Stories of Rome

So Rome – the Eternal City – Athens 2.0.  Anyway, I’m digging on it, and here’s why.  As you know, travels thus far have been adventurous and sometimes arduous.  India particularly tested my limits physically and, as a result, emotionally.  I often felt I was more or less alone trying to make my way without many of the comforts of the western world available.  Whine whine whine. 

Italy, on the other hand, is full of such conveniences – it rivaled Istanbul for restaurants and fun antique shops on every corner, along with quaint cobblestone streets in the center of a bustling metropolis.  Rome not only has layers of history (sometimes exposed for our consideration), but it also has many quiet pockets where a person could sit down and feel moments of quiet and comfort with the pulse of the city waiting just outside.  Maybe India set my appreciation to stun, but I think Rome might be a favorite city of mine, right there with Istanbul and Minneapolis / St Paul. 

I give much of the credit for these feelings of comfort to my hosts, Paolo and Alessandra Morelli, the parents of Corinne’s classmate Giulia.  They, without having met me, knowing me only as their daughter’s friend’s BOYfriend, agreed to not only take me in, but to give me keys to their house so I could let myself in because they were out of town!  Incidentally they were visiting Giulia in Stockholm, so we did have a chance to meet and introduce ourselves.  We talked over various routes from the bus stop to their house and a few brief plans for when they would be in town with me, and that was that – they passed over the keys and I was on my way. 

Incidentally I still have the keys and here’s why.  I’m writing this on the morning of April first, sitting at the airport, waiting for my mother to touch town from Frankfurt.  I am ironically early because the Roman transportation is on strike today – buses stopped running at 9, and the metro is shut down.  Trains are sporadic but running.  When we found this out, Paolo not only called the city (whose recording told him he could check the train schedule by looking at the display at the station – very helpful), but offered me his car to pick up Mom at the airport!  That is hospitality. 

So I have been well hosted – my first night in Rome was spent on a car tour of the outer sights of Rome with Carla and Giovanna, who in addition to hills and concert halls and stadiums showed me several lovely views of the city, including the view with the locks – pictured below.  I enjoyed a ‘typical Italian meal’ of (course one) sheep cheese, sausage, bread oil chips nuts and sparkling white win, (course two) pasta with red sauce and ham with a red wine and (course three) fruit and homemade lemon liquor.  Hot damn. 

The next morning I took the number 60 bus into the center of Rome, which is a beautiful as it is walkable.  I mostly wandered around, saw the outside of sites like the colleseum, art museums and the insides of a dozen churches (including St Peter’s), piazzas, the Pantheon and several other wonderful sites.  Everything was exciting – the shops with pizzas and paninis, squares with fountains in from of churches, each street sided by the dusty pastels of Roman apartments and offices.  When I got tired I could sit in a church (never more than a block away) – and sitting in a church was a great way to spend time!  These buildings were built primarily between 16 and 1700 and are ornately decorated.  I’m currently overhearing southern American English being employed to complain about the broken TVs on an airplane. 

ANYWAY – the next day and the day after were somewhat similar, exploring the Roman neighborhoods and finding  cafes, churches, and piazzas that I hope to show my mother when she and I are back here.  It has been particularly fun to explore knowing that I am plotting routes and sites to see again in only a few days; when I can share them with my mom who will be in Europe for the first time!  How exciting! 

A few highlights – Giulia’s cousin Adele offered to show me the ‘Protestant Cemetery’ in the south of Rome that houses several lovely tombs, most notably that of Keats (a favorite poet of hers – she is 18, I had to brush up on mine).  She also showed me the Angel of Grief and several others (pictured below).  The afternoon I met her, it rained and hailed for about 15 minutes, exactly the amount of time it took us to bus from the main Piazza Venezia to the cemetery.  We enjoyd the cemetery in the afternoon sun while the rain tapered off, everything clear and cool after the storm.  It was perhaps the best way to visit a cemetery with someone who knows a thing or two about it. 

