Walking through Rome -- Rome, Italy

But what is liberty but the unhampered translation of will into act?

~Dante

Rome.

This is usually the point in my visit to a city wherein a write a blurb about the history of the place.

I’m not going to bother writing a blurb about Rome. Just thinking about where to start is exhausting.

Walking is an interesting experience in this city – it’s a mixture of Nice, France and Cork, Ireland. As in Cork, the pedestrian reigns supreme and as long as you’re somewhat competent at the “don’t you f*cking hit me” look, crossing busy streets is easy-peasy.

But make sure to watch out for the crazy vespas, because they’re sure as hell not watching out for you. Or anything else, for that matter. The recklessness with which they weave in and out of traffic roils my stomach turn and I’m continually bewildered as to why they have not the tiniest modicum of respect for vehicles 10x their size.

 Vespa drivers are like yappy little dogs -- loud, obnoxious, and think they’re way larger than they actually are.

Walking through Rome, I see Bangladeshis chasing couples with roses, flaunting the red flowers in front of the women and then thrusting open hands in front of the reticent men.

I suppose that’s one positive about being alone in Rome. I’m not harassed by rose-bearing Bangladeshis.

Walking through Rome, I see style. Classy boots with heels that strike, leggings or tights that revel in curves, tight jeans that emphasize swinging hips, skirts (over leggings) that perfectly toe the line between modest and risque, chic jackets, polka dot umbrellas, cigarettes, cigarettes, cigarettes, lipstick slathered over alluring lips.

I also see men in fresh pressed suits swinging shiny black briefcases in their right hands and striding along with a sense of purpose only a stressful day in the office can induce. I laugh at one whose suit is matching and checkered like old man pajamas I’ve only seen in black and white films such as “Ma and Pa Kettle”.

Walking through Rome, I notice that hardly anyone laughs. I pass several women who look as though they’ve been crying. Mascara pools under their eyes, their brows furrow, foreheads crease, and they move with the jittery, irregular steps of someone trying desperately but failing miserably to maintain control.

I pass several men with thin, pressed lips. Most of them resemble Dustin Hoffman or Al Pacino.

I pass an endless line of polizi and never walk for long with a siren blasting, blaring, howling by.

Horns, horns, horns.

But the honks and hoots are never directed at me, which was something of a surprise. Everyone cautioned me to watch out for ass-grabbing Italian macho men, but in my limited experience, the men are as respectful and chivalrous as the vespa drivers are chaotic and dangerous.

People don’t speak. People move. People don’t look down. People look up and ahead, but with a soft gaze that focuses nowhere. Eye contact is rare, unless it’s a Bangladeshi (I’m not racist – that’s just how it is here) trying to sell you an umbrella or a poncho.

The occasional group of teenagers giggle and gossip over cones of gelato.

BY THE WAY...

Italian gelato has less fat and more air than American ice cream. It’s also frozen at a higher temperature. This is the difference. Let it be known.

BACK TO ROME

Walking through Rome, I get wet. Puddles collect in dips on the sidewalks and pedestrians hop between them like confused rabbits. They charge straight ahead, assaulting me with their pointy umbrellas and stylish galoshes.

I find myself annoyed. I hate it when I get so irritated by people who walk inconsiderately, but good heavens, self-centered walkers really cheese me off. Three friends moving astride, umbrellas making it impossible to pass. They see me approaching, but do nothing to make room. I look at the road to check if any cars are coming, as I know I’ll probably be forced off the sidewalk and into traffic by these hoodlums bearing frilly, polka dot umbrellas. The light has just turned green and an onslaught of honking vehicles rushes my way. I shimmy over to the side of the walk and try to make myself as small as possible.

I still get a shove in the shoulder and an umbrella in the face.

ARGH. Really? It’s not that hard to walk behind each other. You can still be friends, I promise.

There have been many umbrellas to the face this week. I arrived on Monday in the midst of a tumultuous thunderstorm. It rained all Tuesday morning, soaking straight through my supposedly waterproof boots and jacket and chilling me to the bone. Thankfully, the sun emerged from behind the clouds shortly after Terril’s arrival and gave me the whole afternoon to dry off. Wednesday was wet. All day. Thursday was gorgeous. Today is Friday and it’s dire. I’ve decided to adopt Martin’s mentality and just use this miserable, god-awful weather as an excuse to stay indoors and write.

I just wish it didn’t have to be so god-awful in Rome.

Why couldn’t it have been so wretched in... I dunno... Ireland? At least I expected it to be wretched there.

 Rome is astounding. Breathtaking. Rich with layer upon layer of history and culture

But something about Rome feels dead, lethargic, broken. It isn’t the “retirement home” lethargic quality of Nice, but rather the “standing on its own shoulders” quality of organized religion.

