A self-proclaimed “bro”, earlier I had heard him mention, regarding the United States, “What I miss most is sitting at home watching Sports Center drinking a Coors.” Right now he was lamenting that he couldn’t decide what to bring home for his family as souvenirs from Rome. Suddenly the answer was in my hands, I cut in:

“You should bring back food as souvenirs for everyone--It could be a metaphor for the temporary nature of existence: just as the sites we visited once were complete and functional and beautiful but have been eaten away by millions of years until now all that remains is an empty shell, the food will start out complete and delicious but it will be slowly eaten until all that remains is the empty container!”

Pause.

“Yeah, no.”

“You’re talking to a finance and a health major. We don’t think like that.”

The plight of an English major.                

The Tate Britain: Commentaries and Criticisms

Foolishly, in retrospect almost absurdly, I thought that I would be able to resist including further art criticism among this catalogue of literary sketch. But, after a 5 week whirlwind through Greece, Rome, and Florence studying Classical, Renaissance, and Christian art, could anyone expect me not to cave upon my return to London, the Mecca of art plundered from every major culture around the world? So for my readers who have grown weary of academic commentary on monumental pieces of art in some of the world’s most renowned museums and were hoping for lighter reading, I advise you to perhaps indulge in a rousing round of Farmville and tune back in for my next piece.

The museum planned for this evening was certainly to be a good one. No, I would not be drifting through pieces commandeered from around the world, tonight’s destination was Tate Britain, a collection of art that is actually from Britain (unlikely though it may seem to visitors of The British Museum). As good Providence would have it, the first exhibit I encountered featured British Romantic paintings, a style with which I was not familiar. Naturally, I was delighted.

As I read the signs on the wall I learned that the Romantics were tormented artists passionately obsessed with experiencing, examining, and portraying human emotions, the human condition. Gazing from piece to piece it was clearly apparent why:

What tragic lives these men led--I can only begin to imagine the hardship, the burden of living with such poor eyesight! If this is how the world looked to me I certainly would be be upset as well.

From British Romantics I moved to an exhibit of selections from the 20th century. I especially enjoyed this graceful piece constructed of steel and vinyl, “Art For Other People #24”, an uplifting celebration of the joy the artist feels in having the profound opportunity to share an intimate glimpse into his own psyche through artistic expression:

Here’s another piece I found inspiring:

Now I know, you may be feeling a bit baffled, as was I when first I saw it. But have faith, this artist has not left us to wander in a cold dark abyss, all is revealed by the insightful title: “Car Door, Ironing Board and Twin-Tub with North American Indian Head-Dress”. Silly me trying to read some sort of angsty interpretation regarding the conquest of Native-American culture by the cold, impersonal materialism of modern America when in reality it’s just about a car door, ironing board, twin-tub, and headdress!

Another gem I discovered was not a piece but this wise quote by John Craxton from 1946:

But why explain pictures? No meal can be made more exciting by a running commentary analysis of the flavours. Everyone has a different tongue. Pictures need no literary introduction. What they always need are open eyes and minds free from preconceived ideas.

With this in mind, I will refrain from comment and allow the most profound piece at the exhibit, the piece which elicited by far the deepest emotional reaction, to speak for itself. The title is “Oak Tree”, the media: glass, water, paper, and ink.

Stazione di Firenze Santa Maria Novella

The moment I saw her I knew I was in love. So beautiful, so pristine, so classy, this was the woman I never knew I had been looking for--how could I know that something so perfect existed? Suddenly I felt strangely self-conscious, I tried to look cool, strut, lean jauntily against a wall. It seemed strange, ridiculous that I wasn't wearing a suit, a tie, a fedora, carrying a pocket watch on a chain. It seemed strange that everyone wasn't; why weren’t the masses milling by dressed in their absolute sharpest, dressed to kill? Anything less was an insult to the immeasurable beauty of this goddess that I had just discovered.

On Friday I purchased from her two train tickets. Saturday I returned, having rethought my choice to travel at 4 am Sunday, to return them. For her I waited an hour only to discover the computers were down, I must return on the morrow after all. For her I rose at three Sunday morning, I came to her but she had cancelled my train. Back I came that afternoon but the ticket office was not open. Monday morning came, and early so did I to pay homage to her once more, I waited forty minutes before I was forced to give up my place in line, other obligations dragging me away. That afternoon I returned once more, this time determined to have my love. But she would not yield so easily, I had not brought my passport--no she hadn’t told me I’d need it but of course I should’ve known, for her I would’ve, should’ve brought anything, everything. Straightaway I ran home and back to retrieve the desired document.

