The first day was a whirlwind of lights and sounds and smells. Clearly, the best advice I was given was ever given in this life was to "get lost." Spagna metro station has become a hub of sorts for me; a jumping off point. Alive with a sea of people framed by breathtaking architecture. The Spanish Steps seem to collect bodies like moths to a flame; a picturesque spot to rest a moment while the bustle continues around you. All of the finest Italian brands boast immaculately dressed out store fronts that both awe and entice. It is easy to see why the inhabitants of this enlivened metropolis observe a mid-day siesta when inundated with such excitement and flurried activity before and after.
At night, on my balcony across from the Vatican City, there are times where the stillness and silence are absolute. No traffic or voices, nothing but perhaps the tinkling of some treasured wind chime of Murano glass marking the passage of a calming breeze. It is amazing how peacefully a city so rife with life and adventure can slumber. I expected to meet a great many new people on this journey, but in the stillness of the consuming solitude of night, I have also seemed to encounter myself. In these pre-dawn moments, as I listen for the first sounds indicative of an awakening city, I find myself a most enjoyable companion.
Everything about this journey tests the senses and the psyche. There is a constant dichotomy at play here that serves to keep one guessing. On the metro, my fondest form of travel outside of my own two feet or perched upon the broad back of an equine, a gypsy boy no older than my young son of ten plays the only song he knows on an ill-used accordion, his hand held plaintively outstretched at each conclusion. While it may seem the most heartless cruelty to deny him meager coin, somewhere nearby one that watches may be using him as a diversion or a way of studying how your money is kept so as to accost you with the information given an opportunity. Tomorrow, it will be another boy with the same neck brace and accordion pandering to commuters. The novelty soon wears off and the tune grows tedious.
I feel a certain anonymity here: by day, just another tourist with a camera come to claim my own lifelong memories of the eternal city, home of the Romans. One of the first things I did upon my arrival was to acquaint myself with the local grocers and farmacias. At breakfast, I am provided with coffee and a light repast, which serves to remind me that Romans are not as fond of breakfast as we Americans are. During the course of the day, I snack on sweet croissants, mozzarella and Salami Milano. I would rather spend my few precious Euros on sights and experiences than lavish meals, but the scents of the finer restaurants and trattorias cry out to me, beckoning my stomach lead me inside their doors and under their awnings. At some point later in my trip, I look forward with eager anticipation to indulging myself in the sumptuousness of local fare. I look forward to each day with as much enthusiasm as the last, ready and willing to devour the art, culture, beauty and history of this land like the most elegantly prepared secundo. The first light of dawn is just beginning to kiss the horizon and I am apprehensive, but excitedly so, to greet another day in one of the most inspiring places I have ever been.
The hills beyond my balcony glitter, as if inlaid with countless precious gems; twinkling in a way that is both captivating and whimsical. I feel as if I were to leave my heart here, it would never cease to be comforted by the simple beauty of such a sight. No picture can capture the magic of those dancing lights, as they undulate against an obsidian sky; a testament to the existence of man in distant hills. It is a skyline worth waking very early or staying awake very late to behold. This sight is just one of the many that frustrate my camera, emphasizing the need to live apart from the lens and capture them in memory.
Italia Collection
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