[Squishy] Florence to Rome

[Spencer Day]

Ciao Amici!

Here are a few more of my exploits abroad in la bell
Italia..if ya aint interested..va bene..its just some
journal entries of mine. I wish I had more time to
write to each of you individually but I hope you all
are doing well and look forward to seeing you soon!
-Spencer
JOURNAL        FLORENCE ITALY JUNE 1st, 2002.

My first morning in Florence, I was awaken by the
rising sun. But I didnt get out of bed for at least an
hour...it was so beautiful,somewhere, a rooster crowed
and birds chirped as I watched the swirling of a
cotton candy sky illuminate the hills of Tuscany.  I
showered in the enormous shower facilities (where I
had a couple fantasies that a few of the hostel
hotties might come in and join me..but then I guess
thats why they call them fantasies)it was peaceful all
alone in the showers and by the time the Aussie (Mark
was his name) knocked on my door, I was ready to go.
(which surprised the hell out of him, because he
figured with all the beer I drank the night before..I
would be impossible to wake..he he..he dont know me
very well). The Australians were bright chipper and
ready to conquer the city.  Their joi di vivre
provided the energy that our sorry excuse for a
breakfast (a
latte and stale croissant with jam) didnt.  Our first
stop, apart from the only
McDonalds in florence(thank god), was the DUOMO.
Unlike a trip to McDonalds, which only reminds me why
I never go there in the first place,To stand in front
of the DUOMO is to feel as if, just for a moment...you
have witnessed the Rennaissance in its entirety. The
bells sound in the early morning mist as flocks of
birds perch upon the red tiles of its enormous dome
hundreds of feet above the city.  I would walk through
certain alleys,the cobblestones wet and glistening,
almost hiding in the dark corners and then time and
time again,delight in startling myself when I would
turn to look up at the majesty of the Duomo. I would
pretend that I was a young struggling peasant artist
and, was heading into the center of town to meet with
other apprentice artists. What an exiting time it must
have been to be here. You can feel it. so breathtaking
to see a city which is a work of art. The Aussies and
a new companion from Humboldt County near SF (a
stoner..go figure!)decided to pay the 6$$ to go into
the duomo. But, like a true cheap ass...I opted not
to.(apparently I missed a good thing because the view
from the top is supposedly breathtaking). But life
always has some experience for you...and for the next
40 minutes while they climed to the top of the
cathedral I sat with an old man from a small village
town and talked in butchered Italian. He kept kissing
me (Italians are much more affectionate than most
Americans) calling me CHE BRAVO RAGAZZO!!(what a good
boy!)and giving me candy....come to think of this,
this sounds a little sketchy when I look at the
details..old man, kissing me,giving me candy and
calling me a GOOD BOY..hmmmm..but you must believe
that it was quite sweet. I stayed with the old man,
who would take a bus down in the morning to watch the
people around the cathedral and the town
square...then, he would sneak up behind the bad
artists (you know, the guys who do really bad
charicatures of Madonna, Leonardo Dicaprio and badly
painted cityscapes..yes they have them here too!) and
WHACK them with his cane! It was hillarious, then, the
artists would turn around..curse him and then laugh. 
I guess they all knew him and this was just his way of
having fun..no one seemed to mind. When the kids came
down from their exhilirating 600 step trek to the top
of the cathedral, we continued on our way through this
ancient city. By the time we reached the palazzo
vecchio (the old palace) the place was swamped with
tourists. But sometimes you have to look around and
realize...theres a good reason. Florence is one
amazing treasure after another, it is blessed in the
same Way San Francisco is..with big green hills which
provide breathtaking vistas from any number of
viewpoints.
    The Australians were truly on a
rampage..determined to see everything and anything by
6:00, at which time they were on a train to Rome.  We
waited in line at the Ufizzi for about an hour.  Each
of us took a turn while the others went down to the
river (where there was some sort of rowing competition
on the Arno) or looked around some more. I barely made
it back in time (I got screwed and had to be the one
saving a place in line for 89.9 % of the time) and
then we went in. There was an absolutely amazing
collection of Roman, Medeival and rennaisance art.  It
was wonderful to see this pieces which are so old,
yet, in many aspects, would fit right in at any modern
art gallery. I guess all good art is that way; it
never looses its freshness.  One I especially liked
was a peace with Jesus and the Virgin Mary (though in
retrospect...I think they were ALL religious
variations on this theme).  It was clear that the
chief focal point of this piece was not Mary or Jesus,
but a young onlooker in the foreground.  The artist
has clearly spent much more time with her.  Whoever
this beautiful young girl is, that is who the artist
really truly loved. I stayed with it as long as I
could..until the Aussies (dont get me wrong, they were
a blast) were harrying me off into the next room. MORE
ROOMS more to see!! It seemed to me that they suffered
from a bit of the STAR STRUCK SYNDROME.  Anything that
was a Da'Vinci or Bodicelli, suddenly became of
note..whereas anything of less renown (like...say...a
Carravaggio "whos that??") got a once over at best.
