Giornale #3- Santa Maria in Trastevere

Like a camera in a movie my eyes panned up from the sidewalk, to the magnificent

elephant obelisk by Bernini, to the enchanting golden shimmer of the mosaic frieze

atop of the Church of Santa Maria in Trastevere.

In the doorway, however, I was stopped by a beggar woman, hunched over, carrying

a can, asking passersby for just a coin so she could have dinner. I dropped a Euro in

her can as I passed her, and walked into the church.

As we entered, we learned that mass was going on at the moment. People sat in

pews strewn throughout the nave of the church listening to the priest conduct mass.

He sang like silk, his voice echoing through the pristine halls of the church, bouncing

off each ionic column, soft and velvet as the ceiling. The church prayed together, in

families or by themselves, committing themselves to the community of those like them.

Together their voices rose from the ashes to the sky, floating through the regal, magnificent

setting, sending their wishes to God.

The golden mosaic outside was nothing compared to what I would see inside the church.

Every single one of the church and basilica ceilings has impressed me without fail, but

never had I seen one so “bedazzled” as this one. The ceilings were covered in gold and

royal colors, deep blues and reds and greens with golden Catholic symbols strewn

throughout.

The marble statues blended in with the pastel wall paintings along the aisles, contrasted

by darker saint portraits hanging in gold frames along them. The gold in the frames

connected the walls to the ceiling in a gaudy sense, connecting riches to riches, customized

magnificent portraits surrounded by elaborate golden frames honoring church-goers

surrounded by the golden riches of the church. The pastel wall paintings are no less grand

than the ceiling, though they are less decked in gold. The pinks and blues in the portraits

create a heavenly light alongside the shine of the sun through the windows.

While tracing my steps against the walls, I happened upon a surprise- a gift shop. I was

surprised to see a place of worship selling such extravagant gifts such as a €100 nativity

set. As soon as I stepped foot in the gift shop, I was instinctively a cynic, immediately

brushing off the gift shop as a way to further the wealth of the Catholic church, though I

don’t actually know exactly what the money goes to.

After encountering the woman begging for scraps outside the church again on my way out,

to see such a blatant flex of wealth on the population from the Catholic church, who preaches

abandonment of worldly possessions, made me feel sick to my stomach. While walking through

the streets of Rome, I saw so many homeless people begging for money so that they could

eat that day, and it made me extremely uncomfortable to be in a place that resembled a palace

that was meant to be a place of worship and helping others. With the money that the church

needs to maintain their art and the glitz and the glamour in a week they could feed multiple

families that really need it. Within the church they could house many of the people that were

sleeping on the street. Honestly, I’ve never felt fully comfortable in a church, but this moment

was truly unsettling, more so than any other.

Giornale #2 - Stadium of Domitian

The museum which holds the Stadium of Domitian is unassuming to the eye. I had walked

past the entranceway a couple times already, never even suspecting that I was standing

on top of such immense history.

After purchasing a ticket, I descended down the stairs and walked straight into antiquity. I saw
arches and full structures from the original stadium, old art everywhere, and signs teaching
me more than I ever thought I’d know about a single building from nearly 2,000 years ago. I

felt like I myself was a Roman in imperial times.

As someone who has been fascinated by classics essentially my entire life, this experience

was far from usual. The closest to full immersion that I had ever before felt could be found

in novels inserting ancient mythology into the world that I knew, like reading Percy Jackson

as a little kid. For the first time, in the Stadium of Domitian, practically alone among the ruins,

I felt like I was the one being transported through time.

Though we were technically in a museum, because I was surrounded by original walls, it

felt so much more immersive than that. To be able to touch the brick as I passed by felt unreal,

I was in awe at the size and the stature of these artifacts that had survived for so long.

One part that struck me in particular was a set of stairs, surrounded by two walls, leading

to an archway. The fact that this piece of the stadium, which I assumed to be an entrance

to the seating for the events, had survived for so long together was miraculous to me. Though

there was a large hole in the middle of the steps, the fact that these weren’t fragmented

otherwise came as a shock to me. Staring at these steps, I was able to lose myself in

wonder.

