Alex-n-Italia

6, 327 miles. That’s how far I am from Rome right now. Physically.

But mentally? I woke up this morning, imagining that I’m about to cross Vittorio Emmanuele on my way to school. In Rome.

The only street I’ve crossed today is Charles Young Drive. But memories of Roma—of beautiful Italia, in general—have been crossing my mind almost incessantly. And today is not an exception in that regard.  “Roma, you must be tired. ‘Cause you’ve been running through my mind all day long.” You know things are serious when I incorporate what is perhaps the world’s worst pick-up line into my writing.

I miss saying ‘buongiorno’ to the old man at the entrance to my apartment building each morning. I miss the sound of the 8 tram stopping (and the thumping of my heart as I clutch my 1 euro unvalidated ticket and look out for navy-blue vests and trenitalia name badges). I miss looking out at the Tevere as I cross Ponte Garibaldi, and trying to guess how many soccer balls are bobbing up and down this time. I miss the angry woman at the ‘secret’ Jewish bakery who frowned at me no matter how many times I came back for torta di ricotta con visciole and how hard I tried to order in perfect Italian. I miss the kids running down Via dei Giubbonari, on their way to school. I miss the smells, sounds, and colors of the Campo dei Fiori market. I miss listening for vespas on the small winding street past Campo. I miss huffing and puffing up the stairs to the Study Center. I miss Sant’ Ivo, Piazza Navona, Trastevere, the piazzas, the pizza—I miss Rome.

A part of me is scared that I’ll forget Rome. Another part of me is afraid that I’ll remember Roma too well. That my mind will be stuck wandering the streets of Roma instead of analyzing the pages of my Geography and Economics textbooks. And I know that I’ll never be able to turn Roma away—she’s one of my dearest friends.

So what do I do?

I don’t know. But until I figure it out, I’ll live my current life and let my Roma memories seep in when they come. Who knows—maybe that’s a winning combination, as simple as it may seem. The next 3 hours of my ‘current life’ entail me watching the UCLA men’s tennis team face Brigham Young University. Tennis…plus thoughts of gelato and Baroque artwork….hey, that doesn’t sound bad to me. I just hope that some of my ‘current life’s’ homework finds a place somewhere in there too.

‘

Trento e Trieste: Scuola Elementare Statale—I’ve walked by this school at least four times a week for the past three months, on my way to the study center. The school is marked by arched, double-entry, green wooden doors on Via dei Giubbonari. But as many times as I passed by Trento e Trieste, I never saw past it’s green doors. It was to me “the green school near the Communist Party .” And yet I wanted to see more than just the green doors of Trento e Trieste. I wanted to see the kids who walk through these doors that I walk by. I love children—so part of this curiosity stems from just that. But what took me from curious to determined-to-explore was a Sunday morning in October, spent people-watching in Villa Doria Pamphili. I was struck by how many families I saw, and especially by the amount of fathers spending one-on-one time with their children. A park is a public space, so seeing families out at Doria Pamphili was nothing surprising. Pleasantly surprising was how affectionate parents were towards their children. The Italians seemed to be celebrating their families like no other culture I have observed does. So I wondered, walking to school the next day, what Italian parents are like when they drop their children off for school.

Seven weeks later, I decided to stop wondering and find out. How parents interact with their children (Do they kiss? Hug? Converse?), the ratio of mothers to fathers dropping their children off, and perhaps even differences between how mothers and fathers interact with their children—these I set as my guiding points for observation. And I had several general expectations. These I based on both the Italian families I had seen during my last three months in Rome, as well as my perception of Italians as family-oriented (the family-around-a-spaghetti-dinner stereotype is, from my experience, quite true). I imagined that the parents would be affectionate with their children—neither distant nor cold. I also expected to see some fathers dropping their children off. Trento e Trieste is the school I limited my observations to; It was a practical (children in elementary school are young and thus typically accompanied to school by their parents), and personal choice. I visited the school several times, and focused either on pure observation or on gathering statistics (the numbers and genders of parents and children). As I didn’t know what time this school starts at, I planned to get there at 8:00 in the morning for my first observation visit. The following observations are combined from my three observation visits.

———-

I arrived at Via dei Giubbonari at 7:55 on a Friday morning. Walking up to the familiar green doors, I caught a glimpse of two girls walking in with their mothers, but after them, there were no children to be seen. I was convinced that I was late—that school started at 8:00, and that I had missed seeing the kids get dropped off. Nevertheless, I decided to wait. Diagonally across from the school and about seven meters before it is an entrance to an apartment building. It has two one-foot tall, rounded stone bumps on either side of the doors, which I had made note of on Thursday; I knew that I would need somewhere to sit for my observations, and it is on the bump closest to the school that I sat and waited. From there, my view of the large, arched doors was clear. They were wooden and covered by a coat of chipping paint, one or two shades darker than mint green. Three vertical, emerald stripes—of equal widths but different lengths—either concealed graffiti or marked someone’s trying struggle to choose a paint color. A brass placard with the school’s name was mounted besides the doors. And on the doors themselves was a more colorful ‘sign’: A laminated sheet of paper with flowers drawn on in marker and ‘Trento e Trieste’ written in children’s handwriting. Above this were two small signs: Divieto di sosta. Sosta vietata. Even though I didn’t have a car, these signs made feel uncomfortable—I had, after all, parked myself on a stone bump not meant to be sat on, and was intently staring at an elementary school’s entrance. Granted, (in a society in which men—justly or unjustly—are regarded with more suspicion around young children than are women), the situation could have been considerably more awkward. If I were a 17-year old boy instead of a 17-year old girl, for instance, I would have likely gotten more than the quizzical looks I did get from the locals passing by.

As I was taking notes about surroundings, I noticed two approaching blurry masses in my peripheral vision. These ‘masses’ were two little boys (no more than three years old), running from Campo dei Fiori in wild spirals towards the school. Both were bundled up in puffer jackets. They were blonde, judging from the color of their eyebrows, but no hair was visible under their navy blue and striped thick beanies. I was caught off guard—not only did I suspect that I had missed the morning drop-off time, but I also never expected to see toddlers getting to school by themselves. But it took only seconds to dispel my concerns. A man not older than thirty walked briskly behind them, narrowing the fifteen meter gap between himself and the boys. His head was shaved, and he had a beard approximate 3-days-old yet carefully shaped. He wore black, plastic-framed glasses, an olive green jacket, and jeans. With his right hand he held two small, black backpacks, while his left hand swayed forward-and-backward in sync with his fast pace. And he only lifted his downward gaze when he reached the green doors. The boys had already disappeared behind them.

Within seconds, kids and parents started trickling in from both directions. And in less than minutes, that ‘trickle’ became a steady flow. I hadn’t even finished my notes on the two boys, but I had to stop because I was struck by so many things. People appeared from the slight bend in Via dei Giubbonari in my left and disappeared behind the green doors to my right in no more than half a minute. A dad and his son, wearing matching plaid golfer hats, walked into the school together. A duck backpack caught my attention, but I never saw the face of it’s toddler owner. I struggled to hear what a blonde girl with a, fitted, camel-colored coat was telling her mom. And two girls (all of different ages between four and six) were walking a small black terrier, but I was not able to discern their parent(s) from among the group of ten to fifteen people walking together. My hand and pen simply could not move fast enough. Part of this could have been remedied had I used my computer. But I had decided against doing so from the very beginning; a MacBook Pro seemed both comically and practically incompatible with my stone-bump post along Via dei Giubbonari—I doubt that many people sit in front of schools and watch children for school assignments in Italy; pulling out a laptop would have made me stand out even more (perhaps distracting parents and kids from their usual interactions). And it would have also left my laptop drenched from the heavy water droplets that fell instead onto my notebook every minute from the apartment building I was sitting against.

