In an earlier blog post, I wrote, “In Rome, my clock operates strangely.”
This semester has shattered my previous perceptions about time. Monday through Wednesdays in Rome whizzed by. I never felt like there was enough time to do real life things. Weekends were filled with new sights and adventures. They were also filled with airplanes, taxis, metros and trains. Traveling logistics required connections, coordination and a whole lot of Google Maps. The most enjoyable part of my daily routine was my walk to school. In a new and constantly changing life, it provided consistency. From Trastevere I walked for forty-five minutes, crossing Ponte Garibaldi and passing the Pantheon — often to briefly enjoy an impromptu concert in the piazza. I snaked up the winding cobblestone streets until I followed the Tiber River along Via di Ripetta for the last minutes of my journey. Sometimes I walked through Piazza del Popolo, if I was in the mood to absorb some hustle and bustle. Each day’s route could be slightly different if I wanted it to, but after just a few weeks, I could walk home with my eyes closed. It was nice to know something well. There and back each day. My roaming thoughts were often accompanied by Spotify playlists or a Modern Love podcast. Before coming abroad, I lived life in a hurry. I knew it was too much, but I could never figure out how to slow down. I laugh to think that I used to complain about the 15-minute walk from Central Campus to the Sanford building, or the notion that I needed to take a cab to a restaurant just 20 minutes away. The train from Chappaqua to New York City — a 50-minute ride — always felt like a trek. My sense of space and distance is completely different now. After exploring entire cities in the span of 6 hours, spending 6 hours immobile in a Perkins cubicle seems baffling. Everything is relative. No one is too far to see and no place too far to reach. Those people — those experiences that lay at the other end — they always warrant the journey. I used to regard minutes of transportation or transition as wasted, because that time seemed inefficient. Empty. My valuable energy needed to be exerted elsewhere, to do more, to remain productive. I always tried to slice down this irritating but necessary time down and to cut corners. Now, I would drive hours to the airport to hop on a two-hour plane ride to see my best friend in a heartbeat even if the trip would be less than 48 hours. When hundreds of miles separated us for the past four months, these chances are precious. Our moments together are cherished, no matter how brief. The constraints of Italy’s cultural slowness definitely frustrate me sometimes. I do look forward to returning to America, where everyone has a baseline idea of efficiency and small logistics like Wifi or a working phone can be managed with ease. Still, this change of pace was good for me. I could never halt entirely, but I don’t want to revert back to the same mentality I embodied before. I am not confident in my ability to bring home my greater sense of calm. I want my perspective to stay with me, but I fear that Duke’s bubble of frenetic energy will soon suck me in and I will succumb. I need a little more of that energy and purpose in my life right now, but I don’t want this sense of equilibrium to slip away. More than anything, I think it will be strange to be so permanently in one place. I will not be filling out abroad applications and making decisions about where to study, as I did last spring. No longer will I be seeing a new country each weekend. This milestone — long anticipated — is over. After living in Chappaqua, New York City, Durham, Martha’s Vineyard and Rome, I have learned that I am highly influenced by my physical surroundings. They often are indicative of, and formative to, my mental state. They shape me more than I realize at the time. Soon I will be very permanently back at Duke. I wonder if life will feel stagnant, or if it will be refreshing to settle in somewhere and focus on being present rather than always looking forward. I have never been great at staying fully present. This will be my next challenge, I suppose. I don’t feel quite ready to leave Rome or to return to real life. I will enjoy the structure, but I think I will miss the peace. Back in Durham, I suppose my creative ramblings will be of a different focus. But I know enough about myself to know that they need space to unwind. So I will keep on rambling.
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21 place settings lined the dinner table in the chic, extravagant Danish restaurant. The room was dimly lit but bustling, filled with the chatter of 21 voices. Our loud collective presence took over the majority of the dining room. 92-year-old Elinor sat at the center of the table, her bright white hair glowing. She was placed alongside both of my parents, with her children and grandchildren scattered outwards. Elinor was no taller than my 12-year-old sister Olivia. She was brimming with energy.
