The End/Beginning

I am currently sitting in my apartment, with a pit in my stomach as big as the cliche about having a pit in your stomach.

Our very annoying collection of all the wine and booze bottles accumulated throughout the semester is gone, leaving the kitchen table looking naked and forlorn (and yet the dishes are STILL not done... hmm). My backpack and the suitcase I'm leaving here in Rome are mostly packed, due to my neurotic obsession with preparedness that leaves me without clothes for sometimes weeks, but this time only a few days, and they're sitting in my room, which is now devoid of any personal touches it might have accumulated during our time here. I finished my last final this morning, walked out of the garden at AUR and down the stairs to my house. It's a beautiful, sunny, sky-blue day, and Rome is no longer my home.

They call Rome 'The Eternal City'. While some places have names that are complete non-sequiteurs (read: The Big Apple, The Garden State, The Big Easy (ask FEMA about this last one)), Rome's is completely, 100% accurate. Not only has it been here forever, but it feels like it's going to be here for longer than that. Once you're here, you feel like you've always been. Once you start living your life surrounded by all the history of the world incorporated matter-of-factly into your everyday life, you start to feel as though nothing ever ends. Nothing really ever does. At least here.

Yes, I know that sounds a little melodramatic, but it hit me with all the force of the buses that I've gotten so adept at avoiding while J-walking... I don't live here anymore. Yeah, we have two days left until we're kicked out of our house, but those two days are going to be filled with cleaning, goodbyes, packing, goodbyes, and finally, leaving for real.

There's still a weird veil between me and realizing that I'm leaving and, after this European jaunt of mine is over, I don't have a clear idea of when I'll be back. I've become so completely at home here that most days it doesn't even cross my mind that it's only been a temporary thing. And yes, there have been some very annoying, even negative things about being here, but those things have just served as normalizing factors making life seem completely natural and ordinary. I had no idea at the beginning of this adventure that I would fall so hard and fast for this city, but it's taken me even more by surprise that, even after the honeymoon decisively ended, I'm still in love. And it's hard to have a long-distance relationship with a city.

My thoughts right now are all over the place, but I want to write some of them down, so we're going with list form:

Why I Love Rome:

*My inability to explain why I love Rome. I just literally sat here for five minutes thinking about how to start this list. I think the fact that I can't quantify the reasons should just be an indication of how important this city has become for me, and how very integrated into it I feel. It's an aura more than any number of things that I enjoy. Rome's personality and mine just match really well, I think. I'm a big-picture person who sees the big picture in the details.

It's a little counter-intuitive, maybe, but looking at the color blue in the Virgin's robe in a Venetian versus a Florentine painting will tell you entire volumes about trade and commerce in the Italian city-states during the Renaissance. The shift of a villa from the center of the property to one end smacks of the uncertainty and imbalance brought about by the Reformation and the Sack of Rome that changed the Renaissance into the Baroque. The palle in the Medici coat of arms run through the political unrest of Florence in the 1490s and all the way back to the saints Cosimo and Damian who the family claimed as their ancestors and who gave legitimacy to the power of Il Magnifico, who basically made the Renaissance possible. The little things are the big things.

Rome is like that, too. Everything means something else. The Palazzo Venezia built by the Venetian ambassador in the mid-1400s has a balcony from which Mussolini appeared to the people of Italy, and it now hold the art history branch of the Italian National Library. The ridiculously busy bus stop that is a hub for basically anywhere else in Centro is also the Flavian Amphitheatre... that's the Colosseum for the uninitiated. The beautiful little church where I've taken every visitor I've had here to see the spectacular view of my city is also the place where St. Peter was ostensibly crucified and sits at the top of the steep, winding stairs that lead down to my street. Everything is something else, but it's all connected into this living, breathing city that is still, even after all these centuries of shift and calamity and restored peace, the center of the world. At least as far as I'm concerned.

I wrote before I left Montana that I'd never encountered a place that could make you feel so small and yet so important at the same time. Now, I have. Having grown up in my beloved home state is probably the reason I feel such an affinity for this place. It's not necessarilly big in the same wonderful, natural gradiosity that I grew up with, but big things have happened here, big things that made the world. It's hard not to be surrounded by the achievements of all the singular men and women who changed the world over and over, for good or for ill, and not think that, no matter how big the world is, it's small groups and single people who change it. It's hard not to feel like great things are possible. That's particularly empowering when you're 20 years old and trying to figure out where you're going to take your life.

I love Rome because of the things that have happened here that infest the place like a constant fog of larger meaning. In every corner of town, there's been some decision made and acted upon that rocked the world, for entire populations or for only a few, but that sense of purpose remains the same. I love Rome because being here makes me feel like my aspirations and goals are entirely possible, because they're much more modest than the incredible things that have been done in the world before I showed up. I love Rome because it is Rome and I am me, and we understand each other perfectly.

Things I'm Going To Miss:

*Pizza: It's just pizza, right? I mean, of course, it's not even comprable to the fried bread and two pounds of cheese we eat back in the States, and I'm going to be in Italy again before I leave the Continent for good, so it shouldn't be that big a deal to not have regular access to pizza. Well, since pizza is basically the go-to takeout food around here, it's become rather a staple of my week to bop over to Simone's after my early class lets out at noon and get some funghi e mozzarella. It's just like going to the caf for lunch, except way more delicious and I'm allowed to take food out of the store without being chased by Eyebrows. And yes, I can get pizza that's good other places in Europe, and even some in the States, but Roman pizza is a completely unique thing that is a lot more suited to my tastes than the heavy stuff we eat in the States or the paper-thin, charred nonsense that the Neopolitans claim is the real deal. I'm like the Goldilocks of pizza, and my two places in Rome have gotten it just right.

*Water Fountains: The novelty wore off after a little while, and they became situation normal. I'm trying to forsee how problematic it's going to be for me when I go to places where they make you pay for water. It's not going to be pretty. I might die of dehydration.

*ATAC: The public transit system in Rome. So easy, so omnipresent, so necessary to my life. I've become a huge believer that public transit can be effective and easy, and it can be convenient. We don't all have to be martyrs for the green cause... if every city had a slick system like Rome's, we'd ride the buses and trams completely selfishly without even a thought for the good of the planet. But that's a plus, too.

*The sky: I'm from Big Sky Country. Michigan is hard for me in this respect. You can't see a whole lot of the sky through the trees, and it feels clausterphobic a lot of the time. Also, for a large portion of the year that I spend there, it's grey. And cloudy. Rome has this incredible blue blue sky and the lay of the land reminds me a lot of Missoula or Helena or one of the other more picture-esque towns in Montana. That's been really comforting when I've been homesick. And now, I'm headed north, where it seems that there is no big, open bright blue sky, and so the fact that I'm leaving Rome for a sojurn in a place with a sky much like Michigan's, only to go back to the States and the wonderful sky of Montana seems eerily full-circle.

...I've spent a long time writing this post. And this encompasses only a small, small part of what my experiences here have meant to me. For more, I obviously refer you back to the rest of this blog, or you could just wait til I see you again and bore you silly with the details. It's your decision.

I'm off to Florence in literally a few hours. Remember those posts at the beginning of this blog, where I gush like a thirteen year old at a JoBros concert? Lather, Rinse, Repeat. It is literally going to be a shambles. I'm happy that I get to experience it the first time on my own, because I think any friendship that I had with any travelling companion would be ruined as they desperately tried to escape my dramatic hyperventilating. Much better that no one sees this.

Internets, as many of you are well aware, don't grow on trees. This meaning that my posts might be fewer and further between on this next part of my adventure, but keep checking! I promise I will update as often as is humanly possible, for my own sake more than for yours, but you can pretend you're really that interested if the mood strikes.

Thank you, Rome, for everything you've taught me. I don't know precisely when I'm coming back, but you haven't seen the last of me. So... until next time... ci vediamo!

La Bella Figura

Perhaps this is a foreign concept to you, perhaps it's not. 'La Bella Figura' is one of the most interesting facets of Italian culture that I've witnessed and yes, also attempted to adopt into my own life. It's really presented me with an interesting conundrum, but not a new one. Women for millenia have struggled with the same question, from the first woman who decided that wearing mastadon fir could be a fashion statement as well as a survival essential to those idiots in Victorian England who squished their organs into porridge trying to cut themselves in half with corsets to basically the entire state of California and the resulting thriving plastic surgery industry. The question: are looks really that important?

The answer: DUH! Seriously, in our society, one of the only ways women manage to make a blip on what is taught as history is through fashion. But this is not the place to get into that, so I won't. The point is: of COURSE looks are important. We'd all dress like Midwesterners if they weren't. Just kidding, Michigan!

For the Italians, though, appearances aren't just important. No, they're essential. To keep them up is basically the reason we exist. Now, that might be hyperbolizing just a tad, but think about it. What do you immediately think of when you think of Italy? You think of art, certainly, right? Is there anything more beautiful or pleasant to look at than a good piece of art? Right. There's not. And the Italians have been raised on this stuff. There's beautiful art literally sitting in the middle of piazzas here. You can close your eyes, spin around three times and walk in some random direction, and guaranteed, within ten steps you'll have hit something aesthetically pleasing and historically important. Trust me, I've tried this.

So the Italians have this desire to make basically everything as aesthetically pleasing as possible. It's in their blood. If they're serving you pig intestines (as they're wont to do in Rome, so you have to be careful), they're calling it trippa with their stupid, musical R sound that foreigners just can't do and serving it to you with such rustic elegance and simplicity that you'll forget what its function was just a few days ago. If you're walking through the supermercata pulling a jar of Nutella here, a box of pasta there, you can just bet that there's some girl who is dressed to the nines like no Meijer employee you've ever seen coming around after you and straightening the lines on the shelves again. People make a big show of interacting with everyone else with a confidence that often comes off as downright bitchy. The thing is, though: the Italians treat everyday life as though it were an opera. Emotions are meant to be felt strongly and articulated with the complete confidence that one is in the right. Think Gregory Peck in To Kill a Mockingbird mixed with the most enthusiastic orchestra conductor you've ever seen. That's basically la bella figura.