At that moment, I realized that I had overlooked a considerable difficulty—I had a very limited amount of time during which to observe individual parent-children duos interacting. It’s as if I were on a highway; I could see perfectly the flow of traffic, and yet my fixed position prevented me from seeing in detail the individual cars. Most limiting was that many parents walked into the school with their children, and likely said their goodbyes inside; There were surely many kisses, hugs, and other gestures that I couldn’t and wouldn’t see from my outside view. But I quickly noticed a pattern. Unlike the mothers who by accompanied their children by foot, most of the fathers who dropped their children off came in on vespas or bikes. Others who walked simply continued on their way to work after seeing their children off. Many of the fathers thus said their goodbyes outside of the school. And this I could observe. Fifteen minutes from the start, I shifted my focus onto father’s interactions with their children. I still noted other details, however—without them, I would not be able to convey the constant flow of children and parents before me. The following observations came after this change in focus.

A father bicycled to the entrance of the school, with his daughter (who looked to be about six) in a kid’s chair mounted in the rear of his bike. I assumed his next stop was his office, for he was dressed in black trousers and a nice black jacket. He helped his daughter off of the bici and kissed her cheek. Ciao! And he rode off. But the quickness of this father’s goodbye in no way made it cold. He didn’t stop thinking about his daughter. Ten meters down the street, he slowed down and turned his head to look back at his little girl. Entra, Entra, he encouraged her, gesturing towards the mint green doors; and he smiled a smile genuine, playful, and loving—a smile that grew in the three seconds during which he admired his daughter. Even more striking than his admiration of her, however, was how the little girl admired him. Where she got off of her father’s bici is where the little girl stayed, glued, as it seemed, to the cobblestones. Motionless. She looked at her father as he rode off. And when he turned around, her dark-brown eyes met his. They lit up, and a little smile unfolded across her previously expressionless face. It’s as if his turning around and his smile broke her out of a spell, for she turned around the next second and walked towards the school.

As her thick, chestnut-colored braid and black puffer jacket disappeared behind the green doors, a boy’s voice rang from within the school. Buongiorno, buongiorno, buongiorno! The little girl was gone, and I was once again aware of the flow of parents and children. A Filipino mother pulled a grey beanie over her six-or-seven year-old son’s head. He submitted to her kisses, but looked worriedly around himself. Three little girls walked towards the school with a young dog. It was rather peculiar—like a Shiba Inu puppy and adult Jindo dog combined—and seemed familiar. When I saw their mother walking behind them, I just smiled. I realized this was “fox puppy”: the puppy that my roommates and I used to see (and dissolve into fits of adoration over), on our walk to school when we had the earlier Italian class. We had probably seen “fox puppy” after the woman would drop her children off at Trento e Trieste. And seeing this dog again made me feel somehow connected to the green doors and everything behind them. I felt less awkward for sitting on my stone stump and was able to focus more on my surroundings. I looked around. To my right was a vespa that I hadn’t noticed come. A cornflower blue umbrella printed with bees and flowers was in it’s black compartment. Surely, the owner of that moto is a parent, I thought. And as a tall Italian man emerged from behind the green doors and got onto this vespa, I just smiled—Again.

To my left, a mustached man in his forties wearing charcoal grey trousers, black Oxfords, and a black trench coat formed half a father-daughter duo—a duo that looked as if it had jumped out of an old Christmas movie and onto the cobblestones of Via dei Giubbonari. His little girl had blonde hair cut like Joanna Lumley’s New Avengers ‘purdey’ hairstyle, but buzzed short in the lower back. She wore a dove-grey, knee-length coat and tomato-red rain boots. Father and daughter held hands as they walked. They stopped in front of the green doors, facing each other. The man placed his hand on his daughter’s shoulder, and as she leaned in close to him, he kissed her forehead. This exchange was quick and simple, but it nevertheless expressed mutual love. It showed that gestures need not be complicated in order to show love. Nearby, a dad gave his little girl (who was around six) a peck on the lips and saw her to the green doors. Not everything was ‘fairytale sweet,’ however. Comical sweetness found its way to the green doors as well.

The most notable such example that I observed was a father-son duo that drove in via vespa from the Campo dei Fiori direction. The dad was dressed in a brown coat with olive jeans, while his son wore a black coat with light blue jeans. Likely because of riding in the chilly morning, the boy was stiff as he got off of the moto. He awkwardly shuffled around and his joints seemed as sleepy as his facial expression. His dad tried to help him take his helmet off, carefully and slowly maneuvering the hard mass of red plastic. Concentration and care were spelled out on the father’s face. But he ended up squishing his son’s nose instead. And what was even more comical than how sincerely and overly-worried the man looked when the helmet caught the little boy’s noise was how ambivalent the boy himself was: he stood motionless, with his hands by his sides. Only once the helmet was off did he turn to ask his father a question. When they approached the green doors, the father patted his son gently on the back and waved goodbye. He watched his son for several seconds before turning back towards his vespa. With just as much care as he had shown with his son’s helmet (and without any squishing involved), the father maneuvered his way through the incoming stream of toddlers and drove off.

Another vespa—this one newer, and a metallic silver-teal shade—came in his place several minutes later. The little girl riding on this vespa wore converse shoes, black skinny jeans, and a lime green jacket. Her hair was blonde and braided, and she clung to her beige-jacket-and-jeans clad father. Unlike the ‘stiff boy’, she needed no help with her helmet. She jumped off of the moto and had her helmet in her hands by the time her dad got off. He handed her several pieces of paper in sheet protectors and they walked towards the green doors. This little girl was more self-sufficient. And both she and her father looked ‘rockerish.’ But toughness did not transfer from the duo’s appearance to their relationship. That the father was there—driving his daughter to school and prepared with her rain-proofed schoolwork—attested to his caring for her. He gently held his hand against her back as they walked towards the school. And through this small gesture, he was literally fulfilling his fatherly role of guiding his daughter in life.

Everywhere I looked, parents were guiding their children. Two two-year-old twins wore Disney ponchos (Buzz Lightyear for the boy and Minnie Mouse for the girl), and had one arm extended upward to their mother’s hands. They were miniature, carini ghosts, making their way down Via dei Giubbonari. Right behind them walked a boy wearing a plaid golfer hat beyond his years and carrying a large guitar case almost beyond his size. He clutched his mother’s hand and followed her, always one or two steps behind. All of the parents were at Trento e Trieste to drop their children off; this common motive united them. It did not, however, conceal their personal individualities and differences.

Ciao, bella. Ci vediamo dopo. With this and a quick embrace, two mothers coming out of the school parted in different directions. To the left walked the one wearing loose camouflage sweats and fuchsia Nike running shoes. And to the right walked the other mother, in her camel-colored trench coat and black leather gloves. Five minutes later, I witnessed this with the dads. A man wearing an orange and black North Face jacket drove away loudly on his orange and black Harley Davidson Motorcycle; At the same time (and in the opposite direction), another man lifted his glasses onto his head and walked silently away, his brown briefcase and unbuttoned black trench coat swaying in unison with his broad step. There were all kinds of parents—it’s no wonder that they interacted in slightly different ways with their children.

