Roma!

A sacrificial altar in the middle of Campus Marcius, where gladiators once trained.


My street, via Luigi Santini.


One of Bernini's Moor fountains on Piazza Navona.



I'm not making it up, this is my name on a (Roman? Early Christian?) fragment in the portico of San Silvestro. What could it mean?? The photo on the left doesn't look like much, but it is what's left of the octaganal room in the Domus Aurea (Golden House) of Nero.



The angel on top of the Castel, right before a lightning storm. The fountain of Piazza (traffic circle) della Repubblica. The statues are of tritons wrestling niads. They ap[parently looked like they were having too much fun, so the fountain caused a bit of a scandal.




Stunning views from Castel Sant'Angelo.



Two examples of Borromini's wonderfully unique Baroque style: San Carlino and the ministry of propaganda (really, that's what it's called). Note the convex/concave play of both facades.



Just a random courtyard in my neghborhood in Trastevere. Pretty sweet, no? And this is one of the eight elaborate Barberini coat of arms (with the telltale bees) designed by Bellini, which line the baldacchino of the papal altar in St. Peter's. The story goes that Urban VIII commissioned it as a thank offering for a niece who almost died in childbirth. Beneath the scroll is a woman's face, in various expressions of pain. In the final one, there's a laughing child.


The twin churches of Piazza del Popolo, taken from the obelisk in the middle of the square, where I would sit, write, listen to the fountains, and gaze. Sigh....


The ruins of the temple to Fortune in Our Present Day (Caesar was murdered nearby), and the head of the statue of the goddess herself, found in the ruins. Deh! Nasconditi, o Virtù! (from Poppea...)



The unexpected epitaph on Keats' grave, and a weeping angel in the Protestant cemetery.


A dramatic allegory of the faith on the tomb of St. Ignatius. And a street near Piazza Navona, note the window frames now buried under street level!


This medieval fresco in Santa Saba depicts the story of St. Nicholas. On hearing a poor man (lower corner) lament that he had no dowry for his 3 daughters, Nicholas tossed a bag of money through their window. And thus the holiday shopping season was born.


The 2-hour line to get into the Vatican Museums (a portion), and the enormous river god (also a portion) who lives inside, along with just a few other works of art.



Women in Black Against War. They're international, I think they assemble in front of the library in New York as well. I went up to them with mom and introduced ourselves as "quacchere" (Quakers). They seemed please to meet us!


A sneaky mosaic!


A fragment from what must have been an enormous statue (the figure is unidentified) and just a small part of a sepulchre frieze, depicting a Roman triumph over the barbarians.


The weird-looking lunch they gave me on my flight to Vienna. Watch for it on airlinemeals.net!


A statue of saint Istvan (Stephen), the church, and cousin Mike in downtown Köszeg, Hungary.


The tallest obelisk in Rome, outside of San Giovanni. Rome has more obelisks then Egypt-I'm so proud! A classic cupid statue as well.


The interior of the Colosseum..... and the so-called Square Colosseum of Mussolini's time. The inscription reads: "A nation of poets, artists, heroes, saints, thinkers, scientists, navigators, and transcenders." Ma dai!



This modern church was built to be Mussolini's tomb, had he not been hanged and dismembered by that nation of poets, artists, heroes, etc. The strong wall separating the forum of Augustus from the fire-prone suburra, where the classic Roman hoi polloi lived.


Part of a Renaissance facade along the elegant Via Giulia. I wonder which victims this sign refers to.


An elaborate mosaic floor and ruins of a ninfeo at emporer Hadrian's Villa, his country retreat in nearby Tivoli.


Porta San Sebastiano, leading out to the Via Appia. An angel etched into the porta's travertine.


Basalt slabs on the Via Appia Antica (note the wagon grooves), and cypresses along the way.


Bougainvillea blooms.


The Piazza di Pietra (stone). The Palatine with the Circus Maximus (it's just
that grassy bit in front.)

Cast of Characters, in order of appearance

Here they are, some of the friends I made and people I knew in Rome...

Chie the Indescribable

Shown here holding her nephew Kaito, with her sister Kayo, who took me to the beach during my first week in Rome. Ever-smiling, upbeat, and caring, Chie is one in a million. We ended up seeing each other fairly frequently, and I hope to visit her someday in Tokyo - speaking Italian together!