Conclusion: it's an attitude much more than it's a tangible style. Though that's certainly part of it. The Italians aren't as palpably judgy as I hear the French are on this subject (I made sure to bring only my trendy Euro-clothes with me to Paris, so as to avoid that sniff of disapproval), I think they take it more as a matter of course that you're going to want to look your best to take out the garbage or run to the store. They give you the benefit of the doubt, which means, of course, that if you don't, you're going to just look really dumb next to everyone else who DID make the effort this morning. Way to go, you silly americana.

Here's how la bella figura functions in everyday life, at least for me: you wake up, wash your face and brush the teeth, put on enough make-up to make yourself look put-together and, well, made-up, run your fingers through the wild tangle of curls that I had the remarkable foresight to procure before coming here, without even knowing how in moda that was, put on your clothes, which are, of course, colorful or accented by some interesting jewelry or pashmina, apply chap-stick to make your lips look softer and shinier without being too obvious that you thought about making your lips look softer and shinier, put some girl-power music on the iPod and walk out of your apartment like you own the world. That was a long sentence. It takes a lot less time in real life, since you get used to it pretty darn quick.

Fashion is very important in Italy. Maybe you've heard of Gucci, Dolce & Gabanna, Fendi... but most people aren't walking around looking like those ridiculous runway models. Nope. They're walking around looking ridiculous without any help from the runways, since for the Italians, style often means looking like you got dressed in the dark. At least color-wise. This is a phenomenon in which the Italians wear these really odd color combos (like... mustard and terra cotta orange and navy) and still manage to rock it. If I tried this, I'd be laughed off the continent. If they're not playing color-roulette, the Italians are wearing violet/plum, which, in case you're one of those poor souls who doesn't live in continental Europe (sarcasm here), is The Color. It's everywhere. Try to find a store that doesn't have an entire purple section. You can't. Which is nice, since I like the color, and it's an easy way to look like you know what you're doing.

Americans would tend to think, with all this emphasis on how you present yourself, that there would be a huge consumer culture here. Well, if there is, it's the tourists who are doing all the consuming. Romans (I don't know if I can speak for the rest of Italia, since the country is so localized in culture, but I think this is pretty much the same everywhere) do not spend a lot of money on clothing. They buy a few really basic, good-quality items and then supplement their wardrobes with trendy pieces that make them look completely with it.

The concept of 'shopping' as we understand it doesn't exist here, unless you're in the UCB right by the Trevi fountain... which is, I venture a guess, more like being in a mall in Novi on Black Friday than in Rome. This is because the Italians go into stores knowing what they need to be in style. They buy that thing. And they leave. There's not a whole lot of dithering about if it's useful or will I wear it or all the other nonsense that's part of shopping culture in the States, because they know it's going to be useful, and of course they're going to wear it... that's why they're buying it.

Is this a healthy way to look at things? That's an extremely complicated question. On the one hand, it's nice that the Italians aren't so hung up on consuming for the sake of consumption. Their take on fashion is more measured, less hysterical and fetishized, than it's become in the States. On the other hand, the reason it's more measured and deliberate is because there's basically only one style, with little variation, to which everyone conforms. On the street, no one looks exactly the same, but you'll begin to notice a pattern as to what constitutes la moda.

Basically, you conform or... that's really it. You conform. There's not a whole lot of variety, and people know what they want to buy only because they buy what they need to look like everyone else. Now, on the whole, they come off as pretty wacky-looking if you're not used to the colors and the big hair and the bigger attitude, but it's all the same kind of wacky. Is this a problem? Really, it depends on what your biggest hang-up is. Is individuality more important than responsible consumerism? Or is it more important to guard against becoming one of those horrible mall-girl cliches maxing out Daddy's credit card than to guard against becoming an unthinking fashion sheep in a purple puffy coat. That's hyperbolizing a bit, but you get my point.

I don't actually mind either way, since me trying to fit in here is like trying to teach cats to walk in a parade; it's ineffectual and dumb. I'm an americana, and in spite of my big hair and newly developed strut, I still look like a foreigner. I might not look like an AMERICAN, precisely, but I think I've become some sort of weird amalgamation of Montanan functionality (my horribly ugly tire-shoes) and Italian flair (that look-at-me-aren't-I-fabulous walk that still makes me laugh at myself every time I catch me doing it), with a little bit of Michigan college-girl and wannabe fashionable person thrown in for good measure. It's weird. It confused the hell out of the French. I've definitely noticed it as it's developed. And I'm not sure if it's a good thing or not.

La bella figura is incredibly interesting. It's incredibly problematic from a feminist perspective. It's incredibly hard to explain if you haven't experienced it for yourself. And it's also incredibly necessary for living here. I didn't come to Italy fooling myself that any person anywhere would mistake me for Italian, and nevertheless I'm sure I'm going to go home with some wacky colored clothing that will be totally out of place in the States, hair like I stuck my tongue in an electrical socket, too much makeup for a college girl, and a walk that might be appropriate for some girl on America's Next Top Model who doesn't make the top 25. Thanks, la bella figura. Thanks a lot.

A Pseudo-Italian American Who the French Think Is Irish In Paris

There have been writers throughout the ages who can describe Paris a lot better than I can. Indeed, many of those who I'm thinking of loved the city so much that they were buried there, such is the allure of the place. There's a magic kind of energy in the air that immediately brings to mind the elegance, the grandeur and the creative vibes that have made the city a hot-spot for the great and the stylish since God was a boy. These great and stylish legends whose names will always be linked with the City of Lights could give the city its due much more articulately than I will be able to, but here it goes anyway.

We, meaning Christine, Casey, Michelle and I, went to Paris for the weekend. We needed a break from Rome (shock!) and the schoolwork that being here implies right now, and where better place to take a break than the city that invented joie de vivre? We could think of nowhere.

Christine and I left from Ciampino very early Thursday morning, and man oh man, what a way to start the trip. I was packed and ready the night before, with my clothes laid out fireman-style on the off chance that my traveling neurosis would fall through and I would actually get a wink of sleep. Well... you shouldn't tempt fate. I awoke to my phone ringing at 4.15 am... I was supposed to wake up at 4. Now, 15 minutes might not seem like a big deal, but when you're me, and you have my luck with travel, every second is crucial. So I saw the time on my phone after I accidentally hung up on Christine the first time and shot out of bed with an adrenaline rush that pretty much lasted the rest of the weekend. When she called back I yelled into the phone in a shaky, panicky voice that my alarm hadn't gone off while at the same time trying to hook my bra and pull on my leggings... humans need more hands.

So I probably looked like a crazy person as I flew out of the apartment building, with my coat half on, socks hanging out of the pockets, hair like Albert Einstein on his worst day, my leggings basically around my knees and my eyes still bleary from sleep. I sprinted the two blocks to the bus stop (it was important that I get THE NEXT BUS because they only come about every half an hour until 5.30) waving my arms and screaming as I watched it leaving the stop. And then I did something very stupid. I ran out in front of the bus and stood there to make it stop. This could have ended very badly, as I'm sure you can imagine, in a city renowned for its favorite pass-time of pedestrian bowling. But the driver stopped, opened the door, and thoroughly cussed me out for about half the ride to Termini. I deserved it, but I also didn't care too much. About 15 minutes after I was awakened, therefore, I was at the train station. This has to be some kind of record. Could someone research that? Thanks.

And then, as I sprinted once again off the bus to get the OTHER bus to Ciampino (the last one until after our plane took off), I realized that I had neglected to find Christine. Well, we tried the phone thing, but apparently I don't even speak English that early in the morning, because she didn't seem to be understanding my directions. We ended up playing a rousing game of parking-lot Marco Polo, during which I spent about two minutes screaming CHRISTINE! CHRISTINE! at a very confused woman who was, in fact, not Christine, but just hoping to get her commute over with... but we eventually found each other, and did some more dramatic running to catch the bus. We caught it. We got the plane. All was right with the world. On to Paris!

Beauvais airport is around 70 km from Paris. This is not ideal. But I'll be damned if Ryanair isn't still the best thing in the world, so I was willing to make some sacrifices. We got another shuttle bus and spent the lovely hour and a half ride to Porte Maillot looking out the windows of the bus and discussing the differences we saw. Difference number one: no palm trees. Now, I know this might seem shocking to you North Americans, but palm trees don't only grow in Hawaii. They are a common (though transplanted) part of Italian scenery. Not so northern France. However... I don't think I like anything more than I like the fun balls of mistletoe hanging in the oak trees. So, you trade one novelty for another. Difference number two: not really a difference so much as a Maggie-Freaks-Out moment. We saw a Buffalo Grill on our way into Paris. This doesn't mean a damn thing to most of you, but that was the first meal I ever had in France. It's this horribly kitchy cowboy place where they serve you hamburgers sans buns and really awful fake ketchup while you're sitting on a wooden bench staring at a Charlie Russell print on the wall. Yup. A little taste of what the rest of the world thinks Montana is like. Oh what fun.

But we got to Port Maillot and walked basically the length of Paris, from behind the Arc de Triomphe (by La Defense) to our hostel, which was in the East Latin Quarter (past Ile de la Cite) in Rue Mouffetard. This, my friends, is a trek. And this assessment is coming from me, the girl who doesn't really use public transportation at all, preferring to rely on her feet. But we got to the hostel in the end, but not before I had to ask several people where we were going. You know what rocks? Being able to ask people where you're going. I had forgotten just how amazing it is to communicate in a language you both speak and understand. Thanks, Mom! I basically spent the weekend starting conversations with random, very confused strangers for the simple pleasure of speaking to them. So, the French think I'm insane now. Check.