And why not? It’s got some marvelously broad shoulders on which to stand. The Coliseum, the Pantheon, Vatican City and Saint Peter’s – but even the broadest shoulders begin to stoop with age, and the shoulders of Rome have begun to stoop.

In my modest opinion, of course.

I tried to walk along the Tiber on Wednesday. This was once the gushing, majestic river on which Cleopatra delivered her Roman lover (I can’t remember which one) glorious gifts of Egyptian obelisks (which look like giant phallic symbols with history scrawled into them – no wonder she hit it off so well with the guys), but is now so diminutive and murky that it’s an accomplishment to imagine anything larger than a dilapidated houseboat floating down its lackadaisical serpentine bed.

But I didn’t give myself long to imagine.  I say I tried to walk along the Tiber because I quickly retraced my steps to the busy road from whence I’d come. Trash littered the banks, mud turned the trail into a slip and slide, and I nearly collided with a seedy looking homeless man sitting in front of his fire under one of the main bridges.

Walking through Rome, I make my way into the Gypsies prostrate themselves on the sidewalk, foreheads on the cement and open hands cupping small coins, pleading for more.

I love Rome, I’m amazed by Rome, I’m overwhelmed by Rome, but this is not a city in which I could happily live. To me, Rome is the most beautifully ornate casket in the world, bearing bones of history no other city in the world can boast of carrying. Every conquered, incorporated civilization left a tooth or a femur or a tarsal inside the casket and a unique ornamentation on the gilded gold outside, so this casket has become so extraordinary that when Rome graciously opens the lid to display its boundless wonders –

-- it forgets that life is now, not then. As humans, we are artists and creators and movers.

But Rome already has its casket and creating is hard.

I’m someone who feels energy. It’s nearly a tangible entity for me. I can enter a room and tell whether or not people have recently had a fight (and this has nothing to do with broken plates or knocked over chairs). I can enter a room and tell whether or not it’s just been occupied by people very much in love (and this has nothing to do with broken plates or knocked over chairs). There’s an energy people leave in a space – something that resonates off the walls, the floors, the bookshelves, the television, the grand piano in the corner and vibrates in my very core.

I think this is one of the reasons that anger is one of the most terrifying things in the world to me. I can handle scorn, fear, humiliation, pity, revulsion – but anger completely shuts me down. I become a little thing, quavering in the corner, just praying for it to stop.

Anger is like a hurricane; a wild force that rages its distress utterly out of control.  My head tells me that hurricanes are deaf to reason and blind to suffering. So I do nothing and just wait for it to scream on by, because --

“Excuse me, could you please blow somewhere else? I happen to live here and I was very happy before you showed up, thank-you very much.”

--  never seems to work.

This is why I struggle to say no to the people like my first host in Munich. I would rather deal with the humiliation of strangers touching my ass without my consent than risking a hurricane.

Here’s a short excerpt from a play I wrote when I was going through my PTSD after university (I apologize in advance for the language).

SCENE FOUR

DAUGHTER

I told him that I was walking away,

But I started floating away about halfway through that rant.

Right after the –

HE

I’d give up everything I’ve ever wanted in life if it could mean I never met you in the first place.

DAUGHTER

You know that delightful scene in Mary Poppins?

The scene where they go to visit the man who can’t stop laughing

And has gone and gotten himself stuck on the ceiling again?

And it’s so ridiculous,

And his laugh is so contagious,

That they all float up to the ceiling to join him;

Where they have a very proper,

Improper,

Afternoon tea,

Laughing at terrible jokes on the ceiling.

That’s what I was thinking.

HE

I don’t have the slightest goddamn inkling why I love someone like you.

DAUGHTER

I was floating up to the ceiling to join Mary Poppins for tea and crumpets as the –

HE

Bitch.

DAUGHTER

And –

HE

Whore.

DAUGHTER

Rolled off his tongue.

And with each –

HE

You know you want me.

DAUGHTER

I floated higher. My insane laughter carried me away in a pink bubble where I sang with the Mary Poppins in my head –

MARY POPPINS IN HER HEAD

I love to laugh.

DAUGHTER

Ha, ha, ha, ha.

HE

You coward.

MARY POPPINS IN HER HEAD

Long and loud and clear.

DAUGHTER

And I look down

On my way up,

And see him shaking my body

And screaming,

Trying to get through.

And I think,

What an idiot. He’ll never get through. That isn’t me down there.

MARY POPPINS IN HER HEAD

I love to laugh.

DAUGHTER

Ha, ha, ha, ha.

HE

Why can’t you be satisfied?

MARY POPPINS IN HER HEAD

It’s getting worse every year!

DAUGHTER

I suppose that’s what happens when every part of your identity finally gets cut off.

What’s to weigh you down

To keep you from floating away?

I feel energy, and Rome feels stagnant. It is a decaying city. The most wondrous, elaborate corpse I’ve ever seen.