Rebecca the Giggler

She may look like a serious Scotsman, but we shared many a laugh and always enjoyed comparing stories about those nutty Roman ways. This picture was taken from the Pincio gardens in the Villa Borgehese, overlooking the Piazza del Popolo. I spent many a dreamy afternoon sitting right in front of that obelisk, listening to the fountains and gazing at the twin churches, one of which is visible over Chie's shoulder. St. Peter's is the dome on the right.

Our class picture at ItaliaIdea. Our capable teacher Costanza is in the turquoise. A healthy mix of Japanese and Americans, a Spaniard, a German, and a Pole- you guess who's who! And yes, all women.

Alex the Aristocrat, Helena the Lovely, Sarah the Spritely
In front of the Villa Dora Pamhilij in the sprawling park of the same name. I teased Alex the posh Brit for wearing a ring with his coat of arms, until I realized that the English actually have coats of arms, unlike us in the colonies. Helena, my Finnish friend who looks more Italian than some Sicilians, was a frequent dinner and sightseeing companion. Sarah became my confidant (on our various adventures with men...), beach pal, girls' night, and hot-day companion, when we crept from one air-conditioned space to another.

Helena among the candy flowers at La Palma gelateria. They also had lollipops with images of the pope- pope on a pop?

Me and Sarah in front of the Colliseum, the day before I left. After this picture, she walked me down the pine-lined street towards the Circus Maximus. We both looked over our shoulders and waved as we parted.

Corinna the Generous (standing) and Natalie the Genius (in orange)

I didn't know Fabrizio and Marzia very well, so they don't get titles! I met Corinna through her roommate, a friend of mine, who invited me over during my first few days in Rome. Natalie was making dinner- she's French, getting her PhD in medieval art, and cooks like a goddess. Corinna brought me to her choir, which I sang in for a month and met more people. She also is quite a cook, and was kind enough to invite me back for another dinner at their place! This picture was taken at Marzia's beach house, where I was spoiled with spaghetti con vongole, white wine, prosciutto with melon, not to mention a trip to the beach. Afterwards, Corinna broke out sheet music and we - about 10 people in total - gathered round to read through Bach cantatas! They sang everything they could remember from choir, then we branched out to Beatles tunes and more, singing and lounging until evening.

Paolo the Elegant

Another choir member, Paolo often accompanied me to concerts and gave me a personalized walking tour of the city. This picture was taken from the top of the Campidoglio - see the rainstorm brewing in the background? This photo is perhaps the one exception, but Paolo was always impeccably dressed. On my second to last night we had a bite to eat along the Tiber, where we shared cannoli and cassata siciliana, which tragically didn't make it to the US with the Italian immigrants of yore. It's so good it makes you want to cry. When I suggested an American hug goodbye, instead of a dainty Italian kiss, he observed that American hugs seem to be rather pathetic, at least from what he's seen in movies. He set me straight with a big Italian bear hug!

Andrea the Charming

Look at him, isn't he charming? I spent many pleasant afternoons with Andrea (accent on the second syllable, per favore), having lunch on this beautiful balcony in the building where he has the fortune to be employed. Built to house Mussolini's Africa administration, it's now the UN's Food and Agriculture Organization, or la FAO as the Italians say. These pictures don't begin to do justice to the spectacular view! My favorite place in all of Rome, or at least in my top 5. St. Peter's is seen in the top picture over Andrea's shoulder; in the bottom we have the Palatine, Circus Maximus between us, and that small dot is the balloon in the Villa Borghese. Andrea somehow managed to take very long lunches, and we would spend the time finding solutions to world problems and laughing at our language mistakes. La FAO is a fascinating little island of internationalism, and the best part: they serve decent sushi, although it slightly horrified Andrea when I ordered it. He showed me some hidden parts of Rome, and was the very last person I said goodbye to on my very last night.

Carla the Ambitious

Look at that face (hers, not mine). Carla's studied a bunch of languages, works for a place that has offices all over the world, and very much wants to move overseas. I have no doubt that she'll be able to do it. My Italian was just starting to come together when we first met for language exhange; I wish we could have seen each other more often. We saw a very disturbing movie at the outdoor cinema on the Tiber Island, and she invited me along twice on group outings. A native Roman and lover of the city, she's not so thrilled with the traffic, smog, and chaos. But one evening when we were walking in Trastevere, having sampled a grattacheca, (or shaved ice, which is actually hard to come by), she told me the name of the summer breeze that was blowing (they all have names in Rome), with the pride a New Yorker has in showing someone the Brooklyn Bridge. "Senti?" She said, brown eyes sparkling. "Questo è il sentito di Roma!"