I wondered who walked these exact stairs so many years ago, wondering if they would ever

think that students two thousand years in the future would be thinking about them. I could

see myself, walking through ancient Rome, through the crowds in the stadium, on my way

to see a wrestling match or a foot race. I imagined the people I would see, emperors, priests,

vestal virgins, and common folk coming together to celebrate athletics, in the same ways that

we do today for sporting events.

I had only visited this museum a few days into the trip, I wasn’t used to being able to have

such a thorough experience with the pieces. To be able to look upon the stairs that the

emperor Domitian had ordered to be built in the year 80 CE, not just a model or an image

online… I felt like I was dreaming. I had no idea what would be in store for me for the rest of

this trip, nor the feelings that I could experience while walking amongst magnificent structures

I had treated for so long like vocabulary words. The Stadium of Domitian was only the start.

Ekphrasis #2

From afar, her hair drapes her shoulders, over her chest.

Her shadows blend her in with the background.

Her hair, braided, twirls her crown with majesty.

Unseen, the snake rears its head towards her breast,

held up by her hand for venom.

Eyebrows thin, lips pale, her already dead eyes look saintly up to heaven,

ready to join in with the reaper’s embrace.

Her lover is dead, and soon she will be too.

Cleopatra VII Thea Philopator,

Queen of Egypt,

Of the Ptolemaic dynasty,

Mother of four,

Lover of Romans,

Of age 39,

Found dead by her own hand,

may she rest in power.

(Painting: "Cleopatra" by Jacopino del Conte)

Voyeur #2

“Tre… due… uno!” Her father yelled, uncovering his eyes, looking around.  She giggled

from inside a nearby bush, seeing his feet walk by her as he wondered aloud “Where could

she be?”, but she could never give up her hiding spot. You could never give up your hiding

spot in Hide & Seek, or else what kind of game would that be?

Uncovering a large leaf, he found her- busted this round. She knew one day she would

best him- maybe today was that day. Cursing her father’s detective skills as eloquently as

a three year old might, she turned away from him and began to count down from 10, giving

him the chance to hide now. She heard his heavy shoes on the cobblestone run away from

her, and he was gone. She had nothing to fear, however- she was going to be a detective

and solve the case.

Searching under leaves and branches for clues, she searched for her father. Deep into her

evidential analysis of the scene, she found a key clue: his hair was peeking out from a

corner of the statue. Victory.

“I found you!” She yelled, running over to her father, wrapping her arms around his legs.

“Now it’s your turn!”

This time, she would be no such fool to try to hide under a plant, no- she had figured out

the perfect hiding spot. Out of sight of her father, out of sight of the bystanders around the

piazza, a way to turn invisible. As her father began to count down, she ran out of sight as

fast as she could, to the other side of the statue, sat down, and closed her eyes. If she

couldn’t see him, he definitely couldn’t see her.

Her plan was thwarted again. He crept around the corner of the statue of Cavour, finding

her, picking her up, and spinning her in a circle with him. As they returned around the other

side of the statue, an older man in yellow approached the duo, two water bottles in hand.

He handed one to the little girl, and one to the father. The father grabbed her scooter and

helmet, as the older man grabbed the hand of the girl, and the trio walked out into the abyss

together.

One day she would be the champion of hide and seek. She could feel it in her bones; she

was meant for this. However, today was not that day.

Momentary Blindness #2

There’s something magical about sun-showers to me, there always has been. To feel the

warmth of the sun on my skin mixed with the soothing sounds of raindrops on the sidewalk

is such a soothing sensation, and to feel that atop the Palatine Hill, surrounded by such

dense history, feels unlike any other.

I hear pebbles in the walkway shuffling under people’s feet, and the leaves of the orange

trees rustling in the gentle breeze. Small clicks of the pebbles under pigeons’ little feet or

the frantic scattering under the feet of a running puppy amuse me compared to the heavy

steps of humans. I hear a family pushing a stroller with a kid running alongside it in the

distance.

