Amor, io parto

A......a......addio Roma!
A.....a.......addio Patria!
A.....a.......amici, amici, addio.....

Ottavia, I imagine, was promised to Nero while still only a child. It was a triumph for her father, who had fallen into disgrace with the emperor after his military failures. Of course, it was a passionless union, but Nero made the most of the situation. Ottavia was humiliated by her husband's exploits, but played the role of empress and prepared to bare his children. After barely 14 months it became apparent that Ottavia would be disposed of, the only question remaining was the means. She expected murder, either by her servants or by her husband himself, and spent many nights in her chambers with a knife clutched to her breast. But Nero was merciful and only banished her from within the walls of Rome, forbidding her family to take her in or any citizen throughout the empire to assist her.

It was an unseasonably cool morning when she left, carrying the supply of grain a senator had secretly given her. She made her way through the Porta Maggiore, murmuring, perhaps, something similar to the words above, which Giovanni Francesco Busenello put into her lips for Monteverdi's opera. My sighs and tears will be carried on the winds, she sang, where they may kiss the ancient walls.

My departure from Rome will be slightly less dramatic. And yet, like Ottavia, I'm terribly sad to leave the eternal city. To make friendships only to cut them short, to begin to learn a language only to interrupt the process, to start to settle into a city only to uproot myself again. And yet, I never intended to put down roots here, it was just a long vacation before a time in my life when I don't expect to be taking more time off anytime soon. Yet leaving certain friends here was the most heartbreaking thing I've done in a long time. But what have I really accomplished here?

This summer, a friend of mine had a baby. Another friend is expecting her third child, and managed to move herself, husband and twins across the country to a new house. Yet another girl put together a solo concert program, performed it well, and got a rave review in The Washington Post.

I learned how to order an ice cream cone. I've learned to cross a busy street, and how not to talk to men. I've learned some new words, and shifted gears to the Mediterranean tempo of life. I've loved every minute, even the lonely times when I wondered if I had made a mistake in coming here alone. In some ways I do have other accomplishments to show for myself (I now know Rome better than NYC), but for the work I love, I've done nothing. I feel like the two-faced Janus, looking forward to yet another new adventure, and nostalgically back on this time here.

Eight years ago, after I came back from Germany I stood in front of a friend to greet her. She didn't recognize me. I wasn't away for that long, hadn't drastically changed my look, and she certainly knew who I was. But I think she didn't recognize the amount I had grown in the time away, which must have been reflected in my face. Rome was certainly a different trip, and less a coming of age story than a humbling, back-to-school experience with a few more delights thrown in. It's hard to assess right now how much I've learned, if it will be of use (for music, language, etc.) but I feel rejuvenated, and I come home with a the gift given to all travellers: the ability to look at the familiar with new eyes.

And soon I won't be saying just addio Roma but addio Brooklyn. Addio Flatbush Avenue and Park Slope Food Coop, addio circle of friends, and nearness of family, addio friendly workplace and cozy apartment.

On my last walks through Rome, through the stuccoed porticoes and filagreed palazzos, past antique columns in modern bars, past textured chunks of travertine and over rough tufa, across the color palatte of amber, cream, maroon, and ivory; I am deeply grateful. Grateful to have been able to take the time to do nothing but have a romance with one city, to study the language and find my way around, and to enjoy the company of good people whose friendships I will try to sustain. The magic of the experience lay not just with the landscape but with the friends who took me into their lives and hearts, and whose company I am only just beginning to miss.

The heat of a warm country heightens the senses - good and bad - and makes you feel like you just had a vigorous massage. The stares of the men here no longer sting but make me feel like a goddess, cresting through waves of worshippers. As I walk, both this phenomenon and the saturated beauty of Rome remind of the Indian song I learned to sing in canon: Now I walk in beauty, beauty is before me, beauty is behind me, above and below me.

I'm coming back, will you recognize me?