After the cemetery visit I made my way up the nearby Aventino Hill to visit Fr William Skudlarek, a monk from St John’s who had known my parents a million years ago.  He had agreed to host me for dinner and show me around the famous Sant Anselmo’s monastery.  I met him a early, around five, which gave us plenty fo time to explore the neighborhood where he showed me the most famous keyhole in the world which showed Rome, St Peter’s dome, and one other church that was its own country – three territories through a keyhole.  We also saw Palatine Hill which is the south end of the Forum and was Nero’s palace, who continued on the wrong side of history (when he saw his palace he said ‘Now I can live like a man,’ classy).  We also saw the Dominican Basilica, twelfth century, where St Dominican himself lived and prayed.  It had a gravity of age that reminded me of the Pantheon.  The space was incredibly ‘there’ – unalterably so.  It felt like an airy indoor tomb, that if I sat down without paying attention I would soon be a pile of dust.  Then, in a contemporary turn, we attended Latin vespers and dinner in the refectory.  Outside of vespers and our moment in the basilica, William and I enjoyed ongoing conversation on a wide range of topics (politics, art, society, language, place, travel) – it was one of the first times I had participated in such an extended conversation since leaving home and I drank in every moment.  Again, I had the luxury of knowing that I would be back with my mother in a few days – to see again the sights of Aventine hill and enjoy William’s company. 

My host Paolo’s English was pretty strong, so he and I also shared some lovely conversation.  We talked about art quite a bit, and of one of his favorite artists, Carevaggio.  Carevaggio has several works in a few churches in Rome – you simply walk in and follow the crowds to see the master’s work with color and light.   I found several of the churches he mentioned and made note of a few other spots to try to see when I am back in a few days.  Paolo and Alessandra both grew up in Rome and know and love the city.  In the comfort of their hospitality I thought often of the Twin Cities and how I might extend that gift to someone else.  Of course, we do not enjoy the tourism of Rome (nor the sights or abundance of tasty Italian food), but we certainly have a lot to offer.  My hosts have all taught my things about hospitality, what it means to share it and how incredibly powerful it is to receive it.  My love for Rome comes from how welcomed and loved I have felt since arriving.  I hope I can create the same feeling for my mom. 

By the time I post this we will be ensconced in Florence, and I will already be behind on sharing stories and photos.  I remain excited to come home (in about a month!), but this trip and my next journey with Corinne across northern Europe will be high notes on which to end, like that one perfect hole in golf that keeps my Dad coming back to the game.  Thanks for reading!  

The Eternal City

Hey team! I am writing from the elegant comforts of the Eternal City, where I have enjoyed the overwhelming hospitality of the Marinello-Touzzi's, Giulia's family in Rome. Giulia is in Corinne's program at KTH and kindly offered her family's hospitality when I was chatting with her about the sights to see in Italy and Rome.  I have been enjoying their hospitality immensely, along with that of a St John's connection, Fr William Skudlarek, who lives and works at San Anselmo's Abbey in Rome.

It is late, midnight, my mother arrives in 8 hours from New York, so this entry will be brief.  I'm sorry I have not accounted for my time more generously, but it has been a time of plenty for me.  I am well hosted, well traveled and well fed.  Here are a few snapshots:

A typical apt house in Giulia's neighborhood

A 'Romantic' story about lovers who locked their love on a bridge inspired many others - I was shown this by Giulia's aunts Carla and Giovanna

An old street near the ancient Foro

Buildings around P. Navoro

The Pantehon!  Its age leaps out at you

Inside the pantheon

St Peter's

A piazza

The Angel of Grief

Keat's grave - I was shown the cemetery by Giulia's cousin, a high schooler who studied Keats, Shelley, etc

Another house in Giulia's neighborhood

A street! (via, or corso)

One of dozens of churches

There are many more stories that will have to wait.  Tomorrow morning I pick up Mom at the airport and we head to Florence.  I hope to flesh out these images then.  Thanks for reading!  

Italy, the penultimate destination

I’m ready to begin being myself again – to resume the task of applying myself to the world in the most practical, efficient and exciting way possible, and that requires me to be in a place I consider home, near the people and the vocation I feel called to. My uncle Tom wrote in a lovely travel book given me by his daughter Anna a line from Rumi – ‘let yourself be silently drawn by the stronger pull of that which you truly love.’ That, for me, is all of you. While I have time left on my dance card in Europe, I am eagerly looking forward to returning state-side. For this and one or two other reasons (I am starting to run out of money!) I will be giving SE Asia and China a miss on this trip. I had been especially looking forward to hanging out with Annie in Xian China, but that will have to wait for another journey.

