Mapping Roma

Up on the Aventine, there are less voices to be heard in this gentle wind-swept place. Yet, it is not silent. Here, next to Santa Sabina and among the orange trees I sit, dampness from the wooden bench I’m perched on seeping slowly into my clothes. The rain has passed, and the birds resume their cheerful tittering in the warm rays of the sun. I can hear the rustle of the leaves and the flapping of wings moved by the gentle breeze whispering across my bare arms. The birds themselves express their personality though sound. From the deep, harsh caw of the Hooded Crow, the almost human outbursts from the gulls, to the reedy singing from various songbirds, the high pines are alive with a symphony that any garden would be proud to house.   Water droplets fall from the canopy, a left over from the morning’s stormy weather. I have to cover my paper so that the water does not bend and warp the fibers into something soft and malleable. A burst of wind shakes free another sun shower,

Pale, smooth, and quietly serene, He stands upon his pedestal. Shadows cast upon his chest By outstretched wings that could never hold his weight. Those nugatory appendages, each feather lovingly carved   By the delicate hand of a craftsman   Lost to the ages, whose name we will never encounter. He must long to fly, This unclad figure, Son of a goddess most beautiful, But with his wings a heavy stone burden he will never soar. His bare arms delicate and graceful, His sturdy legs just as exquisite. An unblemished torso With a pallor that will never fade even in Sol’s harsh light. How lovely he is, This agent of desire Who grasped the exiled poet   In his boyish hands and never let him go. Diana’s bane, This innocent figure With a weapon not unlike her own But with a purpose that she will never approve. His quiver rests on a nearby tree, Set by the wayside and forgotten. The only item around for him to wear, And yet

It was pleasantly warm when Emma and I set off on a brisk walk from St. John’s on our way to the Keats Shelley Memorial House. The two of us were excited, as both of us have a love for the work of both John Keats and Percy Shelley. I myself had a particular interest in seeing the small rooms where Keats stayed during his time in the Eternal City as I had learned more about him and Shelley for my site report on the Non-Catholic Cemetery, where both men are buried.   The Piazza de Spagna was bustling with noisy tourists and street vendors, the most memorable of which was a man pretending to play the violin for a crowd of hoodwinked onlookers. The museum itself wasn’t hard to find; the sign was large and red, clearly displaying the names of the two poets right on the corner next to the steps. We pushed our way through the crowd, past the fountain, and made our way to the heavy wooden doors of the museum. I stopped to check the time: 5 o’clock, one hour before the museum close

He was late, very late, but an outsider would not be able to tell from his cool gaze and languid pace. He took the steps one at a time, taking slow and measured steps. Though St. Peter’s Basilica stood proudly to his back, he ignored it with the ease of a man who had seen the sight many, many times. After all, the young man worked there. Or, at least, he was trying to!   Pope Francis had put out an advertisement in the local paper, Il Papa Giorni, for an intern, and he had jumped on the chance to work in Vatican City. As a boy, that had been his only dream; to one day take a bullet for the Papa. He’d gone through rigorous training, along with 7 other potential recruits, the course specially designed by the Stealth Division of the Swiss Guard for optimal Papal Protection. It had been a grueling 5 weeks. The young man stepped delicately over the tiny chain blocking the staircase from curious tourists and stood in the crowd, surveying. He carefully straightened his starch

The splash of the water flowing into the pool behind my shoulder fade into the noise of the piazza, a steady, all-pervasive backdrop to the flurry of activity. It is overshadowed by the noises of the waking world, a cacophony of individual voices that are identifiable for a split second before they are gone, mingling back into a senseless murmur. My back to Bernini’s masterpiece, I listen to snippets of passing conversation. A young tour guide begins, “ 这个泉水是说 …” as she leads her group past me, footsteps reduced to a simple pattering on the hard cobblestone. Another group passes, this time the gentle rhythm of Spanish floating in and out of earshot. Voices and cultures overlap in this space, creating a polyglot’s paradise and I relish it.   The wind picks up around the fountain, tinged with a chill from the flowing waters and touched with the faintest scent of baking bread wafting from one of the nearby open storefronts. There is so much hustle and bustle that merely stand