Finally, after leading me around on a leash and insulting me when I was vulnerable, finally she gave me what I needed and I knew then that she loved me too and from then until the end of time everything would be alright. I pressed my face to the glass, a cool gentle breeze slowly drifting through the round speaking hole. My love, personified in the woman behind the desk: her girlish figure, her boyish hair, her deep dark eyes, her clear fair skin, her ridiculous uniform which she carried with such grace. Carelessly, thoughtlessly she recited aloud as she typed. There was no passion, no regard to the syllables, yet even in her indifference her voice was olive oil dripping over bread, running over, leaving your fingers glazed, slick.

“ScoLAH-ro; Ben-jaMEEN; REE-in.” My name--my name had just passed through those delicate Italian lips! I was already in a state of Nirvana before she moved on to my passport number--poetry.

“cinque, tre, diciannove…”

By the time my information was entered into the computer knew I had found all I could ever dream of--I knew I must ask for her hand in marriage, even through the invisible, impenetrable glass sheet cutting between us, this was too urgent to put off! But, like a bashful schoolboy, my decisive move was thwarted by the paralyzing fear which suddenly and totally consumed me; all I could muster as I collected my refund, before I backed slowly away, was a “grazie mille” from the furthest depths of my heart. She did not return my gaze. She had already left.

What can I say? I’m in love.

 

June 11 Part III: Gregory's

“Hey baby, been a little while, huh?”

“Little while? Boy, you ain’t know da first thang bout treatin a woman right.”

“Hey, girl, you know I been thinking about you all the time”

“Mm-hm? I ain’t got no phone calls. I ain’t seen you fah a month! And now you tryin a come in here like everythang’s OK? I got news fah you, boy!”

“Come on, baby, you know—“

“An don’t you go callin me ‘baby’ like you knows me!”

“I woulda given anything to see you, you know I was busy! I’m here now, at the first chance I could.”

“Yeah, I don think so. You come to da wrong place, boy!”

Conversation over. I reluctantly back away from her irresistible curves, the deepest shade of ebony, and leave the piano store defeated; she, all 88 keys so seductive, indifferent to my exit.

The façade is not imposing, if you weren’t looking for it you would miss the discreet sign, “Gregory’s” next to the front door. Inside is a cramped room, a menagerie of bottles seemingly every shape and color crowding for space behind the bar. The familiar sizzling of cymbals and honking of a saxophone waft down the spiral staircase. Captivated by this sound, I find myself compelled helplessly, mindlessly onward until I awake sitting on a couch in the dark loft, a small classy room, wood floor and ceiling, soft yellow lights on the quartet: bari sax, grand piano, upright bass, drum set. A glass of Chardonnay appears in my right hand.

I’m in Rome but it feels like 1940s Chicago. The lead man--tall, thin, massive bari sax--sits, stands, squints, honks, growls, digs in to bluesy riffs, explodes into a torrent of notes which meets the crowd’s applause like the bow of a ship meeting the sea. I approach him at the break hoping to finagle my way into sitting it for a song or two.

“Scuzzi—I really enjoyed your playing, excellent!”

“Thank you!” A thick accent, he only speaks a handful of English.

“Yeah, I’m an American jazz pianist--”

“American? You wanna jam? Play a couple tunes?”

That was easier than I had anticipated. We finish our conversation and I start back to my seat.

“Well now, you sound like you must be from the West.”

She’s big. And she’s black. Quite comfortably reclined in the front row. Her short hair dyed blond, her lips, bright red. Her laugh is a hoarse cackle. Between her two front teeth is room for another.

“Uh, yeah…I’m from Arizona.”

“Arizona? I was in Phoenix once. I’m from New York.”

She had been a lawyer trying to make it big as a singer in the big apple. With no break in sight, she moved to Rome and has been singing here ever since. The next set opens with her leading the band on vocals. Onstage she is a caricature of the jazz singer—the nasally voice, pained expressions, emotive gestures, melodramatic scoops, bends, wails.