Spending my time in Sweden, I have finally begun enjoying ‘The Art of Travel’ by Alain de Botton. It is a collection of essays on various aspects of travel, told from the life perspective of a place and an artist – like Madrid with Alexander von Humbolt as a ‘guide.’ This chapter, ‘On Curiosity,’ was about the difference between traveling as a fact finder, like Humbolt traveled through South America in the early 1700s, and as a traveler/tourist, as Botton traveled Madrid in the 1990s. He lamented that there was such purpose in Humbolt’s journey – every detail, from ocean temperatures to every plant at every elevation, was new to his audience of aristocrats and scientists back home, while Botton had nothing new to discover about Madrid save his personal growth, which may or may not grace him on any particular day. He finishes the chapter with this: “But our admiration for Humbolt may not preclude our feeling a degree of sympathy for those who, even in the most fantastic cities, have occasionally been visited by a strong wish to remain in bed and take the next flight home.”

I had this sense acutely when I arrived in India. I remember laying low in my first hotel room in Delhi, chatting with Corinne, trying to figure out what I wanted to do or see in India. I felt this drive to find the movement of India itself, to be drawn towards something; that India itself would imbue me with a sense of purpose, would tell me what would be worth seeing or doing. I became more and more frantic to find that India didn’t care one whit if I came or left, seeing anything at all, aside from the hundreds of tuk-tuk drivers clambering for my attention on the street. Even after thinking for weeks about why I was traveling and how entirely justified my Indian timeline was, reading Botton’s account of wanting to stay in bed and head home was powerful and validating. I have not been finding facts or contributing in a meaningful way to society other than opening and expanding my own perspective. Of course this is no small thing, but when I am beating a hasty retreat, my purpose retreats with me.

When a new group of travelers come together on a train, in a café or hostel, one of the first bits of information shared after where you’re from and where you are going is why and or how are you doing this trip. Jokingly, someone generally says they are finding themselves and everyone laughs – ‘expensive trip to find what you bring with you all the time!’ I have not created much more identity than when I’ve been at home, though as I have relied upon the bones of myself on this journey, I have discovered much about who I am and will be.

Of course, as I mentioned earlier, I remained myself, if I was stripped down a bit by these struggles as we are all from time to time, humbled, exposed. I was cleansed a bit – the self that was left 20 lbs lighter, requiring the two weeks eating rich food and relaxing in Stockholm is me still. Well – no more bottomless thoughts before I account for my past two weeks in some more detail, and get back to telling stories of Italy (where I will be when you read this!!!).

When I made my way to C’s apartment on March 9, I was in fairly rough shape – this is to say that I spent a fair amount of my time lounging about because a walk across town was good enough for a day’s effort out of me. By the end of the first week I was feeling much more solid (pun intended – it was at a week home that I visited a clinic to have some tests done, everything came back ‘negative’ which meant cutting dairy to have more energy and fewer trips to the toilet). C had finals, so I would lie in for a few hours, poke around online (reading mostly about the ongoing Arab Spring) and reading and eating until she came home. We were living in an apartment in Kungsholmen that she let for two weeks. It had a Murphy bed, a balcony facing west and a kitchen and bathroom all to ourselves! I would prepare dinner, and after eating we would write an email or two and settle in to watch a movie before doing the whole thing again the next day. It was a lovely way to convalesce and spend some quality time. Here are some apartment photos:

The final image there is C pointing to our apartment from a bridge. We spent a fair amount of time wandering the neighborhoods of Stockholm in the early spring weather. I've got a few proto typicals, along with a shot of the 'pedigree moon' over Stockholm's City Hall.

The second to last is C and I walking on the ice between the Stockholm islands - there is open water in the deep background. Apparently people skate across the ice well into spring, holding special ice picks in each hand in case they fall in. Yikes! Next stop Italy - thanks for reading!

Bringing it back II: Rishikesh

Grant and I traveled together from Dharamsala to Rishikesh, which was for the best as we screwed up along the way – we go on the wrong train! The ease with which we accomplished this made me wonder that I had not made the same mistake several times over on the many many other trains I took. A bit of description of the train situation in India is in order here I think.

First of all, there have been a few photos of the trains that I have not found opportunity to post - here are a few:

The final two are from the same spot on a smaller platform, the second showing a group of folks trying to get into the train from the off-platform side. These photos do not quite do justice to the more hectic moments, but hopefully they can create a bit of flavor for you. Some stations in major cities have clear signs and easy to read platform maps, but most do not, and in general they are giant. The bigger ones had 6 to 12 different platforms, connected by a periodic overpass, on which different trains were steadily coming and going. Finding the right platform was sometimes tricky - stations often had announcements about where the trains would alight, or the station would have signs with train numbers and platforms lined up (this was subject to change and often did).