(Also, since I was speaking with such confidence and more ability than I think they're used to expecting, they couldn't seem to figure me out. I think the French really like to pigeon-hole foreigners, and they just couldn't get me. I think Italy must have changed me more perceptibly than I realize, because they didn't once guess American. I guess I dress and carry myself more like a European now. I said 'ciao' to one guy, and he gave me a funny look and asked me in French where in Italy I was from. I said Rome. He seemed satisfied. Most of the others (and there were quite a few) who asked me where I was from guessed Ireland before I could answer. That was fun. I would like to think that my ethnic heritage is that evident. The Irish people I know are awesome. It was also nice that they couldn't peg me as being from the States right away. I'm proud to be an American, but there's something to be said for being a citizen of the world.)

The hostel was called (please try not to vomit...) Young & Happy. Yeah. Ick. But it looked nice enough for how cheap it was, and Rue Mouffetard is perhaps one of the coolest little streets I've ever seen. THAT is what the Latin Quarter is supposed to look like. Christine and I spent the rest of the day wandering around (Michelle and Casey weren't supposed to be in until late that night) from the Jardins des Plantes to Notre Dame to Place de la Concorde to the Eiffel Tower to watch the light show. Yeah. The Eiffel Tower has developed this charming little habit of turning into the Vegas strip every hour on the hour. It's not classy, but most of the tourists (excluding yours truly) seem to eat it up. By the end of this day we were both about ready to die from the sheer amount of walking I had put us through, and Christine was sort of walking like an old woman due to her hip joints randomly popping in and out. So we took the Metro back to the hostel.

I love the Metro. It's so easy to navigate and it always feels like such an accomplishment when you can successfully figure out a route from where you are to where you want to be... I really enjoy the problem-solvingness of the whole thing. Also, musicians ride up and down the lines with everything from the old standby, the accordion, to the more innovative traveling jazz band, complete with their own amp, which is transported by dolly. And not the kind that little girls are given as a tool of gender conditioning. Although that would probably be more interesting to move an amp with. I digress.

The hostel, despite its initial appearances, was actually kinda sketch. But hell, it was a hostel, not the Ritz Carlton. But there were some particuarly special little quirks that made the three nights we spent there a heck of a time.

1) Never underestimate the awesomeness of clean bathrooms. It's very hard to effectively execute "the hover" while at the same time trying not to touch anything that is not necessary, and never with your bare hands, and trying not to let any of your stuff touch anything lest you contract some strange strain of alcohol-resistant-obnoxiously-loud-venereal disease. I think this is actually a real thing. I can't fathom how else many North American hostel-using kids exist. They must have contracted this. Tell your friends. Spread the awareness. Knowledge is power.

2) Structural integrity makes the world go round. Our bunk beds in the dorm would not have made the cut in a more seismically active area. In fact, if you had particularly bad allergies, one good sneeze would probably have brought the whole thing down on top of you. This was problematic for me, since I tend to roll around alot in my sleep. I think Christine feared for her life down on the bottom bunk. So I spent the three nights lying stiffly on my back, trying not to twitch so as not to cause a gravity tragedy, letting my body touch only my sheet sleeping-bag and the coat I was using for a pillow. The best nights of sleep I've ever had? No. The worst? Probably not that either, but hey, I was in Paris. It couldn't ever be super SUPER horrible.

3) Roomies. Two of the three nights, our fifth room mate was a large, silent, hairy naked guy. He was in bed when we got there each night, shirtless and apparently preparing for a long winter of hibernation, judging from the amount of hair on his chest. We didn't exchange pleasantries either night. Here's the kicker: it was a DIFFERENT large, silent, hairy naked guy each night! It blew my mind! How many of these creatures can their be in Europe? I haven't seen any... but then again, the places I've been have mostly been in Italy and France, where the men come in the more svelt, stylish, possibly gay varietals. It was very jarring to see not one giant hairy dude, but two. The third night, it was a mysterious suitcase whose owner never showed up while we were there. But whoever she was (I say she, since the suitcase was bright pink... gender conditioning again!), she was apparently very concerned about waking up at 5.13 am, since that's when her alarm was set for. And it reminded her to get up every four minutes from then on. So, Michelle finally got up and turned the thing off. I was a proponent of spiking it on the floor and leaving it as a surprise for her when she showed up, but I was overruled.

Enough about the hostel, as lovely as it wasn't. We only slept there, so blah. The city was the real destination. Since this blog is getting obscenely long (no great surprise) I'll just go through and list. Maybe. You know me. It probably won't end up being that. But I'll go in chronological order starting on Friday morning and ending Sunday afternoon. Here it is:

1) Pere Lachaise: Bury me here. For real. I love cemeteries... I'm very creepy that way. We spent literally like, four hours here. I couldn't have been happier. Plus, I got to kiss Oscar Wilde. Life: complete. Request: Come on, baby, light my fire.

2) Sacre Coeur/Montmartre: It was really amazing to come back to this church that I remember as being so very unique, and having the tools to recognize why that is. Very, very gratifying. Also, can you get better than that view? Methinks not. Also, Nutella crepes. They're the thing that proves the existence of a higher power. Yummers.

3) The Louvre: Okay, so really, being me, this deserves it's own post. So this'll be longer. Sorry. Casey had the wonderful idea of going to the Louvre on a Friday night, when it's open from 6-10 and it's a reduced rate. Turns out, that reduced rate is FREE! Can you imagine how cool this was? I'm stingy, but I would pay any amount of money to hang out in the Louvre, and it turns out that I didn't have to pay ANY amount of money! Yay! Anyway, we decided to split up, since we all had different priorities. For me, this visit was a very strong full-circle experience. The Louvre is the reason I'll be living in a box for the rest of my life. So I was wandering around, looking at all the things that once struck me as miraculous and foreign and incomprehensible and greeting them as old friends with familiar stories and completely relateable personalities. What a difference four years can make. If there was ever any experience that made me think that my life and work for the last four years have been worth it, this visit was it. It's fun to know things. It's fun to realize why I love what I love. That's why I can never leave Europe, I guess. Oh well. :) But as wonderful as it was to walk around the incredibly un-crowded museum (example: I stood face to face to the Mona Lisa, making unobstructed eye contact for a full fifteen minutes before leaving of my own volition, instead of being pushed out of the way. This is a once-in-a-lifetime, at best.) there was something better. The Louvre does this program where, three of four Friday evenings, college kids studying in Paris come to the Louvre and present very basic information and research on a work of art. Best volunteer job ever? Yes. But the fun part was that I could have discussions with the presenters. Some of them were American kids, so I talked to them in English and bonded over being abroad and what that means, but most were French, and I could talk to them, too, and discuss what I thought of the art they were presenting. SO COOL! I loved being able to actually say things other than "I would like some pizza with mushrooms, please" and "My name is Maggie. I'm American. Can I please have some gelatto?". The best part was finding other people my age who think that art and the meaning it brings to humanity's history are as important as I do. The Louvre is still a magical, life-changing place. (It was also fun to meet up again with Michelle and Casey, who were both Louvre virgins. I remember that feeling really vividly.)

4) Dinner: I forgot about prix-fixe menus. We basically shut down the Louvre at ten and then returned to Rue Mouffetard, where we found this little restaurant with no discernable name and a menu for 15 euro. Two new culinary adventures and two nostalgic standbys: escargot and duck confit, and creme brulee and cidre. YUM! I heart French food. Like, legit. It's awesome. We shut them down, too, around 12.30, and went to bed with full tummies.

5) The d'Orsay: I love this museum. Always have, always will. I found some new favorites, too. "Eve After the Fall" by Eugene Delaplanche, "The Young St. John the Baptist" by Paul Dubois, and "The Disciples Peter and John Rushing to the Sepulchre on the Morning of the Resurrection" (a mouthful, it's true) by Eugene Bernand. Look 'em up if you're curious.

6) The Eiffel Tower: We had to take Casey and Michelle. Funniest moment: watching the stampede of vendors running for the grass like so many crazed bison at the sight of a cop.

7) The Christmas Market on the Champs-Elysees: The City of Lights certainly does cash in on the fetishization of Christmas in Paris. Also, Nutella crepes again. Win.

8) L'Opera Garnier: Holy tacky gold embellishment, Batman! It's a beautiful Opera house... I just wouldn't recommend going inside if you're prone to seizures. The tour guide, Martine, tried to tell us that the Phantom is a myth. Ha! That's just what he wants you to think.

We did a ton of other stuff there, too, but these were some of the highlights. I forgot how much I loved Paris the first time I went, but I don't think I'll be likely to forget again. It has such a unique vibe, and I think, since I'm more acclimated to Rome now, and all the quirks of this city, I'm more in tune with those of other places. Cities are so, so individual. It's easy to forget that sometimes. I was happy to get to go back. It was an incredibly fun, but also very legitimizing experience. I can't wait to go back again! Hopefully there won't be such a long gap between this visit and the next one!

I Miei Genetori Sono Bravissimi

Well, after a weekend of (allegedly) working my butt off on papers and research excursions to the Aventine, the Capitoline and Ostia Antica, and the rest of this week, which will doubtless be fraught with stress of varying shades and urgency, I'll be off to Paris for the weekend.

Let me say that again. I'm going to go to Paris for the weekend. That's one of those sentences that, if you're ever lucky enough to get to say it, you should take a close look as the reasons why you can. I am fully aware of the two main reasons I'm able to say it: their names are Kurt and Kathy Jackson.

I had another moment this morning, while standing in the Pantheon taking notes on centralized, domed structures of antiquity (find me a better place in the world to have this class, I dare you) when it hit me again. I've gotten used to the kind of suffocating joy that occasionally shows up when I take a mental step back from the mundane (hah!) of everyday life here and actually realize where I am and what I'm doing. It's at these moments when I realize how undeservedly, phenomenally lucky I am to have my parents.