Katrin the Queen

I wouldn't make it up, that's her title on her email address. Katrin and I met at my local watering hole in Trastev, where I was waiting for a friend who took his time showing up, and she was with fellow artists at their monthly gathering. Fortunate encounter! We ended up going to Hadrian's villa at Tivoli together, and to Ostia Antica, Rome's nearby answer to Pompeii. This photo is from the theater at Ostia, one of the many dramatic ruins of the colony. She also invited me to her studio show with other artists on year-long scholarships in Rome (lucky devils), and we went to some outdoor concerts together and a beer and sausage joint afterwards. That gentleman friend from the party tried to befriend her too, and Katrin and I had fun describing to each other exactly how we eventually blew him off! Full of German seriousness and good nature, Katrin was always good company.

Isabel the International

I signed up for a continuing ed course of tours through papal villas, and found myself in a "class" of retirees. And Isabel. Afterwards, she (in blue) and her friend Abru (who was just visiting Rome) were off to the Villa d'Este in Tivoli, a wonderland Renaissance palace known for exquisitely beautiful gardens with dramatic fountains. "Wanna come?" said Isabel. I didn't hesitate! The day was magical. A long bus ride out, but a leisurely afternoon at the villa, where we must have seen four different couples getting married against the backdrop of one amazing fountain after another; here we are in front of the dragon fountain. The day we were there, several choirs were walking around giving informal concerts, and we spent some time indoors, gazing up at the richly painted ceilings and listening to the music. Isabel, from Spain, and Abru, from Turkey, know each other from an international studies program that brought them to Bologna and Washington DC. Isabel works in Rome (in English!) but unfortunately had to travel alot while I was there. We did have other outings in town though, and practiced our Italian together. (Hers is better than mine....)

Here I am in front of a wall of honeysuckle in the garden.

Life at the Café....

Romolo (as in Romulus, founder of Rome!), Chie, and Simone at the Elenbar, around the corner from the language school. The cutest café in town! The whole school would pile in there for a coffee break during class. This might be my favorite picture of all. Can't I just jump back in and finish my spremuta on the counter?

Davide, son of Romolo, at the Elenbar with my favorite breakfast: one of their freshly made fruit tarts and a cappuccino, of course. Note the travertine counter. A bar in Italy is what we would call a café, and the system works a little differently than it does here. You will not get a paper cup or plate unless you ask for it, and you can expect to drink your coffee standing up, as opposed to walking out the door as we do it. This is fine, as they serve you what we would call espresso, and it takes a second to drink. If you ask, you can have a highly sweetened but delicious glass of fruit juice too; my favorite was blueberry. Bars ring with the clatter of the clerks lining up the saucers and cups on the counter. If you're lucky, you'll be served by as animated a chap as Davide, who chatted with regulars and did a little boogie as he tapped down the coffee and steamed the milk.

Simone, Chie, Becky, Emiko (another student), and I after lunch near the Spanish steps.

Mom the International Woman of Travel

On a brightly painted bench at a rustic hotel in Köszeg, Hungary.....

....and in the shot that everyone in the world has from their trip to Rome! Yes, that's the Trevi fountain. We somehow managed to find a spot free from tourists- I look like I'm saying "did you take it?" to the kid I asked to take the picture.

Cinzia the Amazing

She writes novels, teaches ballet, and translates and teaches Japanese - amazing! Her eye makeup was also always exquisitely done! Cinzia (don't forget, 'ci' gets a 'ch' in Italian) showed me around her lovely neighborhood known as l'EUR, which was to be a community of the future under fascism but is now simply a leafy, peaceful neighborhood with great shopping. She kindly invited me over to lunch, and we met a few times for language exchange and laughs (although we did end up speaking mostly Italian...) Her husband Giovanni (no relation to the kids below!) is also a sweetheart, and I hope to see the two of them again soon- either here or there!