My father studied abroad in Copenhagen in the fall of 1982. My mother lived there during the spring of 1984. Both of them lived in the same homestay with Elinor, their Danish mother. She was a figure about whom they commonly spoke to my sisters and me — a sort of famous name throughout our childhoods. Axel, her husband, had passed away years ago. If I had been born a boy, my middle name would have been after him. I am almost exactly same age as my parents were when they spent their semesters in Europe. We had just spent this Thanksgiving in Rome so I could show them my new world; only the next day, we touched down in Copenhagen so my parents could show me their old one. My mother had always described Danes as warm and earnest, but blunt. “Oh Lauren, Lenny,” Elinor had exclaimed throughout the evening. “I am so happy you came to see me in Copenhagen while I am still here. I hope I see you again before I die!” Her laughter seemed disproportionately powerful for a woman of such a tiny stature. Elinor had visited our home in New York such a few years ago with two of her daughters, Luisa and Boleta. When the 100th host student had passed through her home, my parents threw her a large party in the States where they invited every student who had ever stayed with her. My father was student #2; my mother was #5. As a friend in college, my dad had encouraged my mom to later study in Copenhagen and to request the same home stay. Elinor had predicted their marriage at the time when both had significant others. She always stuck with it. Both of them laughed at her. She remained a part of their lives before and after their paths merged again, years after they graduated. I had the privilege of sitting next to Elinor for about a half hour during the long dinner, during which I spoke with her. She is remarkably sharp for someone her age; she remembered every minute detail of anything I asked about. She had visited Queens, New York, to see my dad and his family a few years after his semester abroad. Elinor had met my paternal grandparents, Jakob and Suzannah, as well as my dad’s older sister, Hanna. I myself had never met Jakob before he passed away. I only knew Suzannah and Hanna in my young years, before they too were gone. It was strange but exciting to hear about them from Elinor — a woman outside of all our familial ties — when I knew so little about them from my own experience. Elinor had also paid a visit to Miami, my mom’s hometown, where she had spent time with my mom and Grandma Ellie. I noted how my mom kept her arm closely wrapped around Elinor’s shoulder throughout the evening. Her face glowed as she bowed her head to talk and listen to her; both their smiles lit up in synch. This weekend, I got to experience an integral puzzle piece of my parents’ lives, both separate and apart. I think they associate Elinor with their marriage, although her predictions had little to do with how things played out. Elinor and her family are dear figures they cherish. Copenhagen is a place they loved and shared. Cynthia’s youngest daughter Clarissa entered the house, cheeks flushed and bright blue eyes blazing. She was absolutely exasperated about the events that had transpired at play practice. Her older daughter, Vanessa, set down the lunch platter. Cynthia’s husband Will — a towering Brit whose voice was gruff but who smiled with his eyes — brought a bottle of white wine to the table. Cynthia is a somellier, so their house cellar is well equipped. Cassidy and I pulled our chairs out neatly and sat down in the tentative way that people do in others’ homes.
“Tell us what happened, dear!” Cynthia said cheerfully. Clarissa sighed and rolled her eyes. “It’s just drama, we can talk about it later.” “No, we all want to hear it!” Cynthia insisted. Cass and I smiled, careful not to laugh. I missed the banter of kitchen tables. Clarissa proceeded to tell us in great detail how her friend Henna’s boyfriend had been acting out, but of course Henna had lashed out at the other girl in question instead. She detailed the elaborate love triangle which miraculously had evolved to mirror all of their roles in the play. Somehow, Clarissa had ended up as the confidante of all parties involved. “They are all being so stupid,” she concluded with a sigh; she knew better, of course. I loved the way stupid rang in her British accent: sophisticated but commanding, even though she is young. "The play is also an absolute disaster and the teacher nearly had a conniption today," she sighed. But of course, why should the teacher be surprised when they had called a total of two rehearsals? Lunch was full of laughter and good food, complete with homemade brownies and pumpkin cupcakes. Cynthia packed up a bag of fresh herbs for Cass and I to take home to our own kitchen. She was our mother for the afternoon and it seemed like she enjoyed it. How nice it is, to be taken care of. Afterwards, I strolled around the porch outside. It finally felt like fall. Sunlight streamed through twisting vines and pumpkins lined the wooden table. A crisp breeze caressed my scarf. Surrounding me were houses and vast green stretches of rolling hills. This town was only 45 minutes outside of Rome, but it felt like an entirely different place. It was quiet. Cynthia and Will piled Cass, the girls and I into