Aspetta! I turned and saw a man dressed casually in black (and not warmly enough for the rainy morning it was). He had none of the trench-coated father’s elegant stride. Disheveled, instead, was his appearance. He hurriedly walked after a six-or-seven-year-old girl. He was thin, but his black hair was thick and extended in a fifteen-centimeter radius of wild curls around his head. A wiry, small triangular beard hung from his chin. With black-rimmed glasses crowning his look, he reminded me of Einstein. The girl ahead of him wore a teal sweatshirt, and a look both stubborn and unforgiving. Chiede mi! Non ho capito! Her father called after her—he pursued his daughter’s attention and forgiveness with a concerned determination. It was as if he had submitted himself to her mercy, and didn’t mind—as if all he wanted was to be reconciled with his daughter. More important to him than discipline was understanding. And love shone through his determination to regain that understanding.

In stark visual contrast to ‘Einstein dad’ was another father. He embodied a mix of casual and sophisticated with his salt-and-pepper hair (still predominantly ‘pepper’); fitted, olive-green canvas jacket; and dark-wash blue jeans. He carried a cigarette in his right hand. While a cigarette is something many Italian men carry, I had never before seen a man carry what this man held in his left hand; A pink-and-magenta Dora the Explorer backpack—no taller than thirty centimeters—dangled beside his dark-wash jeans. It would have looked puzzlingly out-of-place if one didn’t see the magenta on the man’s right-hand side: a little girl (about three or four years old) with short, thick brown hair walked beside him. She wore magenta socks, carefully coordinated with her magenta puffer jacket; Under this jacket was a pink shirt, whose exact shade of pink was echoed in the stripes on her otherwise-white sneakers. Father and daughter walked slowly, without swaying their arms. They stopped five meters from the entrance to Trento e Trieste. The two stood beside one another, looking straight at the green doors, with arms motionless by their sides; the father raised his right hand only once to take a drag of his cigarette. Twenty seconds passed. Then, suddenly—and for the first time—they looked at each other. So simultaneous were their head turns that it looked as if the moment had been rehearsed. Andiamo? The little girl nodded, and father and daughter walked through the green doors.

It was odd, the relationship between them. Before they had turned simultaneously towards each other, the Dora backpack seemed to be the only link between them—they seemed otherwise incongruous and disconnected. Most children arrived holding their parent’s hand, or at least talking with their parents. Whereas two seconds of eye contact and an ‘andiamo’ was the only interaction I observed with this father-daughter duo. I realized, however, that they were linked in another way. Shared was their hands-at-your-sides way of walking, and their calm, drifting gaze. And the two seemed to have understood each other before the ‘andiamo’—or even before they had turned towards each other. The magenta Dora backpack connected them as well; On a surface level, the dad matched with his magenta-clad daughter. But there’s another consideration. That this grown man was calmly walking the streets of Rome, holding a Dora backpack in order to make his daughter’s walk lighter was considerate. It showed that his little girl is his priority—especially over fashion. The father walked his daughter into her school, so their final goodbyes may very well have included hugs and kisses that I couldn’t observe. What I did see, (however ‘muted’ some may have perceived it to be), was a father who cared for his daughter.

I saw all kinds of children, all kinds of parents, and all kinds of interactions between children and their parents. However, I cannot make any broad claims about Italian fathers and how affectionate they are with their children. Not only did I observed a very specific father-child interaction (dropping off at school), but I also conducted my observations in only one location. Furthermore, my personal understanding of affection is just that—a personal understanding. What struck me as affectionate may not have been interpreted in the same way by others. Regardless of how objective I tried to be, I could have subconsciously fitted some of my impressions according to my previously-established perception of Italians as an affectionate people. On the other hand, I could have also overlooked some signs of affection. Not being able to see the parent-child interactions that took place behind the green doors was also a considerable physical limitation. And this limitation largely prevented me from comparing fathers and mothers.

Generalize I cannot, but I can say the following: There were more fathers dropping their children off than I expected there to be. They were also affectionate with their sons and daughters; and the children, as a whole, seemed neither embarrassed of nor uncomfortable with this. Each father expressed his affectionate in his own way. Whether it be a kiss, a Dora backpack, a motorcycle helmet, or a wave; each dad somehow showed his child that he cared. I still haven’t been inside Trento e Trieste. But I now have a better sense of what’s inside. Toddlers with caring parents—that’s what lies behind the green doors.

Personal and Interactional Order—Monti

This can’t be good…I know more about the ‘Monty’ from ‘Monty Python and the Holy Grail’ than I do about Rome’s Monti. I don’t know what to expect—I thought this as I stepped off the 40 bus and onto Via Nazionale. Never had I been in this Roman rione. During my first visit, I walked around Monti to orient myself and scope out good people-watching spots. But it wasn’t until the end of this visit that I came across Monti’s main piazza (between Via dei Serpenti and Via del Boschetto). Piazza Madonna dei Monti was filled with people eating lunch and talking, and I immediately chose it as a starting point for my observations. Twice I returned to Monti: on weekdays, between 10:30 and 1:30. And each time, I observed people at and around the piazza. I would choose someone to focus on and then take detailed notes regarding his/her appearance, actions, and location.

At 10:45 am, I walked down Via del Boschetto. A group of about fifteen Italian students stood outside Saint Louis College of Music (est. 1976). They appeared to be on break; and stood in a clump, conversing amongst themselves. The only two girls were standing by a boy with thick, curly brown hair. He leaned lightly on a short metal pole and had folded his right leg over his left one. One hand was in his pocket and the other held a cigarette. He blew out the cigarette smoke slowly, never in the girls’ direction; and every several minutes, he would run his fingers through his thick hair. His unshaven beard contrasted with his thin-stainless-steel-rimmed glasses. Also his attire was a blend of neglige and chic; he wore a grey-and-black striped v-neck sweater below a structured, black-and-white motocross jacket. Most peculiar, however, was his ‘backpack’: an over-the-shoulder satchel bag. Jean pockets and ripped denim bits were sewn together into a ragged patchwork. Musicians are known to be artistic souls, so perhaps this unstructured and unique bag was a visual portrayal of his artistic nature.

After observing the students, I headed towards Piazza Madonna. A man who appeared to be in his thirties was walking across the piazza wearing lumberjack boots—thick, ribbed rubber soled, with yellow-beige and brown suede. Below his sleeveless black puffer-vest was a grey sweatshirt with purposely-frayed sleeve edges. Barely visible underneath this was a dark blue shirt. A black scarf with white and red accents was wound around his neck, and he wore light denim jeans that were a size too-big. This man wore glasses with thick, black plastic frames. He had combed his straight, jet-black hair to both sides in an off-center part. His beard was thin and freshly trimmed, but not shaped.

This man’s style struck me as mountain-man-meets-chic-1950’s-Italian. The glasses, the hair, the scarf—all three looked like retro throwbacks. They were unique choices: fitting for a man in Italy, where women and men are expected to have an individual style. But his otherwise casual clothing suggested he was more laid-back than he was preoccupied with making a fashion statement.

He was at least six feet tall—and if it weren’t for a squeal-like bark, I might have missed the dog he was walking: A caramel colored Cairn Terrier puppy. It was both comical and confusing, the sight of this this man towering over the five-pound scruffy terrier at his feet. A man needn’t be effeminate to like toy breeds. So concluding that this man is more gentle than most men because he has a diminutive, ‘girly’ dog is a stretch. Besides: someone else—a relative, a spouse—could have chosen it. But the man’s small gestures not only suggested he was gentle and caring, but also lessened the visual incongruity between him and his dog.

