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.
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!”
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.
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 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.
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.
“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 κένταυροςδιάζωμα? 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.
I knew that it was ordained by the gods when he handed me the ticket, mumbling something incomprehensible as he strode by. Totally caught off guard, I only managed to stammer an “Ef haristo” after he was well past. Fumbling my wallet back into my pocket, I turned towards the platform, confidence in my journey’s success blossoming with the free ticket glowing between my fingers.
It was the first time I descended the cascade of steps into the subway without at least two other Americans for company. Now alone, I tried my very best, as a mode of self defense, to channel the spirit of Al Pacino circa “Scarface”: Black long sleeve dress shirt, two buttons open; shoulders and neck pulled back, chest thrust forward; slow, long, deliberate steps, no trace of rush or hesitation; the slightest hint of a snarl, as though carrying something in my mouth without swallowing it. I wanted any potential muggers to know that if they tried to pull anything I would mess them up. Mostly because I knew that if they did I wouldn’t stand a chance.
It’s an eerie, almost exhilarating, feeling, being alone an ocean away from home, immersed in a sea of people chattering in a language almost completely incomprehensible. All the way down the stairs I rehearsed to myself over and over the three Greek words I knew: Ef haristo, paracalo, signomi (please, thank you, sorry). As my roots come from nearby Italy, I figured I could pass for a Greek as long as I kept my mouth shut and didn’t make any wrong moves. I was suddenly hyperconscious of my surroundings: Do real Greeks cross their arms as they wait for the subway? I am I giving myself away just standing here? Should I rest my hands in my pockets like that man across the platform? I uncrossed my arms and casually slipped my hands into my pockets.
With no words by which to judge people and no familiar faces to distract me, my visual perception seemed amplified. Suddenly obvious were the copious amounts of hair under the arms of the father in a tan sleeveless shirt as he shepherded his daughters here and there. Impossible to miss was the middle-aged rat-faced man who yawned widely to reveal a wide gap between his front teeth just as his young teenage son with the same face yawned the same yawn revealing the same gap.
As the subway squealed to a halt before us, the mass swarmed to the opening doors like a cattle drive, and I thrust myself in with the rest of them. “What is it about these Greeks?” I asked myself as I gazed at the faces in the subway car. They seemed so, so familiar, yet not so. So similar to the Italians I was so used to encountering all the time in my family and family friends, but their features seemed somehow slightly, not “distorted” because that has a negative connotation, but with an element that was foreign. Or was I merely imagining the difference created in my mind by the separate borders of these two countries?
I left the subway and the light of Zeus drew me forward without hesitation--115 steps later (after briefly consulting a map to verify that the light of Zeus was, in fact, leading me correctly) I was at the doorstep of the European Jazz Festival in Athens.
Here I would seek out (and find) the perfect 2 Euro gyro and settle in the outdoor theatre among a sea of Greeks to hear a jazz fusion trio from Luxemburg whose guitarist introduced song titles named after seemingly random things in a delightful Luxembourgian accent (for example, “Tiny Little Insects” and “Line 1, Door Number 2” inspired by waiting in line at the DMV), a Belgian quartet who spent more time making strange noises on their instruments than coherent melodies, and Athens’ own city big band swinging hard to standards I knew. I would be shocked by how familiar parts of the music were and surprised by how unfamiliar others would be. I would talk to an Athenian native about Greek taste in music. In short, I would have a highly successful evening.
(Writhing insides barely restrained by a thin tenuous layer of skin. Rusty misshapen gears grinding painfully in the straining brain.)
– she is less than halfway done with her meal (the other four of us are finished).
– she slowly slices a bite.
– she sets down her silverware and pours a drink.
– she sips the drink.
– she pauses to say something.
– she resumes slicing the bite.
– she sets down her silverware and listens thoughtfully to a friend’s comment.
– she finally raises the bite to her mouth.
– she lowers the bite quickly to respond to the above comment.
[…]
– we finally leave the mediocre, overpriced restaurant and she and her friend kindly inform us they’d rather not continue on to the club. After we agreed to pay way too much to go to the restaurant of their choice. And waited over a half hour for her to finish her meal.
II: Overconfidence
(I got this)
– We kindly bid them goodbye (I make a mental note not to count on them in the future), unfold the map, mis-orient ourselves, consult a kindly shopkeeper for directions, and plunge towards our destination.
10:46:54 – we near the dark street where the club is supposed to be, I notice a giant sign, “Lulu’s”, with pictorial representations of “love”, and I hope that when I asked the hotel clerk if there were any jazz clubs around he hadn’t mistaken “jazz” for “strip”.
– “Lulu’s” is not the right street number. Confidence builds.
III: The Outsider
(I don’t got this)
– We find the right address. A woman, in her 20s perhaps, sits alone smoking a cigarette on the doorstep, long black hair juxtaposed with light skin. She follows us with heavily made up eyes as we peer in. A strange electronic beat pours out of the door, open to reveal a deep, narrow room, very dim, the only lights purple or electric green. This certainly does not seem anything like a jazz club. Confidence wanes.
– after some debate with my leery companions, I stride through the door to be sure it’s not the right place.
10:48:25 – The three or four people who had been sitting at the bar, silently from what I could tell, look up quickly at my entrance and stare at me. I stop. They stare. I step forward. They follow me with their eyes. The searing heat of their scrutiny makes a moment feel like hours. I self-consciously walk past to be sure there is no band in the back (though I can clearly see there isn’t). They follow me with their eyes. The only sound is the incessant pounding of that electronic beat.
[?] – The bartender barks something to me in Greek and I mutter “this isn’t the right place” as I quickly scurry back out the door.
IV: Indecision
– “Well, you guys wanna try the other place?”
– “Sure, yeah.”
– “Cool, we can just get on the subway here then.”
– “Nah, why don’t we just walk?”
– “You sure you wanna walk?”
– “Of course, why not?”
– “The subway’s right here, why not take that?”
– “Man, I just want a beer.”
– "Let's walk, it’s not that far.”
[etc…]
– “OK, this is a lot farther than I thought.”
V: Shady Streets
~11: – The scenery shifts from a wide pedestrian pathway lined with jovial Athenians selling their wares or just enjoying a song, a cigarette, a conversation to a dilapidated, graffiti lined street, empty cars and shops locked up with bars and metal grates on either side. But the sidewalk is still marble.
~11:27:13 – A young man in acid-washed jeans and long dark hair crosses the street in front of us with a suspicious looking brown leather suitcase in his right hand. We don't approach him.
~ – we pass a café bursting with men of all ages, some bickering intently, others in quiet repose, all Greek. It’s the first café I’ve seen in Athens without any tourists.
– finally we reach the address of Athen’s very own “Half Note” jazz club to discover a boarded up deserted building. My companions are not pleased.
V: The Journey Home
(or: the Odyssey)
–demands that we return to the hotel immediately. We set out at a brisk pace.
– we encounter a scene that does not resemble the map. I consult a local shopkeeper to discover we set out in the wrong direction. On the bright side, we’re across the street from a subway station.
– we finally all make it across the street.
– we find the metro station and rush downstairs to find a spacious white marble chamber with seemingly no exit. Have we gone the right way?
12:17:19 – after consulting the man behind the ticket counter, misinterpreting his directions, walking around the building in search of another entrance, and finally returning down the subway steps, we find the elusive gateway to our ride home.
– our wayward trio leans haggardly against the walls of the rushing subway car headed back to the homeland.
– We step off the subway, our evening out on the town in Athens having come to a close.