their large black van to take a ride into town so we could see the lake and the lights appearing in early anticipation of Christmas. We strolled along the water’s edge where a market had come to life. Live music played. Little children ran and stumbled. After quite a lot of consternation, Cass bought a turquoise ring from a small stand. “He’s a good guy,” Will said of the vendor, after we were out of earshot. “And he makes all his jewelry in Afghanistan.” We wanted to buy belts as gifts for our fathers, so Will tried them around his own waist and adjusted the loops for size. He bartered the prices down; after the exchange, he was gleefully triumphant like a pleased child. While we all sipped steaming mugs of melted chocolate, Cynthia explained that the cheese and spice vendor was also the one who put up the ice rink in the village square during the winter. In the spring, that same man was the florist. The woman who had brought our hot chocolate fussed over Cynthia, chattering away in rapid Italian. Everybody and everything was known in this little town. Clarissa and Vanessa skipped arm-in-arm to the water’s edge. The sun had sunk, framing their dark silhouettes. The fading light cast a soft and magical glow upon the lake: pastels that climbed into darker blues. The surface was so still. I breathed deeply. I missed home. I missed being in a home. My own was far away. It had been the longest week. Before and after Election Day felt like two separate eras. The night of November 8th had blended into morning, forming the blurred continuation of a hellish nightmare characterized by tears, surges of panic and a constant wrenching, twisting feeling in my stomach. I was emotionally and physically drained, slapped in the face. All I could do was sleep but it was always fitful. I feared waking up in this new world. Waves of fear replaced waves of sadness that replaced waves of anger. They overcame me of their own accord. Today was the first time I had laughed. The muscles in my neck had loosened up a tiny bit. This world seemed safe from the big real one. Far away. As dusk thickened over the water and the sun disappeared for good, words from a familiar voice sprung forth in my mind. I had listened to Obama say them through my laptop screen exactly four days ago. “And remember everybody — no matter what happens, the sun will rise in the morning and America will still be the greatest nation on Earth.” His steady assertions usually calm me. Still, I am not quite convinced. I breathed deeply again, releasing a small puff of condensation in the chilly evening air. My eyes roamed the water. I guess the sun will rise again in the morning. I suppose it will keep on rising. compare/contrast reviewI never thought I would say this, but I miss libraries.
Don’t get me wrong. When I am at Duke, I much prefer to be off campus to do my work — hiding out somewhere with big windows, lots of natural light, some soothing background music and a steaming cup of coffee — rather than cooped up in a cubicle under the harsh fluorescent lights of third floor Perkins. But while studying abroad, I’ve found it exasperatingly challenging to find a convenient place to work. I appreciate the Italians and their noisy, bustling coffee culture. I’m not trying to rain on anyone’s parade. No one likes to be the person who eyes the elderly as they eat their croissant at the bar and excitedly chat about their mornings, desperately hoping they will keep the noise level down. Alas, I’ve become the Grinch of coffee bars. One would think it wouldn’t be too hard to find a quiet, pleasant spot that’s off the beaten track where I can camp out for hours with my books and laptop. What’s more, it would be nice to not get stared at by the bartender before insisting that yes, I am ordering something. A satisfactory coffee shop workplace must have a few essential student amenities. Functioning Wifi is a must, which is surprisingly hard to come by. Just last week, I was embarrassed to sit down, order and inquire about the password only to be told the Wifi wasn’t working. Sheepishly, I told the waiter I had to leave and scurried out. Outlets are high on the must-have list as well. Any student needs more than just one meager outlet across the room; a few that are accessible would be lovely, if not I daresay greedy. To pass the test, the café must have at least two available, one each for a computer and phone. Bright lighting is necessary because no one likes to be depressed while working. At least I don’t. Windows are wonderful. Good food is a bonus; if you’re going to have to order something to loiter there, the cuisine might as well be enjoyable. And of course, hours are crucial. While any school library usually operates until 2am, my fondest hour when I am finally in a groove (though hopefully in the home stretch), many coffee shops close their doors in the early hours of the evening. I recognize that I’m a bit picky, but I don’t think these standards are unreachably high. I’ve provided a few suggestions below for any study abroad student looking for a cozy place to break out their laptop, stick headphones in and crank out work for a few hours. “Little Italy Street Food” Background: It’s easy to miss this casual little family run spot located on an inconspicuous street corner in Trastevere. I