     After the musuem (honestly I could have spent a
good 2 hours more here) the Aussies were in a rush to
to go see Michelagelos DAVID. Me and my knew friend
Phillip(The stoner from Humboldt county) opted not to
go. -My brain is like a sponge..I only take in as much
as I can hold without it getting sloppy, and I felt
Michelangelos DAVID deserved more than a once over
before running out the door again. Im a quality over
quanitity kinda guy so I just told myself that "Ill be
back"
Me and Phillip headed up the hill to our beautiful
"Villa" and I took some pictures (Hope they turn out)
of the gorgeous canopy of trees and the vinyards which
grew to around, and above the small road.  I told
Phillip that I would like to hike up a hill
(recommended by my friend Sebastiano)to catch a view
of the city by sunset. Many hours had already passed
(which seems to be, without fail, the case whenever
you are doing anything remotely fun).  So we began a
trek throughout Florence.  Through the hip, young
peoples part of town. Through Chinatown (comprised of
two restaraunts a shoe store and a laundromat) and
over the river Arno up some small winding streets and
past the original fortress wall to the city of
florence. Past monestaries and vineyards. Both of us
couldnt believe our luck...getting lost in these back
roads was definately the highlight of our day. By the
time we reached the Piazza di Michelangelo (where
there is an exact replica of the statue of DAVID so I
guess in a sense I could say I have seen HIM) we were
exhausted. It was an incredible hike. Worn out and
dehydrated, we were wondering how we would be able to
enjoy reaching the top of the mountain.  Thank god
Italians have this classy knack for putting elegant
cafes in the darndest of places....It was perfect to
join all the other locals (and some tourists but not
many) as the sun set over the breathtaking city of
Florence.  We headed back down the hill and headed
back to the hostel where I we talked with some
beautiful fellow hostelers, drank one bottle of wine
and passed out,almost immediately.


June 2nd, 2002  (The next morning, on the train from
Florence to Rome…noon.)

The train pulls out of the station (forty minutes
late) and immediately I am struck by the lush and
serene beauty of the countryside which is all around
me.  I get to thinking about some of the horror
stories I have been told about traveling abroad, Italy
in particular.  My favorite is what I like to call the
“Throwing the Gypsy Baby” Story.  Basically, this
urban legend stresses how desperate the gypsies (in
Rome primarily) are.  I was told to be wary of any
gypsy (ESPECIALLY women) holding a baby on the subway
or in a train station because they gypsies will THROW
the baby at you (assuming that like any caring human
being, you would of course attempt to catch it) then
two other gypsies (usually children) will run at you
on both sides and take your wallet (and countless
other valuables) without you even knowing it.  Now, to
me, the mere fact that someone had thrown their baby
at me might cause me to be suspicious of any and all
persons involved in said event...but thats just me.
	On the train, I meet an absolutely wonderful girl
named Erin   She was a striking girl who had a
striking tatoo. Something writen  in Italian around
the ankle of her unshaved leg.  I asked her in Italian
if this was the right train to Rome. She stared
blankly at me and then shook her head “
no...no..”.Another elderly Italian lady in the other
seat said “no..SI..SI! Il treno a Roma!”  For the next
few minutes as the train left the station I tried to
make pleasant conversation but each time, Erin seemed
to have little interest in talking to me.  “Fine”, I
thought to myself “Just another  beautiful (but
slightly jaded) Northern Italian girl who isn’t used
to people who are simply trying to be friendly.  Not
your problem”  Just then, Erin looked at me and asked,
“parle inglese?”  “Certo! Sono Americano!,” I said. 
“me too.” Erin, said smiling, “I’m from San
Francisco.”  Well, needless to say, this sent us right
into an immediate conversation about which of our
friends knew who, who we THOUGHT we knew, and of
course, how much we loved living in San Francisco. 
