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Published: October 25th 2006
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I turned into We. One of the world’s most romantic cities in all of Europe, Rome was indeed lonely. Sights of couples and families teased my silence; smells tingled the senses. Five days and four nights with the clouds hovering low like a reflecting blanket of isolation, I wandered toward the Tiber, away from Vatican City and into the Ghetto to a marketed Campo de Fiori alone in waiting. Again, loneliness of one man, one traveler, caught in the conquest of romance upon a land dedicated to the life of comfort in sociability.
In the highlights of a city without a map, my stature wandered aimlessly. Down the
vias and into the
piazas I felt purposeless. Names surpassed my understanding in the Italian language, and with no guidebook or no research to why and by whom such imaginations existed, I saw the surface and never delved into the intimacy of what man and woman could share.
I highlight my own map: Alone. Albeit, I was soon rescued as I intermingled in the public displays of affection, the flocking geese of tourists landing on marble ponds of architecture and the Romans who ducked beneath a life they’ve haughtily accustomed. With a hark
of shadowy singularity in the streets and through the alleys of
trattorias and
ristorantes, I met family, Mother and Sister, to divulge not in matrimony or coveted plundering (
also known as: the flocks of tour buses), but in the sociality of birds returning to the nest above our own pond, or grooming primates, within the autumnal weather of La Roma.
Self-Exiled Roman Rome. La Roma and the vastness of history. But this is not about the stories of the past or the present because Rome has passed at a time when Rome was Rome.
The city immerged into my single conscience as a traveler peering out from the covers of rest. Six weeks in Greece, the last two in the folds of Athens’ cultural diversity, La Roma was instantly romantic. And yes, I was alone. I was single like a black sheep in fields of shepherded white. My wool was unsuited for the fine cloak of Italian lifestyle. It was dirty, with a limited closet, no deodorant, and the omnipresent, omnipotent scent of worked flesh. More so, Rome identified this paradox and my presiding isolation with magnitude as the conformity of civilization and the fashions of Europe molded
life into the social practices of an incestuous family of chimps.
Stepping off the plane with a Greece not so far behind, but seemingly distant, I knew I was no chimp, nor could I relate with the common of man or woman. I was single. I had been single for weeks, months, for years in a practice as uncommon to civilization as the choice of outcast to the magnanimous chimpanzee himself. However, it was my choice to wander, to live and to give my love in a unique expression through the medium of personal growth. And here I was in Rome—of all cities. I could think of nothing, I could see nothing, but the union of family, friends, or lovers: Romance.
With a studio, with a single bed for a single man. Without a map, without a companion for a city of romance in a land of social existence. I was ready for Rome, but at the same time I was not. Through my perceptions, I didn’t hitherto recognize the truth of my banishment of what any chimp, or any person, can come to feel. And through the days and nights, I took to wandering through my mind
as I changed streets and walked riverside. I explored the narrows of Travestere, an artistic network of small residences of brick and mortar. And through the changing weather patterns, purple and yellow vines of weeping ivy climbed into the alcoves of windows. Leaves changed into patterns of reds and oranges. Inside, degrees of light spilled into the rooms’ interiors. Wooden shutters determined the acceptance of daylight, and they angled on their hinges from varying positions: either wide like French doors or reserved with a limited allowance of air as each shutter rose vertically from a fulcrum located two-thirds up its wooden frame. And outside, lines of clothing sunk their hangers heavily and dripped like rusty faucets. I ducked under the pattering droplets and glanced up to spot pairs of eyes within the shadows and full heads upon slumped shoulders gazing to the traffic below.
I kept wandering. I explored the different gelaterias of creamy gelatos without tasting, only titillating. I stared into pizzerias. I checked my palate as I sought the visions of calzones. I sniffed the air. And I breathed the aroma of La Roma.
Yet each time I sought out these places of interest besides such monstrosities
Steps of Italy
From the Spanish Steps within a metric maze of Rome's streets as the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, Saint Peter’s Basilica and the Colosseum, a diatribe of socialization confronted my ears. Laughter, arms in arms, the bondage of friends, family and lovers. I was accosted by this state. It was my state. Alone in Rome.
Alone in Rome! This was the aroma of La Roma. This isolation of appendages where my tongue spoke to itself, my hands rested on thighs within my pockets and hugs wrapped my own shoulders in the evening hours of sleep. I held off in the pizzerias. I closed my eyes and swallowed my tongue at a calzone. I drank my own salivating fluids and licked the roof of my mouth as every couple, every goose in the flock and each local savored the sweet, sweet cream of Italy’s gelato.
Then, like a bee returning to its hive from pollenization, like a chimp back to the privilege of grooming for lice upon a familiar head, I caught a train to Aeroperto Fiumicino and met that very familiarity I was dreaming; the familial familiarity I was expecting for so many days. It was perfect.
As a traveler, I don’t recommend the teasing, tingling, titillating coupling
of Roma alone. It is a destination of sociability. It is a city immersed in a culture of flying flocks of pigeons, of lounging families of primates, of birds nesting to a feast of aromas and flavors. Rome is the hive of honey with the sweets of romance for every relation.
To be in Rome alone was to not be in Rome at all. I wandered the city in solitude, yet I returned to that large, open space of a studio, a home accenting the emphasis of
one room for
one person. Back within its walls, I felt enclosed and disinclined to leave again, once more alone among the streets of Italian culture where to be solitary was a dreaded sign of banishment. But then the rescue: the arrival of family and best friends.
The Nature of Man, The Nature of Woman With
I evolving into
We, instantly our palates at last indulged in the privilege I deprived mine of—not alone, but together. A calzone here; a flat, square, crispy veggie pizza there. In breads—on pastas—tomatoes, mushrooms, onions, basil, arugula, and cheeses slipped from their sauces. Atop cones, sweet creams were caught in their droplets by swift tongues
as the flavors of cappuccino, chocolate, vanilla and cream (a.k.a. Nutella), and orange-peach yogurt (or an orange cream-sicle) comprised an afternoon to midnight dessert.
Rome by company. There is no other delight to fancy in its succulent aromas. Together, a threesome of family treaded the autumnal streets through humid rays of sun to periods of shelter under umbrellas and rain jackets. The seasons changed. The flocks of geese unloaded on their marble ponds with pocket-sized pixels flashing in dull light and locals ducked to avoid the sights. Meanwhile, sanctuaries as Basilica di San Pietro and Vatican City collected further flocks that became singular hues of groups of nuns and monks in robes of white, black and brown. From my rescue of what felt like personal banishment, Rome became the city of Rome and Italy became the romance of sociable life shared with family, friends, lovers, food and the aroma of all in between.
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Alice
non-member comment
Cam, you know I have enjoyed your writing over the last few years but can I say, your photos prove to be no less vivid and engaging. How enchanting to see the world through your lens! with love, Alice