For my entire life, which now borders on being 21 years long, my parents have basically done everything for me. They've provided me with every opportunity, every chance I could have possibly wanted and more. For my entire life in Great Falls, they not only sat through plays and awkward recitals in sweltering auditoriums, but they got more involved in my strange activities (judging for speech tournaments? ugh.) than I had any right to expect. They were constantly doing everything they could to keep me safe and happy and to give me a future and an education that they thought I deserved. They supported me and gave me everything, even when there wasn't a person on the planet who could have been less aware of how lucky she was.

And then they sent me to college. They didn't just send me to college, either. They drove me there. From Montana to Michigan. That drive sucks. And my dad has done it four times now. If that's not a testament to love, I can't think of one. Now that I've seen comparatively more of the world and have more experience with people my age and the concerns that they face, I realize that my chance to go to college is more of a gift than I will ever be able to deserve. College (mine in particular) is expensive. The economy is weak. There are two kids coming up behind me. And yet Kurt and Kath don't ever mention any of that.

In fact, as incredibly huge as the chance to matriculate at a school that literally seems to have been tailor-made for me is, they've given me still more: they've given me this chance to travel and experience new parts of the world. And every morning, when I wake up and head to class at the Vatican or the Roman Forum, and when I can plan to go to Paris for the weekend, I can't help but take a step back and marvel at the sheer generosity and love of which I'm the undeserving recipient.

I don't pretend to have been the easiest child to raise by any stretch of the imagination, and I know for a fact that I was often supremely, audaciously unaware of just how much they did for me, and are still doing for me. But right now I'm having a moment of clarity that compels me to thank them. I really like the person I am. I like the fact that I am able to deal with situations presented to me competently (a lot of the time...), the fact that I like to try new things, and the fact that I'm not intimidated by putting myself out there. I like my curiosity and my eagerness to learn. I like my work ethic, which is a lot less sporadic in real life than it manifests itself here. I like my sense of humor. I like my sense of right and wrong. And I know that I have my mom and dad to thank for all of these things I like about myself. I also know that these things have helped me get to where I am, will help me get to where I want to go, and most especially are helping me right now deal with the curve balls that life in a foreign country will throw at you.

I'm going to go to Paris this weekend, and I'll joyfully return to speaking a language that's always been such a constant part of my life. I try to emulate my mom's passion for French and transfer the joy she gets from speaking that language into my own academic pursuits. I try to remember her enthusiasm and interest in people as people in my daily interactions. I hope that someday I'll have the courage that she does to put herself out there and really try to make a difference, even in the face of indifference, which is often a more disconcerting enemy than outright antagonism.

My dad is going to celebrate his birthday while I'm in Paris. I feel like the only way I'll ever be able to express how much his constant, unerring dedication and commitment to giving me, as well as my brother and sister, the best of everything have meant to me is by applying those principles of dedication and commitment to my studies and my life, which he has worked so hard to provide for me. His love of learning and his intimidating knowledge of basically everything make me want to work harder so that I can make him as proud of me as I am of him. I can't express how much I appreciate everything you've done for me, Dad. Happy Birthday!

I'm a lucky person in so many ways. I'm sure this fact hasn't escaped you, as I recount my adventures, and I'm sure it'll be made clear to me once again with all the force of a frying pan to the face when I'm reunited with Mona Lisa on Saturday. And I really just want to acknowledge where all my opportunities have come from, and to thank my parents so much for my life. It's pretty damn awesome.

Visiting French Dignitaries and the Mob

Two very random and unconnected topics, you say? Not really. I'll tell you what they have in common: Fall Break. I'll warn you right off the bat that this post is probably going to be one of those obnoxiously long ones that are not entertaining to anyone but me... but if you're trying to procrastinate from homework or are just flat out wasting your employer's time and money by not doing your job... glad I could help.

Fall Break is one of those intriguing mysteries that usually does not reveal itself to those students whose matriculating institution runs on the awesomeness that is commonly referred to as the quarter system. Going from a school that runs on ten-week terms to a school that runs on semesters is surely taking some getting used to, but after a grueling week of midterms, the week off was exactly what I needed.

Have you ever had one of those experiences where the life you're living is so far removed from what it normally is that you feel as though the two couldn't possibly be connected? This happens to me a lot, considering the geographical distance between the place where I grew up and the place where my life and most of my friends are back in the States... there's very little overlap between Montana and Michigan. There's even less overlap between Michigan and Italy, at least culturally. The nine of us on this program share the general experience and a lot the the personality traits that define K College students, but we've sort of been stuck in this world that is so different, both culturally and academically, from any shared experience we had before this. We've had to become friends on totally different terms than we would have if we were at K, which is wonderful, but sometimes you just get homesick for people who get the long-standing jokes and with whom you can be content just to hang out and be in each other's company.

That's why it was so nice when Elsa came to visit last weekend. We could just hang out and walk around and catch up, and it was as if no time had gone by at all since we last saw each other in June. We went to the market and bought food to make dinner one night (like we do at home... except we went to the delightful little street market in the piazza down the street rather than Meijer...), we went for numerous walks and just wandered around Rome, we went out for a delicious Italian meal at (where else?) Le Fate... we even watched some Glee!

And the incredibly wonderful and reassuring thing about her visit was this: it seemed absolutely natural that all of these things should be occuring on a different continent. The way in which we just kind of picked right up where we left off at the end of the school year, while at the same time walking around the Coloseum looking for an English-speaker to take our picture, makes me realize how lucky I am to have made such strong friendships in college. Study abroad can change you, make you a different person than you were when you went in, and this is completely as it should be; life is that way. It's just nice to know that the world does not completely stop with each new phase and experience, and that there are some things that will remain constant through those phases and experiences. Bleh. Philosophical mumbo-jumbo. The point is: it was wonderful to see her and get to show her some of the things I love about Rome. Thanks for coming, Els!

After Elsa left on Tuesday morning, Kelcie and I had to make our way to Fiumicino to meet Professors Gwynne and Higgins, as well as the other seven girls from K, to go to Sicily. At first, when I heard that this was going to happen over Fall Break, I was a little resentful. It's a class, after all, and we're supposed to have a week of vacation. But, since I am me, our time in Sicily wound up being, in all probability, very similar to what I might call my ideal vacation.

We arrived in Catania after an hour and a half flight... after standing at the gate for about an hour in what the Italians have the audacity to call a line. Oh, Alitalia... you suck. A little harsh? Think of it as foreshadowing. We got on a little bus that would turn out to be our home (ish) for the week, and drove the hour and a half to Siricusa.

Italy is constantly surprising me. Sicily bears only the tiniest bit of resemblance to Lazio (Rome), which is so different from Umbria that they could be on different continents, and Umbria and the Veneto (Venice) could not be any more different if they had brains and were trying... and all of these places (and these are only the ones I've experienced first-hand) are on this dinky little penninsula that couldn't kick even North Dakota's ass in a size race... and it's shaped like a boot! It is continually shocking to see how very, very different each new place I visit is, and how mind-blowingly, heart-stoppingly beautiful they each are in their own way.

Sicily reminds me of nothing so much as the Edenic myth. Sure, in order to come to that conclusion, you have to ignore a few big industrial works and some pretty epically crappy roads that are constantly under construction but never get any nicer... but really. It's an island, completely contained in and of itself, where there's such an abundance of fruit trees that you just can't see the forest through them... and it was the end of October when we were there, and every other plant that wasn't just eye-wateringly green and alive was blooming with these obnoxiously bright-colored, beautiful flowers. The weather remained balmy, in perhaps the mid-seventies with blue, blue skies and puffy cotton-ball clouds, with cool breezes coming off the expanse of turquoise water crashing up against the ornately craggy coastlines. So basically, October in Sicily is late May in Michigan and a myth in Montana.

The first night, when we got to our unattractively-named but nevertheless wonderful and cozy hotel, the Hotel Gutkowski, we took a walk with Professor Gwynne around the islet of Ortigia, which is Siracusa's historical center. Ortigia, formerly known mythologically as Delos, along with having some very beautiful views of the ocean and the hills, has the distinction of having been the 'birthplace' of Apollo and Diana. So, in the midst of the quaint little winding streets that have come to characterize my very favorite places in Italy (Trastevere, Asissi, Venice...), there's a massive temple to Apollo, and another to Minerva (the one to Diana was at one point next door) which is remarkably well-preserved for the simple fact that it now serves as the Duomo of Siracusa. Yeah. You can see the columns through the walls that have been put up to enclose the space, and what was once the cella of the temple has now been transformed into the side arcades of the basillica. We spent some time having class in there, pointing out the things that were consistent with both the architecture of a Greek temple and with a Christian church. Which is what I would have been doing if I'd been on vacation in Ortigia myself. Lame.

The week was so action-packed that I'll just give a few of the highlights. The archaeological museum in Siracuse and then the park that goes with it, containing a Greek theatre complex, a Roman amphiteatre, a who bunch of really cool tombs cut into the rock, and a quarry with big caves that felt like entering the mines of Moria, followed by a boat ride around the sea caves of Ortigia with five of the other K girls and a young, very nice French couple, followed by a delicious seafood dinner overlooking the water in a restaurant where the floors are glass and you can see the Greek grottos and the natural freshwater spring below... that was the first full day.

Driving up into the hinterland of Sicily is an experience that I don't think I'll ever have the opportunity to forget. There are so many allusions to Narnia and Middle Earth and Eden that I could make that it would sound trite and meaningless, as well as painfully dorky. But the sites at Agrigento, with it's massive, majestic temples looking out over the ocean, and at Akrai, where we nine performed the end of Theocrites' "The Persians" (I played Xerxes to great acclaim) and Pentalica, where my real Montana-girl roots came out as I clambored through viscious brambles and up limestone cliffs to see the tombs in the rock and then turn around and wave at those below... if those aren't good justifications for dorkiness, I don't know what would be.