The elderly Italian lady just laughed and nodded as
she had watched the whole awkward scenario.  She tells
me she is on her way to the small town of Urmbino,
which she says I absolutely MUST visit.  Small and
quaint, with a castle with a fortress and everything. 
We had an intense honest conversation about art, the
pursuit of dreams (and happiness) and how and why
certain places become host to a surge of creative
energy and culture.  I asked her what her why she
decided to have something in Italian tatooed on her
leg and she told me it was a quote by Gallileo, a
statement about the nature of the universe. This, she
told me, reminded her to stand firm in what she
believed. Around this time, she stopped to look out
the window.  Spearlike Italian cypresses marched like
army soldiers over the rolling green hills of Tuscany.
 “Oh my god.” She said, smiling with tears in her
eyes, “IM IN ITALY.”  I smiled and nodded, knowing
exactly what she was feeling. We talked some more
about how we shouldn’t have really come on this trip,
what we sold to be able to (barely) afford it, how
much financial trouble we would both be in when we
returned to the states, and how little we cared.  We
exchanged email adresses and phone numbers.  I hope I
will see her again.  She had a wonderful light.
		Green hills, sweet air and allergies like you
couldn’t believe!! Che Bella Toscana!
In no time at all (though it must have been a few
hours) we reached the stop where she was to be picked
up by her little sister, who was joining her. I shook
her hand and told her with sincerity that it was
really, a pleasure to meet her. I hope she knows I
meant it.  After she left the train I had a whole car,
basically to myself.  I put on my headphones and
listened to some Thievery Corporation as the train
wound towards the Eternal City.  With my kick as
soundtrack, my fierce new Italian shoes and the
beautiful scenery, i couldnt help but kick back smile
and think to myself...." Damn Spencer..you one BAD ASS
motha F---"  
     After living in Los Angeles (and most of America
falls within the same catagory), I expect things to be
very much like a set.  A beautiful set of buildings or
scenery, a block perhaps, and at the end of it your
back to the ugliness of our fast paced modern world. 
But here, it just keeps on going! It just GOES and
GOES!! Cities,castles, hills and farmland that rolls
across the horizon like a plush green blanket.  A
scene from one of your favorite movies, the one that
got left on the editing room floor.  Unnecessary, they
probably thought. Too many people emphasizing the
destination.  After all, its ALL a journey, and from
the look of it, the destination sounds a bit cold and
dark.  Frankly.
	- We reached the suburbs of Rome around 2:30. I was
running an hour late to meet Francesco, who had
promised to meet me at the Termini ( Rome’s Grand
Central Station).
I put my feet up, kicked back with my Thievery
Corporation and watched the countryside roll by.  As
we got closer to the Eternal City, the hills became
more dramatic.  Ramshackle fortresses cling to the
craggy sides of sparsley covered hills.  I imagine the
Romans marching over these hills, or perhaps poor
peasants trecking down the peninsula of Italy on their
way to the greatest city on earth.  There would not be
a city as impressive in size and stature for nearly a
thousand years.  Maybe there still hasn’t been. I
don’t know.  I wasn’t there or maybe I was, but I’m
not one to wax rhapsodic about my past lives. I was
probably just some poor bastard. Some slave from
Africa who got sold to a dirty old emperor who used my
hair to assist him in puking so he could eat more when
he went to the orgies.  Though the hills were less
forested than in Tuscany, I was surprised by how green
it was.   I always pictures Rome as sub-arid,
Mediteranean town, not unlike the climate of Baja
California.  Instead, it appears the climate in Rome
is very similar to Los Angeles, chilly and rainy in
the winter, hazy and very warm in the summer, but
basically a very amiable climate.
	I began to get some chills down my spine as we
reached the first stop for Rome.  Even here, amid the
makeshift tenement’s and junk yards I felt magic. 
Ramshackle apartment buildings shared space with the
remains of the Roman walls to the city.  I already
knew there was no way for my expecations (good or bad)
to coincide with the reality of what I was about to
find.  But the FEELING was the same.  I knew this
feeling in the same way I felt I knew Rome.  The
colors of Rome were just as I had dreamed them, earthy
golds and sun baked reds.  The sky was just as I
remembered, soft and hazy, bathed in an ancient light.
