Mapping Roma

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 st...

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 s...

Exiting the parking lot of the Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception in the warmth the early spring sun was energizing in a way that sitting in a classroom simply could not be. We were in Albany to see and explore Nelson A. Rockefeller’s monumental Empire State Plaza, our first big outing as a group. It had taken several cars to get us all there, but after a small regroup we were good to go. Before we could get to the main event, we took a slight detour and stopped by the New York State World War II memorial, a lovely fountain and statue that sits nestled in a towering circle of hedge in the shadow of the massive New York State Museum next door. Wandering the memorial and discussing with everyone about what common features made it a memorial really helped me to get in the mindset to think about the plaza. A little slice of memory isolated in the city scape. I had to wonder if the Plaza would be anything like it. Walking to the Plaza itself took but a few minutes, and soon...

A point, sharp as any razor, carves out its place in the open air. The obsidian edges gleam with holy knowledge as it waits for its time with bated breath. Its surface is adorned with writhing, serpentine form that curl their way around each other and up towards the ornate handle. Each line hewn into smooth stone, each careful, loving notch coalesces into a mesmerizing pattern that whispers of secrets unspoken, thrice repeated.   Sacred geometry, the amalgamation of angle and form. He stands colossal, though his stature is slight. Atop this chiseled tower sits a face thrice repeated, eyes wide and mouths forever frozen in a twisted grimace of his dark blessing. Wrath. Joy. Peace. The three scream out into space, and in the minute expressions of his face there is little difference.   As fearsome Cerberus guards over the Stygian realm, so does this sacred man preside over the realm of his children with tempestuous abandon. His material body was forged ...

He sits, looking up at the ceiling, and his nerves are getting the better of him. It is the first meeting of the lumberjack society, and so far, he is the only one who has bothered to show up. He had gotten up early, combing his beard carefully and putting on his favorite plaid flannel. Walking out the door he had felt confident, but now, sitting on a hard wooden stool without a soul near him, his confidence has swirled down the drain. What if his brethren stand him up? He checks his watch, uncertain. Is he early? Or are they very, very late? He hadn’t always been a lumberjack, though his grandfather had been one in his youth. He wants the feeling of safety that comes with belonging to a community. He resolutely keeps every stool near him empty in the hopes that when his companions do come, they will have a place to sit and catch up. He waits, and looks out the window idly, but it is clear that he recognizes none of the cars driving by or the people strolling about. He sits i...

Laughter peals through the air like bells, rising above the harsh spritz of the foam mixer. An argument takes place behind me, sharp words punctuated by sharp inhales of air. Somehow it is a comfort, the noise of interaction cementing my place in the reality of the moment. The scent of coffee, dark and smooth in the cool air, permeates the room as I close my eyes to my surroundings. A picture dances behind my eyes without the boon of sight. A click. A closing of a door. The air tastes like coffee too, though it does not share the bitterness of the real, genuine thing. An unpleasant taste, but one that fits in with the all encompassing coziness of my chosen place of respite. Another laugh rings out, from the screech of chair legs across concrete, followed by the quiet rustling of a coat being shed in the warmth of the indoors, away from the bite of the wind beyond the big glass windows. The tapping of light fingertips dancing across a keyboard is barely audible over the hazy ambian...