Giovanni the Horrible, Francesco the Pain in the Ass

Although I was happy to have a little cash from babysitting, I spent one too many afternoons with these barbarians. Francesco (Ciaci) had his sweet moments, but Giovanni (Giogiò) would call me names and hit me. Being with children improves your vocabulary, but I didn't appreciate learning cacca di cacca, puzza di cavallo, and caccone. I would walk in and say 'Ciao Giogiò!' and he would make a face and scream 'No!' The parents wanted them to hear some English, the only problem was that they didn't understand English. I was just some babbling skyscraper that kept them away from their babbo, who stayed upstairs furtively trying to work. Though one cute moment came when Francesco, wanting me to pick him up, looked at me and said "tirami su!" I looked down and said "panna cotta!" He didn't get it. Remember Giovanni's face; you'll see it again in 18 years in Italian tabloids, after he's gone crazy and committed some unspeakable crime.

Carla the Fabulous

Gorgeous, hilarious, and fun-loving, Carla was sadly my roommate for only my last 10 days. But we did have some adventures together, including this day on the Via Appia Antica, which is more amazing and evocative of ancient times than I could have ever imagined. Carla is pictured on a lookout point by the road with the ruins of the Villa Quintili in the distance. She was not only fun to be with, but when we went out together, the guys would look at her instead of me- thanks Carla! Maybe I will come down to Australia to visit her someday...

And your host, in the courtyard of St. Paul's.

Duck butts in the pond of the Villa Dora Pamphilij.

More Pics of Interest to Early Music Folks (and others!)

Across the Tiber, on the site where an ancient Roman villa with exquisite frescoes was discovered, sits the Palazzino Farnese, known as la Farnesina. Built between 1506 and 1510 by Baldassarre Peruzzi for Agostino Chigi (a wealthy Sienese banker who financed several popes), this elegant home and garden was the scene for numerous banquets and festivities of the Renaissance glitterati. Below are some of the lush frescoes from the Loggia of Psyche in the main entrance hall. Raphael drew the overall scheme, but Giulio Romano, Francesco Penni, Raffaellino del Colle, and Giovanni da Udine executed the work.

Psyche and Zeus.

Marriage of Psyche and Cupid (fragment).

Apollo! Note the squash in the upper right, ahem...

Blurry overview. The coat of arms in the center is a combination of Chigi's and Leo X's, a rare example.

Nerone, who is kept in a museum that is separate and far away from the one housing...

Ottavia (note the hair style).

The Early Music Nerd Corner

Here are the pictures I furtively took in Rome's excellent museum of historic instruments. Sorry the focus and angles aren't too hot, photography isn't allowed, and the staff kept a watchful eye on me!

Various cornetti and flutes.

L'arpa Barberini, 17th cent.

German harpsichord, 1537.

Chitarrone in the center, but I can't quite remember the other two. Any ideas?

Chitarrone, lute, and cornetti, 17th cent.

19th century Neapolitan street organ. What stories could it tell?

Various 19th century trumpets

A cimbasso; it appears to be shaped like a bassoon with a tuba mouthpiece.

Serpents! Mozart and Mendelssohn wrote for these oddball brass/woodwind hybrids.

Military bugles, 19th/20th centuries.

A beautifully painted 18th century spinet.

sheesh

After not writing here for nearly 3 weeks, my mind just feels tangled, spilling over with thoughts and cluttered with all the little scenes I wanted to get down. It took a while to get internet access at home, but now the wireless connection is letting me down, giving me the claustrophobia I get nowadays when I can't Google and email instantly. I never thought I would be such a computer hound, but maybe it's the access to communications and knowledge that I miss. I hope to resolve the problem soon, so I can finally post more photos from Rome and maybe use my PC as a phone.

But meanwhile, everyone has been asking me: how's it going? And I suppose, in many ways, just fine. It's a different schedule than I've ever had before, and I'm still getting used to it. What a thrill to have stuff to put into my PalmPilot! It used to be just work and practice and the weekly lesson or very occasional rehearsal, but now I have classes and a regular group to rehearse with and music to learn for school, auditions, and my demanding church position (which will sadly end in October. Too bad, the music is great, and the pay covers rent).

Yet, and I suppose I had an inkling of this before I started, grad school is not the Shangrila I had imagined it to be when I was languishing at my full-time office jobs. I have way too much spare time, for one. If I didn't have a part-time job, I would be scampering for something to do. I'm also at a loss as to how I'm supposed to be making the connections I thought you were supposed to be able to make in advanced degrees. Yes, I've met most everyone in my small department, but how deep those contacts will run (we just see each other in class) and what they'll lead to is a little beyond my imagination.