Water drips onto my head from the tree that I’m sitting under. I’m sitting on my raincoat so

that the soaked wood of the bench can’t soak through to me, but that means I can’t cover

my head. I stop taking notes in my notebook, as I’m afraid it’ll get wet, switching over to

Google Docs on my phone.

Another breeze strikes the tree I’m under, causing more rain to fall on me from the leaves,

the clouds move to cover the sun, and suddenly I’m cold. Though I should probably fear

sunburn more than I do, I miss feeling the sun on my skin when it goes away. I sit in the

shade, wasting my jacket for a seat rather than bundling up against the wind, but regardless

I am comfortable. I am serene, and I am at peace.

Ekphrasis #1

How many times can a girl read
the story of the shield of Achilles?
Reborn in the shield of Aeneas,
in foundational stories yet to unfold,
yet destined to be led by men,
she is bored.

Give me the shield of Minerva.
To the gods, I beg:
for the story of womankind,
the women who suffered
in the founding of this beautiful city,
the women who were not allowed to fight
but instead had to sit and weave and wait;

Minerva does not have bounds,
goddess of weaving and wisdom in battle,
women's crafts and warcraft cannot be so far apart,
and perhaps, like the goddess, they can reside within a woman together.

What is on Minerva's shield, I can only guess,
for no epic will explain it to me.
I see the cosmos in a four pointed star,
our Earth in the center, the heavens surrounding,
created by the untold stories of women around the world.

Momentary Blindness #1 (reposted)

Water from the Fontana del Nettuno rushes in my ear, just a few feet away.
As if out of a movie, I can hear an accordion playing Italian music faintly in the
distance. Just like any tourist destination, a world’s worth of languages flow in
and out of my ears as melodically as the accordion and rushed as the water.

I continue to keep my head down as men, hands jingling with jewelry or selfie
sticks approach me. I can hear them heckling tourists as they pass, their footsteps
shuffling by me along the cobblestones.

A pigeon walks by me, its nails clicking and clacking as it wanders in search of food,
likely smelling the same food from the restaurants around us that I do.

Any other thoughts I have are cut off by a familiar tune- the accordion player gave
up on traditional Italian music, now aiming for a rendition of Hava Nagila; suddenly
I’m 13 years old and at a Bar Mitzvah again. I can feel the melody flowing through
me, nostalgic as ever.

Eventually, I get lost in my thoughts again, and all the noises around me blend
together. The water blends into the background, even the accordion is less noticeable
than before. People’s feet shuffle quieter than before, and even the children laughing
and screaming seem to fade away.

My feet ache as I sit. I don’t realize how much I walk until I’ve already done it, but
fully immersing myself in the sensory experience that is Rome is already worth it
in every way.

Voyeur #1 (reposted)

An unknown figure with an unknown purpose walks across Piazza San Pietro: a spy.
Head tucked down, hidden away from the sun by a large, patterned scarf, as if to hide
in plain sight- however, her bold look and desperate fast walk made her stand out to me.

The spy walked with fervor towards a the colonnade, desperate to remain unseen, but
she failed. I saw her, but I do not think that she saw me. However, the question remains:
why was she there? What business did she have in the Vatican? With the Pope? With
the people of Rome?

Perhaps she was on a mission to steal the keys to the kingdom of Heaven, or perhaps
Saint Peter’s remains? Perhaps an assassination attempt, or perhaps simply on a search
for lost faith?

Whatever her business there was, she was undercover, attempting desperately to blend
in with the crowd of tourists. Immediately, though the look was bold, I could tell they
weren’t your stereotypical American tourist; no brand-name tee shirts, no “jorts”, no
swinging selfie sticks. Instead, she immediately caught my eye with a pair of black &
white intricately patterned leggings, paired with a red sweatshirt, as well as the blue
and red floral headscarf, paired with black socks and navy athletic sandals.

As I watched her, I could tell that though I may never know what exactly she came
to the Vatican for, her business here was done. Scattering a crowd of pigeons with
her steps, before briskly speed-walking through a crowd of tourists towards the exit,
and, without exposing her identity, out of sight.