And then I’m on.

He hadn’t even asked my name, a mike is shoved in my face and I awkwardly introduce myself. I sit down at the piano, unsure of how she’ll respond: “Come on, girl, let’s just forget about what happened earlier today, huh?” Hoping for the best, I count off the first tune: “No Greater Love”, bright, uptempo, swingin.

“Woah, now, you movin too fast, boy, you on ya own!” Not what I want to hear. At all. My beloved keys are distant from me, they close off, my insistence creates nothing but an awkward situation. The backgrounds behind the sax I can manage on my own, but when he turns to me to play the melody on the bridge I can only fumble around a bit. A few bars later, my solo quickly becomes a haphazard pastiche of blues riffs as I desperately try to pull myself together.

As quickly as it begins the song is over and suddenly it’s my turn to start the next. I pause, gather the pieces of myself strewn across the floor. Slowly, solemnly I lay down the opening to “Georgia on My Mind”. And finally she yields to my touch. There are no words. The boundary between me and the world begins to slowly unravel. The drums and bass kick in, the blaring sax, and the entire room starts to melt until we’re completely submerged, suspended in space, here a cymbal drifting by, there a saxophone. In words I can only struggle to communicate with these men, but here we are speaking the same language and nothing is lost in translation. And then, suddenly, I don’t feel quite so anonymous, the world doesn’t seem such a strange, foreign place.

June 11 Part I: Basilica SS. Quattro Coronati

Up the cobblestone sidewalk lined with gray brick walls overrun by vines and ivy. It was a whim, I saw a street sign with an arrow pointing this direction. Finally, at the top of the hill I ascend a few steps to a cramped parking lot, maximum capacity: 4 cars. Maybe. What even is this place? A trusty sign holds the answer, “Chiesa dei Santi Quattro Coronati”. I start reading the English translation of the description. Something about some martyrs. I lose interest and wander through the open gates. Past a deserted courtyard or two I reach the open doors to the sanctuary barricaded from entry by a single desk. I peer inside the dark doorway.

From what I hear, this is tiny as far as Basilicas go. But to me it seems cavernous. Tile mosaics lead to the altar flanked by dark wood pews on either side, lush paintings crowd the walls, Corinthian columns and a massive arch open up to the brilliantly painted dome ceiling, gold trim around the altar gleaming solemnly in the dim light. Perhaps it is only so captivating because I share this scene with no one but a lone janitor methodically sweeping the floor; I can lean forward on the desk and slowly drink in the view uninterrupted, contemplate. And I do. Time passes. A lone nun floats ethereally into view. Sweet music pours serenely from female voices and resonates through the hall as she converses for a moment with the janitor and someone unseen on the balcony, the Italian words so meaningless to me, but so beautiful.

It seems strange. Strange that so many people would spend so much money, so many hours, to make such a truly beautiful work of art, to make this church such a storehouse of beautiful art representing, proclaiming, praising something so meaningful to them, and yet all of it is lost upon me. Strange that so many find spiritual inspiration in these pictures while my admiration is purely superficial. The image of the crucifixion does not leave me convicted, the images of the saints do not fill me with comfort or inspiration. I stare merely in wonder at their craftsmanship, their aesthetic appeal.

And finally, inevitably, the janitor approaches, speaks a few apologetic words (in Italian), and begins closing the doors. I pretend to understand what she says and reply with a grateful “grazie” as I turn to leave.

5 Weeks, No Razor

Next time I will pack one.

Don Scolaro de la Mancha

Italian Economics

War is Hell. It always has been. It always will be. But sometimes there’s no way to avoid it, sometimes there is a common enemy too dangerous to be left unchecked. And when smart diplomacy and economic sanctions lose their punch, only military action can avert total anarchy.

The streets of Rome are a battlefield. Here only the strong and the clever survive the hail storm of bullets and warheads, while those caught unguarded don’t return to tell the tale. It’s us verses them. We are the just, the righteous, the virtuous. We represent freedom, democracy, liberty.

They are the street-vendors.

They will cheat, lie, steal without the slightest blush of conscience, anything to make an extra dollar. Nothing is out of the question. They will pawn off junk as designer-brand, weeks-old trash as a gourmet meal. They will force themselves upon you, catch you unawares. They are a force to be reckoned with.