But, there's the entertaining dating scene to keep me occupied. Dates are incredibly boring. I hate the thought of regurgitating my personal information for the next Mike/Dave/Rob/Chris/Brian/Steve- whatever. What do you do, where are you from, where do you live, what do you like to do? I should just hand them a fact sheet. But the perk, of course, is the free food. I've talked with friends about this, and we can't come to a conclusion: why do guys still have to pay for dates? In an age when women are expected to be self-sufficient and prize they're independence, a date is not really a date unless the guy picks up the tab. She could be a lawyer, he could be a non-profit administrative assistant. Well, as a student, I say cool! I'm looking at my dating life as at least a meal ticket, crass as that may be. Listen, when you've got a tab of $9,000 a semester to face, you're not exactly eating lobsters. (An aside, my favorite comfort meal, in lean times and flush, is a total pantry creation: chick peas with cumin cooked with onion and a little tomato sauce, served with brown rice. But it's not long before you get sick of that....)

So I turn to my menfolk for a taste of the gourmet. When I was looking for apartments a few weeks ago, one potential roommate asked me out. Um, okay, but I'm glad I didn't take that place!! I was treated to lamb kabobs, and conversation so out of sync that I should have brought a book. It was worth it. But, of course, the whole point is that maybe I might actually find some companionship out there eventually.

It's getting cold up here already. Winter is coming with his days of darkness and lethargia. I'll go to sleep soon, taking another sip of red wine and a bit of dark chocolate. But I would prefer a kiss.

Today is September 11th

It's my favorite time of year from late August onwards, until my birthday in the third week of October. The sky is often pristine, the sunlight -though it gets more scarce- is more stunning than ever, and the temperature is neither hot nor cold, humid nor dry. It's the quiet of the year, before we settle in and batton up for the winter. When we consolidate our photographs and memories of the summertime relaxation we hopefully had, and ready ourselves again for work and school and routine.

The weather lately has been reminding me of September 11th, 2001. I venture to say, there hasn't been a day like that, before or since. The most perfect of all qualities came together for a day that would have been ideal for outdoor weddings: warmth in both sun and shade, breezes that felt like a caress, and not a cloud in the sky. If those attacks had had to have come, couldn't they have been in February, or in any other time of year already uglied by harsh weather?

Every September 11th, I like to do something to make myself feel better, or do something better for the world. Last year I volunteered to deliver sandwiches to the homeless at night, seeing a New York from the perspective of the men and women who manage to find the right doorways to sleep in and the places to find food. This year, not knowing where I could volunteer, I decided simply to attend Quaker meeting for worship, where I hoped to find a bit of peace with others, and maybe to hear some messages that would enrich my own grieving.

Any New Yorker who moves to another city will quickly discover that they have long lived without a basic fact of life almost anywhere else in the world: the need to get directions. Tell me you live on 22nd and Lex and I can get there with my eyes closed. Tell me the meetinghouse is on 5 Longfellow Park Road and I need to consult two maps and a man on the street before finding my way over. But then, I saw the clogs and jeans, the grey hair, a beat up car with a bumper sticker that read "Be a buddha behind the wheel" and I knew I was among Friends.

Cambridge Friends is a large, active meeting, which means that the first 15 minutes of silence didn't actually happen; they were filled with the rustlings of the numerous children squirming in the aisles. But then something very unusual also happened, and I was convinced I would not find the peace I had come for. A man stood up and started shouting. For Quakers who worship in silence, there really is never a need to raise your voice. He angrily described a meeting about a year ago in which an elderly friend of his stood up to speak, and had to be "eldered," that is, confronted by another worshipper who cut him off and sat him back down when he had rambled on too long. I felt like performing the same favor to the man presently speaking. He went on to remind us that Quakers are not a war church (had we forgotten, I mean, that's our main schtick??) and that we should take real action against the war in Iraq. He finally sat down.

What followed was the most chatty meeting for worship I've every been to, with barely any silence between messages. Some people posed interesting questions or made observations on peace and Iraq and where to fit in as Americans who oppose the war. Maybe it was because they're in Boston, but hardly anyone mentioned September 11th.

Not being a frequent attender of meeting, I was unable to achieve the yoga nidra zen I once I could. My heart would start pounding every so often, as I contemplated rising and delivering a message. Then I would relax again as I considered just keeping my thoughts to myself. But, after 40 minutes, when no one had discussed the 10,000 pound gorilla in the room, I stood up and talked about it myself.

