Tarquinia

I’m falling into the Sea, letting it devour me, what will be, will be.

Yesterday rather than traveling north we traveled west to the Sea! Tarquinia is a small hill top town (as all Italian towns are) with a beautiful view of the Mediterranean Sea. Stepping off of the blue bus with foggy windows, I was surprised at how incredibly close we were to the sea. Only an hour’s bus ride away and we were looking at the dazzling blue body of water. Being so near to the sea, I was surprised the smell of salt was not tickling my nose as it would have been if I were near Monterrey or Bodega Bay. Before we could dip our hands into the sand however we decided to explore the town of Tarquinia.

An ancient Etruscan town, Tarquinia has many sights, and views, worth spending your time on. Strolling the cobblestone streets, we noticed how much less traffic Tarquinia’s streets supported, in comparison to Viterbo. Here, we did not need to be constantly aware of the small zooming cars that would scrape their sides against rock walls to squeeze past pedestrians without having to stop. Our first stop was inside a large museum, housing many Etruscan sarcophagi much like the ones back in Viterbo’s main palazzo.   We did not go into the actual museum but continued on our way up the street to a few shops, each the host to a plethora of urns and discs which put me right into the time of Hercules. I was tempted to purchase something but was able to buy them with my eyes rather than my money, taking mental pictures of the clay colored pieces as we made our way back into the sunshine. Tarquinia’s sun beat down on our Viterbo frozen skin, thawing our bodies and our spirits. We had expected the day to be chilly and windy so near to the sea, but the air was calm and the sun bright, a nice change from the ever shadowed Viterbo.

 Trying really hard, and failing hysterically to imitate this odd statue

After enjoying the view of the valley stretching back toward Viterbo, we entered the cool body of a foreboding church. Inside, I was dazzled by the human ability to capture the sun with the use of high arched ceilings and narrowly placed wedge windows. In front of the altar a young, grey-robed monk was vacuuming the wooden baseboards. In the corner, another young monk was polishing the framed crucifixion of Jesus as Mary’s tear-filled eyes stared down upon his bent form. Above the altar was a brilliantly colored window lighting the front of the church in a cheerful manner contradicting the sullen attitudes of those whom stand under its rays every day. In the back of the church, a circular window shares its flowering sunlight on the congregation. This church of San Francesco is perhaps my favorite church I have seen in Italy thus far and all of the credit goes to the church’s architects of long ago. 

We were lost. The signs were pointing out of town, and yet the necropolis was nowhere in sight. As we were turning in circles a man pulled slowly up to our confused sides and offered his assistance. Redirected to the “real” necropolis—rather than the fake one we had apparently been about to pay for—we found our way inside the compound within five minutes, ready to embrace our archeological genes. Inside, sprawled before us in what must have been a very calculated manner, was a field of what looked like hobbit houses. We knew, as we climbed into these mole caves however, that no living thing had ever claimed ownership of their moist rock interiors and painted ceilings. Down twenty sets of dark, steep stairs we went, looking in awe at the handiwork of painters alive before Christ. The necropolises dated from before 500 B.C. and in order to preserve their delicate interiors were blocked off from modern day tourists by a thin piece of glass, dripping in humidity. The rock walls and floors were sweating, making the stone easy to cut into deep in the earth, but solid and dry, able to stand the sands of time above in the hardening sunlight. 

 Yep, those are bones! Right there, bones

 These are actually ancient urns, but they looked like cute lil toadstools!

After finishing the loop of twenty necropolises and enjoying the view of the ancient city of Tarquinia—resting not too far away on a neighboring hill—we realized how hungry climbing up and down those stairs had made us. We made our way back into the center of town where now even less people were filtering about. It was siesta time. All of the shops, including the pizzerias were closed. Our grumbling stomachs led us up and down the sloping streets stopping in front of one closed door after another. A small, dark boy leading a blind dog around on a leash stared at us from behind his donut which he ate feverishly with his gap toothed smile. Finally, we approached him for assistance and he directed us back toward the entrance of Tarquinia to an American Bar. When we reached the piazza right across from the museum we had first entered, we looked at the American Bar and decided we would rather go hungry than submit to such a touristy place. We found an open pizzeria where they were less than pleased to serve us pizza and where they critiqued our pronunciation of foreign plates. 

The black sand felt like such a relief after walking for a month on the harsh and unforgiving cobblestoned streets of Viterbo. Softly, the black sand swallowed my white tennis shoes as we made our way closer to the body of water we had been thirsting for all day long. For some reason I was surprised to see the same sea shells hiding in the sand I would find on the sandy colored beaches of California. Where were the Italian shells? Foreign land creatures meant there had to be foreign sea creatures willing to shed their homes for the convenience of my beach combing curiosity. I found a plastic green bucket and began my search for shells that one day would still be distinguishable from Californian shells. 