He suddenly knelt down in the middle of the piazza. For thirty seconds he tickled his puppy and noticed nothing else. And then he got back up as if nothing had happened. He walked towards a woman (she appeared to be in her thirties), at the entrance of a small, neatly-arranged alimentari. She also wore a long sleeved-shirt with a black sleeveless puffer vest. With his left hand, he slowly traced the outline of her face. He kissed her forehead. He ran his fingers through her hair. This was definitely a woman he knew. Italian men are forward with women. Eight weeks of living in Rome and traveling throughout Italy has assured me of that. But his gestures were delicate and sincere. They signified a well-established relationship; and they were representative of Italian men as romantic partners, not of them as forceful flirts. He clearly expressed his appreciation for the people (and canines) in his life.

Beside his restless dog, this man’s calm pace of life was especially pronounced. He sat down on a wooden bench in front of the alimentari, and his dog sat beside him. It’s right ear was flopped down. But the left more than compensated for this—it was like a still-shot of a rocket piercing the air. Every muscle in the dog’s body was tense and ready to contract. If anyone walked within ten meters of it, it’s ears would start trembling. Five meters and it’s entire body shook. Three meters and it exploded into a squirmy dance (complete with shrill barking). Meanwhile, his owner sat calmly. He greeted locals walking their dogs, spoke with a city maintenance worker, and held a thin pretzel out to his dog for five minutes—it was the terrier that gave up, not him. After finishing his conversations, the man left for a second walk, this time with both his girlfriend (possibly his wife) and his dog. That several hours of his morning consisted solely of conversations and dog walks suggests that his lifestyle was leisurely.

His occupation likely gave him more freedoms than would most other jobs; The man appeared to work in an Italian, family-owned store—along with his girlfriend and an older man in the small food shop. This can explain why he could devote 11:10 to 12:20 to a central part of Italian culture: interacting with family and acquaintances. While I didn’t observe the Italian working in the store during that hour, he entered it several times and was constantly in touch with either his girlfriend or the older man (perhaps his father). It was the older Italian—he wore the same long-sleeve-shirt and sleeveless puffer vest combination as did the younger Italian—who was working then. For an elderly man, he chose nectarines; he turned each fruit around and examined it carefully before placing it in a brown paper bag. Both men conversed in Italian and let out deep, hearty laughs. ‘Ciao, ci vediamo,’ the owner said, and patted the other man on his back. Like the younger Italian, the older Italian (working in the alimentari) was not rushed and enjoyed interacting with others.

Several minutes after the Italian couple left for their walk, a plump little boy (around 2 years old) wearing jeans and an orange t-shirt zoomed into the piazza. He ran with his head flung back, trying to see from under the over-sized red baseball cap covered half of his face. “Wata-a-a-ahhhhhhh!!” He had seen the water fountain. Every time one of his feet hit the ground, his aahhhh momentarily faltered. Up, down; forward, back—his arms were flailing in the air, in no way coordinated with the rest of his body. He tripped. He tripped on a Roman cobblestone, got back up, and resumed his run. Ten seconds later, a five or six-year-old girl in salmon-colored t-shirt tripped on that same cobblestone. A man wearing a teal t-shirt and jeans helped her up. Behind him walked a woman—emerald t-shirt and blue jeans. Then came an older woman (perhaps in her early 60s) with a pink t-shirt and jean capris, and a man her age with a beige t-shirt and jeans. The only exception to this t-shirt-and-jeans procession was the seven or eight month-old baby girl in the younger man’s arms. She wriggled around in a red bodysuit, and grinned underneath a headband with a checkered pink bow.

Grandmother and grandfather, mother and father, the children—vacationing in Rome. The casual t-shirt, jeans, and running shoes combination is typical of American attire. The adults also carried maps of Rome and large backpacks. And they all spoke English. This was an American family: One of the few tourist families I observed within the heart of Monti as opposed to on its large boundary streets (which were like highways for Colosseum and Roman Forum tourists). Within three minutes of entering the piazza, everyone but the baby had a cup of gelato. That isn’t peculiar—Who doesn’t get gelato when they’re visiting Italy? What’s interesting is where and how they atetheir gelato. Where the Italian family was twenty minutes ago—in front of its alimentari—was now the American family. The grandmother sat on the bench with her granddaughter and the rest of the family stood beside them.

It struck me that this family was somewhat similar to the Italian family. The entire American family wore short sleeves with jeans. The entire Italian family wore long-sleeves with sleeveless puffer jackets. Whether it was subconsciously or purposely, each individual dressed like the rest of his/her family. As a result, the two families resembled two teams. Their ‘family style’ was like their team jersey. And even before seeing the individual people interact, one would notice a visual similitude suggesting they are part of one whole. The families’ similarities extended to their interactions, as well.

‘Well you’re nursing that ice cream, aren’t you,’ the father said to his older daughter. He was most likely commenting on how slowly and carefully she was eating her gelato. But one word in his idiomatic expression described more than his daughter’s eating: ‘Nursing.’ The little boy reached out of his stroller and scooped up some of his grandmother’s gelato. He then took from his gelato and carefully held the loaded spoon up to his older sister’s mouth. The grandmother fed her granddaughter. The father fed the baby. Everyone fed everyone; Gelato spoons went in every direction. Everyone was, in a way, ‘nursing’ everyone else. That each individual offered his/her dessert to other family members suggested mutual caring and consideration. And this caring echoed the Italian’s gestures toward his girl- -friend and dog. These Italians and Americans weren’t as strikingly different as I expected them to be.

Fifteen meters away, two women sat with their babies on their laps, beside the piazza’s fountain. One woman wore a lavender button-up shirt with a faux leather jacket; dark-wash skinny jeans; and black, suede ankle boots. Her attire exemplified the Italian woman’s style: sleek and sophisticated yet simple. The only visual signs of her being a mother were the bags under her eyes and the two centimeter hazel roots in her dyed-blonde hair—perhaps testaments to how busy new mothers are.

“EEEeeeeee!” One of the baby’s let out a high-pitched squeal. “Non!” interjected the blonde mother. Her daughter had hit the other child. “Rispetti lei! Devi…….” She held her daughter’s left hand in her own, and moved it up and down each time she emphasized a syllable; She spoke slowly. Her tone was not angry, but very serious—Serious enough to impress her ten/eleven month-old daughter. The child stood frozen. Her lips were parted, her eyebrows slightly scrunched, and her gaze more serious than her mother’s tone. After the mother finished her explanation, she hugged the child gently and caressed her hair. Language aside, this woman was representative of most mothers. She repriman-

-ded and comforted her daughter; She could be both stern and tender. She was a mother and an Italian.

Down the street was a make-shift flower shack—ribbed, transparent, green plastic made up it’s right side and roof; and for a left wall hung tattered, thread-woven bamboo. The florist looked just as eclectic and disheveled as did this shack. He appeared to be in his sixties, and had snow-white hair. His black trousers were loose and faded. His mint-green button-up shirt was wrinkly and only half tucked-in. His glasses had large, opaque plastic frames that resembled creamed honey in color and texture. His windbreaker—black and bright blue, with thick white strips running from the back of his shoulders to the front—added early 1990s style to the concoction. The new brown leather shoes which would have looked normal on anyone else were so ‘normal’ on this man that they were strange.

He was leaning on a vespa, staring absentmindedly before him. With his left hand he held his glasses and poked their left temple around in his mouth. “MARRRCO!” He threw his hands up in the air and smiled. “MARIOOOO!” answered a man from across the street, about Mario’s age and wearing a Hawaiian flower polo shirt. The two men embraced and patted each other’s backs. Their loud voices and hearty laughs rang throughout the street. And after several minutes of animated gesticulation and conversation, Mario went back to his flower shack.