This time of year, with it's beauties and perfection, is steeped in a weighty sadness. September 11th 2001 is what brought me to Cambridge meeting this morning, and is ultimately what brought me to Boston. Four years ago today. So many words have been spoken and written about that day, what could I possibly have to say about it too? I barely cried that morning. I was scared, but I somehow couldn't grieve, and I felt only numbness in the weeks that followed. I walked home from my downtown office in Manhattan. Barely a week later, I moved to Brooklyn, where I would travel across the bridge at least twice a day for the next four years.

Somehow, all New Yorkers, and I guess everyone in the world who had a touch of that fear, managed to take one step at a time and lead their lives forward. Part of my choice to move to Boston was to feel a little safer; when I expressed this to a friend, he asked if I really thought I would be safer there? I can offer no solutions to this fear, or the fear felt by refugees of the hurricane or refugees in Iraq, or the fear of countless other people in countless other wars and hotspots around the world that aren't reported in the headlines. I want to share with you a few lines of a Schiller poem that came to mind four years ago, and that I think of today.

Even the beautiful must die.
What rules men and gods, does not touch the heart of the god of the underworld...
Just to be a dirge on the lips of the beloved is marvelous, because the common go down to Hades, unsung.

Was this actually such a great idea?

Well, this blog might just have to go back to its original mission. That is, chronicling the trials and triumphs of little old me, a sometime singer who's trying to become a full-time singer.

Let's begin with this move. Sometime back in April, after I had finished my school auditions and was deciding where to go, I had what I thought would be my first and only crisis. I spent a few hours sitting on the edge of my bathtub, tissue box in hand, bemoaning the fact that my dream of going back to school would involve saying goodbye to my life savings and uprooting myself from a life I was not by any means unhappy with. But, it was my dream, and I screwed up my courage, dried my eyes, and decided that I had what it took to carry through.

That was my first mistake.

After a magical summer, a pleasant time back in New York with friends and family, I packed up and replanted myself here in Boston. After the first 36 hours, things can only improve. The living space my friend found for me is not as workable as I had hoped, that is, impossibly small and roommates who can't seem to understand that this might be a problem. We've talked and will try to "work this through," but I have my doubts and I already feel uncomfortable.

Just yesterday a new hitch came up at BU that makes me reconsider registering. Neither my first nor second choice teacher is available, I don't know any of the other teachers, and I am currently assigned to study with a man, which I absolutely don't want. I turned down a full scholarship at another school because I couldn't get the teacher I wanted, now I get to deal with this situation again and pay for it? Getting a degree in singing is absolutely worthless if you don't have the teacher who can do wonders for your voice. Sure, there must be someone there who can teach me a thing or too, but I'm wary, and I might have to spend half a semester sorting this out. If I can't resolve this well, I will quit, get myself a job, and call myself a singer and hope for the best.

So without a stable home, the school arrangement I was counting on, without income and a sudden dearth of friends in a city I still don't know well, I'm petrified and feeling profoundly sorry for myself. This is the first time away from home and the first day of college rolled into one. But shouldn't I be old enough to handle this by now? That thought makes me even more glum, especially when I think about any number of life choices that could have been more fulfilling, maybe. I could have married by now. I could have stuck with my perfectly fine old life, saved a bundle in expenses and been able to clothes shop without fear. I could have stayed on in Rome, perhaps one of my friends would have eventually taken me in, and I could have always lucratively begged on the streets. I wonder what would have happened if I had stayed with the French horn, would I live on a diet of Brahms and Wagner? I always did like working at the food coop, maybe I should quit all this and go manage a Stop & Shop, or maybe Costco. Okay, now we're going overboard.

Lying in bed this morning, I turned on my cell phone's calculator to see how much my lavish, education-enriched lifestyle would cost me, and I read a message from my brother, telling me that I'm brave. Brave?? I've spent three days interrupting my crying fits only when my face hurt too much or I had to try to look happy for my roomies. I've been sobbing to my parents and to a dear companion twice a day so far. I'm just as homesick and weak as I was as a child, only now I'm too old to excuse it. The president's voice on the radio offering comfort to hurricane refugees and the news of people crushed in the melee in Iraq make my skin crawl, leaving me with images of water-swollen corpses and babies crushed like grapes. I have little appetite, and my head often aches with the pain that comes from unspent tears.

