far too much writing, far too many photos

runswithscissors


Tuesday, March 04, 2003

I'm in a huge cybercafe in la piazza Berberini, looking over that last entry, which turns out to contain several egregious typos and elementary writing screw-ups. I know a bunch of you read that bugger after I posted it -- I keep track of that kind of thing. You couldn't say something, maybe send a polite note? You had to let me embarrass myself by writing like a pre-schooler? Grumble, grumble.

I've said this before, I will undoubtedly say it again. It is often the case that my first drafts contain less than wonderful writing which gets cleaned up the next time or two I check in here. Sometimes posts here need a day or two before they're actually readable. Just something to keep in mind.

Today: the first occasion of blue, cloudless skies since last Thursday or so. Impossible to tell from my hotel room 'cause the ancient wooden shutters outside the window are locked closed. The alleyway outside (actually a step or two above an alleyway -- more like a narrow, cobblestone pasillo, a neighborhood passageway, clean and lovely) is deep in shadow during the morning hours, providing no weather clues apart from rain/no rain. It's only when I step out the building's front door that I get the picture, and this morning's picture is a fine one, air fresh and cool. I got out early enough that no tourists were about, only Romans on their way to work, beginning the day's activities.

My current squat is located near the Fountain of Trevi (la Fontana di Trevi), a major tourist collection point that is to a fountain what Niagara Falls is to a place where some water falls from somewhere high to somewhere lower. A mammoth grotto kind of thing, really, an enormous pool into which water falls by way of a sprawling, grandiose expanse of statuary and fake rocks, located at an intersection of narrow pedestrian ways deep within a tangle of winding backstreets. The sound of the water falling echoes off the surrounding buildings in a way that multiplies it to pleasing effect. I can see why it attracts so many out-of-towners. It's fun and, considering where it is, an example of charming, entrancing incongruity. (Did I actually write that? "Charming, entrancing incongruity"? Someone stop me, before I kill again.) Plus, the pool is actually laid out in front of a huge white building, and the statuary and fake porcelain rocks all kind of morph out of the building's front facade, which looks much more intriguing than I suspect it sounds.

Something I love about Rome: fountains. They're everywhere. And not just the big honkin' buggers with loads of water cascading down over heroic statues -- little ones also, tucked unobtrusively away on back streets or on busy corners. Teensy things, more like fonts, really -- small spigots from which a quiet, modest stream of water falls into basins of no more than a bucket's capacity and often far less, often overflowing to the sidewalk.

But I blather.

I skipped breakfast at the hotel this a.m. Yesterday morning's turned out to be a debacle -- the dining room is a cramped, microscopic space into which nine or so tables have been crammed, making it uncomfortable and nearly impossible to move around. Not a place that produced much happiness for diners or staff. I got myself out walking instead, stopping in at a neighborhood joint for a cup of morning espresso that went down in friendly fashion.

My body's had it with this trip, I think. Way too much roaming about -- miles and miles each day. Eating experiences that can vary drastically from meal to meal, from the sublime to the ridiculous (last night's dinner had both). This morning as I dragged myself out of bed it let me know clearly that it's ready to go home. I reassured it as gently as I could that we head back to Madrid tomorrow, it seemed to settle down.

So. Yesterday's field trip: the Roman Forum and the Colisseum.

The Metro, nearly packed to capacity, reminded me all over again how much I love studying people and, in particular, people's faces. They're beautiful things, faces -- living, organic canvases on which the inner life gets aired out in delicate, complicated ways. Bodies are great, too, don't get me wrong (yowza!), but faces are a whole other thing. And the Metro or a crowded bus is a prime location for taking them in. Something which has to be done carefully, of course, since it can easily get intrusive. (What's that old George Carlin line about elevator rides? Something like, "Nothing to do but not look at the other guy.")

There were a few 20-something couples on the train yesterday a.m., all in a romantic mood. Standing close, arms around each other, kissing softly, talking quietly, occasionally closing their eyes and kissing deeply. Something I've gotten used to seeing in Madrid -- open, easy demonstrations of love, affection. (Make love, not war, etc.) Other people talked quietly or endured their morning ride, eyes closed, still waking up.

Got out at la estacion Colosseo, as I passed through the exit turnstiles a guy dressed in a Roman Centurion costume, complete with fake sword, crossed in front of me toward a newstand, running into someone he knew, a person in business dress. They stopped, shook hands in loud, smiling greeting and conversed for a while. (Later, I saw more of his kind, standing in groups of two and three, calling out to tourists "Take your peecture weeth us!", resulting in some seriously funny photo sessions.)

And outside, under a low, gray sky, the Colisseum loomed. Off to the right lay the Forum, I headed in that direction, up a long slope via an old, old, old cobblestone path. The Forum and the Palatine Hill turn out to cover many acres of land, a major spread of ancient real estate planted in the middle of the contemporary city. The hill provides quieter, more contemplative wandering, at times through gardens, complete with orange and lemon trees and groups of school kids from all over running around like puppies. Other sections are more wide open, and strewn with ruins -- walls and foundations of buildings, bits of columns and statuary. All up on a bluff from which one can see modern Rome spread out on other hills, the sound of traffic coming and going on the wind.