Mario appeared to be the charming old Italian man who knows the locals. Before Marco, he spent ten minutes speaking with a woman his age who was walking her coffee-colored mini poodle. He also greeted two young women as they hurried down the street, carrying giant trays of cookies and steaming pastries. And he was just as open with non-Italians. ‘Quegli sono sei euro a mazzato,’ he told me and grinned, after I inquired about the price of some purple flowers. He was happy, friendly, loud, and fond of hand gestures. He possessed many of the qualities that I associate with Italians.

A student, a young Italian man with his family, an American family, a mother, an elderly local—the people I observed fit well into these broad categories. Monti struck me as a rione whose center is filled with young and old locals alike, and whose boundaries are frequented by tourists. But I cannot make any general conclusions about Monti—there exist too many limitations. I focused on several people in small portion of the neighborhood, during weekdays from 10:30 and 1:30—a restricted observation period. Had I gone during different times and days, I would have seen a different distribution of people (perhaps more young adults). Also, my personal background likely influenced my point of view; What I consider “typically Italian” may not be what Italians perceive as typical of their culture, and the details that caught my attention might not have impressed others. Drawing general conclusions thus requires a much greater scale of observation: more observation, at different locations and times, and with more background information. The people I saw may not be a representative sample of Monti. But they are part of the rione—they are one small piece of the Monti puzzle.

I must be walking through a fairy-tale. Maybe this is an autumn Narnia—just without the evil queen.It’s too beautiful to be real. That’s not meant to add drama or intrigue; I genuinely felt that way. Turning a corner was like turning a page in a storybook: I didn’t know what to expect, and I was terribly anxious to see the ‘illustrations.’ But what I saw was better than illustrations could ever be. Instead of two-dimensional drawings, reality stood before me. Yellow and red leaves covering the ground like exotic Persian carpets. Charming iron bridges. Ponds in the middle of large, bright green fields and below the cornflower blue sky. There was so much to look at. I was overwhelmed. Never has nature stricken me as much as it did in the Nymphenburg Palace Gardens.

I can’t depict that beauty in words. There simply exist no words for something so sublime and radiant. My pictures are the best record that I have. It’s quite paradoxical, really: what impressed me the most during my weeklong break is what I can write the least about. Like I said, these gardens are beyond words. And perhaps that is true beauty: Something that lives forever in your heart and soul and cannot be confined to paper.

______________

If you visit Munich, look at the Column of Mary in Marienplatz. The four figures are—in the words of my walking tour leader—“ninja warrior babies” that protect the golden-gilded statue from being stolen. After that explanation, I lost most of my interest in the Glockenspiel. Ninja babies are infinitely more fascinating (and classy) than wooden figurines 20 meters above your head doing the pelvic thrust dance.

I am both pleased and sad to announce that Rome’s 24-hour bakery (by the Vatican) has been dethroned in the doughnut department. I say pleased because I’ve tasted the doughnuts responsible for this dethroning and sad because I am no longer near the new doughnut-master kitchen (Cafe Frilehhut Schmalznudeln, by Munich’s Viktualien market).

My mind’s drained of creative juices. So I’m starting this sans an attention getter. My favorite part of Vienna was a small park between the Hofburg Palace and the Staatsoper. A crunchy carpet of yellow. Black trunks. And a thick, bright yellow sky—Never in my life have I seen trees with leaves that yellow. Or that many leaves in one place, for that matter. It’s as if the trees were dressed as bumble-bees—like they knew that it was Halloween that day. As I was squinting through my camera’s 1-cm viewfinder, I saw two kids in the middle of a full-blown leaf fight. Both had scooped up giant piles of golden leaves in their arms. As much as they could carry without obstructing their eyesight. After all, you can’t win a leaf fight if you can’t see your target. They chased each other, weaving left and right between trees. And, I got an idea. I’m ashamed to admit that I didn’t think of this on my own. I clutched my camera and ran for it. I ran through the carpet of leaves, crunching my way past the ‘Stay off of the grass’ sign, kicking up leaves and twirling around.

It was short-lived, my run. It didn’t last more than thirty seconds. But every second of it was beautiful. I felt so free. And so happy. It wasn’t even just ‘happy.’ I felt a joy so deep-rooted, so consuming, that it pervaded my soul completely like few other emotions have done. Those seconds felt so raw and so right. School picture photographers always badgered me to smile more. That’s not a smile. Show your teeth! Well. If only they knew—all it would have taken was a pile of crunchy leaves. As consuming as my joy was, however, I didn’t feel like I was in my ‘own little world.’ I wasn’t detached from the life around me. On the contrary, I felt more a part of it than I ever have. The leaves twirling around me, the soil beneath my feet, the crisp air, and I were all one.

It’s the simplest things. It’s the simplest things in life that bring us the pure and potent joy that my leaf-tirade drenched me with. They’re everywhere in this world of ours, waiting for us to find and appreciate them. So run through crunchy leaves. Brave the rain without an umbrella. Enjoy a song that speaks to your soul and a dessert that tangoes with your taste-buds. And please: smile while you’re at it. Not for a picture, but just for yourself. Smiling just happens to be one of the few things that aren’t much harder done than said.

______________

If you can, take a train from Vienna to Munich. The views are breathtaking. And beyond my explanation abilities. Maybe tomorrow—when I haven’t spent six consecutive hours writing at my computer—I’ll try to describe what I saw.

Walking down Mariahilferstrasse, the little (or not so little) shopper within me rejoiced. Store after store, after store, after store—there were three H&Ms and two Zaras on this one street. I’m proud to say that I only picked up several small gifts, so don’t hurry off to enroll me in Shopaholics Anonymous. One thing, however, I did not resist: Starbucks. It was the hazelnut-lover in me that rejoiced when I saw the two Starbucks shops along Mariahilfer. And not even the painfully pumped prices of the drinks could stop me; I wanted a latte. I needed a latte. So I had my first tall hazelnut latte in five months. The thick, white froth coated my lips as I lifted the white, porcelain mug to my lips; and I sunk comfortably into my chair.

Perhaps you think it’s a shame for me to start writing about Vienna with a Starbucks anecdote. There are, after all, about 17,000 Starbucks shops worldwide. The Kunsthistorisches Museum and the Hofburg Palace are one and only, on the other hand. Shouldn’t I be talking about those instead? I say not. I’m going to be bold: My Starbucks drink is relevant because it was Viennese. No shit Sherlock, it was made in Vienna—is that what you’re thinking? Or perhaps the opposite: Alex, Starbucks is an American establishment. Yes, yes. I know. But my drink was representative of Vienna—of it’s atmosphere and it’s history. I realize that this sounds ridiculous…but hopefully it’s a ridiculous that sparks some intrigue.

I usually cringe or run at the mere mention of ‘history.’ But Vienna’s history left me wide-eyed and lead-footed. Regal. Elegant. Sophisticated. Fine. Sparkly—that’s Viennese history. In the Imperial treasury, I stared (rather dumbfoundedly, I must admit) at gem-studded gloves and glistening crowns that make Swarovksi products seem bland. And the tens-of-rooms-worth of fine silver and intricate porcelain place settings at Hofburg Palace made me want to drink tea with my pinky up and cut into fresh apple strudel with a silver dessert fork. This is coming from someone who holds tea cups much like squirrels hold their nuts and is usually too excited about desserts to wait for a plate…let alone for silverware. Add to the above Vienna’s world-renowned Staatsoper (State Opera House) and it’s lavish Schonbrunn Palace, and you have a city that epitomizes refinement. Austria may no longer be an imperial country, but it’s capitol is pregnant with imperial riches and architecture.