After filling my bucket, falling into the sea, running away from what appeared to be a jellyfish (but more than likely was just a fire-starter gel), watching a man reel in a fish, I began to crave some gelato. We made our way along the dock trying to find somewhere open, but again it was still before 4:00 and so everything was still closed down. Two girls passed by us on rollerblades reminding me too much of the Californian boardwalks, an idea that was quickly quelled as a shouting Italian family strolled past behind their youngest son on a mechanized vespa with training wheels—yep definitely still in Italy. 

The bus was ten, twenty, thirty minutes late. Rather than panicking I pulled out a packet of gummi worms for us to enjoy while we waited. The last bus from Tarquinia back to Viterbo was to our understanding leaving from the main entrance at 16:55. If we missed that bus we would be spending an evening in Tarquinia, and idea that appealed to me, but as greatly to my comrades. At 16:35, a bus finally pulled into the sea lot and we hopped on in relief. The bus made numerous stops, including one at the local train station. When the driver got off of the bus and slowly strolled inside the station each of us groaned in anticipation and annoyance. Frequent glances at our watches showed we only had ten minutes before we would be spending a tense evening in an unknown city. 

When we reached the town entrance a blue bus was preparing to pull out. When we began to jump onboard the driver informed us that this particular bus would not be going to Viterbo. When I asked him when the next bus to Viterbo would be coming (which I proudly might add, I asked in Italian) his answer was a slew of Italian words which I carefully picked one out of: chinque, five. The next bus would not be coming until after five o’clock. When? We didn’t know so we waited. When the bus did pull in at 17:39, two of our party had decided to disappear. I ran up to the piazza above searching for them like a frantic mother. They threw money at the woman behind the counter, gathered their souvenirs and followed my running form to the moving bus below. Sitting on the bus, laughter erupted from each of us as we thought of the cinematic event we had just partaken in. 

Reaching Viterbo, after a very bumpy bus ride, was a relief after not knowing whether or not we would be sleeping in our own beds that night or not. Although we did not go to Perugia and buy twenty pounds of chocolate, I think a seaside day was just what I needed.

Today is a day of sporting events. This afternoon we have, besides the homework I have been putting off, a soccer (cacio) game in the nearby stadium, and the SuperBowl later tonight (12:30 to be exact) at a local pub staying open late just for us Americans. Before we go to the pub however, a local café—San Sisto—is hosting a pre-game party complete with dinner prepared by the owner’s mother and karaoke, which I will not be participating in unless forced to do so. The sun is shining and I am going to my first Italian cacio match; life is good.

 It was an incredibly warm day in Viterbo-perfect for an afternoon watching soccer!

The old men in front of these flag wavers were practically more entertaining than the game itself. At one point they went underneath the stadium and were pounding on the aluminum, shouting their Italian cacio songs/cheers/insults! It was awesome! Go Viterbese!

A Flame of Inspiration

Dreams are like inspiration—interpreted with care—we can’t choose what we dream nor can we choose to dream. Inspiration just comes and usually not when it is called upon the most. 

Last week I bought a candle. Every time I light this candle the flame struggles to ignite. After a few moments I believe the flame to have gone out. However, each time my faith wavers, I look down to observe the smallest flame surrounding the charred wick, fighting to stay bright. The flame may not illuminate the entirety of my room, but it warms my soul to see the small flame struggle, the same flame that if given a piece of paper would surely burn this old building to the ground. 

This last week has been an interesting one. After returning from the Vatican I did a lot of thinking about—not to sound conceited—myself. What am I looking for; hoping to find; struggling against; believing in; doubting; wishing? And I think the answer is growth. Like my small flame resting next to me on top of my dresser/desk, I must struggle against outside forces to grow strong and shine with the luminosity my childhood self so easily disposed of. 

One could say that I have been in a contemplative, almost gloomy mood this last week. To combat my less than bubbly attitude I have been immersed in a novel borrowed from the school library, knitting, and planning (as always) where to go next.

This morning I went for a run…well, more like a run/walk really quickly whenever spotted by a neighboring Italian. Italians do not run except to chase after a fleeing child or animal. So, when our American running shoes hit the icy cobblestones, we are made even more aware of our “strange foreignness.”  There is a small winding road behind my apartment I only recently discovered. Running down its narrow length it shot me out to an amazing garden resting in the back of a hotel I had not known to be in existence. This hotel is most likely less than two hundred feet away and for three plus weeks hid its beauty from me. Down in the garden, walled off from commoners not enjoying the luxuries of the hotel, is a small family of geese revolving in a shallow pond. Three male geese were standing on the water’s edge, ruffling their tail feathers and bouncing their heads up and down in what appeared to be a dance, or a standoff. One white goose, the smallest of the three, appeared to be losing this dance competition and began backing away, back into the icy waters.  I enjoyed the sun’s warmth for a moment before shoving back off into the wind and cold of the early morning. Rounding about the edges of the city’s walls I crested the top of a hill where a small cantina rests back into the hillside and a house clings to the side. Three dogs guard this house. Yesterday morning they greeted me with enthusiastic barks and then ran the length of their fence in step with me. This morning, they were not pleased to see me at all. When I had reached the grayness of the Pope’s Palace and sat on the balcony overlooking the valley of Viterbo, their barks still echoed up my spine. 

In my travel writing course, we have been assigned to complete a deep map. A deep map is where you capture the spirit of a chosen place. I have chosen the Pope’s Palace and have begun to include its dreary palazzo in my daily errands. The end of my run brought me to the beautiful view from the Pope’s Palace where I was able to view: the snake of commuters leaving the city walls, the bells of a far off church, the movements of construction workers below rebuilding a historical building, a dog playing with a stick in the park, two elderly men carrying on a conversation in the Palace’s center, the sun reflecting off of the front of the church. And I could hear: the different buzzing noises of construction, the zoom of vespas, the barking of my friends, pigeon’s coos, the wind around the Palace’s structures, the church bells, a woman’s high heels as she clacked across the uneven ground, a couple murmuring (probably wondering whether the girl sitting against the column starring directly into the sun’s warmth was crazy or homeless), and the trickle of water from the only fountain in sight. The one difficulty so far of my deep map location is I have not been able to smell much, nor taste anything. To complete our deep map we are supposed to use all of our senses to completely embody it and capture enough of the place’s essence to put down on paper. Touch is another sense that I did not attempt this morning besides the roughness of moss against my dry palms as I shifted my weight on the cold stone step I was observing from. 

Tomorrow I am making a day trip to Perugia, the capital of chocolate. Nearby lives Assisi, which if left with enough time might accompany our trip to Perugia. I am just excited to buy some chocolate because I have heard amazing things from everyone who has made the weekend trip already. Originally we were going to spend the night in Perugia but my roommate Grace has been feeling a bit under the weather, so now we are thinking of making just a day trip out of it. Should still be an interesting and very sweet day. 

 These are some little sweets displayed in one of the shops my Cuisine teacher brought us in to. It's a porcupine!!!

When In Roma!

Febbraio is here! Panic has begun to sink in. I need to begin planning my journeys because valuable  time is slipping before my very eyes and soon it will be time for me to pack my bags back up (which already seems an impossible feat) and fly home to the sunshine state. This morning I decided that I needed to accomplish something in the free time before my evening Italian course and so I began planning. This weekend I will be traveling by train to a Northern city called Perugia, most famous for its delicious chocolate. Nearby is the city of Assisi where, time allowing, I will make a side trip to see the homestead of St. Francis.

Alright, no more putting it off—I must write about this last Sunday, it is time:

Breathe in, breathe out. Just remember to breath. Walking toward the center of the church, despite reminding myself, I still forget to breathe as I look up into the amazing dome designed by Michelangelo himself. Spiraling upward my eyes try to take in as much of the details as possible: the beautiful arches layered one upon the other peaking toward a center, god-like destination resting a field’s length (430 ft) away from my peering human body, reachable only  be the worthy. In the lowest circle within the dome I can see Mary, Jesus and Saints, in the next numerous Angels are suspended, and far in the heavens is God himself. Directly in front of me, barricaded off from the crowds is a huge altar, covered by a large bronze canopy, resting over the remains of St. Peter, one of Jesus’ 12 apostles. At the base of the dome is a blue banner with a quote in Latin: Tu es Petrus et super hanc petram aedificabo ecclesiam meam Mathew 16:18, “You are Peter and upon this rock I will build my church.” Every biblical passage addressed to Peter is written throughout the church.

Are Peter’s bones truly lying at the base of this church? Definitely, maybe.

 Perfect picture showing exactly where I am: Nuns and the Swiss guard!

Everywhere I look, there is art: on the ceilings, on the ancient floors grooved from years of pilgrimages, statues’ glazed expressions stare on in compassion, graciousness, fear, and love as camera flashes spread across their marble limbs, and large paintings depicting various biblical passages hang in frames too large to be hefted by the feeble muscles of men.  Despite the large numbers mulling around the church, sound disperses into the high ceilings of the church and you are alone, accompanied by an ancient power too tangible to be ignored.

Standing by the main altar, a procession begins lead by the clergy singing in low Latin tones. Following behind the golden cross held high is a mass of people singing in the same holy words, some, who are not 100% sure, mouth along to the words still participating in this holy procession. When the group reaches the front of the church there is not room for me to squeeze through the crowd and glimpse the continuance of mass, so I move on.

Somewhere I know there is a mosaic copy of the painting depicting St. Peter being crucified upside down, and yet this gruesome storyboard did not reveal itself to me. St. Peter was executed and was told he would be killed in the same way as his savior, crucified. However, Peter did not believe he was worthy to be killed in the same manner as his lord and thus he was crucified as the “missing” painting shows, upside down.

My group was ready to depart from this holy world, but I felt myself being tugged by a spiritual force back into the many folds of the church. Here is Jesus, being cradled in the robes of Mary, her face turned upward toward the sky pleading for her dead son. Jesus looks like a small child compared to the woman wrapping herself about him in maternal love.  Michelangelo’s only signed work now rests behind a panel of bullet proof glass, after a madman took a chisel to the art in 1972 inflicting damages on the falling son of God.

Before we had ventured into St. Peter’s Basilica we had waited in line for several hours for the Vatican’s museum. Although it was the last Sunday of the month (the only day of the month the Vatican is open for no fee) the slight sprinkle seemed to keep most tourists in their hotel rooms rather than down on the sidewalk in the line we stood in for about an hour. We entered into the museum and did not know where to go first. This place is huge! 

 We each grabbed an edge of this globe and ran around in circles to make it spin. The tourists all clapped at our American entertainment, and then a group of British boys, probably a rugby team, scoffed at our silliness and made the orb grind to a halt.

 With my pale complexion I blend in so well!

 What was he thinking about while he sat for the artist? A woman? A battle not yet won? A philosophical idea not yet contemplated?

 Amazing tiled floor found throughout the entire of the museum.

 We had walked by this stained glass piece when we first entered the museum. I had tried to take pictures in front of it but the lighting was too poor. When we were leaving we were shocked by the sunbeams lighting up the golden curls framing her beautiful face. Had to stop for another photo op!

 A peek from the window...what do I see?

No matter which path you decide to take you can’t go wrong and will end up seeing something spectacular, but we were on a time limit. We still had to make our way to the Basilica and thus we tried to pinpoint the main event: the Sistine Chapel. Somehow we ended up making our way through the museum in a backward manner, so when we made it to the Sistine Chapel, we were not permitted to go through the other way and continue on with the rest of the museum. But honestly, the Sistine Chapel was enough for me. Every inch of the floor was covered by a pair of shoes rooting star gazers into place as their eyes searched the heavenly panels of the chapel above. The group I was with did not believe we were in the Sistine Chapel because they thought it would be bigger. Only when I pointed out the most recognizable painting on the ceiling of God and Adam nearly joining fingers did they believe me that we were in fact standing under the creations of Michelangelo. I still can’t believe we were there. A small edge runs around the exterior of the chapel allowing people to rest their necks as they sit down to continue gazing skyward, allowing the panels of paintings to tell their stories. Tourists try to avoid the threatening gazes of the guards as they hold their cameras low below their abdomens snapping pictures of the ceiling above.

I can just picture Michelangelo perched close to the ceiling with all his toxic painting materials, creating masterpieces in the fading light. How did he do it? Did he ever want to give up? Was he overwhelmed with the wide, white expanse of the ceiling leading before his paintbrush? Some painters take years to complete one portrait and yet Michelangelo was able to complete the Sistine Chapel in his lifetime, not to mention his other great works. What a man.

Outside of the mass packed Chapel I vow that before I return to the United States I will make another pilgrimage to the Sistine. A lonely pilgrimage this time however so I can sit for hours upon hours, staring up at history.

The rest of the day consisted of walking, walking, and some more walking. After the museum, my friends were hungry and where did they want to eat let me ask you?! Not the delicious foods of Roman Gods, no, but the food of Kings, Burger King that it. After downing my whopper jr. however, I was feeling anything but royal. Walking down the streets of Rome, heading toward the Trevi fountain for a taste of its delicious gelato, I thought I might throw up. For the rest of my trip here I swear I will not allow the convenience of fast food to overcome me again. How I was even tempted by those French fries and coca cola I will never know. When in Rome, I suppose.

We missed the train we wanted to take home but were able to stroll along the Roman streets at a leisurely stroll that contrasted greatly with the pace of the day. Reaching the station we realized we had even more time, more time than we wanted, because Italy’s railways were on strike. We arrived back into home much later than we had wanted, tired with full bladders. Falling into bed after such a day I could not numb my mind to the flashing historical images I had walked under, near and around, which before I had only seen in my text books. 

My soul can find no staircase to Heaven unless it be through Earth's loveliness. Michelangelo