 Even in the Termini Station, everything seemed to
glow a melancholy but wonderful light.  I was
apprehensive about meeting Francesco, an older Italian
man I had encountered while chatting on the internet
back in San Francisco.  I had been looking for some
friends in Italy and Francesco offered that I could
stay with him when I arrived in Rome.  I told him that
I already had a hostel set up in Rome, but that I
would still love to meet and we could just take it
from there.  It’s always nicer to know someone when
your going to somewhere you’ve never been before. 
Even though I was almost 2 hours late (apparently the
regular Italian train system is a bit infamous for
this) Francesco was waiting for me at the station.  We
hung out and then went to his house, a beautiful art
deco apartment in the Piazza Bologna area of the city.
 A quiet, residential, and very Roman area of the
city.  I will always remember walking up the 4 flights
of beautiful marble stairs, it made me feel like I was
in an Escher drawing.  Here, we had some drinks and he
showed me the guest room where he assured me I would
be free to come and go as I pleased.  I said, “why
not.”  At least if I was going to be chopped up into
tiny pieces, god damnit, I was going to be chopped up
into tiny pieces here in Rome.  I admited, it seemed
strange that anyone would let a perfect stranger (we
had only talked on the phone a couple of times) stay
with him.  I told him about my fears and asked what
the “catch” was.  He assured me that there was no
catch, except that I have an absolutely wonderful
time.  I agreed.  We talked for a while more, I slowly
nursed my drink “Sambucca”, I think it was, and I
gazed out the window at the ancient gold light.  The
sultry afternoon sun lazily lays upon the oranges,
golds, browns and yellows of the tall, modern
apartment buildings which surrounded the Piazza. 
Francesco informed me that all the buildings in Rome
are required to be painted certain hues so that at
sunset, the entire city appears to be made of gold.  I
dont know whether or not this is absolutely true.  But
I love to picture this and looked forward to my first
Roman sunset.  It all made sense to me.  Everything
matches.  I downed my drink quickly and we headed out
into the Eternal city.  The subway stop by Francesco’s
house was covered with orange and yellow tiles which
would intermittently turn into murals.  Colorful
grafiti covered the tangerine subway train which took
us to the Piazza de Spagna subway stop.  We came above
ground and I climed to the top of the steps,
recalling, as I’m sure everyone else did, Audrey
Hepburn in her Roman Holiday and I looked out upon the
city.  I see the Vatican, St. Peters bassilica and the
faint glimmer of what must be the Tiber.  A balmy
breeze rustles through the date palms near the square.
 The weather in Rome was beautiful, and apparently, it
is this pleasant for most of the year.  
	At the bottom of the Spanish steps, (aptly named, as
this square has been home to the Spanish Embassy for
hundreds of years) I buy some roasted chestuts, they
smell good but proove to be a bit of an acquired
taste.  We are about to head straight to the
Trastevere (which I have heard wonderful things about
and was very excited about seeing) when Francesco told
me we were near the Trevi Fountain (which is perhaps
the one monument I was most interested in seeing on
this trip).  We walk the golden, ancient streets.  I
walk in slow languid steps, blissfully devouring the
warm sun and gentle breeze as we walk through the
small cobblestone streets past countless cafes and
restaraunts.  Then, we turn a corner and BAM! There it
is.  The Trevi fountain.  Not at all like I had
expected to see it.  One thing I would quickly learn
that in Rome, you just HAPPEN upon monuments.  They
have no need to call attention to themselves.  No need
to sit on enormous lawns which offer oppressive views
of their ostentatious glory.  The Trevi fountain fits
snugly at the intersection of several small streets,
which only enhances the element of surprise you feel
when you suddenly stumble upon it.  Gorgeous
sculptures jutting out of the white marble. 
Everything matches.  Perfection.  One look and one
would would have no doubt.  This could only be in
Rome.
