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: