Italia

            The cityscape of Rome is a classic of classics, like the mythological catalogue that started it all, written here during Augustus’ reign.  It’s an undulating flow of intricate transformations, pasted on the canvas of a Mediterranean atlas, in which Gods, Goddesses, and humans cast their passions on the compass, told in a sprawling web of lingering sentences that meander through history like the course of the Tiber, running free under the chariot of the Latium sun.  The arches and ruins of Capitoline Hill captivated me; the Coliseum was Jupiter’s broken behemoth, struck by lashes of his celestial lightning.  Peddlers and students mingled on the Spanish Steps, the frenzy of their chatter disorienting, international.  Lions perched under obelisks in Popolo Square, aquatic deities wrestled each other in the Trevi Fountain.  The entire country of the Vatican was baroque, far from broke; exquisitely detailed paintings presented with sculptures at the nodes of vortices lined by tapestries adorned the museum, holding works intended for Christendom yet more influenced by the pagans of old.  In the basilica of St. Peter’s, Bernini's Baldachino showcased an original visionary and talent; his fingerprints are all over the city, like Pluto grabbing hold of Proserpina in one of his most famous sculptures.  Outside of the Pantheon I had the best rigatoni of my life, while a mime entertained passersby and a man sang opera underneath its echoing columns, so that it gave the paradoxical impression of a serene carnival mixed with an expressive, refined troupe of talented performers.  The waitress was cute and voluptuous, the moon shone brightly with Venus under its rim.  On the walk back, after a young woman rubbed her breasts right in front of me, I wandered into a gelato store and tried to speak Italian with another flirty lass.  Strawberry fragola on a wafer cone became my new obsession: the best ice cream in all the world.  I smiled and licked it, pretending I was sucking in the ice cream girl’s sweetness. 

Then came the coast of Amalfi, whose cliff-side road wound like a rollercoaster on the edges of mountains, where death-defying houses sat on terraces nestled between the cliffs.  Unique flowers and plants grew in union with the geologic and architectural precision of the coast.  It was a paradise for romantics, surreal and breathtaking; should I ever plan a honeymoon, it would be here.  From a boat we saw the coast, gorgeous from afar, and both Capri and the cliffs that protect Sorrento like a fortress.  The shadow of Vesuvius possessed us with an urge to visit the ruins of Pompeii, which lays there like a cadaver, sweltering in the September heat. 

In Sicily the Monreale Cathedral enclosed golden mosaics that dressed the Christ Pantocrator in heavenly-spiritual garments, and Enna was a town built atop a mountain- a place of Greek feminine worship- that looked out at the jungles of Giarre sitting on the slopes of Mt. Etna.  The hostel we stayed in had grape orchards, friendly animals, and mafia jazz playing on Sunday evenings.  I fell in love with the goats, the cows, and the chickens who would all chatter in alarm, challenging one another whenever the sun rose or fell, or when thunderstorms marched over the land.  The dog I named Vespucci, short for Amerigo Vespucci- the Italian sailor, first to land in the U.S.A.- but I called him Poochie for short.  One sunny morning I awakened in the most fantastic of moods.  A soft breeze blew in from the sea.  A cat lay on my lap as I ate fresh grapes, grapes that had come from right off the farm, still robust from the hearty fuel of the sun.  We drove through Catania, then up the side of Mt. Etna, which had no lava to behold, but the views of the island were vast.  That evening was magical- much like the one outside the Pantheon- when the moon shone full to the east, large on the Mediterranean horizon, and the volcano vented above the nervous land below her.  We could see her red rivulets of lava from sea level because the darkness of night enhanced their color, making Etna shine like a mighty lighthouse for Neptune.  On the other side of the bay glowed the nightlife of Taormina, surrounded by thick suburban brush.  I imagined that I’d fallen in love with a Sicilian girl, and we sang and danced in the orchards before falling into a bed of shaded palm trees together. 

Last came Florence, my city of dreams, my heaven on Earth.  The arrangement of color on the Duomo facade, with its spinning rose window and marble tympanum, gave it the appearance of a gothic flower withering under the weight of the Renaissance.  Colorful heaps of gelato lined the shop windows; an evanescent sunset lit up the Arno.  The Piazza Della Signoria sprouted the chaotic choreography of dynamically powerful statues, such as The Rape of the Sabine Women, which tells a profound story of loss simply by looking at it.  Both the Bargello Museum and the Pitti Palace behold countless artifacts and appliances sketched with the finest precision and detail, mesmerizing to the senses even today, centuries after the artisans created them.  The streets of Florence still glisten with the finest crafts, jewels, and necklaces in all the world, perhaps even the universe.  Behind the Pitti Palace I strolled through the Boboli Gardens, which are a maze of fountains patrolled by statues betwixt rows of alberos and courtyard hedges.  From up on the hill, I saw the Duomo from the Belvedere, which, second only to the city-wide vistas from atop its Belltower, holds the grandest view in all of Italy. 

Out past the dry fields of rolled-up haystacks, cypress and olive trees, blue chianti grapes, kitchen gardens that smell of savory herbs, poplars where figs, apples, and cheese wheel cakes design the dusty hills of Tuscany, I finally came to rest on red stones in the square of Siena, whose cathedral is even more transcendent than St. Peter’s, and more colorful than the Monraele.  Geese flew above, children chased each other on the street.  It was time to go home and leave this old world behind.  Perhaps I should return with a child of my own someday, so that he may witness the intricacies of a culture far more appreciative of fine detail, patience, and the echoes of its past.