	From here we walked through Piazza Navona (which owes
its peculiar shape to the fact that is was where the
Roman Chariot Races were held.  I can feel it) and
past the Parthenon.  I stand here for at least ten
minutes and say, “Spencer, this is the oldest thing
you have ever seen in your life.”  One of the most
complete structures in all of antiquity.  In all the
world.  We pass from one wonder to the next, finally
crossing the Tiber river and into the Trastevere.  The
Trastevere is very popular and considered one of the
most quintisentially Roman neighborhoods.  An artists
neighborhood.  A Romantics neighborhood.  Needless to
say, I felt very much at home.  We walked by the
basillica of Santa Maria de Trastevere.  Outside, in
the small square, where many locals had gathered for
the evening, gypsies tried to breakdance on top of
huge rubber balls.  One fell off and hurt himself
badly.  Someone called an ambulance.  I suddenly
thought about how in America, we have no Piazzas to
meet in, we have malls.  Merely seeking a connection
with others  is not enough, we need some other
purpose, in America, this most often seems to be a
common interest in consumption.  Francesco wanted to
keep walking but I asked if we could step inside this
church (which is smaller and less spectacular than
many of the others, apart from some dazzling mosaics
on the top of the church) and he smiles and say he
thinks that it is a wonderful idea.  We step over the
sculptures and plaques which indicate that several
popes have been buried in this church, which dates
back to the early middle ages.  I had forgotten that
it is Sunday until I step inside.  Inside the church,
a choir sings.  The sounds they made were so beautiful
that I could not move and all of the sudden, I
understood why so many people seek sanctuary inside
religion.  What a sense of peace there was.  The
voices resonated throughout the hall.  I stared up at
the golden medeival mossaics and wanted to cry but
couldnt.  “you ready to go?” Francesco was hungry. 
But I promised myself I would be back.  Maybe next
Sunday.  My moments in that church would’ve made
anybody a Catholic, at least for a moment.
	We went to one of Francesco’s favorite restaraunts
which was very affordable (though, after a 10$ slice
of cold pizza in Florence, almost anything did) and
for the first time since I had been in Italy, I sat
down to have a real dinner.  An incredible dinner. 
The kind of food where you have to shut your eyes and
say.....OH MY GOD.  The restaraunt was tucked away on
the back of a tiny street, and we ate outside on a
rickety table with a red and white checkered
tablecloth.  Too perfect.  A huge carafe of red wine. 
A man played “Autumn Leaves” on a guitar.  Near the
river, someone was playing an accordion and the echo
of the accordion created its own strange counterpoint.
 Everything fit, everything was exactly as it should
have been.  Finally, I couldn’t hold it back any more
and I began to cry, right there at the table. 
Francesco asked me if I was o.k. and I said “yes.”  I
guess I was simply in a state of disbelief.  It has
been some time, but I have been known to cry when
things are just too good, when life has blessed me
with so much beauty, I feel that I cant even take it. 
And I have to ask, “Why me?”  One minute, you are just
some nobody from Utah, and you feel that no one loves
you and then one day you turn around....and your HERE.
 And its more then you could have possibly imagined it
could be.  I smile and drink my wine. I keep most of
these thoughts to myself.  Francesco appears to have a
bit on his mind already.  On the way back to his
house, Francesco asked me if I would spend the night
with him.  I told him no.  He was cool with that.  In
the piazza near Francesco’s house a young couple put
on a avant-garde performance in the street.  Francesco
informed me that every weekend, a different Piazza in
the city closes off, all through the summer for a sort
of extended “Fourth of July”, Italian pride Festival. 
I couldn’t really tell all what was going on, but the
girl kept pointing off into the darkness screaming
“Giovanni!” Then she would grab an accordion and begin
to play a tarrantella while Giovanni would dance
across a tightrope, high above the piazza.  He would
pretend to fall, lay down to sleep and all the time
the girl would scream “Now Giovanni! This is SERIOUS
buisness!” I asked Francesco if I was missing anything
in the translation and he just laughed and said “ No,
but everybody loves it!”  I did too.  Then, I went
back to my room, and with the windows open, stared out
into the warm Roman night and smiled.  “You made it!” 
Bravo. 	June 2nd, 2002  (on the train from Florence to
Rome…noon.)

The train pulls out of the station and immediately I
am struck by the lush and serene beauty of the
countryside which is all around me.  I get to thinking
about some of the horror stories I have been told
about traveling abroad, Italy in particular.  My
favorite is what I like to call the “Throwing the
Gypsy Baby” Story.  Basically, this urban legend
stresses how desperate the gypsies (in Rome primarily)
are.  I was told to be wary of any gypsy (ESPECIALLY
women) holding a baby on the subway or in a train
station because they gypsies will THROW the baby at
you (assuming that like any caring human being, you
would of course attempt to catch it) then two other
gypsies (usually children) will run at you on both
sides and take your wallet (and countless other
valuables) without you even knowing it.  Now, to me,
the mere fact that someone had thrown their baby at me
might cause me to be suspicious of any and all persons
involved in said event...but thats just me.
