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Something Rich and Strange
"Much I have travelled in the realms of gold." -John Keats
Mondays in Italy are the best thing ever. "Un altro bella giornata," I remarked to Filomenia when I entered the kitchen for breakfast. The forecast kept saying it was going to rain. It never did. Everyday the sun rose faster and brighter and warmer than the day before, the sky bluer than anything has a right to be. It was a beautiful day for a pilgrimage, which was precisely what I had in mind. I looked at a map, gathered my things and walked to the Metro station. I bought a day pass for €6 and took the train back to Termini Station, where I changed lines to go to Piramide. I had to admit I felt a swell of triumph at how adept I'd become at using the subway.
Once there, I stopped on a corner and glanced around, getting my bearings. As I understood it, I was looking for some sort of triangular construction, the Pyramid of Caius Cestius, not far from which would be the Protestant Cemetery of Rome. Just across the street I saw a massive stone pyramid that stuck out like a sore thumb amongst the Roman arches and Augustinian architecture. That was probably a safe bet. I followed the adjacent crumbling stone wall in a circle around the block until I found the entrance, and found myself in an absolute Eden.
The Protestant Cemetery - or "Non-Catholic Cemetery" - was by far the most idyllic and peaceful place I'd seen so far in Rome. It was a garden in its most bucolic incarnation, its walls and paths and headstones drowning in greenery accented by hues of periwinkle, saffron, ivory and coral wildflowers. The entire interior was shaded by a stone pine canopy, a natural oasis severed from the city surrounding it. Even the noise from the traffic seemed to fall away as I stepped inside the walls, the only evidence of human presence the forest of weathered tombstones and sculptures marking family plots. Instantly, I felt myself relax, my inner-workings quieting as I moved slowly, tentatively forward, not wanting to bring the chaos of the city inside with me.
Following the signposts, I swept the narrow footpaths between the graves for what I'd come for. I passed a headstone engraved with the words, "Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning". I thought about the long, dark, difficult night the past few years of my life had been, and smiled.
Unable to find what I was looking for, I stopped another visitor on the walkway and asked in my best attempt at urbane Italian, "Scusi, hai visto Percy Shelley?" Have you seen Percy Shelley? The woman nodded and indicated a tower jutting skyward out of the far wall that resembled the crown of a chessboard rook. At the base of said tower, I found it - a flat, marble grave marker bearing the name of one of my first and most influential literary mentors, beneath which was written, "Nothing of him that doth fade, But doth suffer a sea = change, Into something rich and strange." Again, I couldn't help but relate the epitaph to my own situation. Although this place, this adventure was changing me, that didn't mean it erased who I was before. There were no real endings, only endless waves of transformation, metamorphoses of the familiar into something rich and strange.
There was a tour group gathered around the grave when I arrived. I approached quietly behind them, listening in as the guide informed the small crowd of Shelley's marriage to Mary Wollstonecraft, another of history's most notable literary figures. "Wallstonecraft," the tour guide was saying, "was more famous in her time than her husband." He went on to explain how she had responded to a competition put forth by the local circle of writers to see who could produce the scariest story by composing one of the most classic works of literature of all time: "the famous book...?" He left the anecdote suspended, waiting to see if anyone in the group would complete it. A full five seconds passed, the only sound the obnoxious chirp of a cricket.
Seriously? No one knew this?
"Frankenstein." Twenty-or-so heads swivelled to face me, looking for the source of the savvy but soft-spoken answer. Only then did I realize it had come from my own lips. The expressions I was met with were those of astonishment and mystification: Where did she come from?
After that I slipped quietly away to look for the other grave I had come to see. I didn't have to look far. Following the sign posts into another part of the cemetery, I came upon a tombstone which read in slanting, gothic script, "This grave contains all that was mortal of a young English poet who, on his death bed, in the bitterness of his heart, at the malicious power of his enemies, desired these words to be engraven on his tomb stone". Then, beneath that, "Here lies one whose name was writ in water. Feb. 24th 1821". Although the grave was unnamed, I knew from university classes on the Romantics that it was the final resting place of John Keats.
After snapping a few photos and plucking a wild daisy from the grass to leave as tribute, I returned to Shelley's memorial to pay my respects in private, now that the tour group had gone. As I'd done with Keats, I picked two dime-sized wildflowers from the nearby shrubbery, leaving one on the smooth, alabaster marble and tucking the other delicately into my neck wallet as a souvenir.
On my way back to the Metro, I passed a Wi-Fi zone and made an impromptu pitstop to check my e-mail. Waiting at the snack bar for the barista to give me the password, I smelled the mouth-watering aroma of whole roasted pig with garlic and rosemary and my stomach growled. Checking my watch, I realized it was past lunchtime and ordered myself a panino di porchetta. Some of the best meals are completely unexpected, and all the more memorable for it. With layer upon layer of moist meat, unctuous fat and crispy, caramelized skin, this happened-upon street-meat was some of the best pig I'd ever had.
I met up with Marcello again that afternoon. He asked what I wanted to do, and I mentioned that the Pantheon was still on my list of sights. "But I think it's a bit far from here," I shrugged.