One of the coolest things we did, however, was drive to a crater on Mt. Etna, which, in case you're unaware, is a gigantic volcano on the eastern coast of Sicily. The professors warned us to bring warm clothes, since the elevation changes so drastically from Siricusa to the crater, and boy, did it. You can fool yourself, when you're looking at the horizon, into thinking that what you're seeing there is just a bunch of particularly angular clouds... but up close, the mountain leaps up at you, seemingly out of nowhere, higher by far than anything else around it. The snow line is deliniated from the inhabitable area by a constant thick layer of clouds... you can see how the civilizations who lived in this and areas like it could believe the gods lived in such places... even by today's ostensibly more pragmatic standards, it's completely plausible.

The crater is like a different world, as craters tend to be. First of all, for the first time since coming to Italy, it actually felt like the time of year it's supposed to be. It was cold, but in that pleasant, expectant way that makes you think of Halloween... which was cool, because it was. It was fun and energizing to run around up there, and I don't think I've ever relished a cold nose like I did when I was there, just because it's such a novelty here... but I digress. Suffice it to say that if Sicily is an unreal experience, Etna is the pinnacle thereof.

We spent most of the week galivanting around southeastern Sicily, coming back each night to Ortigia and the Hotel Gutkowski, right on the edge of the ocean. The final night, after our trip to Etna, however, we spent in Taormina, which is the culmination of everything I loved about Sicily put into one tiny place. The town is built on a series of high, craggy cliffs and overlooks the sea. You can see Etna smoking in the distance. We watched the sun set from the ruins of a Greek theatre, and the breeze off the ocean smelled like salt water and flowers and amazing food... which we then proceeded to eat at a pizzaria by our hotel. The next morning, after a fairly early night (for Halloween, anyway), we took a cable car down to the beach, where Michelle and I, barefoot in the ocean, looked for sea glass.

Jealous? I didn't think that I could ever learn so much and have it be such an incredibly relaxing vacation... and I'm fairly enthusiastic about learning. The whole week was some sort of idyllic sojurn from the idyllic sojurn that is my life in Rome. The only bump came at the very end, when lovely Alitalia lost the reservations for only half of our group... including myself. The efforts of Professors Gwynne and Higgins, wonderful people that they are, were the only reason that I'm not still in Sicily waiting for some fat guy's daughter to get married so I can ask for a favor... and I'm not sure even the Godfather could finaggle his way through the idiocy that is the Italian national airline.

But we got home to Rome safe and sound, and BAM. Real life started up again. A week away from Rome has made me realize how much it really has become my world... and that fact, once grasped, has made me wonder and dread what will happen when I have to go one step farther back; when Rome was the vacation and I have to get used to life in Michigan again. It's a strange thought... but however it hits me when I get back, I'm sure that the week we spent in Sicily will be one of the most vivid memories I keep of my home here.

Fountains of Water, Mountains of Chocolate

I don't really have any good words to describe Tivoli... it's a town southwest of Rome, and within its microcosm it's possible to see glimpses of two civilizations millenia apart, and yet living such astoundingly similar lives that one would think they were neighbors rather than ancestor and descendent. It is home to two of the most lavish, unthinkably grand residences in Italy; one belonging to the Emperor Hadrian and the other to Cardinal Ippolito II d'Este. So shockingly similar in intent and lasting effect are these two villas that I can't help but think of Tivoli as a testament to how, though our civilization has evolved and changed so much that sometimes it is beyond recognition, even to us (yes, I'm talking to you, 1993, when no one used the Internet), our essential natures are no different than they were thousands and thousands of years ago.


Tivoli, as is the case with many of the most significant historical sites, gives us glimpses not into the lives of those who lived modest, productive and private lives, but of the rich and the powerful who could afford ostentation and the immortality that comes with it.


The Emperor Hadrian was something of a megalomaniac; for evidence of this fact I'd like to direct your attention to a ginormous wall sitting complacently along some cliffs/fields in Great Britain. Also, the Temple of Venus and Roma in Rome. It's the biggest temple in the city. And the Temple of Jupiter at the Acropolis in Athens. It also has the distinction of being the largest thing in the Temple District there. The dude did not think it was appropriate to build anything smaller than your average high-school. Dr. Freud, interpret as you will. But Villa Adriana is no exception to this tendency... in fact, it might be the culmination of Hadrian's penchant for stupidly large structures.

We arrived there in the morning on a charter bus filled not only with my Roman Imperial Art class, but also with my Villas class and an archaeology class that I'm not in. Professor Gadeyne then zoomed off to parts unknown, leaving those hapless individuals who aren't used to his speed to struggle up the hills, through the olive groves and chunks of travertine sticking up at dangerous intervals, finally catching up without time to catch their breath.

As enthusiastic and knowledgable as he is in the city, Professor Gadeyne was truly in his element surrounded by the ruins of the villa. I'm not a big antiquity girl; I appreciate it mostly insofar as it influenced the creation of the art which I truly love. But majestic doesn't even begin to cover the ruins of Villa Adriana. I'm not sure how much I would have liked it if I had been a contemporary of Hadrian's, but in it's ruined state it has flown in the face of everything the Roman rulers wished out of life, namely, to be so godlike that they controlled the natural world around them along with everything else, and been totally reclaimed by the landscape around it. The brick and limestone of the skeletons of what were once grand entrance halls and frescoed baths now appear to spring up organically out of nothing. They belong there as much as the olive groves and anemone do. I guess millenia standing in the same place will have that effect...

Villa d'Este, on the other hand, hasn't been around long enough for it to not be a little tacky in it's lavishness. The Cardinal Ippolito was close to his geographical forefather in more than the power he wielded in the society he lived in. The ancestral residence of the Cardinal-Governor of Tivoli was a monestary of the Franciscans, an order which had a reputation for having a very... um, monastic aesthetic, even among monks. This didn't jive well with our man Ippolito. Nah, he had the whole think encased inside a ginormous villa... so technically he still lived in the monastary... it just had a lot nicer furniture and a little more leg room.

He and Hadrian had another thing in common: wanting to control the natural world around them. It's a funny thing about human beings that we can't just let the majesty of nature be enough for us; we have to put our stamp all over it. At Villa d'Este, this tendency in particularly evident. The place isn't known for being the luxurious residence of an almost-Pope who got booted from the College and relegated to the po-dunk town of Tivoli because he was too popular, even if he was of the d'Este family. For those of you who don't know, the d'Estes' were sort of like... well... who's a political dynasty that's not as big as the Kennedys or as stupid as the Bushes?... They were kind of like the Adamses of the Renaissance. Not the Mortitia and Wednesday type. The John type. But I digress. The villa is known for its water gardens. And man, these things are serious business.

The villa is built into the side of a hill, but it's a very steep hill that's not so good for planting gardens. Or, you know, walking. So what Ippolito ordered was for huge amounts of dirt, etc. to be dug up from around Tivoli and he made his own hill. The guy was sort of like what Donald Trump might have looked like in the Renaissance. But the good thing about that the little red skull cap would have covered any unfortunate hair decisions.

The gardens are this veritable wonderland of splashing, dripping, cascading, trickling and water in it's every other incarnation. There are fountains which just spray water in interesting shapes and some that have mythological and classical themes intricately built into them, and some that literally have little hydraulic birds that sing and move through water power alone. And all of this in the 1530s. Doesn't that just kill you? And the amazing thing is: they're still using the same hydraulics system that was originally installed. It blew my mind. The only downside to this garden is if you have to pee before you start your tour. They're big gardens, you see, and it's easy to get distracted when all you hear is the sound of rushing water. Not so relaxing in certain instances, it turns out.

The day at Tivoli was really fun, because of the historical continuity wrought by ostentatious, self-aggrandizing bastards about how materialistic one can get. Narcisism is really fun when you don't have to deal with it face to face. The bus ride back was relaxing... basically everyone was worn out from trying to keep up with Professor Gadeynne all morning, so we slept. Then a bunch of us went out for Chinese. Sigh. That's one thing that I really miss from the States. Rice Kitchen is the ambrosia of the gods.

On Sunday Kelcie and I got up early to go to the Perugia Chocolate Festival with some other kids from school. Well, we weren't really going with anyone in particular, but as you can imagine, American kids flock to the Perugia Chocolate Festival with the same fervor as Mick Jagger fans to a Stones festival. So we knew we'd probably meet some new people on the train. Turns out we did. We spent most of the day with Emily, the resident student who organized the trip, and John, Kevin and Rish, three other study abroad students.

As you can imagine, a chocolate festival is something like heaven on earth. It smells orgasmic, to begin with, but then there are the free samples and the relatively cheap and delicious tasties everywhere you turn. Some of the highlights: hot chocolate, which is not your Swiss Miss mix, let me tell you. It's basically melted chocolate. That's all. I had peperoncini, which was spicy as well as burn your tongue hot, which was wonderful considering the fact that fall has finally arrived in central Italy. It's like soup. So, one cup will have you groaning and begging to die, basically, because of chocolate overload. But of course, we didn't stop there. I also fought my way through the mosh pit to get some of the chocolate bits flying off of the chocolate sculptures that were being carved in the street. The boys and we bonded over chocolate covered churros, which made me feel like a giant zit after I ate them. But they were still a pretty damn good choice.

After meeting up with the three boys, the six of us went to the main piazza, where I geeked out to general disinterest about the fountain carved by Nicola and Giovanni Pisano, and we noticed a lot of people with these odd chapeaus. Basically, they were Burger King crowns in the shape of purple cow heads. Like, with ears and horns and stuff. Well, we saw the source of the cow hats, and that was a tent where people were moshing (there was a lot of moshing happening. Chocolate brings that out in people) to get in and emerging with a cracker covered in oozing fondue chocolate. This was Milka. We braved the choco-mosh to get the dinky little cracker, but Kevin and I were both way more interested in procuring those hats. So, we jerry-rigged our way to the front of a line that was comprised mostly of seven year olds (you do what you gotta for the purple cow hat) and after some negotiating in ItaloEngliSwedish, we got six of them. And then proceeded to wear them for the rest of the day. Some of the people you find randomly on trains really are the best friends you can make.