This has nothing to do with a Starbucks drink—is that what you’re thinking? But oh, it does. I payed 4.10 euros (about 6.40 dollars) for my tall hazelnut latte. It’s hard to imagine a latte being more ‘imperially-priced’ than that. I find it funnily-fitting that the city with the Habsburg crown jewels—among the most valuable in the world—also has among the most expensive Starbucks drinks. Regal riches and regal coffee. I’m still trying to show my wallet the humor in that similarity.

I know that I won’t do this explanation justice, but I’ll try, nonetheless. Vienna’s atmosphere—the feeling you get when you walk the streets; what seems to be the soul of the city—is sophisticated. Refined. Doubtlessly a reflection of the regal and lavish Habsburg imperial times. But it’s not the cool, distanced ‘refined’ which comes bound all too often with a sense of superiority. It’s a refined that is also warm. It made me want to walk into a cafe, order a piece of torte and a Viennese coffee, and discuss music and opera with someone for hours—the latter would be hard considering I know nothing about opera. But I think I my dessert consumption capabilities more than made up for my opera illiteracy. Coffee mousse between thin yet fluffy batter layers, sacher torte, truffle torte, and warm, crispy apple strudel—my taste buds tangoed over these desserts and warm, frothy coffee during my two visits to Aida with Catalina. Perhaps some of the well-dressed elderly couples in this retro-styled cafe took care of the opera discussions. Before Vienna, never did I imagine that a city’s atmosphere could be both elegant and sophisticated and warm and cozy.

But again: what one Earth does this have in common with a tall Starbucks hazelnut latte? Well, on a surface level, the Viennese do a lot of coffee drinking. Without coffee, their delectable desserts and fine silverware would be missing something. What would keep companies gathered around the table for hours? What would wash down the rich Sacher tortes and fill the fine Viennese porcelain cups? I presume that those supposed opera discussions would also be more dry—both figuratively and literally. But my latte represented more than the Viennese coffee culture. It’s warmth, combined with it’s rich, sweet taste were like the Viennese’s innate kindness and warmth. Like the hospitable and kind mindset behind the hours they spend with guests, enjoying perfect pastries and fine coffee. Lavish like Viennese imperial history via it’s 4.10 euro price tag and warm like Vienna’s atmosphere via it’s taste and temperature, that tall Hazelnut latte was is my mini metaphor for the Austrian capitol.

These history and atmosphere considerations might sound like a bunch of bologna—pardon my cliché expression. Perhaps they are haphazard, at best. But here’s the thing: regardless of them, that hazelnut latte is still representative of Vienna—to me. Every time I think about Vienna, I think first about that Starbucks drink. From that stem the rest of my memories. And it’s those memories that define my trip—they are the blossoming flowers, the fruits, the leaves of my Viennese memory tree. That hazelnut latte is, in a way, the trunk to my tree of memories. It’s the base of my Vienna experience.

Eight—it’s Emilio’s favorite number. And not without reason. His father was born in 1888. Emilio himself was born on August 8^th, 1944, and is one of four brothers. “The eights, the double fours. Yes, eight is my number.” I feel uneasy, now, when I think that I could have easily never met Emilio. If I hadn’t been in Gregory Smith’s Culture and Identity class. If I hadn’t decided to study abroad in Italy. If my professor hadn’t lived in Celano in for 2 years during the late ’70s and written an ethnography on the 10,000 person town. So many ifs. And yet there I was. In Emilio’s Forno Dolci Tipici. Listening to his far-from-typical life stories and eating his even-farther-from-typical amaretti.

‘My friend Emilio makes the best cookies in the world,’ my professor told my class last week. And as I was walking through Celano, those cookies were all I could think of. When will we go for the cookies? I ran into and almost knocked over a 1900-yr-old Roman statue head at the Celano Castle museum—you guessed it: because I was thinking about the cookies. I payed more attention after that.

Old men sat around the main piazza, discussing life (and, I like to imagine, Emilio’s cookies); old women watered plants on their balconies and waved at us from behind their windows. My professor stopped a man whose father was a legendary Celanese (Chelaneh-seh) poet. We didn’t get to enter Celano’s main church; but I didn’t mind. Seeing a bride and groom walk through its doors for their marriage ceremony was more beautiful than any altar-piece or painting could ever be. A loaf of bread hung from a dark wooden door, delivered in the early morning hours, and I snapped a picture of it seconds before it’s owner took it in.

This was different—different from Rome, different from Paris, different from Cinque Terre. It was different than other city or town I have visited in the last 3 months. Celano didn’t take tourists into consideration. It existed solely for its locals—For the old men in their wool caps and the old women tending to their flowers. Everyday life was like a book, and could see it’s pages turning before me. I was merely an observer. A background character, at most. Emilio, on the other hand, was one of the protagonists.

His bakery shop wasn’t made for tourists; this became blatantly evident as our 25-person class stuffed itself inside, everyone striving towards the bags of cookies at the front counter. It’s amazing how quickly people drop their personal-space requirements in favor of ensuring access to baked goods. Compared to the way we stood, being packed like sardines would have been very spacious. Once I clutched my prized possessions and most of our class had trickled out, I asked Emilio if Sara and I could take a picture with him. “Yes, yes. Come!” He reached behind his counter and thrust a bag of giant lady-fingers into my hands. “For the picture.” As if the amaretti, almonds, and cookies I had bought weren’t enough. “To try,” Emilio said, after we had taken the picture. He held out a bag of brownies. “Gratis.” Free brownies? Amaretti cookies and free brownies? Needless to say, I was excited. But things got even better—and not because of more free sweets.

Emilio shared his life story with us. Once he had covered the dates, he took out a stack of large photographs. “I do this so that people can understand God’s word.” He built scenes that represented biblical passages—even the slightest detail was symbolically significant. “Few of the Celanese are educated enough to grasp the entire meaning behind Emilio’s creations. Emilio is a learned man—he has a degree, he’s been to Jerusalem. Has studied the Bible closely,” my professor explained. One of my classmates turned to Emilio: “Why do you do it then, if people can’t always appreciate what you build?” “Well, first for myself, and then for all of the people.” A kind smile spread across Emilio’s face. Despite what he said, it was clear his motives weren’t selfish. He was just so pleased that we were there, listening to his story. As he had said before, he built the scenes “so that people can understand God’s word.” I wanted to hug Emilio—not just for his cookies and his smile, but also for his kindness. For the genuine nature that shone through his glistening eyes.

I walked through Celano, eating one of Emilio’s amaretti. And I realized that this town was, for me, like what Emilio’s scenes are meant to be for the Celanese; But instead of being a depiction of God’s words, it was an example of his creations. He creates beautiful people who in turn portray His beauty and create beautiful things. And just for the record: Emilio’s amaretti are the most ‘beautiful’ and delicious cookies I have ever had. I don’t foresee that changing any time soon.

Geese, swans, ducks, pigeons, one seagull, toddlers, parents, grandparents—all were around the pond at Villa Doria Pamphilj. There was an artist on the bench beside me who looked like she was from 1960’s Paris. Short bob, white beret, tapered woolen pants…and Oxfords. Brown leather Oxfords that I couldn’t imagine on anyone else but her. As she guided her thick markers over her sketchpad, Italian toddlers guided pieces of bread over the meter-high fence and towards the mass of feathers and beaks.

Qua qua QUAAAAAA!!!!

Federico!!! Shhhh!!!