Today, the shroud of rain and choking humidity finally lifted off of Boston's face. My problems are unresolved, but not, I don't think, unresolvable. I sat in the rocking chair on the apartment's porch (yes there's a porch! Albeit overlooking a junk heap, the same view from my room...) and spoke with my brother and then a friend from Rome. What are we without friends and family? My conversation with Matt (my brother) began as most have this week, with me choking back tears and wondering why I was putting myself through all this. How is it that he always manages to cheer me up? After just a few minutes of speaking my already rusty Italian with Andrea (patient soul!) I had a smile on my face. I had emailed him only hours before, and he called from all the way across the sea to make me feel better. Lacy outlines of words, pure vowels framed by fizzy consonants and a voice that reminds me, somehow, of whipped cream.

I'm not brave Matt, just nuts, and well cared for by the ones I hold dear.

Gioite anco' al gioire

"Let us have wine and women, mirth and laughter.
Sermons and soda water the day after."

-- Percy Bysshe Shelley

Once I'm settled in Boston with high speed internet I'll finally put up posts with pictures from Rome. But for now, and after those mirthful posts, this blog will return to its original purpose: to ponder the profound aloneness of the human spirit and the despair of all mankind.

Just kidding! How can I be sad coming back from a great wedding? I've been to weddings weird and weddings dull, but every so often I get to be overwhelmed by a couple's perfection, and the throngs of their friends who seem to feel the same way.

Through the miracle of Google I found the email address of Betsy, the only other girl in high school who was as tall as me. I was fortunate to get back in touch with her just as she was planning her wedding, and even happier when she invited me to attend and to sing. I spent the reception collecting compliments (while reminding people that I was not supposed to the evening's center of attention!), chatting with people who might become new friends, and dancing like a goofball. (I must comment on one New York lawyer, a Punjabi metrosexual who danced like an exuberant and funky cartoon.)

Weddings can inspire two opposing emotions in me: sadness and joy. Sadness if I'm single and wondering if my own wedding will ever come to pass, and joy if I can finally forget my gripes and rejoice in the happiness of others. Soaked in wine and dance endorphins, I had a ball tonight.

Yet at the rehearsal dinner, where singles seemed to be an endangered species and wedding rings glistened on young fingers, I felt like an outsider. What haven't I figured out that they have? These are people my age who own property, are committed to their careers, and are starting families. Now that I'm going back to school and renting a room with 22-year-olds, I can't help but wonder if I'm missing the boat.

These couple of weeks in New York have been strange. Saying goodbye to old friends, promising to see each other soon but not quite knowing when and how. More upsettingly, I'm saying goodbye to people I've just started to become friends with, and putting miles of highway and the Chinatown bus in a budding friendship doesn't exactly encourage a future. I've also just this week been warned that Bostonians can be as cold as a Massachusetts winter, and perhaps the circle of friends I've imagined for myself up there might not happen so easily.

Ahi! So much to fret over! But I'll take the advice that I sang to Betsy and Bill today: rejoice in our joy, and let all the branches of the groves resonate with the sound of our joyful and breezy laughter. (or something like that, 17th century poetry doesn't translate well!)

I'm off to bed now with happily aching feet and a sense of dread for the work ahead (I'm moving tomorrow!), but with the memories of a night of dancing and smiles, promises of new adventures to make, and.... und ein klein wenig Verachtung. ;-0 (I'll let you read Thomas Mann's Tonio Kroger to understand that one.)

Boston, or what the heck am I doing here??

A trans-atlantic flight must be the closest simulation of birth that adults can experience. A grueling passage in a dark space with poor ventilation, profound exhaustion, and the emergence into daylight feeling cranky, grimy, and ready to scream.

Thus I return to the new world, fresh as a daisy after some 22 hours in planes. My first activity? Jump on a train to Boston the morning following just a few hours of strange sleep. Dormo ancora, o son desto? Che contrade rimiro, e che terren calpesto? Ulysses murmurs to himself after Neptune sweeps him ashore on his own country. Do I still sleep, or am I awake? What city do I see, what land do I tread? Arriving home was a trip through the looking glass.

Was I really in Rome all this time? Are those actually friends I made, or just my own dreams, evidenced only by my already grey memory and miniature images on my digital camera? And what will happen to those friendships after a few years, or just a short time? I prefer a long-term stay to a whirlwind city tour, but the drawback is that I have to adjust both coming and going, and I break my heart a little along the way. There's one companion who I particularly miss right now.

