San Giovanni

I am overwhelmed by the ceilings of most churches, but this is to an even greater degree. I have actually never seen anything quite like it. The columns and the ceiling seem to go up forever, I crane my neck to try to take it all in. I see the confessionals all have signs with languages written on them. I guess each priest here speaks three or four different languages. That is impressive. Or is it that they only have to be able to absolve people of their sins in a few different languages. Is that what it is? Sometimes my understanding of Catholicism gets a little funny.

Dutch tour group, 10 o'clock.

Piazza di Spagna

This is a good place to people watch. So many languages. Kids playing. Couples making out. An old man eating gelato next to a woman on her cell phone. Horse-drawn carriages await passengers. It must be hot for a horse. From here, I can see Yves Saint Laurent, Missoni, Dior. It's sticky outside, says the puppy sitting next to me. Click. Photo. Click. Have to prove I was here. Otherwise, people might not believe you. Oh, Vivian. What is it about the steps that draws all these people here? We walked up and then down and then part way up again, to sit. I wonder if it's just tourists, or do honest-to-goodness Romans come here too?

Train Music

I miss the songs of the train stations on the Yamanote Line
Takadanobaba, Shin-Okubo, Shinjuku

I miss the cats yowling at three in the morning
They made their own music

before Gerritt poured water on them from the balcony above
I miss the supermarket cashiers who

wrap tampons delicately
and unnecessarily in brown paper bags

I miss the schoolgirls with their cell phones
dripping Disney

and my favorite pastime:
staring at shoes on the metro

I miss Ichigoya:
To Foreign Students we only sell hamburger on Sunday

I miss Haagen-Dazs runs and the fifth floor
and sushi that slides around on a conveyer belt

I miss the escalators in building 14
and temples snuggled among skyscrapers and neon signs

I miss the waiting in the genkan, mail in 214,
waving and greeting my way down Waseda-Dori

I miss the songs of Takadanobaba, Mejiro, Ikebukuro

I am reminded of the music because I have my clock
It’s green and shiny and round

and has a train making its way around the face
stopping at stations and listening

I miss the songs of the train stations on the Yamanote Line

Il Colosseo

I find the Colosseum more imposing from the outside than the inside. I have a hard time visualizing what it must have looked like in ancient times. I wonder what that Japanese guy thought when we commandeered the stairs he was sitting on and Kelsea began her presentation. Strange Americans. He seemed a bit stunned, but what was he going to do. We had him surrounded. I think of the movie Gladiator. I suppose it's inevitable, but somehow I wish I had a more substantial visual reference for the Colosseum in ancient times. Not just Russell Crowe in armor.

Journal Buying

Tuesday, January 1^st. That’s what the first day of my journal says. In fact, I bought the journal and began writing in it on August 22^nd. I was hit by a wave of inspiration when I walked into a bookstore and saw stacks upon stacks of 2008 planners. What if I were to write my journal for Rome in one of those? Five weeks spread out, on paper at least, over the course of one year. Or would it be one year’s worth of experiences crammed into five weeks? I thought it was rather brilliant. It appealed to my admittedly wacky sense of the artistic. One problem, however. Upon closer examination, I found that the spaces between the lines in all those day planners were far too small to fit my large, loopy handwriting. I was disappointed. Thought maybe I’d go to the store by the Pantheon, the one Lisa had recommended, but on a whim, decided to check out the large chain store on the Corso (La Fetrinelli? I remember lots of red). I saw potential in the green journal with colored pages, but the sample was the last one. I took a second look at all the black moleskin journals that Italy is famous for, though I later learned that they are actually French in origin. No one wants to have the same journal as someone else. I figured at least a few people would choose one of these. I almost leapt at a weekly planner, which kept alive my hope for a calendar theme. My friend and shopping companion (and realistic voice, when necessary) Nanna pointed out, however, that half of the pages were unlined and that I probably would not use them. Disappointed anew, I saw her point. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a stack of journals I hadn’t seen before. There were sitting on a wooden frame in front of one of the bookshelves. They were red. Red moleskin. I thought of my friend Vivian, who has adopted “fierce” red as her favorite color. I may have to do the same. While others might have the classic, dignified black moleskin, how many people would go for fire-engine red? As I pulled open the cover, however, I discovered what would convince me that this was THE journal. It was a 2008 year-long planner. I could start from January 1^st. At this point, there was no question in my mind that I would buy this planner. The more I looked, the more I became convinced. It had a list of time zones of the world, measurement conversions, distances between places that I had never thought of measuring, a pocket. Maybe all of this information is useless. Maybe I will never actually reference it. But it is there. It is part of the personality of my journal. This bright red book with an international bent. It reminds me of the planner I bought in Japan, also red, with Rouge stamped across the cover. This one I intend to use in the conventional manner. It has maps of the subways of Tokyo, Osaka, Kyoto, London, Paris, and New York. No Rome, unfortunately. My international planners. The ones at the U Bookstore that I used to get every year, with the different colored covers; those just don’t do it for me anymore.

