#27: Interlude

No header save the day of the week. Tuesday. Unexpected transformations, girls stumbling on cobblestones, back to apartments and closets on a single-minded flight as the ribbed grey doors of Palazzo Farnese threatened to slam shut for what could be another ten years. Next, morning and the Barberini bees.

One wide-ruled line in between. Tuesday afternoon would have to share one line with Tuesday evening. With all the English. And Chinese. Spanish and Italian. The latter, un po’. But enough!

Late afternoon on a weekday in Roman September, and the siesta was waning under a crush of people and things that spilled into the street. They did not go quietly. The broad newspaper littered sidewalk on the Largo Torre di Argentina was awash in streams of rollercoaster Italian. Some streams rose as others fell, and then there would be screaming as if the rollercoaster’s riders started free fall. Screaming came from car tires, burning and screeching past a line of taxis that somehow enjoyed its own separate lane, a ribbon frozen in the middle of a busy nexus of transportation. The tires’ owners did not seek the protection of their glass and metal; instead, their heads protruded from windows, hair slicked back, rippled by wind. Strands tickled the side mirrors of the parked taxis, any laughter drowned by the rumbling and squeals of smoking rubber underneath. This was Determination, where not even the glass of a windshield dared separate the seeker from the goal.

Leaning against the bus ticket dispenser I learned of unfocused eyes in chaos. Washes of color blended together and dimmed all shades until they faded into darkness, so one second was no different from the rest – the same movements, the same swirling colors. And then audio glimpses punctuated the black. Some Italian, words I just learned. English in snippets, their speakers obviously distressed; nothing new...

And words that rang like home and childhood and vacations in Hong Kong, memories made eight thousand miles away and now suddenly right around the corner. No, not dreaming. Two white bucket hats over jet black hair bent over an open palm of coins and confused fingers. The young couple spoke Cantonese! One dollar a ticket, right? Yes, but no ticket. It says here, the coin slot. Right, I know. Looking up, a man’s dark eyes framed by black wire, square but delicate. Thin like his hands. Behind the glass were eyes that expressed uneasiness first, then relief as they met mine. Saw a familiar face he has never met, never known, but understood even without words.

Scusi...Termini? The man’s pointed fingers left his pale hand, motioning towards the ticket machine in uncertainty. The machine motioned back with little words scrolling across a cracked green screen: INSERZIONE…

Yes… I knew, and answered. È rotto. Broken. Cantonese and Italian in the same breath! His eyes brightened and the swirl of noise began to wane.

Where do I… Pause.

Buy a ticket? I finished the sentence for him, cringing inwardly at my rough American-accented Cantonese. Too much twang. Over there, at the newsstand. You can say ‘vorrei un biglietto, per favore’ - I want a ticket. The woman at his side turned her hat three degrees. Red, white, black. Or ‘due biglietti.’ For two. And Termini you can reach by bus, the 64 or 40, the stop is on the main street.

Smiles and bows. We laugh at our coincidence, our luck. Three cultures, two languages, one sidewalk in Rome. Thank you, thank you. You’ve been a great help. Ah, what brings you to Italy? Tourist?

No, study, with an American university. And you? The man nods, adjusts his glasses.

We’re from Hong Kong, touring Europe for the summer. Where are you from?

Fourth week. Sono di Roma.

#29: Silent Lights

There is no sound in photographs.

Breaking glass. I learned to love the times when Rome awakened and shook us into consciousness with the dawn. Her transparent dead were everywhere, empty and prostrate but their spirits still watched over the Campo, haunting in the grey light, framing the littered expanse. Wounded soldiers joined them, grudgingly, still weary from a long night at their posts. These armies of stalwarts, garrisoned in alleys, under cars and bridges, seemed to explode from sheer boredom. Anything to punctuate a cloying silence, or a crowd’s monotonous hum. Sometimes a Roman would assist them and they flew through the air in shining arcs piercing the air with their sound. With time enough for just one cry, and then they were silent, sprawled against walls and cobblestones.

Rarer were the tall sentinels trained not to break with such ease. Vino, acqua naturale. Or frizzante, but birra was better for quenching that kind of thirst, thirst for cold acid and air. Towers of plastic cells all around us imprisoned their healthy kin, safe but not free to feel the stones we touched. Our feet knew Rome. They conversed with the little warriors, the conforming, the branded, the all, spent on that road - within their caste, some heavier, but outwardly each the same as the next. Until they spoke. As they fell by height or hand, unique voices rang out with surprise and shock. Different tones in different lengths. In their sound they were as varied as the shapes and sizes of their bones, which were scattered far and wide in the night but collected in the crevices between cobblestones, lying reposed in lingering channels of black water until they appeared as shards of flint bound to the stones inlaid, more rock than glass.

Some cries ended abruptly, as if plunged into water. Others rattled in sustained chords. Shattering in ones, sometimes twos, rarely threes. Triads of pitches and harmonies reverberated across the piazza and snuck up through the windows and under the covers; I learned to welcome the perfect, the fourths and fifths beautiful in violent crashing elegance. The meshing of others did not fall so well on the ears, if not in tone then in volume. Rome emptied her dishwasher each morning, one piazza at a time.

Pictures without sound. Sound without visuals. Video would provide both, yet damper each by leaving less to the imagination. Even if photographs could capture the morning’s welcome fanfare, would it be of the trucks and containers circling the square, sweeping and cleaning? Or would it be of the drunken revelers stumbling home, glazed and cracked like broken glass kicked to broken walls?

#1: Roman Journal

“Mindy! Come on, don’t be lame. Come to the journal shop with us!” Familiar Seattle voices spoke from behind a row of parked Fiats, Alfa Romeos, and the tiny toy-like Smartcars that could comfortably park in less than half the space its neighbors required. In the hodgepodge of vehicles, Vespas plugged up every available gap much like how I stuffed spare underwear in my suitcase a few frantic hours before my flight. Thus, an imposing solid wall of metal and rubber and black glass obscured all but the very top third of the journal shop’s front window. I couldn’t see the coveted leather-bound journals everyone was anxious to buy our first week in Rome. Everyone, it seemed, except for me. Now, I love leather and all its appeals – especially the buttery smooth feel and the smell that brings back fond memories of early childhood, when I would read the newspaper in my dad’s lap, my face buried in the leather jacket he always wore, even in the house. But brain said yes, wallet said no. How much my wallet would say no I had no idea.

Perchè no? Why not have a look? Somehow everyone was able to pile into the tiny shop all at once; we must have looked like the books on the shelves around us. I was the weary bookend pushing everyone closer together as I stepped across the threshold. All was quiet except for a few whispers and some ruffling of pages. This was a shop, not a library or a church! But we fell silent as if in solemn reverence of a distinguished scholar’s study, with its hardwood floors and intricate furniture. Everything looked ancient, slightly chipped, worn down.