Giornale #1 - Santa Maria Sopra Minerva

Our trip to Santa Maria Sopra Minerva seemed to me to be a classic exploration of Rome
as a city, happening upon a mix of modern history alongside ancient building casually
along the way. We began wandering from the Porticus of Octavia towards the church,
making a pit stop in the Harry Potter store because we couldn’t refrain, and continuing
onwards towards the church.

A few blocks after that, we passed the Fontana delle Tartarughe, or the Turtle Fountain,
which I later learned was built in the Italian renaissance, around 1580-1588, by the
architect Giacomo della Porta and the sculptor Taddeo Landini, with the bronze turtles
added by either Gian Lorenzo Bernini or Andrea Sacchi around 1658 during restorations
of the fountain. Some historians believe that the turtles are representative of the myth of
Jupiter and Ganymede, as the turtle became a symbol of Jupiter, and the upraised arms
towards the turtle could represent Ganymede being abducted by Jupiter as an eagle, as
that pose is often how he is portrayed in classical art. The fountain really caught my eye,
as it was so artfully created, but so hidden away in a tiny square, and if we hadn’t
accidentally happened upon it, I would’ve never known it existed.

Our next stop, in the Largo di Argentina, was the cat sanctuary. Though they were only
open for another 20 minutes, they allowed us to come in and meet some of the cats. I
learned that not only are they a sanctuary, but an adoption agency as well. Hosting
about 130 cats at the moment, the cats are spayed and neutered, and free to roam
around the ruins and the center itself, and nearly all of them are available for adoption.
Some of the cats, as they are either very old, blind, or have other medical problems,
are not up for adoption, but remain under the care of the facility. I met a cat named
Disturbia who was asleep by the register as Maisie paid for a tote bag, and as I pet
her for the first time I began to miss home a little bit, missing my animals back in
New York. But that homesickness would soon be cured by the beauty of Rome, as
we progressed from the shelter to the church.

Once inside, I had to double check the requirements for this assignment. The church
of Santa Maria Sopra Minerva was definitely not what I expected under the category
of “small church” compared to the small churches of the United States- at home, I’m
sure this would be classified as a massive basilica. Between the many statues,
magnificent portraits of holy figures, and the breathtaking stained glass windows,
I was speechless.

The art on the ceiling caught my eye for quite a while as I stared into the heavenly
portraits of saints in the sky, surrounded by a midnight blue with golden stars. I sat
down on a pew and stared at the ceiling for a while, taking it in. For some reason-
perhaps the stars- it reminded me of the ceiling at Grand Central Station in Manhattan
with its constellations and stars. I think for this reason it confused me, as I had seen it
as a more pagan depiction of the sky, as I saw it closer with astrology than the typical
Catholic portrayal of heaven. Perhaps it was the deeper blue that caught me, as many
of the paintings around the sides of the church and the others that I’ve seen often
represent a heavenly glow unlike the night sky, with baby blues and golden lights shining
down on believers, but the darkness brought me to the night sky, watching the saints float
through like constellations.

Voyeur #1

An unknown figure with an unknown purpose walks across Piazza San Pietro: a spy.
Head tucked down, hidden away from the sun by a large, patterned scarf, as if to hide
in plain sight- however, her bold look and desperate fast walk made her stand out to me.

The spy walked with fervor towards a the colonnade, desperate to remain unseen, but
she failed. I saw her, but I do not think that she saw me. However, the question remains:
why was she there? What business did she have in the Vatican? With the Pope? With
the people of Rome?

Perhaps she was on a mission to steal the keys to the kingdom of Heaven, or perhaps
Saint Peter’s remains? Perhaps an assassination attempt, or perhaps simply on a search
for lost faith?

Whatever her business there was, she was undercover, attempting desperately to blend
in with the crowd of tourists. Immediately, though the look was bold, I could tell they
weren’t your stereotypical American tourist; no brand-name tee shirts, no “jorts”, no
swinging selfie sticks. Instead, she immediately caught my eye with a pair of black &
white intricately patterned leggings, paired with a red sweatshirt, as well as the blue
and red floral headscarf, paired with black socks and navy athletic sandals.