"You want to see the Pantheon?" Marcello parroted. "I will take you to the Pantheon." And on the way he showed me the Trevi Fountain, waiting patiently while I indulged in the ritual of tossing in a coin to ensure my speedy return to the Eternal City. He took me to the Spanish Steps, Old Rome, and a Cathedral containing Bernini paintings that was older than North America. Like an over-zealous uncle who introduces you to all of your relatives at a family reunion, Marcello showed me the entirety of Rome at once. Every time we turned a corner, it seemed, we bumped into something mind-blowing, and I couldn't help telling him so, over and over again. I realized I'd been exploring Rome the way a toddler dips her toe into a swimming pool, trying to decide if it's safe, and then Marcello shouldered me in a fireman's carry and cannon-balled us both into the water.
After we had been walking for a few hours, he caught me sneaking a peak inside a gelateria and asked, "You want ice cream?"
"Not now," I replied. "Maybe later." But after the third time he asked, I started to get the message. "Do YOU want ice cream, Marcello?"
"Well," he shrugged one shoulder a bit sheepishly, "there is a good place up here I've been wanting to try..."
I laughed. "Okay," I nodded, suddenly enthusiastic. "Then let's do that!"
We were strolling through the centre of Old Rome, him relishing a cone of pineapple gelato and me a cup of strawberry and musing that this had been the fullest, richest day I'd had yet, when we were approached my a couple of teenage tourists. "Scusi," one of them asked Marcello, "dov'e Arc de Triomphe?"
Marcello flashed him one of those patient, winning smiles of his and replied, "That's in Paris, Dude."
The tourist blinked and looked around, realizing for the first time that he was in the wrong country. "Ah, merde," he said, and turned to go.
Marcello laughed and shook his head. "Americans," he marvelled. But then he abruptly pivoted to face me, stopping me in my tracks. "Close your eyes," he commanded, and I obeyed. Guiding me by the elbow, he towed me forward a few steps, off the curb and through a jungle of honking horns and sirens, until we reached what I guessed was the opposite street corner. "Okay," he said. "Look."
I parted my eyelids, and just like that, where moments before there had been a wall of shopping complexes, there was now the Coliseum at sunset. We walked all the way around it, getting a good view from every angle of its regal, crumbling sides - too mammoth to even fit in a camera frame - ablaze in the dying light.
Pointing to the restoration scaffolding which encased one whole wall of the monument like climbing ivy, Marcello explained that modern Rome was built around Ancient Rome, the old parts of the city carefully preserved. Italians, he said, valued the past, regarding it as a foundation of (not a hinderance to) their identity. North Americans, with their out-with-the-old-in-with-the-new mentality, were all about the new, the better, the faster. Suddenly I was reconsidering my goals for this trip. Maybe starting from scratch wasn't always the answer. Perhaps we would all do well to remember what makes us who we are. Those who forget their history, after all, are doomed to repeat it. I thought about the epitaph on Shelley's grave. Nothing of him that doth fade, But doth suffer a sea of change, into something rich and strange.
We turned a corner and kept walking. Walking, Marcello said (and I agreed), was the only way to enjoy the inner peace that Rome had to offer, as in the traffic you experienced only urban chaos.
"I think," he mused, watching me snap my fiftieth picture of ruined column drum, "someone is in love with Rome."
I grinned, my eyes still on the screen of my iPad. "Is it that obvious?"
Leaving the city centre on the Metro, Marcello asked what my plans were for tomorrow. I shrugged and shook my head. "Niente programma," I told him. No plans. And he smiled.
"Va bene," he approved. "You are a Roman woman now."
He left me at Ottaviano Station and, not having had dinner yet, I decided to stop at a restaurant I'd walked by yesterday not far from my guesthouse. Rosso Vivo is a rustic, dimly-lit and intimate wine bar that I would highly recommend if you are ever in Cipro.
Speaking only Italian, I ordered myself a fried artichoke followed by tonnarelli cacio e pepe. If the cacio e pepe I'd had my first day here had been outstanding, this one was angels singing. I had a strong suspicion the pasta was homemade, cooked to a perfect al dente and swimming in a creamy bath of quality olive oil and the freshest Romano cheese. It was velvety, salty, peppery deliciousness. Slurping up the last forkful, I caught one of the women at the table next to mine stealing a curious, sidelong glance at me, enjoying this spectacular meal all on my own. Her expression reminded me of something Marcello had said when I told him I was on a three-month round-the-world trip, and wouldn't be returning home until I had summited Machu Picchu in Peru; "Oh, I see," he'd said with the air of someone who'd just figured out the answer to a simple math problem. "You are like the fox."
"Like the fox?" I'd echoed, expecting to be complimented on my figure or cunning intelligence.
"Yes," he nodded, smiling. "You are...what is the word...insane."
- comments
Dad Another great read Ally...as before I could visualize everything from your perfect descriptions. I now have a desire to travel there to see what you are describing so perfectly. Oh yes, and tell Marcello your Dad is watching. lol
Sheila Blair Mosley I am really enjoying following your blog. I am so proud of you. This trip will be such a part of who you are and who you will become! You are a gifted writer and story teller and a wonderful young woman that I am so glad to know.
Aunt Connie Your visit to the Coliseum and the Spanish Steps had me remembering things that I had almost forgotten. Thank You!!