Every street-vendor in Rome peddles the same wares. Exactly the same. That’s the only weapon you have against them so you must take advantage of it to its full capacity. I think I bargained and argued with every vendor in Rome (and one in Pompeii) trying to find the absolute lowest price for a jacket I liked. If my time is valued at $10 an hour did I end up spending more money searching for a lower price than I actually saved? Without a doubt. But nevermind that. It’s the principle that matters. And I flatly refuse to give those conniving vendors a penny more of my hard-earned bread than I have to.

You can never trust a street-vendor. After having seen the jacket all over town in blue, white, and black, I approach a vender and ask for the black version.

“They don’t make that in black, only blue and white. This one they make black.” He references a cheap hoodie.

Likely story.

I move on to the next street-vendor.

Here I find the black jacket that they apparently “don’t make” on display. I feel the fabric between my fingers and start taking it off the hanger to get a better look.

“This is Medium, right size for you.” He snatches it from my hands and holds it across my shoulders. “Yes, just right.”

“I’d just like to try it on.” He may be in a rush to sell, but I’m in no rush to buy.

“See that, fits perfect, that looks great, friend.”

Now he’s trying to rope me into thinking I’m his friend! He’s a sly one, but I know better than to trust him. “I’d just like to see what other colors you have before I decide…”

My indecision will not be tolerated. “For you, friend, black is perfect, black looks good.”

Actually I had been planning on getting black anyways so I don’t argue. “OK, how much does it cost?”

Here comes the bombshell: “25 Euro.” For those of you unfamiliar with exchange rates, 25 Euro is approximately 35.70 US dollars. A ridiculous price for this jacket.

“You know, I’ve seen other people selling them for 15.” Not exactly true, I'd bargained other vendors down to 15, but might as well be true because I knew that I could get one for that price.

“No, 15 you get print,” he references a cheap sweatshirt, “this is embroider. 25 Euro. But for you, 22.”

“No really, I’ve seen people selling for 15”

“I sell you for 22. 15 you get print. This embroider. Tell you what I do, for you, friend, I do 20 Euro.”

“It’s fine, really, I can go buy it somewhere else.”

“20 Euro good price. 15 you get print, 20, embroider. 18, I do 18 Euro, friend, special offer.”

He knows as well as I that every other street-vendor in Rome has the exact same jacket. “I’ve seen 15, really, it’s fine, I’ll go buy it somewhere else.”

Finally I manage to extricate myself from his barrage of counter offers and turn to leave.

“15.” He refuses to look me in the eye, clearly defeated.

His street-vendor friend chuckles, “He bargain you hard! Hey, you need anything, you buy from us, eh?” He offers me a box with the image of the Virgin Mary. “3 Euro, eh?”

“No thanks, it’s fine.” I pay and turn to leave as I count my change.

But his appetite to sell would not be quenched so easily. “You want tee shirt? 5 Euro, great deal!”

“No really, I just wanted the jacket—“

“4 Euro, I do 4 Euro!”

I don’t buy the tee shirt.

Good triumphs over evil.

Observations from the Streets of Rome

It was warm. And sticky. And I couldn’t understand how they did it. A suit and tie, a blazer, a jacket, a sweater even. Normally I pride myself in being among the league of the sharply dressed, but here I can’t compete. My dress shirt is far too bulky and cumbersome next to these, perfectly-fitted. My cloth belt that came with a pair of cargo shorts is ridiculous next to these with gleaming buckles. My shoes, some strange synthetic, can never hope to compete with leather. Thank God at least I brought my self-tailored jeans.

At times it seemed ridiculous. Could it be that the men walking by with pristine greased hair, flashy sunglasses, a sleek dress shirt tucked into fitted pants, and designer shoes--designer everything more like--were just foreigners like me trying desperately to fit the perceived Italian stereotype? Maybe, but if so they were far more successful.

On the subway escalator I found myself behind a man whose round Italian features were circumscribed by pristinely maintained hair and beard, whose salmon jeans coordinated exactly with the pinstripes on his white dress shirt, whose tan blazer fit perfectly. I was transfixed with a mixture of awe and jealousy. As we stepped off, my roommate--dingy white tee-shirt, sagging black shorts, ratty flip-flops--apparently blind to this miracle of fashion, attempted to sequester my attention:

“Dude, check out the casino!”