Tiny journals! The pages were half the size of the credit card in my pocket, and the edges were uneven, as if touched by a flame. I loved the rough texture. Over and over the smooth leather rolled in my hand. Che peccato! The underside was marred by the price sticker. 21 euro! Handmade? Probably. Troppo for my budget. I didn’t even bother to look closely at the larger journals, didn’t want to fall in love with something I could not have. My credit card was burning a hole through my jeans, and I hastily left the shop, before the temptation to buy became overpowering.

I ran over to the office supply store, the only thought in my head being the fact that I needed a journal right away, to start organizing my scattered paper slips filled with jots and thoughts. The run quickly turned into a run-walk when I recalled that running to a destination is a very un-Italian thing to do. Had I ever seen a local in a hurry? I could not be sure, because no matter what they always sauntered along, never running. Sono studentessa, non sono turistica.

La cartoleria. The façade was all glass with the large shop logo far above the display window. No cars were there to hide it from view. The propped-open glass door welcomed me inside, and an array of bright cardboard winked from the many tables. This merchandise lay flat on low tables against the walls; it was meant to allow an easy browse through, unlike the shelves of the leather journals. The latter would require a footstool, and maybe a call for assistance to pull one off a high ledge. This arrangement was much simpler, and right away the 3 euro notebooks caught my eye; now this was something in my price range. “Abbiamo chiuso! Cinque minuti,” an elderly lady in a pink sundress informed me. Quickly now, choose a cover. Birds? A landscape? A can of spray paint? Oh, at the bottom of the pile, Van Gogh’s “Starry Night.” The enticing shades of blue and black would be excellent encouragement to extract the notebook from the depths of my bag and begin writing.

A bored-looking ponytailed girl at the cash register jingled a set of keys, as if that would further accelerate my headlong rush to the counter. Probably a studentessa my age, she was clearly displeased with having job responsibilities during summer vacation. She chewed a wad of neon-yellow gum and smacked her lips, opening her mouth wide and showing her tongue (which had turned the same color as the gum) as well as most of her teeth with every chomp. Revolting. Eager to leave the shop and the girl as soon as possible, I shoved the coins into her hand, taking off into the street before “grazie” had fully left my lips.

My first all-Italian transaction! That was the first thing I wrote about in my brand-new journal. Looking at that entry now, the pencil blemishes that litter that inaugural page are a testament to how excited I was at making progress towards surviving in Italy. Vignettes, images, and interesting Italian words will follow.

Fast forward to four weeks later and picture a stone park bench in the heart of Rome. My hands were tired from taking notes without a flat surface to write on, so I propped my feet up and flipped through the now-worn and battered journal. It was quite a shock to see almost all the pages covered with notes, observations, and funny situations – “Ci vediamo, see you later” one line read. There is a half page bearing the heading “The Gelato Mishap,” light humor at a friend’s expense follows. I’ve never used up an entire notebook before! I’m getting close this time, and am more than satisfied with the results – this is Rome’s doing, my greatest source of inspiration to date, powerful and unprecedented.

Noon at the Pantheon

On the steps by the fountain in front of the Pantheon. Sprawling bodies with tired feet are everywhere, but I manage to curl up on the bottom step to enjoy a granita from Tazza d'Oro. One step up, a middle-aged American tourist speaks of his first impressions of Rome. He discusses the implications of having the Pantheon door wide open, which it is right now, as usual, admitting the constant ebb and flow of tourists. And the currents of air, carrying Roman smoke and dust freely through that open door into the monument's interior. Ruins the art, he says. What's being done to prevent this?

He muses for a moment, going silent. After a few seconds I hear murmurs grumbling outward from deep inside his chest. The American spits. Nothing, nothing! He exclaims with fury and throws up his hands in anger and frustration. Anger directed at the government, the tourism board, at the ignorance of all Italian authority. Passionate indictments of a dispassionate European attitude towards history, archaeology. Wait, did he just accuse Italians of being a dispassionate people?

I begin eating faster.

I wonder if this guy reads Noam Chomsky.

The man lounging on the ground beside him offers a quiet affirmative. How bored and listless he looks in the face of this emotional fountain, which now outburbles the obelisk-topped water behind us by far. A strong accent, maybe Czech, obscures his full response. But the horse attached to the (tourist trap alert!) carriage in front of us seems to comprehend every word, and it nods vigorously in agreement, licking and flapping its lips. Little white flecks of wet fly everywhere.

Today, I learned that profanity is a medium for universal understanding. Foreign curses... probably denouncing the horse's mother and all its relatives, or something like that. It's a common theme for insults here. The emotional fountain stops gurgling to roar at its Czech companion's distress at the involuntary shower. You think this is funny...?! said a murderous look in return. This sort of fountain does not wash horse spit from clothes.

Two globs of drool fall near my shoe, glistening like baby oysters. I twitch a little but I'm much too tired to move my feet. The lacquered wood of the carriage echoes the coachman's creaking groans. He wipes the horse's lips with a white terry cloth, trailing in surrender, banner-like in his hands.

#6: Folle Vole

The smell and sounds of the leather market greeted me every morning in Florence. The vendors began setting up their stalls shortly after 4am, bringing a rumble of wheels and voices to the deserted street in front of the hotel. The arrival of each new cart, hand-drawn by its owner, amplified the rumble in increments. With them came the rich warm smell of leather. It came in waves like those at the beach in Ostia, except these waves brought memories of new cars and mountain lodges instead of stinging salt.

The leather smell was everywhere. Mornings, it was the first thing that registered in my mind, and at night it lingered in my hair and clothes. I didn’t mind; indeed, I liked it enough to bring some of it into my room, in the form of a new jacket. Ultimately, once my nose got used to the smell it blended into the Florentine backdrop, overshadowed by the dazzling art and architecture.

That was before I knew about the bag, a textured dark-red leather handbag that was incredibly smooth and supple to the touch. The thin, ethereal material demanded careful handling. I gingerly guided it off the shelf and immediately discovered that its color changed dramatically depending on the quality of the light. A deep wine-red in the shop corner’s dim shade, it was absolutely striking under the intense fluorescent light, where it glowed like blood and muscle and life. The rich aroma had a unique depth that revived my leather-weary nose.