I actually had to admit choco-defeat a lot sooner than the others did. Don't get me wrong; I eat Nutella like it's my job and I'm going for Employee of the Month, but not all at once and not starting at 11 in the morning and going until 5 at night. I just can't do that. So I watched placidly as everyone else put their game faces back on and went on a chocolate binge to kill a horse or two. I did break my swearing off of chocolate to participate in a round of chocolate beer, which was actually surprisingly good. It didn't taste like chocolate while you were drinking it, just a very dark ale, but there was a chocolatey aftertaste that was really interesting and fun.

Huh. How many times can I say chocolate in one post? The one most crucial thing to note about this day, besides the deliciousness and the food coma that resulted that night, is the crowd. Holy crap, people like their chocolate. It was only through extreme good fortune in the morning and extreme pre-planning in the afternoon that we got seats on the train both ways. There were people sitting and standing in the aisle for the whole two hour trip. That's dedication, my friends.

So the moral of the story is: if you're planning on the Perugia Chocolate Festival at any point in your future (and you should be), make sure to A) get the train early both ways. B) bring your ipod to drown out the chocolate-beer drunk Italians singing Shakira on the ride home and C) always remember to wear your purple cow hat. It makes the outfit.

Thank You For Everything, Professor Kirk

A lot of really great, fun things happened this weekend, but I'm not really in a place at the moment to discuss them with any kind of humor or excitement. I promise I'll post more about those stories a little later, more to document for my own benefit than because any of you are waiting with baited breath to hear about them, when the initial shock of this very, very sad day has abated.

An email was sent out yesterday to all the AUR students with the news that Professor Terry Kirk had passed away suddenly over the weekend. I don't really know any more than that, and it would be inappropriate and disrespectful of me to speculate. All I know is that it was very sudden and shockingly out of the blue. Professor Kirk had been teaching at AUR for over twenty years. Needless to say the news pretty much rocked our little corner of The Eternal City.

I am personally placed in a situation that I've never experienced before by this unquestionable tragedy. Of the death that I have experienced before, I was either mentally and somewhat emotionally prepared for that person, beloved though they were, to pass away, or the event was far enough removed from my immediate existence that I was saddened, but not stopped completely cold by the news. This is different. I saw Professor Kirk walking out of a classroom building on Tuesday night last week. I waved to him and smiled, and he grinned back as he zoomed with characteristic briskness toward Via Carini. On Thursday, Professor Gwynne told us in Art For Art's Sake that he would be leaving after that lesson and that Professor Kirk would be resuming the class. As much as I love Professor Gwynne, I was nevertheless excited by the idea of another class spent constantly on my toes, waiting to jump when a question was fired at me in a style which would have made Socrates proud. I was so eager to experience his teaching again.

There are those people that you rarely come across, and when you do you count yourself very lucky, who provide an incredibly accurate model of what you want to be when you finally reach that elusive point of "grow up". They reinforce and encourage that part of you that whispers "this is what I love. This is why I love it." They give you an outlet to express those things you already know while at the same time constantly giving you new things to learn. You can look at them and see why you chose the profession you chose, because they are an example of a person who followed their passion and triumphed. They set the example of continuing education not because it will get you more money, but because they genuinely find joy in their curiosity and in discovering new things for the sake of discovering them.

I only knew Professor Kirk for a little less than two months, but in that time he made such an impact on me that, though I came to Rome thinking that Art History could just be a neat thing to know a lot about but not necessarily an ideal career path, I now realize that I can't ignore something that makes me thrilled to go to class each day. The joy in his face when he spoke about the aesthetic theories of Kant and Winkelmann makes me realize that, even though what you're passionate about may be confusing to some people, if it makes you excited enough to make your life's work revolve around it, that's what you should be doing.

Again, I didn't know the man very long, but given the outpouring of devastation and grief that AUR is currently weathering, his indelible impact on me was not a unique event. If he could help me solidify my academic passion into a career goal in just two months of twice-a-week classes, I can't even imagine the impact he's had on the students and teachers he's been working with for over twenty years. There are some people who change people just by being themselves.

Here's my point: if there's someone out there who made a profound impact on you, whether it be academically, politically, spiritually, whatever... tell them. Tell them how much you appreciate the role they played in your life, and how their influence has stayed with you. Honestly, on Friday I would have thought that sentiment a little melodramatic and sappy, but the world can change just that quickly, and you never know when you might have already run out of chances to thank them for the person you are.

Religious Life in the Capital of Catholicism

As many of you are doubtless aware (either because you're a part of my family, or because I can't ever seem to shut up about them...) I was raised as a part of a ginormous Irish-Catholic family. Like, the kind of big Irish-Catholic family who make Mass an integral part of almost every family gathering, do some pretty entertaining acrobatics in too-small kitchens/living rooms/dining rooms in order to link hands and pray before a meal, and where everyone is not only someone's cousin or aunt/uncle, they're also someone's Godparent or Confirmation sponsor... in the 'recipes' section of our family website, there's a Novena. You get it. We're Catholic.

And I'm so very grateful to have been raised in this family. Not only for the more obvious reasons of having a ton of people supporting you in what you do and having the pretty sweet added bonus of a built-in group of friends, but for one very simple reason: if my parents had decided to raise my brother, sister and I in another religious tradition, I probably wouldn't be an art historian.

Not that everyone in my family is Catholic; my paternal extended family isn't, and their faith is just as strong and just as inspiring to me. But having the traditions of Catholicism reinforced, the stories reiterated over and over again, and the penchant for ornate (by Montana religious standards) ornamentation presented to me week after week certainly cultivated in me a healthy interest, and a rather comprehensive elementary knowlege, of Catholic iconography before I even knew of the existence of a field of study called Art History.

When I went to the Louvre at age 16 and found myself able to identify events and even relatively obscure people in Christian artwork without looking at the placard, it was one of the coolest moments of my life, and certainly the one that doomed me to a field where I can hope for little more than an especially nice refrigerator box to call home after I finally finish school. But that probably wouldn't have happened (damn! I could have been a lawyer!) if I had not been raised in the tradition for which these artists had been working.

Naturally, when it came time for me to study abroad (I love how that's like, a right of passage in the American university system now), Rome, with its rich history not only of the art that has fascinated me from the word 'go', but of all that which influenced and inspired it, seemed a perfect fit. Not because I'm an especially devout Catholic; I have more than a few gripes with the political position of the Institution as it exists right now, but because of all the incredible art that has been inspired by the Institution, and maybe by the Faith itself sometimes, throughout the centuries. So, with my very faithful and loving family behind me, supporting me, and my mainly academic interest in something so very spiritual for so many people before me, I found myself stuck between St. Peter and a hard place.

I came to Rome with not a little trepidation on how I was going to handle my political objections to the Church coupled with my burning desire to enter every church I saw and analyze the altarpieces to within an inch of their metaphorical lives. I was afraid that I was entering a country where the Institution reigned supreme and left little room for wonder, love, compassion, comfort, education... all the things that I've learned from my big Catholic family back in the States. I was afraid that the Italians would be able to smell on me the stench of 'culturally Catholic academic who thinks she's so enlightened'... I've definitely caught a whiff once or twice myself.

But really, I couldn't have been more wrong. Instead of prancing into the middle of a religious oligarchy where one can't purchase condoms because they spread AIDS and women must be seen and not heard, I found myself in a country full of cultural Catholics. The observation has been made before the you can't help but be Catholic when you live in Italy. Churches in Rome are like Starbucks' in New York; there are at least two every block or so. Most of the major holidays when people get off work are also Catholic Holy Days. Your kid probably goes to a parochial school, not because he's the second son and so destined for the priesthood, but because parochial schools provide a really good education.

I'm constantly fascinated and delighted by the way in which religious life seems to permeate the everyday here without making a big deal about itself. The main identifying factor of my bus stop is an altar to the Virgin built right into the wall, complete with an entire brigade of marble and bronze plaques bought and placed there by families. There are usually burnt-out candles, wilting roses and prayers written out and folded up and stuck behind a plaque. Many people make it a habit, when they're disembarking, to touch the foot of the altar before absent-mindedly making the Sign of the Cross and continuing on their way, screaming into their cell-phones all the while.

For a few weeks it was always amusing to me when a priest or a monk, in full cassock, or a nun in her habit (this is even in 90 degree weather) would pass me on the street. Now it's just business as usual. I've even begun to be able to identify the different orders based on their dress. It was a bit confusing at first when a group of nuns came to the park I was sitting in and began to gaily set up for a picnic... I thought one of them was Mother Thereasa... I'd only seen that blue and white habit on one other person before. But they ride the bus, drive around town and go grocery shopping (there's another icon of the Virgin set into the wall on the corner of the grocery store, btw) just like I do. They buy less cheap wine... but that's their perogative I guess.

And these people arent' just relics of a bygone era of devoutness, either. These are pretty young guys with their backpacks casually slung over their shoulders, skillfully navigating the crowded 75 to Piazza Independaza... in a cassock. There's one especially mean calendar that all the little tourist traps sell, which I can only compare to a fireman calendar in the States. It's basically just a bunch of beautiful young men, one for each month, staring broodingly at the camera. Except they all have black shirts with white collars on. Grr. That's just plain cruel. Blasphemous? Perhaps. But funny? Yeah. And a little unnerving for me, who was raised with priests who were all pushing at least fifty? You betcha.