Federico clung to the fence and pressed his face to the metal rods. He jumped down and bolted towards a group of 3-4 families. Squirmed through the wall of grown-ups, poked his head above the fence, and then bolted back towards his parents. His Geox sports-jacket and dark-wash jeans almost made me forget that he was a 2/3 year-old boy that found ducks infinitely more fascinating than brand-name fashion. Federico charged at pigeons. He screamed at geese. And then he calmly mounted his bright red bicycle and rode away with his parents.

A father lowered his 3 year-old daughter over the fence. As she held a piece of bread out to a goose, I cringed—I imagined the brown bird biting her little fingers and inciting a surprised and terrified scream. Such a worry-wart, I know. But apparently Italian geese are more civilized than are Bulgarian ones.

Massimo! An elderly Italian woman waved at her son to come back. Time for lunch. Pasta doesn’t make itself, you know. He was across the pond, holding his four-year-old boy perched atop the fence. The two enthusiastically waved their willow branches at her. Andate, andate. Go. You go, and we’ll come later, the father told his mother and wife. Not one minute after they left, the dad picked up his son and stood again by the fence. I won’t bother with sound effects—but I will say this: He imitated ducks just as well as my mom and aunt can imitate chickens. And the lucky few that have heard my mom and aunt imitating chickens will really appreciate this Italian father’s quacking skills.

As he quacked away, I realized that the father was having just as much fun—if not more—as his son was having. Who’s the real kid here?, I wondered. The four year old? Or the quacking father?

But it didn’t take long for me to answer my question. Both of them. Both father and son were kids during those several minutes. And that was normal—to me, at least. Now, I am the daughter of a woman who told her colleagues that she turned 7 this year. So perhaps what seems to me a ‘normal’ case of being young at heart may be to others just a crazy father quacking awkwardly by a pond.

At the other side of the lake, a woman sat on a bench with her baby. Her husband came running, bent down to kiss her on the cheek, checked on the baby, and continued to run. It took several moments for me to get my ‘aha’ moment: the father was running laps around the pond. And after every lap, he would stop to check on his wife and daughter. My heart melted faster than would butter dropped in a volcano. Enough said.

Well, perhaps not enough said. I was fascinated by his gesture. It was so simple, and yet it meant so much. He was showing his family that he loved them—every four minutes, in fact. He appreciated them, cared about them, and had time for them. So THIS is why Italian men are known as family men, I thought. I guess I can forgive them for being mama’s boys….

On a more serious note, I was amazed by Italian fathers. More than half of the kids at Villa Doria Pamphilj were with just their dads. Dads pushing strollers, dads running after toddlers, dads riding bicycles with special safety seats for their kids—more dads with their children than I’ve ever seen in one place. And the quacking dad wasn’t the only one having fun. These men seemed happy to be spending one-on-one time with their kids. One father parked his bicycle beside a (second) pond and scooped his daughter into his arms. He pointed a fish out to her. A fish that was almost as wide as it was long. And not because that was how it should look—it was just a fat fish. A ridiculously thick fish which was undoubtedly made round by the very Italian families around me. Right as I joked about it being ideal for dinner and lunch, I heard the little girl ask her father: Mangiamo lo? It was good to know I wasn’t the only one who thought about eating it. I must mention that this little girl was wearing bright red jeans. Red jeans and intrigued by fat fish—my type of kid.

It’s quite funny, actually—the reason I ended up in Villa Doria Pamphilj that morning. I was supposed to go there for a two-hour pilates class. But as Catalina and started our half-hour, uphill walk to Via Vinterellia, we wondered whether we would find the place. The flyer’s directions weren’t very clear. And after going up 100 stairs, we joked that we wouldn’t look too hard, or too long. Ten minutes later we were watching 7/8 year-old Italian boys play calcio in a soccer academy beside the park. Much better than pilates, we thought. It was a good walk up here.

We decided to walk another 300 meters down Via Vinterellia. If we see people with yoga mats, we’ll just run for it. A pilates poster hung front and center from the doors at the park entrance. We tiptoed in—as if that would somehow make us invisible if there were 30 pilates-practicing people around the corner. There were no people practicing pilates. Just runners. Some dog-walkers. And a group of about ten old men, sitting around two benches on field to our left. Two long fields lay on either side of the dirt path; the right field was much wider and a thin river cut it into two halves. It was cold and foggy. Every time the wind blew, a curtain of leaves fell from the trees beside the river and cascaded down to the ground. After crossing the river—stepping along big wobbly rocks is always interesting—and climbing onto a questionable tree branch, Catalina and I walked up a little hill. That’s how we got to the pond; to Federico, to Massimo, and to all of the Italian families.

I’m sure that a two-hour pilates class would have left me feeling fresh and pleasantly tired. But no pilates exercises could have given me what those Italian families gave me. They reminded me that family is one of the (if not the) most beautiful and most important things in life. Definitely more important than research papers, and more beautiful than Bernini statues—So sorry Paolo (Baroque professor). As intriguing and passionate as your 1 hour lecture on the Apollo and Daphne statue was, I am, and always will be, more impressed by kids chasing ducks and marveling at fat fish. I left Pamphilj Park with a smile on my face. And in my books, that beats improved muscle-definition any day.

So, let’s get analytical: what does all of this mean? It means that you should sign up for pilates in a park. Make sure you bring a camera and a sketch pad. Picnic food and a buddy wouldn’t hurt either.

I felt like I was going to get in trouble. Maybe this tunnel I had wandered into was off-limits—a Harry Potter meets Jumanji secret underground passageway. The wobbly stone tile I just stepped on didn’t help to convince me otherwise. Constellations were painted onto the violet-blue, rounded ceilings; and inscribed stone tablets hung from the light brick walls. Oh, and the lighting was creepy. Small, glowing placards stood before each tablet. And spotlights so dim that they shouldn’t be called lights were suspended from the ceilings. That was it. Of course my description wouldn’t be complete if I left out the music: eerily calm music that might have been coming from thin air for all I knew.

I wasn’t sucked into the ground, plucked away by a grotesque creature, or shoved through a secret revolving door. Sorry to disappoint, guys. But I did see some interesting things. The stone tablets were gravestones. Two-millennia-old gravestones of ancient Roman citizens. No, not of emperors—am I disappointing you again? Just of everyday people like you and I.

Alexander was 3 years, 14 days, and 19 hours old when he died. “I beg you, when you pass [near his grave] to say: ‘may the earth not weigh upon your remains,’ ” his parents had inscribed on the tablet. I obeyed with my entire soul. Wished that Alexander was light-spirited and at peace. That his soul was flying freely throughout heaven.

My insides, every fiber of my heart, contracted. Images of his grieving parents flowed through my mind. They touch the cold hands of their precious baby boy. Leave tear-stained flowers by his grave. Hold onto his favorite toy. And then a serene joy replaced my grief. I imagined Alexander clutching his parent’s hands as he took his first steps. Collapsing into his mother’s embrace after a fit of giggles. Running after his father in an ancient Roman marketplace.

He came alive in my mind. 3 years, 14 days, and 19 hours-old-Alexander; running through my heart, resting in my mind, writing his initials into my memories. I couldn’t visualize his face. I still can’t. I don’t know if he had blonde ringlets or stick-straight, chestnut hair. Were his eyes green? Blue? Brown? I don’t know. But I don’t need to know.

May the earth not weigh upon your remains, Alexander. May your soul be forever free and joyful. Know that you’re welcome to visit me anytime, little guy. Any time.

Crescens was 22 years old when his soul left his lifeless body and escaped into the atmosphere. He was a chariot racer. Competed in 686 races. Won 47 competitions. Placed 2^nd 130 times. And 3^rd 111 times. I could be wrong, but I think that makes him the Roger Federer of the 2^nd century. But he’s not in the history books. Not in the sports archives. The only evidence of his greatness is a dimly-lit gravestone in the underground floor of the Capitoline museum. In a tunnel with more than one hundred other gravestones.