But was it worth 65 euro? What an exorbitant amount for such a small purse, no matter how attractive. The burly shopkeeper quoted bags more than twice its size at around 80 euro. I tried to bargain and offered 50, only to be rebuffed with a gruff “No!” and something that sounded like “great quality.” I agreed on the quality remark, but I was sure I could easily find the same bag at a much lower price somewhere in the hundreds of other shops and stalls outside. Or at least a nicer shopkeeper. 55 euro? 60? Still, “No!” and “Ma, no. Non mai!” Never, he said, and he refused to settle for anything less than 65 euro. “Great quality.”

So I stepped back out into the sun and bustle of the San Lorenzo market, on a quest for the perfect Mindy-bag. Everywhere I saw flashes of red from the purses lining the stalls, and I was reminded of the wine-red gem I had just left behind. I stopped occasionally and pointed at various red items, and miraculously a six-foot pole would appear in the merchant’s hand to retrieve them for me. Invariably, I was not satisfied. Too crimson. Too shiny. Too stiff. Was that even leather? That felt like plastic.

The Duomo and a date with Michelangelo’s David distracted me from the quest, but each day I took some time to walk through San Lorenzo or Mercato Nuovo to chase those glints of red leather. Each day I returned to the hotel with nothing. Nothing was good enough, and no other stall had the same bag in stock.

Living above San Lorenzo was at first a blessing, a dependable kind of daily aromatherapy. But now it was a curse, and my heightened awareness of the enticing leather smell that wafted in through the hotel’s breakfast room windows each day was paralyzing. Every time I smelled leather, I thought of that bag’s warm, robust scent. Its luxurious silkiness was beyond compare. After one too many trips wading through the market, I braced myself and returned to the only place that sold it – the one with the stubborn shopkeeper.

Who was no less stubborn that day, it turned out. He opened with 70 euro, and told me that the earlier “group discounted price” of 65 was no longer valid. I was indignant. His colleague (or should I say accomplice?), an older and very severe-looking man - this did not bode well – produced a calculator, and after a flutter of his fingers punched the keys forcefully. The display shoved in my face read 70. I shook my head vigorously and took the calculator from his wrinkled hands. Just as forcefully I tapped out a 60 and passed it back to him. Without a word, he clicked the keys and dropped the calculator into my still outstretched hand with a venomous look of disgust. 70 again. He would not budge. “What about 65?” I asked in my most confident Italian. No such luck. His finger jabbed the calculator so violently that the display rippled blue and black. They refused to spare me even 5 euro. Criminal. Once more, I turned and left, this time with a slight pang of disappointment.

Like a scarlet cloud that always hovered over my head, the memory of the Florentine bag followed me all the way to Venice and haunted my return to Rome. With every glass of red wine, I was reminded of its living, shimmering red. It mocked me at every turn, at every leather shop I visited, and with every purse I saw. Its distinctive smell even made its way into my dreams.


On our next trip to Florence, I left my common sense behind and went back to the same shop. And bought the red bag. To make that merciless cloud disappear? Worth every penny of the 65 euro I paid (I think everyone had gotten better at bargaining by then). I told myself I would deal with my damaged pride and bank account later.

#16: Faith and Time

Time. For me, cloisters in Rome are defined by their effect on the passage of time. Depending on which cloister I chose to visit, time could move so quickly that I would leave unsettled and exhilarated, or so slowly that minutes would stretch into hours and days.

The cloister of Santi Quattro Coronati had the power to stop time. The morning I spent in that serene space was a peaceful lifetime of silent meditation. Most passerby would never guess what the castle-like basilica, topped with a 4th century bell tower, hid within its imposing walls. This fortress on a hill was not the least bit inviting. From a distance, it looked as though the building had been neatly sliced out from a single block of sandstone by a cleaver, sharp and unforgiving. Extreme age notwithstanding, its exterior angles remained defined and powerful, supported by the strength of a noticeably substantial foundation. Images of a giant hammer pounding a stone stake into the ground came to mind; with metal bars over squinting windows, this square stake looked like a prison. Indeed, bricks forming the outside walls near the ground were warped and cracked, as if someone had forcefully driven the entire building into the surface of the earth. Bricks versus ground. Ground won, and the bricks buckled in defeat; now the stones wanted revenge. I half-expected to see a glint of cannon in the tower. I see you. Now leave.

Surely this could not be one of the most beautiful churches in Rome?

Past the shadowy pews. The church still threatened. A marble basin jumped out from behind a column, ready to strike. But the blustery and very talkative nun beckoned us into the inner cloister, coaxing and fussing all the while. Sunlight! The marble behind me fell motionless and shrunk backwards against the pillar, as if chastised by the light. An arcade of delicate round arches obscured a better view of what lay ahead, but somehow several small slivers of sun made their way through the crush of bodies into the darkness of the church. They pierced the crowd, cut through the darkness like an array of flying knives, transforming and multiplying as people shuffled through the doorway.

Waiting to greet me on the other side of the door was it – a hulking brown bleacher-like stand of postcards for sale. Its careless coarseness was completely out of place in the neat brick hallway that, like the arcade of arches, ran the perimeter of the cloister. I was happy to discover that if I sat in one of the archways, the corner columns hid it from view.

My eyes could finally leave the unsightly brown, and traveled across the sun-soaked central space to rest instead on the fountain, the focal point of the cloister. The fountain was one of the plainest I had ever seen in Rome, a rough-hewn angular stone bowl resting on an unadorned column. The fact that it was so unusually plain made it all the more alluring; we usually saw lavish decorations, statues (I recalled the seahorses of the Trevi) and detailed carvings, even gold leaf - not the case here. No stone gargoyles or animals spouting water from their mouths. In each corner of the fountain’s bowl, a hole allowed water to drip straight down in into the surrounding shallow pea-green moat. Framing the moat was a gravel path that branched out to meet patches of iridescent grass, so dark green even in the direct sunlight that it was almost unnatural. The white gravel paths, like the grass, also had a blindingly iridescent multi-dimensional quality that I could not place; I could have stayed forever to ponder this and watch the water fall, meditations to the sound of the fountain’s gentle trickling.


All of a sudden I was hit by wave of extreme self-consciousness; I felt like I had intruded into someone’s private space. The tones of burbling water rose and fell like a human voice, but these were the subdued tones of private thoughts, not of public conversation. And yet I wanted all else to be quiet so I could hear the fountain spill its soul. Opening the Velcro fastenings on my bag was a source of unbearable cacophony – should I rip the Velcro more slowly and try for subtlety, make it less audible? Or should I tear my bag open as fast as possible and get the terror over with?

As I pondered this new dilemma, the water burbled on. The stone under each spigot was worn and eroded away from hundreds of years of water tracing paths down the side of the bowl and gouging a deep notch into the surface. I would not be surprised if the inner cloister continued to look exactly as we had left it for a thousand years, save for the deepening of this gash in the rock; a seemingly insignificant trickle of water carving stone.