And you know how in the States the biggest, most grandiose and hallowed buildings are usually reserved for affairs of state? Like, how every capitol building has a big dome on it and we build giant suggestive obelisks to commemorate our general macho badassery? And how churches are generally not the focal point of a major city's skyline? Turn that around, and you've got Rome. Parliament is nothing to sneeze at, architecture-wise, but St. Peter's makes it look like a Fischer-Price dollhouse. Rome's skyline, although it's not a particularly high city and therefore hasn't got a really distinctive one, is dominated by the domes of churches, not the skyscrapers of capitalist temples of commerce or Greecian inspired buildings build to house democracy.

The point is: Catholicism has been the norm around here for so long that no one even thinks twice about it. You pray to St. Anthony when you lose something because it's what you do, not because you're thinking that some guy with a halo is going to tap you on the shoulder and hand you your cell phone. You cross yourself when someone else does it more as a reflex than as a sign of solemn devotion. And Jesus not only died for your sins, but He also gets you the day off work once in awhile. To quote poor jilted Diane Lane out there under the Tuscan sun somewhere, Mary is less the absolute paragon of feminine Virtue and Purity than she is everyone's aunt, who is just there, looking out for you, from basically every street corner.

If I've learned one thing about religion from living in Rome, it's this: Catholicism, and religion in general, I suppose, can be whatever you need it to be. It can be a habitual action that tells you something about where you've come from, or just an excuse to get off work a few days a year. It can be a very dearly held belief that compels you to go to Mass each day or join a holy order, or it can be simply a part of the life going on around you. It can be a comforting familiarity when you're far away from your family. It can be the inspiration for a chosen path of education. It can be a new cultural discovery and a safety net at once.

I've learned that religion is intensely personal, and that devotion doesn't come in only one flavor. For me, the most sacred and holy part about Catholicism is the fact that it has inspired great human beings to greater feats of artistic expression. And my way of praying, by marveling at what human beings are capable of and then learning just how they did it, is just as valid as receiveing Communion every day of your life. I've learned that, shockingly, it's easier to ignore the Pope when he literally lives about a mile away than when he's across the world issuing edicts from on high.

Maybe that's why Italy has such a healthy (in my opinion) relationship with religion compared to the places I've lived before. It's part of their lifeblood. It's in the very soil. They imbibe it every day and, much like wine, it looses its remoteness and mystery and becomes another important facet of a rich and deep understanding of who they are and where they come from.

The Fairies Tale

Do you ever have those experiences where you're expecting something to be 'cool', and for it to be 'a great experience', but you're not expecting anything more than a story to tell? Or those faint but real suspicions that some necessity of life has the potential to be something so much more enriching, fulfilling, gratifying, completing than even you ever thought it could be? Or one of those times where the newness you're experiencing blend with the familiar in such a way that you're completely exhilerated at the same time that you're comforted? Well, if none of this is ringing a bell, you need to get your ass to Le Fate.

Here's the story:

Michelle had approached me and a few of our other friends several weeks ago with the idea to take a cooking class that's advertised on some bulletin board in the AUR A building. Obviously, this sounded really cool, since I love to cook and to eat and experience new foods, but it was 35 euro, and I'm also kinda stingy, so I was leery. She got in touch with Andrea (who she assumed was a woman), who is the chef and owner of the restaurant Le Fate, in the meantime, giving us all some time to think it over.

The deal was: we would show up at the restaurant at around noon one day, and Andrea would teach us and help us cook a traditional four-course Italian meal. Then, we would eat said meal and probably make a lot of yummy sounds, and all of this for 35 euro. Well, given my love of cooking, I decided that this was actually really reasonable for the experience and the tasty food that was sure to be included. I had absolutely no idea what I was in for.

Casey, Michelle, Christine, Amanda and I met up this morning at 11:15 to walk to Le Fate, which is on Viale di Trastevere only a few blocks from my house, and close to the tram stop that gets the rest of them down from Monteverde. It's a beautiful fall day in Rome today, which is basically indistinguishable from a beautiful summer day in Montana, weather-wise. It's sunny and bright, but still pretty hot for what one expects of fall; it's about 70 degrees-ish. So we walk the few blocks to Le Fate, which I've been to before last week with Michelle to put the down payment on the class. We didn't meet Andrea then, but rather HIS (yeah, Andrea. Like, Andrew.) brother, who helped us settle the payment. I was immediately enchanted last week by this place.

Le Fate literally translates as The Faeries, and the restaurant, which probably seats around 25 people at maximum capacity, is all decked out like a woodland glen. The chief source of light, besides the big front windows, are twinkle-lights. There are carved wooden gnomes (but the effect is whimsical, not tacky) and big wickerwork chandeliers hung with grapes and little disco balls... it's trendy and sweet and homey all at the same time. I immediately loved it. Like, it's a restaurant with a faerie theme. Okay? But it totally works. It seems like it just grew up there; there's nothing contrived about it.

So we show up today and the woman who opens the door doesn't look to be much older than we are; turns out she's 28. Erica greets us warmly in English, and I immediately think "woah, this girl's from Michigan!". Yup. Turns out she grew up in the Detroit area (at this point, who didn't?) and went to college for awhile at Western (that's in Kalamazoo, folks. Queue the singing puppets...) before transferring to AUR. She now lives in Rome with her boyfriend, Andrea, and helps him organize what I guess have become a very popular restaurant and VERY popular cooking classes. She's totally chill and friendly, and seems the ideal young expat to me. She's still authentically American, but she gives off an air of being more a citizen of wherever she happens to be at the time. I feel an immediate desire to be friends with this woman.

And then Andrea shows up. It's not even possible to describe this guy. He's 32, but he's been in the kitchen basically his whole life. He's vibrant and funny right off the bat, and very, very beautiful. Like, what all Italian men should look and act like. Erica is one lucky woman. He starts off the class with this incredible, joyful intensity of a man who really loves what he does. He talks about the objectives of the class, which is to help us to experience real Italian cooking, and more specifically, real Roman cuisine. He makes it very clear that one of the four courses of our meal is going to be a very regionally specific Roman dish. He's Roman. Lived in Rome his whole life, though he's very well traveled and speaks beautiful, though not perfect, English. I am immediately drawn to the guy's energy. He knows that he's very good at what he does, and he wants to share what he knows with other people. I admire this quality, since it's one I hope to acquire for myself, in my own work.

Well, I'm chomping at the bit to get started, especially after he talks a little bit about Le Fate and what his values as a chef and businessman are. Everything he uses in the kitchen, the wines, the meat, the produce... all of them are local. Local, as in, he came back from the market with the ingredients for our meal about ten minutes before we got there. And not a market like Meijer, but the very street market with stalls and vendors that I passed on my way to his restaurant. Since everything he uses is local, he only cooks those things that are in season. On his menu right now are fiore di zucco, pumpkin flowers, which will only be available for about another two weeks before they're gone until next summer. He shops each and every morning and designs his specials for the day based on what he's inspired by at the market.

Here's what we're cooking: a soup (not a traditional first course in Italian cooking, but Andrea has a ton of friends from AUR who always bugged him about making them soup when he was our age, so he knows Americans like it, and it's a nostalgic thing for him to make it with us) of leeks, potatoes and pumpkin, flavored with sage, rosemary, bay and juniper, followed by fresh pasta (yeah, we're going to learn to make pasta) with a sauce of mushrooms and fresh cherry tomatoes with parsley and romano (yes, ladies and gents, thats romano as in ROMAN), followed by saltinbocca (beef, NOT veal, as Andrea explained to me when I asked, because the Roman area not like Montana is it's amount of open space, so it's not economical, and never was, to kill a cow before it was big enough to feed more than a few people. Why waste the potential for more food?), and finally individual chocolate soufles that, Andrea said, is not only the best recipe he's ever found for soufle, but will also keep in the fridge for up to two weeks before you cook it. Sweet in more ways than one.

We got in his kitchen, which was close quarters for the six of us, with Erica popping her head in every now and then to chat when she got bored on the computer. Andrea not only teaches the HOW of things, like how to chop leeks without cutting all your fingers off (I'm a lot more experienced in the kitchen than some of my friends), but the WHY, like the thing with the beef, or a very interesting thing about garlic: he said that Italians don't like to use it in the same quantities that Americans think they do. He ways that garlic is very heavy on your digestion, and the reason that Italians even use it in the first place is because of it's nutritional value, which is all in the skin, which Americans peel off. So, if you're cooking with garlic rather than eating it raw, you can just crush it and leave the skin on and it won't hurt anything, and will actually help your heart and your cholesterol. Fun fact and misconception I've always held about Italian cooking.

So anyway, we're cooking along, all getting to help with different parts of the meal; I actually made the pasta dough by myself, a skill which I've always wanted to acquire but was a little intimidated by. I don't know why, now that I know how. Fresh pasta is the best kept secret in the world, in my opinion. A) It's stupidly simple to make, B) It only has four ingredients, tops and C) these ingredients are cheaper than buying already made pasta like Barilla, etc.. Holy crap. What a revelation. I may not ever cook with dried pasta again, given the choice, because of how easy, cheap and wonderful the fresh version is.

The first course is finally finished (by yours truly) by blending the potatoes, leeks and pumpkin together with a stick blender (which is, incidentally, a good gift idea for me if you're stuck), and then served with fried bread. Yeah. Fried bread. Two of the best things in the world coming together at last. I can tell you now that this is categorically and without a doubt the best soup that I've ever eaten. It's warm and comforting and really, really simple. You can taste each ingredient and the freshness of it right through the beautiful, creamy texture. It was all I could do not to lick the bowl.

When Andrea brings out the second course, it's really funny to see the pasta we made by hand (pici, which is like hand-rolled spaghetti, but much fatter) in this beautiful, delicious and yet again very simple dish. We joked that we could pick out the ones that each of us made based on technique. The saltimbocca is next, and this term literally translates to "jump in your mouth", because the Romans eat it as a sort of finger food. It's a very thin slice of tenderloin, on top of which is placed a piece of proscuitto and a piece of Ememtare cheese (although Andrea said any mild cheese will work). This whole thing is folded over and a sage leaf is secured on top with a toothpick. Then it's cooked over low heat in butter for a few minutes. How could that be bad?