frequent this place a somewhat alarming amount; the same very kind young woman works behind the counter each time. There’s hardly ever anyone there when I visit, which I find ideal for a productive workplace. The Checklist: The wifi always works — and at an unprecedented speed, too. There’s always music playing a bit loudly downstairs, but if you venture up the winding staircase there is a very spacious room that somewhat resembles a cross between a living room, sports bar and a child’s playroom. There’s an array of high tables, outlets, comfortable couches and a TV if you want to catch a few minutes of a soccer game. Bookshelves line the edge of the room. The whole place feels very cozy. My one complaint is that the lighting is dim, so at night it might lull you to sleep. Food and Coffee: The salads here as the freshest and most delicious I have tasted in Rome. I swear that there must be some secret ingredient in their chicken and they know how to grill and season vegetables in ways other restaurants simply do not. They also offer an array of burgers and veggie burgers, breakfast, smoothies and delicious freshly baked bread. The wait staff is extremely friendly and very accommodating; they will mix and match whatever you want without charging extra and never rush me to order. Sadly there’s no coffee, but they do have a variety of teas. If you intend to camp out here, bring your caffeine with you. Location: Via di San Francesco a Ripa, 154 ang. Via Luciano Manara, 64, Trastevere, Roma 00153 Hours: 11am-2am https://www.tripadvisor.com/Restaurant_Review-g187791-d7761706-Reviews-Little_Italy-Rome_Lazio.html “Ciao Checca – Slow Street Food” Background: My roommate recommended this informal lunch spot which I visited regularly for a few weeks. The place describes itself as all about preparing good, healthy, environmentally friendly food that was inspired by “a bit of nostalgia for the flavors of home.” The food is made quickly and the daily specials differ. The Checklist: This place is a labyrinth of rooms — in the best way possible. If you’re picky about the type of ambiance you’re feeling that day, have no fear: the place just keeps stretching backwards. Behind the kitchen, you can stroll through any of the four open rooms lined with couches, high tables, outlets or armchairs, all of which have a different atmosphere. This is my favorite place to work because I can switch from room to room whenever I need a change of scene and want to keep myself engaged. All are cozy and usually quiet. My complaint is that I found the staff to be pretty consistently brusque and dismissive. When their wifi breaks, they make it clear that it’s your problem and they never want to be very chatty about what’s on the menu that day. You’re on your own here, but I still find it to be the most conducive work environment. Food and Coffee: If you’re an American student missing some good old eggs, you can definitely get all sorts of breakfast creations. They have quiches, frittatas and all the works. They serve salads, sandwiches, café foods and desserts. All are tasty, but nothing overwhelmed me. Luckily they have plenty of coffee. Location: Piazza di Firenze, 25, 00186 Roma (near the Pantheon) Hours: 9am-3:30pm, 6:30-10:30pm http://www.ciaochecca.com “Baylon Café” Background: This place is right down my block (close to Little Italy) and I wish I had discovered it earlier. To put it simply, this restaurant feels cool. It’s definitely more of a hip bar than the previous two cafes. Outdoor seating lines the cobblestone streets and is lovely in warm weather. The whole place gives off an air of trendy, chic and happening. It seems like a place that would be frequented by interesting European twenty-somethings, and it transforms to become quite bustling at night. The Checklist: If you venture behind the bar and main area, there are a bunch of tables. Here, the ambiance becomes gets much quieter. The tables are small, and the atmosphere is colorful and cozy. You will see many adults with laptops and books sprawled out, which is always a promising sign. The only time I tried to use the Wifi it was broken (see story above). However, assuming that this is an anomaly, I would deem this a first rate place to camp out and work comfortably for awhile in surrounded by a pleasant ambiance. Food and Coffee: They have an expansive menu, serving a variety of breakfast platters, omelettes (again, eggs are hard to come by in Rome so we must cherish any appearance of them), salads, pastas and tasty fish. They also offer some adventurous freshly squeezed juice concoctions. Their coffee bar is elaborate, offering more options than I knew existed. The staff is young, talkative and friendly. Location: Via di S. Francesco a Ripa, 151, 00166, Rome Hours: 7am-2am http://bayloncafe.thefork.rest/en_GB/ In Rome, my clock operates strangely. Each Thursday, I whisk myself off to someplace new. My weekends are spent with many friends connecting in foreign places, tearing through a schedule of jam-packed activities. Sunday evening brings me back to my little room in Trastevere, always tired and a bit discombobulated. Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday are busy days but they are quiet. My path crosses with my roommates but few others from Duke, and I like the moments of solitude.