Sacrilege to proclaim such a thing in the presence of such greatness! But his pleas fell on deaf ears, for I would not yield. Nothing in the world existed at that moment but my newfound patron-saint who, I just noticed, had casually left two buttons on the sleeves of his sport coat undone. I was in ecstasy.

“The buttons on the sleeves of his jacket…they’re actually real functional buttons…what detail…so beautiful…”

“I just think it’s great they have slot machines in the metro.”

“All the suits I’ve ever worn have had merely decorative buttons on the sleeves…I haven’t lived…”

And thus we conversed with ourselves together.

Oh, don’t get me wrong, they’re not everywhere. Rome is an international city, the streets and subway are teeming with shabby foreigners, tourists. But I could always spot them, these Italian gods of fashion, shining beacons among the grubby mob.

My First Evening in Rome

I knew it was time.

But I hesitated, I asked for a second opinion. A third opinion was requested. I was bidden to wait. I knew I had to act fast. But I conceded.

And minutes later, as I poured scalding water and 4 pounds of penne through a plastic colander into the sink, flecks of water scorching my forearms, it was too late. The elusive goal, pasta al dente, was lost forever, these were just beyond that magical realm.

The salad was lettuce, vegetables, olive oil, and gallons of good intention, but balsamic vinegar, that elixir of salads, was missing in action.

It went in as a pool of cold dough. It was supposed to become a cupcake. Or a muffin. Or a cake. Or something baked. But out of the oven it returned, nothing but a pool of warm dough burned around the edges.

Yet somehow, good company, the best I could ask, this pastiche of students thrown into a jar, shaken thoroughly, and poured out in the heart of Rome, “A family, if only for tonight” as one quipped, and it was fine dining that the most expensive restaurant in Rome could never hope to offer.

 Men in the kitchen:

 Me, with pasta:

No dining room in sight, we eat on tables squeezed together in the hallway:

Two

Two grimy years. Two years in a straightjacket. Two years clinging desperately to some sense of the self oozing between the cracks of the vice of imposed will; dripping helplessly, mingling with the remains of so many others splattered across the floor. Two dirty years. Two years driven like an ox: run, stop, stand, sit, sleep, wake, eat, capture, kill, repeat. Two years a parrot: yes sir, no sir, yes sir, no sir, what sir, when sir, where sir, who are you sir, who am I sir?

He wondered as he pressed the barrel of his machine gun into the ribs of an old man, the calm leathery face beneath wisps of white hair showing no sign of concern. Apparently unaware that he was about to die. Or unconcerned. A single naked bulb cast harsh shadows across the wrinkled face. It was a tiny room. Here an iron stove, there a tired chair. Neat rows of small stylized flowers on the peeling wallpaper. Trinkets, gifts, beads, memories cluttering the shelves. A few precious photographs, shades of silver, the edges worn from hands, fingers. They told him he was fighting for the country, fighting communism. But East, West, it made no difference to him. The old man was innocent.

Puffs of smoke encircling the khaki uniform imported directly from Britain, Hellenic Army insignia an afterthought. The glowing cigarette butt was discarded to the bare floor, extinguished beneath a gleaming black boot. Pull the trigger, Kostas. Kostas, did you hear me? Kostas, pull the trigger! Kostas, are you awake?

Run, stop, stand, sit, sleep, wake, eat, capture, kill, repeat.

He was so gung ho at first. The family vineyard was decimated after the war, his sisters would be forced into factory labor or worse, of course he would join the army, what other choice was there? He was proud to do the right thing. She was proud of him. She would wait.

She.

The right thing? Which right thing? What right thing? Whose right thing? To save his own by driving thousands of innocents into the strange limbo of homelessness, countrylessness, welcomelessness and mailing home the paycheck every month?

She.

Thousands, millions of locals, tourists, students would pass by those initials, K + Φ, immortalized for a few years at least in the trunk of an unremarkable olive tree among the ruins of Olympia. But only she would know.

Run, stop, stand, sit, sleep, wake, eat, capture, kill, repeat all over again.

Two grimy years. Where do I get off?