As I watched her, I could tell that though I may never know what exactly she came
to the Vatican for, her business here was done. Scattering a crowd of pigeons with
her steps, before briskly speed-walking through a crowd of tourists towards the exit,
and, without exposing her identity, out of sight.

Momentary Blindness #1

Water from the Fontana del Nettuno rushes in my ear, just a few feet away.
As if out of a movie, I can hear an accordion playing Italian music faintly in the
distance. Just like any tourist destination, a world’s worth of languages flow in
and out of my ears as melodically as the accordion and rushed as the water.

I continue to keep my head down as men, hands jingling with jewelry or selfie
sticks approach me. I can hear them heckling tourists as they pass, their footsteps
shuffling by me along the cobblestones.

A pigeon walks by me, its nails clicking and clacking as it wanders in search of food,
likely smelling the same food from the restaurants around us that I do.

Any other thoughts I have are cut off by a familiar tune- the accordion player gave
up on traditional Italian music, now aiming for a rendition of Hava Nagila; suddenly
I’m 13 years old and at a Bar Mitzvah again. I can feel the melody flowing through
me, nostalgic as ever.

Eventually, I get lost in my thoughts again, and all the noises around me blend
together. The water blends into the background, even the accordion is less noticeable
than before. People’s feet shuffle quieter than before, and even the children laughing
and screaming seem to fade away.

My feet ache as I sit. I don’t realize how much I walk until I’ve already done it, but
fully immersing myself in the sensory experience that is Rome is already worth it
in every way.

Giornale: Empire State Plaza

            When you’re standing in the middle of the Empire State Plaza in Albany, no matter why you’re there, your future looks bleak. The outdated architecture, established in only shades of tan, brown, and brick, does not make you feel welcome. Seeing buildings for Agenc One, Agency Two, Agency Three, et cetera, made me feel like I was rereading “1984” by George Orwell. The brightest colors I could see were in the sky.

            The architecture continues the dystopian fantasy of the plaza in such a way that if someone had described it to me, I wouldn’t believe that this was supposed to be a place for the people. The buildings make me feel the same way that I imagine I would in Tomorrowland would if Disney World had been abandoned for 50 years, like an old episode of The Jetsons. Each building is built on internal supports, giving it a floating effect, meant to induce a feeling of being in the future of America. In theory, this makes sense. Albany is the capital of New York, and thus where decisions that will strongly impact our futures are made. However, years later, these buildings don’t invoke a feeling of the future, but of a burnt out American dream. It’s frozen in time, surrounded by a world in which it no longer fits.

            Though the space is built as a public space, like I said before, it doesn’t feel welcoming. While it seems to be representative of democracy- a place for the people- it reads more like a beaurocratic reinforcement of power. There are no commodities for people to enjoy, they just have to make do with the open brick space that they were given.

While walking around the plaza I was confronted by way more “No Entry” signs than I would have expected from a supposed public space. Due to the fact that the plaza is essentially surrounded by government buildings, it makes sense, especially when you consider New York in a post-9/11 world, that they would be shut off from the public. However, it just reinforced the feeling that you are not welcome here. While it’s mean to be an open, public space, you can still feel the hierarchy between citizen and government worker. Every Agency building is identical, thus giving you no clue what is going on in each one. You are forced to blindly trust that they will do what’s right for you without the ability to approach and question it. The buildings feel overpowering in their stature, built to justify and remind you just how small you are in the grand scheme of things going on. Even the steps of the Capitol Building are blocked off to the public, with large metal police gates and 6 separate red “do not enter” signs to ward off any visitors, no matter the intent. The beautiful buliding imposes regality and power over the very people that democracy claims to represent.

As a whole, Empire State Plaza feels like its namesake- an empire. The subjects of that empire are not given the key to know what their government is doing, and expected to take any open space they can spare as a gift. It is unwelcoming and imperialistic in nature, reminding you by the sheer size of the buildings who is above you in society. They say “do not enter”, but at this point I wonder why I would really want to.