Long distance has only affirmed my perceptions about who is important in my life at Duke. At school, something feels off if I go a full 24 hours without seeing a close friend. Their absence is detectable and I feel incomplete. Abroad, we move through long stretches during which these connections subsist solely on communication about our new lives. I miss them dearly, but my idea of normalcy has changed. The status quo for a “great month” is now a weekend or two of overlap each month — if we are lucky. That is, if the friend is even studying in Europe. I am not entirely sure why, but I feel old when I regard events that will happen in a few months or next year as “soon.” When I was younger, each week felt significant in the goings on of my daily life and formative to the evolution of my identity. Perhaps this is because chunking my life into larger gaps — and furthermore, viewing these periods casually — means that I am really planning now. It means looking towards a future, driven by decisions, that extends beyond my semester of travels where real life with its real implications is on pause. It feels strange at times, but not scary. This semester has been filled with leaps in and out of my comfort zone. I have formed new connections I am excited to bring home, cultivated existing ones and cherished any reunion with those who already knew me inside out — no matter how brief our intersections in the same place are. This prolonged distance from my people — the ones who ground me, who make me feel utterly at ease just by being themselves — was challenging at first. Their absence felt tangible and I did not quite feel like myself, always slightly out of sorts. I realized this retrospectively, once my feet were steadied. I never doubted the ability of my core relationships to withstand time and space. I have been happy to find that they are not just on pause; I feel like each has actually grown deeper. It is nice to know with such certainty that time zones and lack of proximity does not weather how we operate. I spend time with so many different people among different groups as I move from city to city. Time apart from those I deeply love has only brought me further clarity because the immersive sense of bliss I briefly experience when I am with them — even over FaceTime — is so easy to distinguish from the range of other still-pleasant interactions I often experience. The space away from the hustle of school life, which is crammed with tons of necessary interactions and relationships that vary from highly positive to mediocre, has provided me with a poignant magnifying class. My convictions about who my closest companions and confidantes are, and who I want them to be, have not faltered. The quiet time has merely affirmed that the foundations are strong. These connections make sense; they were not formed out of convenience. I want to return to Duke with intention. It will be lovely to come back and merge my life with my dearest old friends again, add the new connections and simultaneously shed those that I did not realize had grown to feel like obligations. It is strange and a bit frightening to believe that I am descending over the hump towards the final stretch of my college experience. I expect the re-adjustment to be jolting, as any time of transition usually is for me. But I have never felt more confident in knowing who I want to surround myself with and how I hope to prioritize those who matter. I experience the sensation that I have been transported to a different time and place. The hot beating sun and palm trees whisk me to Miami. Colorful mosaics line the curved bench on the main terrace, winding in the shape of a salamander. The tiles shimmer in the sun like scales of a fish, emitting an energy that feels Latin. A panoramic view unfolds before my friend Dylan and me. We spot two rather oddly shaped brown houses in the distance. They look like what I would imagine Hansel and Gretel’s gingerbread houses to be. Tile salamander statues are scattered throughout the park and an electric violin reverberates under twisting archways. I climb the ascending hillside of Parque Guell and everything structure I pass feels startling and surreal, like something I might find in Disney world. Each surface upon which my eyes rest is simultaneously vivacious and eerie, both confusing and enticing to the senses.