	On the train, I meet an absolutely wonderful girl
named Erin   She was a striking girl who had a
striking tatoo. Something writen  in Italian around
the ankle of her unshaved leg.  I asked her in Italian
if this was the right train to Rome. She stared
blankly at me and then shook her head “
no...no..”.Another elderly Italian lady in the other
seat said “no..SI..SI! Il treno a Roma!”  For the next
few minutes as the train left the station I tried to
make pleasant conversation but each time, Erin seemed
to have little interest in talking to me.  “Fine”, I
thought to myself “Just another  beautiful (but
slightly jaded) Northern Italian girl who isn’t used
to people trying to simply be friendly.  Not your
problem”  Just then, Erin looked at me and asked,
“parle inglese?”  “Certo! Sono Americano!,” I said. 
“me too.” Erin, said smiling, “I’m from San
Francisco.”  Well, needless to say, this sent us right
into an immediate conversation about which of our
friends knew who, who we THOUGHT we knew, and of
course, how much we loved living in San Francisco. 
The elderly Italian lady just laughed and nodded as
she had watched the whole awkward scenario.  She tells
me she is on her way to the small town of Urmbino,
which she says I absolutely MUST visit.  Small and
quaint, with a castle with a fortress and everything. 
We had an intense honest conversation about art, the
pursuit of dreams (and happiness) and how and why
certain places become host to a surge of creative
energy and culture.  I asked her what her why she
decided to have something in Italian tatooed on her
leg and she told me it was a quote by Gallileo, a
statement about the nature of the universe. This, she
told me, reminded her to stand firm in what she
believed. Around this time, she stopped to look out
the window.  Spearlike Italian cypresses marched like
army soldiers over the rolling green hills of Tuscany.
 “Oh my god.” She said, smiling with tears in her
eyes, “IM IN ITALY.”  I smiled and nodded, knowing
exactly what she was feeling. We talked some more
about how we shouldn’t have really come on this trip,
what we sold to be able to (barely) afford it, how
much financial trouble we would both be in when we
returned to the states, and how little we cared.  We
exchanged email adresses and phone numbers.  I hope I
will see her again.  She had a wonderful light.
		Green hills, sweet air and allergies like you
couldn’t believe!! Che Bella Toscana!
In no time at all (though it must have been a few
hours) we reached the stop where she was to be picked
up by her little sister, who was joining her. I shook
her hand and told her with sincerity that it was
really, a pleasure to meet her. I hope she knows I
meant it.  After she left the train I had a whole car,
basically to myself.  I put on my headphones and
listened to some Thievery Corporation as the train
wound towards the Eternal City.  After living in Los
Angeles (and most of America falls within the same
catagory), I expect things to be very much like a set.
 A beautiful set of buildings or scenery, a block
perhaps, and at the end of it your back to the
ugliness of our fast paced modern world.  But here, it
just keeps on going! It just GOES and GOES!!
Cities,castles, hills and farmland that rolls across
the horizon like a plush green blanket.  A scene from
one of your favorite movies, the one that got left on
the editing room floor.  Unnecessary, they probably
thought. Too many people emphasizing the destination. 
After all, its ALL a journey, and from the look of it,
the destination sounds a bit cold and dark.  Frankly.
	- We reached the suburbs of Rome around 2:30. I was
running an hour late to meet Francesco, who had
promised to meet me at the Termini ( Rome’s Grand
Central Station).
I put my feet up, kicked back with my Thievery
Corporation and watched the countryside roll by.  As
we got closer to the Eternal City, the hills became
more dramatic.  Ramshackle fortresses cling to the
craggy sides of sparsley covered hills.  I imagine the
Romans marching over these hills, or perhaps poor
peasants trecking down the peninsula of Italy on their
way to the greatest city on earth.  There would not be
a city as impressive in size and stature for nearly a
thousand years.  Maybe there still hasn’t been. I
don’t know.  I wasn’t there or maybe I was, but I’m
not one to wax rhapsodic about my past lives. I was
probably just some poor bastard. Some slave from
Africa who got sold to a dirty old emperor who used my
hair to assist him in puking so he could eat more when
he went to the orgies.  Though the hills were less
forested than in Tuscany, I was surprised by how green
it was.   I always pictures Rome as sub-arid,
Mediteranean town, not unlike the climate of Baja
California.  Instead, it appears the climate in Rome
is very similar to Los Angeles, chilly and rainy in
the winter, hazy and very warm in the summer, but
basically a very amiable climate.