An Alfa Romeo sped out of the Santi Quattro Coronati as if heralding our return from isolation to the modern bustle of Rome. Would a visit to the cloister to the Bramante cloister in Santa Maria della Pace provide any respite?

Not at all. No vegetation, no benches, no fountain to ponder. The Pace cloister was a simple courtyard, with two white concrete strips forming an “X” centered about a small concrete mound that covered a drain. Despite the lack of scenery, time was of the essence in this bustling cloister. Sounds from the open-air internet café on the upper level drifted downwards, past the immaculate stucco façade, into the courtyard below where I sat. Is the café still open? Faster! Where’s my coffee? You didn’t forget my order did you? It seemed like everyone, a mix of tourists and locals alike, was in a hurry that afternoon. Cell phone chatter was a constant presence. True, it was a confined, walled space, but chaotic Rome had moved in and was here to stay.

A sparkling new white stucco façade encased the ground level, faded gray and yellow columns resided farther up, and crumbling apartments occupied the space next to the sky. Different degrees of wear for the different stories of the building. Whereas time had forgotten to touch the pristine Coronati cloister, here it made its presence felt constantly.

Time had moved in with Rome, wallowing in Pace like some couch-bound welfare dad. Dad had told his crumbling household that it would be alright, things would work out, everything would be fine - sorry everyone, I think God has left town for now but I'm sure he'll be back soon. You can go ahead and leave him a message. He might get back to you, or he may not. But keep hoping, kids. Things are gonna get better from here on out, I promise. How about you make yourself some coffee?

The milk is tan and broken with bubbles on the surface, smooth foam in the middle, solid white near the ground. Such are the walls, like espresso and steamed milk.


Out of a back room emerged group of young priests in long black robes. Make that priests-in-training. Some members of the group were no more than teenagers, fresh from school, looking to make their way in the world. Standing together in a tight circle, they pulled at their robes and stiff white collars uneasily, clearly not yet used to the feel of their new garments. Occasionally they would exchange wardrobe check votes-of-confidence with their neighbors, followed by some hopping in place or nervous giggling. Yes, priests can giggle. Learn something new every day. One particularly youthful-looking priest with curly hair held a silver-pink cell phone to his ear. Unbroken shoes echoed on the smooth walls and miniature cobblestones as he left the group.

Wait, wait. One second. The service can wait, God can wait - I have to take this, it's my old bud from high school. What God? One who cannot curb Time, lets it run wild? Hang on, I have to make a call.

The circle grew to include more senior priests (easily identified by graying hair and perhaps a potbelly). And then the sounds of mirth were dying, slowly and reluctantly. The curly-haired priest hastily ended his phone conversation and returned with a jog and a sheepish grin. Maybe he would get a lecture later about running from neglect, responsibility.

Did the young priests feel it too, abandoned by Pace's absent God?

Faith was Coronati’s unspoiled strength. Resilience. Timelessness. Solitude. And Pace was humanity, laughing without certainty. Opposite in its imperfection and chaos.

#23: Photographs

At the Florence Market

“Hello, watchesss.” The sinister hiss sends chills down my spine. A seemingly disembodied arm, dark and wiry, reaches for my face, as if about to grab my nose and run off with it, disappearing into the crowd. Deprive me of a nose! No difference, I left my nose in Rome. The arm takes sight from me instead, blinding me with dazzle and sparks an inch from my face. My eyes become accustomed to the stars of light and after a long second I begin to see other things: a crown, a “G” and its inverted partner, a stylized “D” on an iridescent faux leather wristband – trash quality, the watch will break in a week, I tell myself.

A good meal on a fleeting temptation? Beauty over brains, form over function, fashion over common sense. I hesitate to dò un’occhiata – I am only here to look, and bask in the lucid dichotomy.

Seven stars beckon
Fool’s gold, glass gemstones – you know
When the watch is cheap

The View

Rustic Roman stones and high walls hide more subtle gems, ones that do not dazzle right away, but with appeal growing slowly over time, like a fine wine. My path of chalky gravel and dust clouds meets a stairwell, at which point I concede that all profound thoughts and observations must be temporarily placed on hold. I have always been paranoid about going up stairs and must focus all my mental faculties on conquering each step. Otherwise, I know I will stumble embarrassingly and raise another unsightly cloud of dust, much to the amusement and subsequent dismay of those farther down the stairs. Shawn would give me a quizzical eyebrow and ask if I am wearing the forbidden flip-flops.

I shudder at the thought and look down at my feet, taking care to observe only the steps and nothing else. Behind me is a strange quiet. Where is everyone? Oh, they have run ahead, past the emerald lawns bedecked with trees bearing oranges still green and unripe. End of summer, but the fruit has yet to fall. The trees offer another sort of fallen fruit - a pigeon with a broken wing, speckled with the light trickling down through the leaves. It blinks and cocks its head ever so slightly as I pass. These little things that tear at the heart are glimpsed only if one is willing to move at a slower pace.

The view! Everywhere there is a yellow haze blanketing the churches, the monuments, the ruins. Smog – the best of the old meets the worst of the new. I am disgusted and turn away.

Walk to Civita

How dare they laugh! I was simply trying to get a better look at the footbridge to Civita, which was no more than a thin grey noodle peppered with humanoid dots of seasoning from where I was. Also, a tour group - identified by the prevalence of fanny packs, cameras slung around necks, and matching lanyards - was about to box me in by the overlook’s railing, jockeying for the best spots to take a photo. After extracting myself from what was probably the first Civitaean mosh pit ever, I ran to catch up with the rest of the group.

Bad choice of locomotion! An open-air restaurant filled with Italian locals was just around the corner, and the men at the tables began to clap rhythmically, inexplicably, while the women chuckled and tittered. A comedian? A show, perhaps? My first thoughts. I stopped jogging and looked around for the source of the hilarity. None found; I then realized that all eyes were on me, my red blouse and blue jeans, hair sweaty and disheveled, sandals that sharply slapped the dirt with each hurried step. “Hello, running Chinese.” I was the source of the evening’s entertainment – the silly girl with yellow skin and quick feet.