Fontana di Trevi

The shoe store says it opens at 3:00. I see a pair of red polka-dotted flats in the window for 7.50 euro. I know I should be admiring, taking in the Trevi, but it is so chaotic, so many people. Vendors call, cameras click, tour groups barge through. If I'm close enough, I can still hear the sound of the fountain as it gushes. We snapped our requisite tourist pic. Nanna did a bit of one-handed maneuvering. There are too many people coming and going to try to ask someone else. We prefer to be independent. After this, I want to look for the gelateria that Kylie recommended. Keep going until the t-shirt shop, and then make a left. Seems simple enough. But then again, I was looking at a drawing on a scrap of paper.

Arriva a Roma

I try to read and sleep on the train from Venice. First there is the man across the aisle. He has his music turned up to full volume and he only turns it off to answer his cell phone with a dignified “Pronto.” There is a man behind him. I can’t see his face, but he is on his cell phone nearly the entire time. I can’t understand him, but apparently he is swearing a lot, because the man across from him, the one in the orange and blue tank top who reminded me of Nicolo, gets the inspector to come talk to him, as there are children sitting nearby. The family of four is sitting in the quartet of seats in front of me. Their voices rise and fall unpredictably in my ears.

We slide into Termini. It takes longer than I expect. It’s a flurry as I grab my backpack, my suitcase, and stumble off the train. It’s dark outside. I follow the other passengers towards the lit terminal. Nanna and I know we have to find the subway. Down the stairs to Metro Linnea B. It’s dirty. The cement walls seem harsh, there is graffiti everywhere. It’s not like the clean, efficient subway network in Tokyo. The ticket machine is at least ten years old. I almost get stuck in the turnstile with my luggage, grabbing at the air for my ticket, now validated by the machine. The neon sign at the platform (only one?!) says the train will come in two minutes. There are fewer people than I imagined. An American guy comes up to Nanna and asks her in broken Italian if this is the train for Laurentina. She says yes in English as the train pulls up. The train itself is covered in graffiti, and the inside is dingy with a yellow glow.

We get off at the next stop; the station is empty. I see policemen and wonder if they, like their Japanese counterparts, give directions to lost tourists. We don’t stop to see, pulling our bags behind us up the stairs. I am glad I didn’t pack any more. Nanna takes charge when we get up to the street. I see angled intersections, cars parked haphazardly. We cross the street, passing a restaurant where people feast on dishes that tantalize my empty stomach. We have to find our hostel. We walk down to the end of the block, consult once more with the map, and then retrace our steps, convinced we took the wrong turn out of the station. Once more, we pass by the restaurant with the people chatting and eating, glasses clink. On the other side of the street, back near the exit of the subway station, we realize we had been in the right place. Or had been heading in the right direction. We dart through traffic again. Stare and in return are stared at by the people in the restaurant who by now are probably wondering where we are going. Down more steps. I can’t take in everything around me quite yet. I see a lot of stone, and houses with balconies sticking out, protrusions on faces.

We are going to #107. We check. We are at #65. Up a sloping cobblestone road. It’s almost like an alley, it is so narrow. It is dark. I wonder if we are even in the right place. The suitcases rattle loudly up the street. It doesn’t look like a place for a hostel. A few more steps, I tell myself once we reach #100. There it is. A plain brown building. It fits in with the ones on either side of it. And there is a small handwritten sign by the door. Italy Inn #83. I look back down the street with disdain, but having no choice, turn my suitcase around and let it rattle behind me, this time down the incline. As we pause before #83, ready to knock, a woman appears a little ways up the sidewalk. She is the proprietor of this tiny, two-room guesthouse, which appears to be located in the basement of her house. It is coincidence, more than irony, I suppose, that she is Japanese. My year in Japan continues to follow me, even in Rome.