A View from Cape Sounion

How many times I’ve passed an office park or gated community with a “lake” dyed some totally unbelievable shade of blue I can’t say, but never, when passing such a pond, have I failed to point out how absolutely ridiculous it looks. The concept alone of a lake in my home state of Arizona, a state that boasts a measly two natural lakes, is a bit absurd in itself. But why force us to suspend our disbelief even further by tainting the imported waters with outlandish artificial coloring? We all see water every day--in a glass, in the sink, in the bathtub--we know it’s clear. Nobody’s fooled here. Why decorate with something so obviously contrived?

But as I mount the peak of Cape Sounion and gaze from the cliffs across the Aegean sea surrounding me--overpowering vastness of deep, rich cerulean blue adorned with streaks of Prussian, cobalt, and ultramarine, so blue it bleeds into the sky on the distant horizon and I’m not quite sure where one ends and the other begins--I know. This is the goal towards which the thousands of manufactured ponds I’ve seen strive so vainly and miss so completely. Water may be blue, but the lakes in the office parks and gated communities are plastic whereas this sea is a sheet of glass. This is the beauty someone tried to bottle and mass produce. This is nature once again sticking it to the man.

Man:

Nature:

A(nother) Stroll Through the Agora

“Say, you guys going back to the Agora today?” The day before they kicked us out after not more than an hour because apparently keeping the Agora open past 3 is too much to ask.

“Yeah, we’re leaving right now. You can come if you want.” She quickly stuffed a notebook in her purse and stood.

“Perfect, mind if I run up and grab a different pair of shoes?”

She turned and looked at me. And the face I saw was not the face of the friend I knew and loved. The fire of Athena burned in her eyes. I knew that no delay would be tolerated.

So, with only rubber flip-flops on my feet (shoes, wallet, and camera all safely tucked away in my room on the fourth floor) I struggled to keep up with these two apprentices of classical Greece, my mere mortal means of transportation no match for the invisible mythical force compelling them heedlessly forward.

Soon we were back at that famous center of Ancient Greek commerce, once a bustling outdoor marketplace dotted with various government and commercial buildings, now a maze of pathways between stone ruins and overgrown vegetation. As we reached and slowly circled the Temple of Hephaestus, I couldn’t help but admire the solemn grace of this building so well preserved after thousands of years. However, my appreciation was totally insignificant, I was but a Philistine next to these two religious pilgrims, enraptured by the temple’s very presence, who spoke with tongues of fire the language of the gods:

“I’ve been thinking of something looking at the διάζωμα. Why aren’t temples more specific to the specific gods? You’d think the temple of Ήφαιστος would have more metal.”

“Good point. Why the κένταυρος διάζωμα? What do κένταυρος have to do with Ήφαιστος?”

Unable to contribute anything intelligent, I could only listen to their inspired speech and try to pick out a word I recognized now and then, for what I could understand brought so much insight and drama to these ruins which otherwise seem only a stack of very old rocks.

Eventually we found ourselves before the city jail--the very same jail where Socrates---the Socrates--was held and executed for "corrupting the minds of the youth" when in reality he was simply inspiring them to think for the first time. What agony, what aggravation my companions were driven to in being resigned only to gaze at this spot so sacred to them, their desire to stand on, to touch the same soil as Socrates thwarted by a single sentinel rope. How ironic it seemed to me that at that very moment a grimy landscaper wielding a whining weed eater stepped over the barrier and shuffled indifferently across this holy ground, crudely buzzing at patches of foliage seemingly at random before moving on without a second glance, leaving the grass seemingly more haggard than when he entered.

At this point it was time for me to make my exit, for I hadn’t made the necessary preparations to stay out longer. I left the two disciples of ancient Greece to their mythological journey and wandered alone down the stony paths towards the exit. A thought drifted across my mind: Why not leave with a souvenir? A piece of the hallowed ground itself? Wouldn’t it be something to give that to someone when I got back? A rock from the Ancient Agora, perhaps touched by Socrates himself? Yes, indeed it would.

I waited for a clearing and discreetly snatched one of the sacred stones. Wasn’t I clever? But as I looked down at it in my palm, its glow slowly faded until all I held was a rock like any other. Removed from its home, this was no longer a part of the Agora at all, it might as well have come from my front yard. There was no magic left. I walked a few paces. I stopped. Finally, disenchanted, I tossed it back to the ground. Immediately it regained its splendor, shining with the rest of them. It seems I couldn’t take the Agora with me.

But there will always be the rocks in my front yard.