Throughout the meal, Andrea and Erica sit and eat with us, and we talk about everything from our majors to what everyone's opinon is of New Jersey (mostly not favorable, if you're wondering... NJ has a really bad rep here for some reason...) to where New England is. Andrea is confused because he's under the impression that it's a state, and that it's somewhere close to Wisconsin. It takes a little while, but we get there in the end. We laugh and drink wine and Erica and Andrea ask us what we like about Rome. They're both very impressed that no one says The Coloseum, but both make a face when I express my love for the water fountains. Apparently the water tastes like hose water. Apparently this is very okay with me. Andrea talks about how he and his dad started this restaurant, about how he and his brother run it now with their parent's help... Erica helps us enumerate the differences between Italy and the States... they're really warm and friendly; the kind of people you just want to be friends with.

The chocolate soufle comes out of the kitchen in Andrea's capable hands, each decorated with "Le Fate" and each of our names in Creme Anglaise around the edge. Delicious doesn't even begin to cover it. Finally, after around 5 and 1/2 hours spent at Le Fate, we take our leave of Andrea and Erica with hugs and kisses and promises to return for dinner sometime, and very VERY full and sleepy.

Rome in the afternoon is beautiful, with the soft light coming down through the trees that inexplicably still have leaves on them. I'm so content and happy, but also really excited by the things that this restaurant and the people who work there represent. Local, real food cooked with passion and love and tradition by a guy who really likes food and really likes people, and a couple who seem really cool and together, even though their cultural backgrounds are so different. The whole thing just seems like an essay on the way different kinds of love: familial, professional, personal, cultural... can all blend into such an amazing, satisfying and altogether unique way... rather like an incredible pumpkin soup. Moral of the story: best 35 euro I've ever spent. Really, the best expenditure of money I've made in QUITE a while. And worth a hell of a lot more.

If you're ever in Rome, and I sincerely hope that my descriptions have piqued your interest in this city I'm falling for more than they've put you off, I can't recommend this restaurant, or these classes highly enough. It was as close to a perfect experience as I can imagine. Here's the website: http://www.lefaterestaurant.it/home.html. I submit the above as the highest testament that I'm capable of. Buon appetito!

Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Jerks

Today, I have come to what I think are two pretty obvious conclusions about the universe. I'll try to explain them as accurately as possible, and relate the circumstances that lead to them.

Conclusion 1) Human beings are the most miraculous, incredible, improbably beautiful things that have ever evolved on this earth. And that may sound a little biased, considering that to the best of my knowledge, I am a human being, but I really do mean it. And this is coming from a girl who spent her entire existence until the age of 18 in Montana. And really, if you can apply the words miraculous, incredible and improbably beautiful to any place on earth, Montana would probably be that place. And perhaps I should qualify the above statement by reiterating that I'm an art history major, so basically, without human beings, I would have no field of study. Also, I wouldn't exist, so it wouldn't matter, but... that's just getting waaaaaaaay too existential... leave me alone! It's 11.00 at night and I've had an emotionally exhausting day.

Why, Maggie? You may ask. Why this convoluted existential quandry? What could possibly have been so emotionally draining that it's made you so euphorically arrogant, so philosophically woozy? Well... two words. Sistine Chapel.

Now, I flatter myself that after almost twenty-one years in my head, I've gotten to know myself reasonably well. So it stands to reason that I should have expected this kind of reaction from myself. And to a certain extent, I did. I didn't go immediately gallivanting off to the Sistine Chapel straight off the plane because I wanted some time to mentally prepare myself. People who haven't spent a good two years of their fairly short life studying the time period of which the Sistine Chapel is perhaps the piece de resistance have told me that the first time they saw it fundamentally changed them. I know myself well enough to know that I couldn't just let it be another tourist site.

Now, I know that sounds melodramatic. What makes that silly Pope-choosing room more important, more significant than say, the Raphael stanzae just down the hall? The Caravaggio hanging in the painting gallery downstairs? The Bernini adorning the entirety of St. Peter's? The answer is: it is precisely those things that make this one thing so significant. Whether by design, divine or human, or purely by chance, what I experienced today as I walked through St. Peter's and then through the Vatican Museums, seeing all of these works of genius both classical and modern, was a slowly escalating realization, something that I've brushed up against obliquely since I set foot in the Louvre at the age of sixteen, that human beings are capable of miracles. There is so much beauty and wonder and life inside us that we can't help but let it out in one way or another... and some people just happen to excel at this expression to such an extent that what they create acts as an outlet for others to realize the beauty and wonder and life within themselves. That is why the arts are important. That is why you have a coffee cup with the hands of God and Adam on it. That is why I've seen people's eyes mist over when they talk about the first time they saw their favorite painting in person for the first time, or the first time they experienced Shakespeare, Mozart, Longfellow. What Michelangelo, Leonardo, Chagall, Picasso, Gentileschi, Seurat, Monet, Van Gogh, Klee, Rodin... the list goes on... what they created touches something inside each of us that reminds us of why it is good to be a human being, when there are so many reasons that make us forget.

Now, that was all awfully sincere of me. I'm usually very flippant about this kind of thing... I call myself a nerd (to my face) a lot more often than anyone else does. I'm fascinated by the things that make art political, personal, heretical, whatever, but that doesn't mean that I don't have reverence for what I'm studying. It means a lot to me. It is both chosen profession and religion. And I know it's not that way for everyone, and for some people the Sistine Chapel ceiling is not some portal into deeper humanist awareness but rather just some paint on a ceiling that hurts your neck if you look at it for more than a few minutes... I understand that. Intellectually. Emotionally, viscerally, it's a completely different story. Which brings me to...

Conclusion 2) Human beings are cattle. Silly, stupid cattle. A statement completely at odds with the rapturous, Bambi-esque one above it? Perhaps. Or maybe just two sides of the same perverse and often-baffling coin of human nature. What makes me say this? Poor planning and flash photography.

The first: I knew that the Sistine Chapel would be a much more religious experience for me than it is for the general population. I've spent literally hours analyzing the fulcrum toe of the flippin' Libyan Sybil. It was just going to be more important for me. So I decided to wait until I could have the house to myself and time to process without talking to anyone when I got home... and with my roommates at Oktoberfest this weekend, it seemed like the perfect time. Except... the entire tourist population of Europe decided that today was a good day to move from in front of the Mona Lisa to standing in line at the Vatican. It was poor planning on my part to make my pilgramage on Saturday (the literal Latin translation: day on which we get through all the major tourist attractions in this city before moving onto... what was it again? Oh yeah. Paris.) I was sort of expecting this kerfuffle, but I was also niavely expecting that since the Vatican is considered by some to be rather a holy, sacred place, that that tourist population of Europe might find it within themselves to show some respect. Wrong.

The second: Fun fact-- did you know that there are guys whose JOB it is to stand in the Sistine Chapel all day and yell at people to shut up and quit taking photos? And do you know what keeps these guys employed? The fact that people never cease to talk in very loud voices and take flash photos despite the fact that they're being admonished not to in twelve (I counted) different languages.

While I was sitting and pondering the brilliant contradiction that is humankind, the humankind around me were busy moshing in an attempt to get right underneath The Creation of Adam to take their brazenly un-clandestine photos. Even though they're not allowed! Now, I get the idea that by taking a picture, even if it's a crappy, poorly lit picture of some other person's genius, you get to share a little in that genius. It's nice to bask in the reflected glow. I get that.

But honestly! How do you think these things have lasted as long as they have? When they tell you not to take photos, there's a good reason to listen! It's not just some uptight control-freak thing that all museums have in common; they're trying with all their might to combat your selfishness and stupidity and downright carelessness in order to preserve these things for future generations. And honestly, with the world as it is right now, those things that make us remember those things that are good and beautiful and wonderous about ourselves are more imparitive than ever.

And also, do you really need to talk for the twenty or so minutes that you're in a room where they specifically ask you not to talk? Is that so hard? Could you not just pay attention to what you're feeling inside yourself for a few minutes without having to point out to your companions "Look! There's Adam! Ohmygod, I can't believe it!". Really? Because you're holding a 20 euro bookbag from the gift shop that would suggest that this sight isn't a complete surprise. One would think that you would have been expecting to see the not-so-well-hung naked guy on the bag before you bought it. But that's just me. And I might have weird expectations about these things.

But really. In the paragraph above when I was spilling my guts about art history being akin to a religion for me... I felt like I was going to go all Jesus on their asses and start screaming "Myyyyyyyyyyyyyy temple should beeeeeeeeeeee a house of art! BUT YOU HAVE MADE IT a den of POPERAZZI. GET OUT! GET OUT!" (A reference to Jesus Christ Superstar for your enjoyment). But I held it in.

And nothing I can furiously blog about or bitch about is going to change the fact that, for a lot of people, the Sistine Chapel, really, the entirety of the Vatican Museums, is just another check on the list of things they should really see in Rome. And that Rome is just another check on the list of places they should see in Europe. And that Europe is... you get it. And that makes me so sad. I wish everyone could see these things the way I see them. I wish I could convey some semblance of the wonder they hold for me to the guy sitting next to me on the bench, feverishly reading his guidebook as though there's going to be a quiz in ten minutes.

But really, if everyone saw the world the way I see it, we'd all get bored pretty fast. Variety is the spice of life, after all, and if everyone saw everything the way I see it... well, we'd all take ourselves way too seriously, for one (which I think is already true, but in my case I know it to be fact) and I couldn't have even gotten into the Sistine Chapel today because the entire room would have been full of dead silent, reverent people wiping away single, artistic tears and not moving for hours. And I don't think I would have liked that any more than the poperazzi cattle.

But think of the killing I could make on neck massages.