My blush trumps sunsets
Light laughter soundtracks running
But the hilltown calls

A Universal Pastime: Ancient Roman Bathing and the Baths of Caracalla

Introduction

“I must go and have a bath. Yes, it’s time,” writes a Roman schoolboy in his exercise book almost 1800 years ago. “I leave; I get myself some towels and follow my servant. I run and catch up with the others who are going to the baths and I say to them one and all, ‘How are you? Have a good bath! Have a good supper!’” (Yegul, 30) Such was the accepted universality of bathing as a daily event in the lives of all Romans - young or old, and regardless of one’s sex, race, religion, or wealth, all were invited and expected to have a “bene lava,” a good bath. Visiting one of many public bathhouses was the norm, as no extensive bathing facilities existed in most Roman dwellings. Imperial thermae were the grandest of the public baths. The high level of expertise needed for their construction and the expense of the luxurious décor within meant that oftentimes only the emperor had the resources to commission them. Small privately owned baths called balneae were more common, but fell far short of the thermae in terms of facilities, opulence, and scale.

In fact, the Baths of Caracalla, one of the most famous thermae, was second only to the Colosseum in terms of large scale building projects (Menen, 92). As evidenced by their size alone, they did much more than fulfill a basic hygienic necessity. They served as community centers, providing all the facilities needed for the ideal urban life – a highly desirable balance between physical health and intellectual well-being. One could find gyms, shops, gardens, libraries and lecture halls at the baths. Since entrance fees were often partially or completely subsidized by the government or wealthy individuals, common people could enjoy the available recreation, education, and entertainment. To them, the baths were so important that, according to Yegul, “among the most effective punishments that could be imposed by the government on a community was the closing down of its baths for a period of time” (Yegul 30). Indeed, a daily habit was transformed into a civic institution and eventually became an essential part of Roman identity. It would have been un-Roman not to bathe (Yegul, 2).

Caracalla

Caracalla (186 – 217 CE), an emperor of the Severan dynasty, also recognized the importance of the baths, but for a different reason. The construction of lavish thermae was an immense public work, and it was a given that popular support of the emperor would skyrocket upon its completion. They were richly adorned with trophies, inscriptions, and sculptures, all constant reminders of the prosperity and peace brought by the emperor to the mighty empire. As sources of pride for the community, thermae-building could bestow a lot of power on those who dared to undertake it. It was therefore a useful propaganda tool for an emperor who desired a means to a political end – for example, to bring himself honor and esteem, or to ensure the outcome of an election (Raaschou-Nielsen, 149). Hoping to establish a lasting legacy and increase his popularity with the Roman people, Caracalla insisted on building his namesake baths at all costs. He was an unpopular military dictator who developed a reputation early on for being psychotic and bloodthirsty. There are accounts of Caracalla’s many quirks stemming from his obsessive desire to resemble Alexander the Great. For instance, he would always walk with his head tilted to the right, to emulate Alexander’s pose in famous works of art (Piranomonte, 51). He was also prone to bouts of “mad logic,” as demonstrated by Menen in an excerpt from one of Caracalla’s dialogues: “It is clear that if you make me no request, you do not trust me, if you do not trust me, you suspect me, if you suspect me, you fear me, if you fear me, you hate me. Off with his head…” (Menen, 150) Whether one had a request or lack thereof did not matter when Caracalla craved violent severity; he was a dangerous man. Originally, Caracalla’s father Septimius Severus, the first of the Severan emperors, had planned for Caracalla to rule the empire jointly with his brother Geta and his mother Iulia Domna. Caracalla had other plans. He murdered Geta in 212 and, with the purchased support of the army, left more than a thousand Romans dead in the process of securing his emperorship. It is no wonder that he needed the thermae to give his reputation a boost.

Bust of Emperor Caracalla. Rome, Roman National Museum, Palazzo Massimo at the Baths (Piranomonte, 51)

Septimius Severus began building the baths during his reign, and had left his son a full treasury to continue construction. But the project proved so expensive that Caracalla resorted to extorting the necessary money from wealthy senators. He became popular among the poor, however, who now had a wonderful community center offering all the best pleasures of Roman urban life.

So attractive were these pleasures that baths tell the story of Romanization and urbanization throughout the empire; in fact, the empire’s extent could be indicated by the presence of balneae and thermae. The bathing custom was an effective tool for assimilating conquered peoples into a single, standard culture. Even with its many differences and similarities, the vast imperial Roman civilization could be unified by a coherent pattern of practices that featured bathing’s universal prevalence as its mainstay. It was an activity with the potential to involve the entire urban population and was not confined to the elite like many other Roman pastimes (Raaschou-Nielsen, 149).

History and Origins of Bathing

The act of bathing itself was not a uniquely Roman hobby. As is common with many facets of the ancient Roman world, they borrowed practices from other cultures. In this case, the Romans developed the Greek custom of bathing daily in small private balneae (Menen, 191). Thus, the first baths in Italy were small domestic balneae meant to provide a “good sweat,” a folk remedy for seasonal ailments (Yegul, 50). It is in these balneae that the three basic elements of a Roman bath are first seen: a caldarium (hot room), a tepidarium (warm room), and a frigidarium (cold room). They were privately owned and small, often sharing their walls with surrounding buildings. Though most were open to the public, a potent combination of increasing public interest in bathing and a strong prospering economy led to the construction of thermae, which replaced old and disused balneae. In contrast to the balneae, thermae were huge freestanding structures almost always owned by the state or city and could cater to hundreds of bathers at once (Yegul, 43).

Demand for bathing facilities was at an all-time high. Where people had normally taken a bath about once every ninth day, by the time of Commodus in the late 100’s every Roman bathed once a day, if not more – Commodus himself is said to have to taken a bath 7 to 8 times a day (Raaschou-Nielsen, 137). Bathing truly became a way of life, and Romans were in love with it. A highly sensational and enjoyable experience, to bathe was to soak in a warm clear pool for hours, muscles still tingling from a soothing massage, eyes dazzled by glittering treasures and smooth marble surfaces, while taking in the peaceful echoes of falling water and the aroma of sweet-smelling ointments and perfumes. It would awaken both body and mind. Furthermore, the shared, egalitarian experience of bathing with others was socially satisfying, It encouraged a “classless world of nudity that encouraged friendships and intimacy” (Yegul, 5), and often preceded dinner feasts full of social companionship and entertainment. Bathing had a special place in the structure of a Roman day, an irreplaceable part of a grand ritual of delightful luxury.

The Bath Ritual

The bath itself was highly ritualized. According to the poet Martial, the best time to bathe was 2 o’clock in the afternoon, after lunch and a short siesta. Since the Roman workday was confined to the morning hours, men would often stay at the baths for several hours, until dinner. If one’s schedule did not allow it that day, the bath could possibly be postponed, but under almost no circumstances should it ever be skipped. Still, bathing at night was not encouraged. Large windows provided most of the lighting, so most baths closed before dusk. Fuel was too costly to allow frequent use of artificial lights such as oil lamps. But even with the presence of artificial light, baths were large buildings with negligible security in place – they hid enough danger to make even the most courageous bather think twice about a nighttime excursion.