Boston is a gentle city, more quiet and boring than New York, but on a more human scale. Italians would comment to me that it is a rather a European city. But nonetheless, I smirked as I walked past "historic" 19th century churches. How can I take them seriously after seeing places that have been there for 2,000 years? But I felt comfortable there for one day, and I think I'm making the right move in going up. Even the women making my sandwich and the guys in the copy shop were friendly; they made eye contact and smiled. Eye contact! Smiles! I'm not in New York anymore! I saw an ad for low-carb bread, felt my stomach turn and knew I was at home.

The day was nearly as hot as a Roman afternoon, but the hazy light and the sky the color of clam chowder reminded me that I was a long way from the Mediterranean. I summoned my strength for a job interview, which went rather well, and briefly greeted some friends. I wrote my thank-you note in the hyper air-conditioned lobby of a hotel (I do like that A/C!), and sighed as I finished off the last of my Roman spring water.

Spending this weekend on the Rhode Island shore with my parents and a family friend, I feel like I'm looking at the wrong side of the ocean.

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?

Kennst Du das Land??

As a child and young adult, I recall having a distinct image of The Personification of Italy. It was a dark-haired maiden, olive-skinned with caramel-colored eyes, flashing a brilliant smile with a gelato in one hand and a glass of wine in the other. Growing up with the grandchildren of the three-I's of New York area immigrants (Italy, Israel, Ireland), Italy for me has always been a mythical, other-worldly place. The home of a good part of American cuisine, the land of big families with big hearts and smiles, the place of unspeakably beautiful landscapes, delicious produce and wine, and eternal sunshine.

For those of you who haven't watched enough Tony Soprano, allow me be the first to disabuse you of this fancy. Italians are defensive. Let me re-phrase that. Italians are not half as cuddly as you might expect, at least not to fragile me.

"Auhhh?" and a grimace appear to be a perfectly acceptable way of expressing miscomprehension to a foreigner trying to speak Italian. Do Americans do the same for foreigners in the States? And your first encounters with people are not always likely to be smiles and kisses. In fact, I am often reminded of German reservedness.

I bristle when store clerks take one look at me and insist on speaking English before I even open my mouth. Do they speak Chinese when Asian people walk through the door? I know that they're trying to help, but tell me why they keep speaking English when I answer in Italian?

Yes, Italians are warm people. But sometimes behind the smiles is a more sinister intent. If the first word you need to learn in Italian is scioppero (as in strike, which merits its own section on the Treni Italia homepage), the second word should be fregatura, or rip-off. Even the most unassuming of places can slap you with an outrageous bill, it's something you always need to be careful of. When mom was here, we had a nice meal in a local place, but were surprised at the final bill. The waiter showed me the menu and said that everything was a posto, but it took a bit of a scene to convince him that it didn't add up.

But then again, what appear to be rip-offs are often just mistakes, or at least curious judgment calls. Once, after I had waited on line for movie tickets, the clerk informed me that she didn't have change for my €10. All I needed was a €2 coin back, but she didn't have one? I asked if I could come back, and she said sure, and tossed my money back at me. I then insisted on buying the tickets (you see, I had already waited on line and the show was starting and I didn't want to wait again), and said I would return for the change. In fact, making change at almost any institution is always a chore- If you put down €2 your for your €1.70 gelato they will ask if you have exact change, even after you're juggling the cone.

I learned of a phenomenon that happens in Italy every summer, and it chills me to the bone. When people go on vacation, they abandon their pets, mostly dogs. They just drive out to some abandoned part of the countryside and leave them by the road. And we're not talking a couple of hundred animals; more like thousands. It adds up to one animal every two minutes during the months of July and August. Whether or not this is strictly an Italian thing to do or more universal, it breaks my image of the big-hearted Italian. But what I can't understand is that the same people must do this every year: get a dog, hang on to it for ten months, and get rid of it when they all head off to the shore. In Pompeii, where it got so hot at midday that I felt I could relate to how the residents felt when the volcano hit, dozens of dust-imbued dogs were roaming around, seeking out an ounce of shade.

Yet, I can't complain entirely. As much as it took a while to build up my nucleus of friends, some amazing connections have happened that I would never expect to see in New York. Once, when I was unable to make plans with a friend for the evening, she called her sister and had her hang out with me instead. I don't know if I would do the same if my brother hooked me up with one of his friends. And while it's always wise to be on the lookout for fregature, 9 times out of 10, you'll be alright. I was picking out a canteloupe at the market the other day, and the shopkeeper said that that particular breed doesn't smell like anything, but is delicious. I was wary, but I bought it anyway, and she was right.