The cities I traveled through would service trains on major routes; trains that might have 50 or 60 cars on them, each about 80 feet long (this adds up to 1/2 to 2/3 mile long trains). The trains typically spent about 5 minutes in the stations I loaded and unloaded from. This meant that boarding the train, finding the right car of the 40-60 that would pass, took some doing. Each class of car (Sleeper, AC 3 tier, AC 2 tier, AC FC, Second Sitting, etc) was numbered (S1, S2, S3 and so on), but it was impossible to guess where on the train the cars would line up. Or where on the platform the train would stop. To be fair, at most stations, boarding was pretty straightforward - we would see a sleeper car as it slowed down, walk to the right one and be right on - sometimes the nicer stations would have light signs indicating where each car would stop.

This all meant that most of the time, with some sharp looking, lots of carefully worded questions, and a bit of luck, getting on the train was easy enough. However, if any of these factors were confounded (the train switched platforms at the last minute, the cars (or the train itself) were not clearly labeled, or if the crush of travelers made moving around difficult, getting on (or off) a train could be an extremely tricky business.

An anecdote: someone struggling to get onto a 'second sitting train' (which means no assigned seats and plenty of ticket sales) for an overnight journey - every person for himself, the last ones on stand for the 6-12 hour journey. A crush of humanity trying to push and pull their way on the train while the passengers are trying to get off the train - this traveler standing with the throng notices an 'old woman' crawling between his legs to get onto the train before others.

Having seen similar scenes, I do not doubt this for a second. The sheer size of the trains (it's asking a lot to walk 1/2 mile in 5 minutes without being on a platform carrying luggage), the chaos of the stations, and the sometimes disorganized rail system caught up with Grant and I leaving a small station near Dharamsala to get to Rishikesh and we, having heard that our train was arriving soon, boarded the next one (on time, at the right platform) without checking the train number with the single train attendant. We had to fight our way on, our car was closed for some reason, and between climbing over luggage and pushing and being pushed, the train departed before we found our bunks, which were occupied. Everyone showed their tickets, and we discovered that we were on the wrong train. Luckily, we could hang tight for about two hours and wait for our train at the next station. The couple who had our bunk kindly gave us one of theirs to sit on (people were sleeping in the aisles of this one - literally NO space), and we found our train, triple checked, without any trouble.

SO - Rishikesh, yoga capitol of the world, home of the Maharaja of Beatles fame, tourist and yuppie heaven. We arrived relatively early and toured a few ashrams before finding pretty much everything full - there was an international yoga festival going on, so not only was it packed, but hotel rates were a bit higher than normal. We finally found a spot about 5 minutes from the main road and I crashed like a ton of bricks. I was running on fumes by this point, and had Grant not been with me, I'm not sure how long it would have taken me to find a spot to sleep. He actually looked around while I held down a spot of pavement in the shade. Anyway, we settled in and checked out the town.

Rishikesh is kind of divided into four parts, two villages on two sides of the Ganges river, both connected by walking bridges (frequented by motorbikes, cows and monkeys). We enjoyed the hippie vibe, met some cool folks, at some more solid food, and relaxed for my final two days in India. I didn't do much other than that really, I was scraping the barrel emotionally and physically and was ready for my train ride home. It was relaxing, the place felt more western and less Indian than the other places I'd been, which was welcome to me at that point. I felt a bit nostalgic for India while there, but I was certainly ready to go.

I mentioned in an earlier post that I felt different when I got into the airport - it really started when I got on the train in Haridwar (Rishikesh's yogic neighbor). I joined a Canadian (Matt maybe) and he and I watched 'Science of Sleep' and some good old US sitcoms until we arrived in Delhi. A quick cab to the airport, a four hour wait from 11PM to 3AM (spent in a hallway as I had neglected to print my boarding pass (NEVER AGAIN), and I was comfortably on my way to a quick transfer in Moscow and a simple bus ride to Corinne who was waiting for me in Stockholm. PHEW! Here are a few photos of Rishikesh - the bridge, some kids playing cricket (which was EVERYWHERE), and what I think was a restaurant mascot, a fellow I saw often but never quite figured out. Their website is here. There are neighboring restaurants with matching short fat men in make-up and crazy hair. It would be like a Denny's adjacent to a competing Denny's. With this guy sitting in a chair somehow enticing people to come in and eat. What? Anyway - the last photo is one of the bridge monkeys. At one point while Grant and I (featured on the bridge) were enjoying some tea and snacks near the water, we saw a monkey climb to the top of the cables and pee, attempting to, I assumed, shower the people below. Sadly for her, the upper cables angle and the wind were not in her favor. Thanks for reading!