Most bathers arrived in the mid-afternoon, each carrying their own set of bath equipment. For the wealthy, it was a status symbol to be carried to the bathhouse on a sedan chair with a train of slaves bearing garments and implements in tow. This would include their exercise and bathing garments, sandals, linen towels, and a cylindrical metal box called a cista that stored oils, perfume, and sponges. As the Romans did not have soap, strigils were used for scraping oils off the skin after a massage and exercise.

Flasks of anointing oils and perfumes, the contents of a typical cista, are depicted on the left. The utensil on the right is a strigil, a curved metal blade for scraping excess oil from the body after bathing. This would also be stored in the cista when not in use. Naples Archaeological Museum (Yegul, 34).

Most people, however, carried their own equipment and could only afford one professional assistant to anoint and strigil them.

The first stop upon entering the baths would be the apodyterium, much like a modern-day locker room with shelves and cabinets to store clothing and personal effects. There were benches for slaves and servants to sit and keep watch over their masters’ belongings, as theft was quite common. The bather would undress here and move to one of many heated rooms for an oil massage before exercising in a courtyard called a palestra. The exercise was not meant to be strenuous; only athletes exercised vigorously. For ordinary people, working up a light sweat was enough to reap health benefits. Ball games were very popular with both men and women. Men favored running, wrestling, boxing and fencing, while it was more suitable for women to swim in the natatio (the swimming pool) or roll a metal hoop called a trochus with a stick.

Mosaic probably depicting a competition for women athletes, not ordinary practice. It was usually considered unacceptable for women to exercise with weights and dumbbells. Sicily, Piazza Armerina, 4th cent. (McManus)

The second-floor rooms above the palestra were most likely used for sunbathing, massage, or plucking unfashionable body hair. Professional hair-pluckers called depilators were available for hire in these rooms (Yegul, 33).

The tintinnabulum bell announced the opening of the hot baths, and when it rung, all activity in the palestrae would immediately cease. Excited bathers could either go to a sauna-like sweating chamber called the laconicum, get anointed with oil a second time, or soak in the warm tepidarium to start the bath in earnest. The general order of movement from room to room proceeded from the warm tepidarium to the hot caldarium. The bath ended with a plunge in the cold frigidarium. Of course, “one bathed as one wished” (Yegul, 39) and this was not a fixed routine.

Bathers tended to linger in the admirably illuminated caldarium and frigidarium, which were common meeting places for social gatherings and performances. Traveling entertainers such as jugglers and musicians were always present, as were vendors of food and wine. There was something for everyone here, whether it was the sensual dip in the pool and the possibility of getting a tan from the sunlight streaming through the sparkling windows and water, the merriment of eating and drinking with friends in the hot baths, or the peace of contemplative thought after a stirring oration at one of the lecture halls.

Reconstruction drawing of the frigidarium at the Baths of Caracalla, illustrating the building’s grandeur. Viollet le Duc, 1867 (Keller)

One could imagine the sounds emanating from the many different rooms of the baths and blending together in the large central frigidarium. Unfortunate enough to live next to a city bath, Seneca wrote a critical and satiric account of the deafening din:

“…panting and grunting hearties as they swing weights; the smacking noise of body massage; someone yelling out the scores of a ball game; and the commotion caused by a thief caught stealing. To these noises were added the singing of the man who likes his own voice under the vaulted halls; the enthusiast who splashes indelicately in the public pool; the shrill voice of the hair-plucker advertising his trade, or worse, the yelling of his victims; and the incessant cries of the cake-seller, the sausage-seller, the candyman, each with his peculiar tone and style…” (Yegul, 32)

Social Impact

When bathers finally began to leave around dinnertime, friends would say goodbye with “Salve lotus!” This can be translated as “I hope you have bathed well.” In ancient Rome, no one was barred from the all-important pursuit of bathing well; anyone who could afford a negligible entrance fee, usually no more than half a cent, could attend one of the eleven thermae or choose from more than eight hundred balneae in Rome that were open to the public. Subsidized by endowments, some were even free (Carcopino, 254).

Since bathing was such an affordable luxury for all, people from many different walks of life could mix freely. There is no evidence of any formal social segregation whatsoever occurring at the baths, and generally, bathhouses were not built specifically to serve any particular classes of clientele (Fagan, 206). The grand thermae of Rome were located to allow easy access from all areas of the city. Many Roman emperors enjoyed bathing with their subjects in the public baths, where they could rub shoulders with the lowliest laborer and gain popular support. This created the temporary illusion of a “classless society,” and as bath scholar Fagan suggests, public bathing was a social leveling system. Some argue that de facto social segregation still occurred, as the wealthy would bathe surrounded by a throng of slave attendants. In fact, during the height of the empire such idleness was considered fashionable, and it was chic to be “thought incapable of doing anything except to have sex and eat” (Menen, 197). It is interesting to note that this life of excess and leisure was made possible by the Roman economy’s dependence on slave labor.

However, the status of slaves at the baths is unknown. They definitely served as attendants while their masters bathed, but direct evidence as to whether they could actually use them as customers is in the form of scarce graffiti or inscriptions on the walls of certain bathhouses (Fagan, 200). It is possible that some slaves had the opportunity to bathe while on duty, but not all attendants would be so lucky – for example, the vigilant slaves who guarded their masters’ clothes in the apodyterium were flogged if they left their post.

Also, Roman medicine promoted bathing as a remedy for many illnesses. With an average life expectancy of 30 years, Romans lived short lives and fell ill often. Thus, as there were no separate facilities for medically prescribed bathing, the healthy and the sick often bathed together. This was another social leveler, albeit detrimental in terms of public health (Fagan, 85).

Integration by gender was not tolerated on the same level. Men and women usually bathed separately, and though some emperors tolerated mixed bathing, the women who visited heterosexual baths did not have the best reputations. More common was the practice of assigning different bathing times: women would bathe in the morning while men would bathe in the more desirable afternoon hours (Yegul, 33).

Bath Architecture and Technology: The Baths of Caracalla

A large part of the enjoyment associated with public bathing was due to the grand beauty of the bath building itself. To reiterate, the vast thermae of Caracalla was a massive treasury-draining construction effort. 9000 workers were employed daily for five years from 212 to 217, and they used several million bricks and more than 252 columns total. 16 of those columns were more than 12 meters high. The whole complex, including the gardens surrounding the central building, occupies a rectangular area of about 337x328 meters and could accommodate up to 1600 bathers at a time (Piranomonte, 13). An extensive network of underground passageways was used for maintenance and storage.