I pictured him hoisting one of those 47 trophies onto his shoulders. Pictured him standing proud before his victorious horses and chariot. I was his audience, applauding his athletic greatness and celebrating his win. Remembering ‘the great Crescens.’

After more than one-hundred gravestones, I was at the end of the tunnel. I looked up the stairs before me and—well, for that split second, I felt like I’d climb up the stairs and walk into 2^nd century Rome. Like I’d walk among Alexander’s parents and past Crescens’ horses. Like I might even see little Alexander and great Crescens themselves. Alexander would run past me, chasing after his ball; and I would see Crescens from a distance, making his way through the Roman Forum followed by throngs of supporters.

And then the spell was over. Just like that. The courtyard I walked into had remnants of ancient Rome. But it was wasn’t ancient Rome. It was 2010. I was in the Capitoline Museum. And Alexander’s and Crescens’ gravestones remained below me, in the tunnel room.

——

I was still thinking about Alexander and Crescens when I came home. And while I was evading writing about them, I stumbled upon this song on the internet. Random? Oh no. See for yourself:

Live Like You’re Dying

Lenka

One of these days you’ll be
under the covers you’ll be
under the table and you’ll realize
all of your days are numbered;
all of them one to one hundred.
All of them millions.
All of them trillions.
So what are you gonna do with them all?
You can not trade them in for more.
no no

Chorus 1:
Take every moment; you know that you own them.
Its all you can do, use whats been given to you.

Give me a reason
to fight the feeling
that there’s nothing here for me.
Cause none of its easy,
I know it wasn’t meant to be.
I know its all up to me x2.
So what am I gonna do with my time?
oh

Chorus 2:
Ill take every moment, I know that I own them.
Its all up to you to do whatever you choose.

Chorus 3:
Live like you’re dying and never stop trying.
Its all you can do, use whats been given to you.

All of the moments you didn’t notice;
gone in the blink of an eye.
All of the feelings you couldn’t feel
no matter how you try.
oh oh

Chorus 1 
Chorus 3 x2 

At some point, our lives will end. Chances are slim that our tombstones will make it to a museum 2 millennia from now. And unless we become emperors—or take over the world—we won’t be remembered for very long.

I’m not saying this to depress you. Really, I’m not. I’m saying this because I’m getting at something else: Our lives aren’t long. If we realize that from early on, though, we have much better chanced of living them to their fullest. Of doing all we can do with what’s been given to us.

A ‘special exhibition’ sign stood at the beginning of a hallway. I could already see Monets lining the walls, each one a gem that deserved an entire room to itself. But I didn’t stop—I walked by the paintings, glancing at them for no more than two seconds. My feet had hijacked my body, and they were leading it elsewhere.

All of this is uploaded onto my brain. A memory that I can ‘click’ on and play in my mind whenever I want to. Forever there and forever complete.

I took a sudden, deep breath and backed into Catalina. Over my mouth went my hand, as my legs continued their programmed walk into a room on my left. Goosebumps shot throughout my entire body. A rehearsed stadium wave that missed not one finger or toe. For 10 seconds I felt like I was in a block of ice. And I must have been quite a sight—shivering, my arms wrapped tightly around my sides, lower lip already quivering, walking my zombie walk to the room’s left corner. Ten feet and several seconds later, my body started burning. Needless to say, I didn’t appreciate the rapid temperature changes.

That was it. The real thing. Monet’s Le Train dans la Neige hung two feet before me. I had spent hours squinting over printings of it. Months trying to reproduce it, brushstroke by brushstroke. Years wondering what the original really looked like. Is the sky grey? Is it lighter or darker than the printings? What color are the train’s headlights?

Blue. The smoke billowing from the train was blue. A light, soft, grayish blue—nothing like the dirty brown-grays from the printings. Along the length of the train ran subdued crimson red strokes that I never knew existed. And the little shack on the left was a subdued milky orange. Not light brown. The canvas was so much more alive, so much brighter than what the printings showed. It celebrated winter rather than depicting it as dreary.

I never drew in the headlights. Some printings showed them in a cold whitish-yellow, others in an orange-red. And I tried both. But I always wiped paint off even faster than I had scraped it onto the canvas with my palate knife. I preferred leaving my painting unfinished to blindly guessing the color of its central feature.

Bright, warm yellow. That is the color Monet chose for his train’s headlights. They boldly contrasted with everything else in the painting. Were parented by different tubes of oil paint than was the rest of the painting. But they fit. The headlights ‘fit.’ They were the finishing touch on the canvas.

It’s a mystery to me how I saw these details. When tears are gushing out of your eyes, you typically don’t notice anything besides basic forms and shades. But I managed to turn off the water works before I left the room. Clutching my drenched tissue, I walked backwards, staring at Le Train dans la Niege until it disappeared behind door.

———

What happened to me downstairs was almost the same. Just 3 times as intense. First the chills. Then the freezing. The burning. And, finally—it wasn’t just tears. I was sobbing. Entire body shaking, lips quivering, eyes almost shut and flooded with tears. At one point I could see nothing but the bright orange dot: Monet’s sun. “Avec ce tableau, l’impressionisme a commence.” Yes, whoever said that. You’re right. With this painting, Impressionism began. With this painting began the art that I have loved since before I had mastered multiplication. And I was standing before this painting. Standing before the strokes of Monet’s brush and palate knife; Looking at how he perceived an 1872 sunrise in Le Havre.

Why am I telling everyone this? Yes, Alex, you’re an odd one. But why would you willingly tell people you bawled like a baby in front of two Monets? Isn’t that—well, embarrassing?

No. That’s the thing. It’s not embarrassing. And it wasn’t embarrassing to me on Tuesday, either. I stared at Impression, Soleil Levante for 10 minutes. I cried before it for another 15. Yes: People stared at me. They turned and whispered. They formed clusters around me—always standing at a distance—and then silently slipped away.

But I didn’t care what they were thinking or saying. For the first time in my life, I didn’t care. All I did was feel. Blessed to be seeing what I was seeing. Amazed by Monet’s creation. Enamored with the concept of painting your momentary impression of something—of portraying reality with fluidity instead of with hard lines.

Most of all, I felt free. I had a spiritual rip-your-shirt-off moment; I ripped off every restriction and revealed my soul. Painted it onto my face for everyone to see. While puffy eyes and tear-stained cheeks are not in any way beautiful, they were my statement. The ‘painting’ with which I said: this is who I am. Impressionism started with Impression, Soleil Levant. And Alex-not-worrying-what-others-think started with Crazy Crying Girl, Marmottan.

——-

When I stepped out of the Marmottan Museum, I was light-headed and dazed. Who knows—maybe I got dehydrated from all of that crying. But I felt calm. At peace. Catalina and I walked down unpaved paths that were long and wide; lined with tall, autumn-colored trees and bespeckled with leaves. On our right was a small park with catalogue-green grass. People sat on both the grass and the benches; reading, talking with friends, resting from workouts, hugging children, playing with their dogs. But it was as if time was in slow motion—Even the silky golden retriever chasing its squeaky plushie looked like more like it was gliding than running. Never before have I seen such serenity in a city. What an ideal place for two of Monet’s most beautiful paintings, I remember thinking.

The neighborhood was also ideal for something else: sitting on the grass and eating une tartalette aux fraises. And no, I didn’t cry over the tartalette.

Although it was tear-worthy.