Bringing it back, Dharamsala style

My last few days in India were a bit hectic, partially in that I was moving at a much faster pace (a city every two or three days), partially in that I had company with me most of the time (Grant Williams, whose photography was featured in the Golden Temple entry), and partially in that I already had one foot out of the door. I'll make my way back a bit here; back to when the international situation was somewhat less desperate, and when I visited the cities of Dharamsala and Rishikesh in northern India.

Grant and I departed Amritsar with some regret, both of us having been beguiled by the openness and generosity of the place. We traveled with the Swedish Amanda and an Australian woman named Mel we met at the temple, taking two buses from Amritsar across the northern province of India to Dharamsala and Mcleodganj, the latter being the home of the Dalai Lama. Mcleodganj is where people go when they say they are going to Dharamsala – it is ‘upper Dharamsala,’ about a half hour bus ride from Dharamsala, and houses all of the tourist amenities of casual western pilgrims like ourselves who were interested as much in the spirit of the exiled Tibetan leader as the foothills of the mighty Himalayans.

We arrived in the dark, at around 8 PM, and it was cold. Grant and I both struggled to stay warm for our entire visit – he in particular because of his fancy shoes. It was about 3 or 4 degrees Celsius and wet, sometimes raining in earnest. There were a number of attractive qualities to the place aside from the cold that we discovered the next day – the air was crisp and clean, the people and atmosphere was much more relaxed (though the horns persisted on the windy mountain roads), and the food was a welcome change – they served meat! After almost six weeks of spiced vegetables and highly questionable sanitation, these were welcome changes. The village was also geographically contained, with two main roads leading up the hill, lined on both sides with shops and internet cafes. And there were Buddhist monks in red robes buying vegetables, talking on phones, walking and visiting with friends, being normal people all around.

We realized after finding shops closed that we had stumbled upon the Tibetan new year, which might have explained the civilian appearances of the monks. It also meant that the tranquility of the mountains was undercut by the periodic concussion of massive fire crackers. We spent our days wandering these streets, all three or four 'blocks' worth of them, and one day on a shopping spree of sorts, knowing that the shops would not be open again, that the goods were attractive and would benefit an exiled community, and that I would only have to carry the stuff for a few more days.

The biggest comfort of Dharamsala is the well established tourism trade. Restaurants and cafes feel almost western, and, in my humble opinion, northern Indian food was much more palatable than the Rathsanjani food I enjoyed in the desert. Basically, the northern Indians didn't seem to consider spices to be a substantial calorie component of every dish. Many places had wireless (if they lacked heat), and the streets didn't smell like they were full of Indians using the gutter as toilet (again, possibly related to the heat).

So after enjoying a day of wandering and buying things like a man with a westward mind, I woke early to take in the new year festivities at the Dalai Lama's temple. There was a lot of chanting that sounded like 'oh yeah oh yeah oh yeah oh yeah oh yeah oh yeah' which is as good a mantra as any I've heard, and some entertainment for the monks in a sort of open air temple, the rest of us watching and feeling confused on the outside. Before I share the photos of mountainous Dharamsala and the monastic new year, I want to describe what my friend Avye would call a photo not taken, as I didn't take a photo of it.

Buddhist monks ask for alms as (I think) part of their regular practices. I passed four monks on my walk to the temple. The sun was just up, though the night air was still heavy and cold. They were standing motionless, identical, hoods over their heads, each holding an large bowl out in front of them like an offering. They were SO still, so statuesque that I found myself too intimidated to even venture a photograph, much less get close enough to make a contribution. I'm sure they were the same cheerful, cell phone using monks that were bargaining for vegetables on the street the day before, but standing in the first light, they were untouchable and sublime.

On to the photos! Thanks for reading!

(This final image is of the entertainment - so far as I could tell, the two standing monks were having a sort of argument, stooge style, and would try to one up the other. They seemed to be working from a script, and occasionally got laughs. The monks bending over were serving rice and snacks and tea to the monks sitting down)