Plan of the Baths of Caracalla, with the main features labeled (Piranomonte, 16).

As can be seen from the figure of the plan, the central building was symmetrical. To accommodate the huge volume of customers, the Romans found it more effective to increase the number of rooms rather than their size. The number of entrances and passageways to a room, not its size, determined the flow of the crowd (Delaine, 45). Additionally, the main heated rooms – namely the tepidarium and caldarium – tended to be smaller and situated along the axis of the building, which expedited the heating process.

Solar heating was well-understood, so the caldarium windows were oriented towards the south to make the best use of the sun’s warmth. But that alone could not get the air hot enough, so the Romans developed the hypocaust system. Hypocaust means “fire underneath,” and literally, there were fires burning under the floor. Pillars called pilae raised the caldarium floor about three feet, and large tiles were laid on top of these pillars, to be covered with a layer of concrete and marble. An underground furnace provided the fire; the hot gases it created were drawn through the floor space, and heated the floor as they rose and spread out. A series of stacked clay tubes called tubuli lined the insides of the walls and created vertical channels for gases to rise through the walls. Apertures in the roof allowed gases to escape. Heat circulation could then continue and the air inside the caldarium would heat up.

Diagram of hypocaust system (Yegul, 358).

The hypocaust did not heat the water, which was still cold having traveled by aqueduct to the baths. Heating water for the heated pools - 7 hot pools in the caldarium and 2 warm pools in the tepidarium - was accomplished by lighting fires under metal boilers underground. It is not known exactly how hot the water was, but there are accounts of heavy drinkers being carried out unconscious (“Roman Bath”). To maintain these kinds of temperatures, up to 50 furnaces total would be burning at once, consuming an average of 10 tons of wood a day (Piranomonte, 15).

The lofty interior spaces of the central rooms owed their size to the Roman technique of vaulting, which made use of a complex combination of many arches to support the weight of the roof. Before vaulting, ancient builders such as the Greeks supported their roofs with a forest of columns. This greatly compromised the amount of interior space. The Roman solution to this was to build the roof in two curved halves, separately. The weight of a keystone dropped in at the top would push down and outwards on the sections, holding the roof together and freeing up space underneath ("Roman Bath").

Section of the frigidarium wall at the modern-day Baths of Caracalla, showing extensive vaulting. (Prins)

None of this would have been possible without the advent of waterproof concrete, arguably the most important technology the Romans developed. The starting material was limestone, cheap and readily available. Heating the stone drove off the carbon dioxide and turned limestone into quicklime. Quicklime was then soaked, or ‘slaked,’ in water to make lime. The Romans added sand and rocks to the lime putty, mixed in crushed tile for waterproofing and included volcanic ash if possible. The end product was a distinctive pink concrete, found in almost all Roman buildings ("Roman Bath").

More available space also meant more room for lavish decorations. Hundreds of bronze and painted marble statues stood in every niche, and the important halls featured fountains and extensive polychrome marble facing. Indeed, every available surface would either be painted or covered with a mosaic. Fragments of stucco decorations can still be seen, attached to the walls of the frigidarium.

Colored mosaic from the floor of the eastern palestra. Materials for the many mosaics in the baths came from all over the empire; for example, yellow marble was imported from Numidia, green-veined marble came from Carystus, and granite and porphyry came from Egypt. To bathers, this served as a constant reminder of Rome’s far-reaching influence and power. (Prins, “Floor Mosaic”)

Fragment of mosaic located on the terraces of the eastern palestra, depicting a cupid on a sea monster. (Prins, “Cupid”)

However, the original décor is all but completely missing. The Baths of Caracalla were abandoned in 537, after only three centuries of use. As if confirming the prominence of bathing as important part of Roman identity, the fall of the empire coincided with the demise of the baths. Invading Goths severed key aqueducts, cutting off the water supply to Rome. The baths were too far from the city center to be properly defended and were therefore abandoned. As early as the 12^th century, they were quarried for building material to decorate churches and palaces (Piranomonte, 4). Four centuries later, the Farnese Pope Paul III excavated the baths for the purpose of decorating a new palazzo. The statues and precious objects that were being taken from the baths caused great interest among the public; due to increasing removal and relocation of artifacts, the site deteriorated quickly.

Conclusion

At first, how the Romans were able to spend half of one’s waking hours every day bathing seemed strange and impossible to me. The concept seemed less strange when considering the slave-driven economy, which allowed a life of leisure for most of the empire’s citizens. Whether slaves were allowed to bathe is still uncertain.

Given the scale and the relatively short time it took to build the bath, it can be inferred that a strong economy and construction industry was solidly in place during Caracalla’s reign. The Severan period is often considered the high point of Roman construction (Delaine, 10). Gone was the time of architectural uncertainty and experimentation. The hundreds of baths built prior to this period provided countless laboratories for attempting new construction methods, and out of this creative experimentation came the development of waterproof concrete, vaulted ceilings, and innovative heating technology.

Though much of the baths’ original grandeur has been stripped away, the impressive ruins still stand as a monument to the sophistication of ancient Roman architecture. The Basilica-like, granite-columned hall of the frigidarium alone has directly inspired the architecture of many subsequent structures. Buildings as recent as the Chicago Railroad Station are exact copies of bath architecture (Piranomonte, 24). Caracalla’s thermae is therefore an excellent case study; it showcased Roman achievement in architecture and artistic design, and utilized the best of the technology available.

Statue of Hercules found in the frigidarium of the Baths of Caracalla, It is often called the Farnese Hercules due to its recovery and subsequent acquisition by Alessandro Farnese in the 1540’s. Naples, National Archaeological Museum. (Piranomonte, 39)

The wonder and admiration surrounding the art at the baths still exists, but it is art uncredited; we cannot attribute the stunning statues – even the Farnese Hercules - to any one artist or school of artists at all. Instead, this indicates the high standard of art at the time; the skill that went into the creation of those works was nothing out of the ordinary. An army of tradesmen worked diligently to complete them, with wondrous skill that was unmatched until the time of the Renaissance. Even parts of the bathing ritual have survived to this day; the Turkish bath is a direct descendant of the Roman custom. As a “microcosm of many of the things that made life attractive” (Carcopino, 256), the universality of baths and bathing in Roman society are an ideal lens through which to study the lives of the ancients.

Bibliography

Carcopino, Jerome. Daily Life in Ancient Rome : The People and the City at the Height of the Empire. New Haven : Yale UP, 2003.

DeLaine, Janet and David E. Johnston, eds. Roman Baths and Bathing: Proceedings of the First International Conference on Roman Baths held at Bath, England 30 March - 4 April 1992 . Journal of Roman Archaeology Supplementary Series 37. Dexter: Thomson-Shore, 1999.