And yesterday came with plenty of wind. In fact, it felt like a sudden return of winter. Cold, gray, somber, at times hostile. People walked around with collars up and coats zipped. The expanses of grass and clover between the ruins up on the hill were sprinkled with tiny flowers, blossoms of white, yellow, pink shivering in the chilly breeze.

At one point, I heard the sound of voices raised, turned to see a 30ish French couple having an argument. He threw an umbrella to the ground, she kicked it. He turned away, pulled out a guidebook, retreated into it. She picked up the umbrella. He wandered off out of view, she followed.

Shortly thereafter, a more placid group of four French women passed me -- two 30-somethings, two in their young 20s -- one of them reading aloud from a guidebook, her voice sounding like music in the cold air.

The other part of the Forum is down in a natural basin that covers quite a bit of land, an area crowded with the remains of large-scale structures -- temples, baths, a shell or two of what were enormous buildings, feats of engineering all. An impressive, vivid array, a place that must have been powerful and exciting in its day, crowded with people and activity. As it was yesterday, in particular crowded with large groups of high-school age kids from Germany, France, Spain, Italy, guided by patient, good-humored older folks.

And the Colosseum. Not what I'd expected. Yes, the main structure remains what I'd seen in countless images. Inside, though -- not the clean, wide expanse of sand I'd pictured. The circular lower level is filled with the remains of a network of structures, above which there was apparently a surface at the level of first ring of seats in which the blood-spilling took place. According to my 1991 Let's Go Italy guidebook, "Within 100 days of [the Colosseum's] AD 80 opening, some 5000 wild beasts perished in the bloody arena (from the latin word for sand, harena, which was put on the floor to absorb blood). The floor (now partially restored and open for various concerts and TV shows) covers a labyrinth of brick cells, ramps and elevators used to transport wild animals from cages up to arena level."

Scaffolding now provides what arena-level surface there now is -- a wide passage cutting across the middle of the arena, extremely cool to cross, with a large deck area at one end. I found that if I devoted much thought to the original use of the structure I didn't enjoy being there very much. If I simply enjoyed being present in that string of moments -- the sun breaking through the clouds, people from all over the world in generally happy attendance -- it was a great place to be. I found stairs, headed up to the structure's top level where I walked around at a leisurely pace, discovering a short flight of steps that the original builders had thoughtfully provided for 21st century sunbathing. Parked my hinder there, pulled out a copy of El Paìs I'd picked up earlier and relaxed for a while, languages from all over the map drifting in the sunlit air around me.

One exceptional sight that presented itself to me: two 30ish German males in virtually identical black corduroy, vaguely cowboy-style suits (the corduroy of a thick, soft pile, with wide ridges). Matching black flared pants, black matching coats, vests, neckties, w/ white shirts and big, shiny buttons. Each wore a black cowboy hat, one of shiny leather, the other suede. Both wore thick-soled black shoes. They stood at the deck end of the arena-level scaffolding, leaning on the railing, studying the complicated network of structures on the ground floor, talking the entire time.

This world of ours: just one big kick in the ass.

Today's field trip: gonna take in some art. Maybe. Time will tell.

Later.

rws 5:59 AM [+]

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BLATHERINGS

August 2001
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MORE FOCUSED BLATHERINGS


Travels:
London '01
Pamplona
Italy '03
U.K. '03
Sevilla
Casablanca
Stoke-on-Trent
Barcelona
Québec/Ottawa
Boston/Lisbon/Madrid
Italy '04
Montréal
La Sierra

Events:
Madrid -- arrival
9/11
Emergency Room I
Holidays 2001
Holidays 2002
Holidays 2003
Holidays 2004
Holidays 2005
A neighbor's passing
Madrid -- March 11 bombings
  and aftermath
Emergency Room II
Israeli friend/Madrid Marathon
Madrid -- Royal Wedding
The DELE exam

GONE, a novel:
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10

THE BASTARD CHILDREN OF
JOE ROCCO, a novella:
-- Part 1
-- Part 2
-- Part 3

BURBANK SHRUGGED,
a screenplay:
-- Part 1
-- Part 2
-- Part 3
-- Part 4

Short stories:
Murphy's Wife
Another Autumn
La Queja de Una
  Hermanastra Muy Conocida

Autobiography
-- Personal History
-- Hormones On Parade
-- Accidents, Random Mishaps,
    Personal Problems

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OTHER SOURCES OF WHOLESOME ENTERTAINMENT

People/Weblogs:
dooce
foxvox
fudge it
fear not
rebekka
bookslut
802online
idle words
madhaiku
wockerjabby
grow-a-brain
rebel market
letting me be
out and about
kung fu grippe
fanatical apathy
baghdad burning
wfuv's music blog
kexp's music blog
mimi smartypants
between the miles
just a hippie gypsy
the impossible cool
tomato can brushes
vermont homestead
sugar mountain farm

Good Clean Fun:
gizmodo
futurismic
postsecret
dave barry
human clock
mcsweeney's
spaceweather
book-a-minute
internet archive
self-portrait day
my cat hates you
out of context quotes
surrealist compliment
  generator
strindberg and helium

Makin' Musical Whoopee:
last fm
stereo8
pandora
soma fm

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ABOUT RWS/CONTACT





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runswithscissors would like to thank everyone who's ever lived for everything they've ever done.



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