	I began to get some chills down my spine as we
reached the first stop for Rome.  Even here, amid the
makeshift tenement’s and junk yards I felt magic. 
Ramshackle apartment buildings shared space with the
remains of the Roman walls to the city.  I already
knew there was no way for my expecations (good or bad)
to coincide with the reality of what I was about to
find.  But the FEELING was the same.  I knew this
feeling in the same way I felt I knew Rome.  The
colors of Rome were just as I had dreamed them, earthy
golds and sun baked reds.  The sky was just as I
remembered, soft and hazy, bathed in an ancient light.
 Even in the Termini Station, everything seemed to
glow a melancholy but wonderful light.  I was
apprehensive about meeting Francesco, an older Italian
man I had encountered while chatting on the internet
back in San Francisco.  I had been looking for some
friends in Italy and Francesco offered that I could
stay with him when I arrived in Rome.  I told him that
I already had a hostel set up in Rome, but that I
would still love to meet and we could just take it
from there.  It’s always nicer to know someone when
your going to somewhere you’ve never been before. 
Even though I was almost 2 hours late (apparently the
regular Italian train system is a bit infamous for
this) Francesco was waiting for me at the station.  We
hung out and then went to his house, a beautiful art
deco apartment in the Piazza Bologna area of the city.
 A quiet, residential, and very Roman area of the
city.  I will always remember walking up the 4 flights
of beautiful marble stairs, it made me feel like I was
in an Escher drawing.  Here, we had some drinks and he
showed me the guest room where he assured me I would
be free to come and go as I pleased.  I said, “why
not.”  At least if I was going to be chopped up into
tiny pieces, god damnit, I was going to be chopped up
into tiny pieces here in Rome.  I admited, it seemed
strange that anyone would let a perfect stranger (we
had only talked on the phone a couple of times) stay
with him.  I told him about my fears and asked what
the “catch” was.  He assured me that there was no
catch, except that I have an absolutely wonderful
time.  I agreed.  We talked for a while more, I slowly
nursed my drink “Sambucca”, I think it was, and I
gazed out the window at the ancient gold light.  The
sultry afternoon sun lazily lay upon the oranges,
golds, browns and yellows of the tall, modern
apartment buildings which surrounded the Piazza. 
Francesco informed me that all the buildings in Rome
are required to be painted certain hues so that at
sunset, the entire city appears to be made of gold.  I
dont know whether or not this is absolutely true.  But
I love to picture this and looked forward to my first
Roman sunset.  It all made sense to me.  Everything
matches.  I downed my drink quickly and we headed out
into the Eternal city.  The subway stop by Francesco’s
house was covered with orange and yellow tiles which
would intermittently turn into murals.  Colorful
grafiti covered the tangerine subway train which took
us to the Piazza de Spagna subway stop.  We came above
ground and I climed to the top of the steps,
recalling, as I’m sure everyone else did, Audrey
Hepburn in her Roman Holiday and I looked out upon the
city.  I see the Vatican, St. Peters bassilica and the
faint glimmer of what must be the Tiber.  A balmy
breeze rustles through the date palms near the square.
 The weather in Rome was beautiful, and apparently, it
is this pleasant for most of the year.  
	At the bottom of the Spanish steps, (aptly named, as
this square has been home to the Spanish Embassy for
hundreds of years) I buy some roasted chestuts, they
smell good but proove to be a bit of an acquired
taste.  We are about to head straight to the
Trastevere (which I have heard wonderful things about
and was very excited about seeing) when Francesco told
me we were near the Trevi Fountain (which is perhaps
the one monument I was most interested in seeing on
this trip).  We walk the golden, ancient streets.  I
walk in slow languid steps, blissfully devouring the
warm sun and gentle breeze as we walk through the
small cobblestone streets past countless cafes and
restaraunts.  Then, we turn a corner and BAM! There it
is.  The Trevi fountain.  Not at all like I had
expected to see it.  One thing I would quickly learn
that in Rome, you just HAPPEN upon monuments.  They
have no need to call attention to themselves.  No need
to sit on enormous lawns which offer oppressive views
of their ostentatious glory.  The Trevi fountain fits
snugly at the intersection of several small streets,
which only enhances the element of surprise you feel
when you suddenly stumble upon it.  Gorgeous
sculptures jut out of the white marble.  Everything
matches.  Perfection.  One look and one would would
have no doubt.  This could only be in Rome.