Fagan, Garret G. Bathing in Public in the Roman World. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1999.

Keller, Sven. “Caracalla Leduc.” Photo. Caracalla-Thermen. 16 Aug. 2007. <http://www.roma-antiqua.de/antikes_rom/circus_maximus/caracallathermen>

McManus, Barbara F. “Piazza Armerina gymnast.” Photo. Roman Baths. Jul. 2003. 16 Aug. 2007 <http://www.vroma.org/~bmcmanus/baths.html>

Menen, Aubrey. Cities in the Sand. New York: Dial Press, 1973.

Raaschou-Nielsen, Inge V. Thermae et Balnea : The Architecture and Cultural History of Roman Public Baths. Aarhus : Aarhus UP, 1990.

Roman Bath (Secrets of Lost Empires II). Prod. NOVA. Videocassette. WGBH Boston Video, 2000.

Piranomonte, Marina.The Baths of Caracalla. Guide Electa per la Soprintendenza archeologica di Roma. Milan: Electa, 1998.

Prins, Marco. "Cupid on sea monster." Photo. Livius Picture Archive: Rome - Baths of Caracalla. 16 Aug. 2007. <http://www.livius.org/a/italy/rome/baths_caracalla/baths_caracalla2.html>

---. "Floor mosaic." Photo. Livius Picture Archive: Rome - Baths of Caracalla. 16 Aug. 2007. <http://www.livius.org/a/italy/rome/baths_caracalla/baths_caracalla2.html>

---. "Frigidarium wall." Photo. Livius Picture Archive: Rome - Baths of Caracalla. 16 Aug. 2007. <http://www.livius.org/a/italy/rome/baths_caracalla/baths_caracalla1.html>

Yegul, Fikret. Baths and Bathing in Classical Antiquity. New York: MIT Press, 1992.

#2: Arrival in Rome

I overpacked and regret was settling in. This was all the fault of the crazed few hours I spent packing before leaving for Sea-Tac. I had scampered between the bathroom, the closet, and my room indiscriminately tossing random items into an open suitcase. Basketball in Mindy’s room. Actually, the whole ordeal reminded me more of the shuttle runs required in middle school gym class. Run to the line, pick it up, run back, and drop. Repeat. Still jittery from a bad final the day before, I hadn’t slept and was too exhausted to think about whether I really needed a particular something for the trip. I stuffed a motley amalgam of clothes and toiletries into two rolling suitcases and had to sit on top of one to squash it shut. Zip it up, worry later. I was running late.

And before I knew it, I stood in the heart of Rome’s airport with a suitcase handle clutched in each hand, a heavy messenger bag slung across my aching body, strapped to an even heavier backpack that made my back arch forward uncomfortably. How cumbersome, and what an easy target for the infamous pickpockets. It was only a matter of time before they would steal all my money and documents, leaving me helpless and nameless on the streets of Rome. What would I do then? I had slept on the plane, but was still too tired to think very hard. It took me a gargantuan, almost physical effort to suppress the pickpocket horror story from popping up over and over in my head. Whac-a-mole in Mindy’s brain.

I had just left the baggage claim and was already falling behind my group, looking like a hunched beetle with black Samsonite appendages protruding too far from my still-nauseous core for comfort. Rather than having to face the guilt of having my fellow travelers wait for me, I knew I had to do everything possible to catch up, and quickly. I hate being a weak link more than anything else, almost.

Full speed ahead, clumsy beetle. I was not in Rome. I was in a war zone that assaulted all the senses. Please return your blinders to their upright and locked position. I set my eyes on the glass sliding doors leading outside; they looked like a wall of white light due to the sidewalk on the other side reflecting direct sunlight. I could not believe the real Rome was finally within sight! At that moment, to reach the welcoming, sunny doors (welcoming, at the time) was all I wanted in the world. But getting there across a treacherous sea of bodies and luggage carts was going to be a problem. Steeling myself, I made a beeline towards the light. Tackle football at Fiumicino. I was pleasantly surprised that my strategy – elbows first, shield face, change direction only when absolutely necessary – was working so well. People scattered to let me pass. I was a rhino (beetle) charging through tourists on safari, smiling as I went.

But trouble came in the form of Ms. Stiletto Heels. She fit all the stereotypes I had of the Typical Italian Woman, with flawless makeup, animal print accessories, a perfectly matched combo of short skirt and tight jacket. Bella figura taken to the extreme. A fellow traveler? That outfit couldn’t have been practical on the plane. Maybe she changed at the airport? What dedication. Clop-click, click-clop. I could hear her coming straight at me. She emerged from behind the waves of bodies, like the sun from behind the clouds. And just as blinding. Her sunglasses were the first thing I saw - shiny white square frames that matched the wall of light in luminescence. Impeccably groomed bangs framed deep tinted tunnels created by the dark lenses; not one strand of hair awry. Shift downwards past powdered cheekbones and painted lips. Leopard print scarf, gently twisted and tucked into a rich brown suede jacket. Matching miniskirt. Glittering leather purse, matching suitcase. Wine red stockings, an exhibit truncated by matte black leather stiletto boots that seemed to go on forever, each finally tapering at a point that was lost to sight. They embedded themselves in the cracked airport tiles with every step.

Thus hurtled the stylish juggernaut of earthy colors. Nothing could stop our collision course. I bore left, taking care not to buffet an elderly couple hunched over a luggage cart. No response from Stiletto Heels. Was she even aware of the path ahead? No life in those tunnel eyes. She clicked closer, still on a collision course. I almost tripped over my dragging feet in an effort to turn into an opening on my right.

You, in your little heels, ready to impale small animals. Me, with two rolling suitcases complete with beetle-like exterior. Please ask yourself who would have an easier time getting around. Move, Stiletto – all I ask is that deviate a mere two feet from your determined path. You are not a train. We all stopped to look at you, congratulations. At the very least we all heard you. Would you please spare a second…right in front…look!

Still, closer. Less than ten feet away at this point; I could count each gem on her sunglasses. No room to move! I groaned and shifted as far right as possible, luggage appendages growling along impatiently, ominously behind me. Click-clop, click-clop. Mayday. Minimize damage. Brace for impact.

Swish! CLOP. Stiletto Heels almost skewered my suitcase, transmitted a jolt up through the handle to galvanize my arm and shoulder, sliced through the stiff numbness. And then she was gone. Swallowed whole by the crowd. The unfazed click-clop grew steadily fainter, becoming completely inaudible before the electricity had left my arm. If this was the pace of Rome, I had much to get used to.

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98 days 'til Rome!