	From here we walked through Piazza Navona (which owes
its peculiar shape to the fact that is was where the
Roman Chariot Races were held.  I can feel it) and
past the Parthenon.  I stand here for at least ten
minutes and say, “Spencer, this is the oldest thing
you have ever seen in your life.”  One of the most
complete structures in all of antiquity.  In all the
world.  We pass from one wonder to the next, finally
crossing the Tiber river and into the Trastevere.  The
Trastevere is very popular and considered one of the
most quintisentially Roman neighborhoods.  An artists
neighborhood.  A Romantics neighborhood.  Needless to
say, I felt very much at home.  We walked by the
basillica of Santa Maria de Trastevere.  Outside, in
the small square, where many locals had gathered for
the evening, gypsies tried to breakdance on top of
huge rubber balls.  One fell off and hurt himself
badly.  Someone called an ambulance.  I suddenly
thought about how in America, we have no Piazzas to
meet in, we have malls.  Merely seeking a connection
with others  is not enough, we need some other
purpose, in America, this most often seems to be a
common interest in consumption.  Francesco wanted to
keep walking but I asked if we could step inside this
church (which is smaller and less spectacular than
many of the others, apart from some dazzling mosaics
on the top of the church) and he smiles and say he
thinks that it is a wonderful idea.  We step over the
sculptures and plaques which indicate that several
popes have been buried in this church, which dates
back to the early middle ages.  I had forgotten that
it is Sunday until I step inside.  Inside the church,
a choir sings.  The sounds they made were so beautiful
that I could not move and all of the sudden, I
understood why so many people seek sanctuary inside
religion.  What a sense of peace there was.  The
voices resonated throughout the hall.  I stared up at
the golden medeival mossaics and wanted to cry but
couldnt.  “you ready to go?” Francesco was hungry. 
But I promised myself I would be back.  Maybe next
Sunday.  My moments in that church would’ve made
anybody a Catholic, at least for a moment.
	We went to one of Francesco’s favorite restaraunts
which was very affordable (though, after a 10$ slice
of cold pizza in Florence, almost anything did) and
for the first time since I had been in Italy, I sat
down to have a real dinner.  An incredible dinner. 
The kind of food where you have to shut your eyes and
say.....OH MY GOD.  The restaraunt was tucked away on
the back of a tiny street, and we ate outside on a
rickety table with a red and white checkered
tablecloth.  Too perfect.  A huge carafe of red wine. 
A man played “Autumn Leaves” on a guitar.  Near the
river, someone was playing an accordion and the echo
of the accordion created its own strange counterpoint.
 Everything fit, everything was exactly as it should
have been.  Finally, I couldn’t hold it back any more
and I began to cry, right there at the table. 
Francesco asked me if I was o.k. and I said “yes.”  I
guess I was simply in a state of disbelief.  It has
been some time, but I have been known to cry when
things are just too good, when life has blessed me
with so much beauty, I feel that I cant take any more,
And I have to ask, “Why me?”  One minute, you are just
some nobody from Utah, and you feel that no one loves
you and that youll never see anything and then one day
you turn around....and your HERE.  And its more then
you could have possibly imagined it could be.  
     I smile and drink my wine. I keep most of these
thoughts to myself.  Francesco appears to have a bit
on his mind already.  On the way back to his house,
Francesco asked me if I would spend the night with
him.  I told him no.  He was cool with that.  In the
piazza near Francesco’s house a young couple put on a
avant-garde performance in the street.  Francesco
informed me that every weekend, a different Piazza in
the city closes off, all through the summer for a sort
of extended “Fourth of July”, Italian pride Festival. 
I couldn’t really tell all what was going on, but the
girl kept pointing off into the darkness screaming
“Giovanni!” Then she would grab an accordion and begin
to play a tarrantella while Giovanni would dance
across a tightrope, high above the piazza.  He would
pretend to fall, lay down to sleep and all the time
the girl would scream “Not Now Giovanni! This is
SERIOUS buisness!”  I really started missing Brian
right then, wishing he could see this girl play her
accordion and this Art for Arts sake.  As more and
more instruments, stunts and finally a small dog were
incorporated into the act I had to ask Francesco if I
was missing anything in the translation and he just
laughed and said “ No, but everybody loves it!”  I did
too.  Then, I went back to my room, and with the
windows open, stared out into the warm Roman night and
smiled.  “You made it!”  Bravo.




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