Later we visit La Casa Batlló, another masterpiece by Antoni Gaudí. A 3x5 inch screen shows us how the house appeared in Gaudí's time. As we progress from room to room, the scene changes. Everything minute detail of the place is magnificent. Purple and green stained glass windows whisper of the sea. Spiraling staircases create optical illusions at every turn. Sunlight dances through window shafts. I look upwards at wall of blue mosaic tiles that climb, growing darker until they reach the arching translucent greenhouse roof. I feel like a small child underwater, swimming for the first time, peering up to the surface from the bottom of the ocean. The white attic feels like a cave — not quite suffocating, but almost so. The voice in my headphones tells me that Gaudí designed this part of the house to look like the rib cage of a whale. I believe it. The inhabitants of this house must have constantly felt as though they were grasping onto greatness but also struggling to breathe. Every room reflects a collision between naturalism and creativity, madness and genius. The result is strangely soothing. I feel like I am caught in the dreams of some wild thinker whose visions could not be concrete enough for this narrow world. But he graced us with a few thoughts and thus, masterpieces were born. Strangely enough, La Casa Batlló is now sandwiched by the most ordinary-looking buildings in one of the busiest, most commercial streets of Barcelona. Leaving feels like I have climbed up out of Alice’s rabbit hole, back to sights and sounds of reality. Later, when walking through La Boqueria, Dylan turns to me. “Do you think we permit works of genius — real expressions of creativity— to exist today?” I pause, chewing on that for a bit. “Does our society encourage the next Gaudí? Or would he get stifled?” The bustling clamor of the market surrounds us. We could excuse ourselves and argue that genius is often only deemed as such retrospectively. So many artists are not celebrated until after their deaths. Society often crowns laurels that the creative thinker never gets to wear. Usually, they are ostracized instead. But his words stick with me. I am not sure if our world allows this kind of startling creativity anymore. Yes, technology transcends what we used to view as traditional boundaries, but can codes and numbers really stop one in his or her tracks? Can it steal a person’s breath away in that punctuated, indefinable way? We do not know what might have been. Across Europe, countless museum halls celebrate the works of incredible artists whose works withstand time long after they are gone. I wonder who comes next. I hope there is still enough oxygen left in this world for their ideas to breathe and shatter our perception of normal. I am not sure. I enter the stately building with a crowd of chattering friends, greeted by an imperious main hallway. Elegant white marble arcs slope over us with detailed inscriptions upon their surfaces. A subdued murmur lingers throughout the massive hall, suspended.
The vastness and grandeur make me feel small in the best of ways. After standing still for a few moments, I walk into the first exhibit and begin to wander. My friends slip off. Soon, only Cassidy remains near me. Together we amble through the labyrinth of ornately framed paintings, each becoming lost in our own world. We are still vaguely connected by our mutual admiration and understanding, which we communicate through occasional eager glances across the room. Crowds of people surround us. I am overcome by the old, familiar feeling that tiptoes through me when I am immersed in great art. A sense of calmness pervades, not crashing like a wave but crawling slowly. However, when the feeling does arrive, it swiftly becomes all encompassing. Each impressionist painting is more breathtaking than the next. My eyes drink in Dega’s ballerinas, the ones I used to measure and sketch. I walk six inches from Van Gogh’s flower pot, his jutting brush marks rising from the canvas caked in oil paint. My version of his flower pot, painted on an apron, hangs in my kitchen at home. There is something surreal and also intimate about being so physically close to the works I studied and copied throughout my childhood. Time no longer ticks as my exterior thoughts and concerns fade, eclipsed by my immediate present. In this moment, I am in my element and in my own world. I had forgotten how this immersive stillness feels: it is a more static yet acutely aware sense of being. My old teacher Sasha’s voice rings through my head as I approach Cezanne’s fruit. She assembled apples and pears over and over in her studio basement, emphasizing the importance of how the light falls on the fruit’s surface. Thinking about her brings forth a pang of nostalgia along with a wave of fondness. I haven’t spoken to her in years. I had regarded her as a mother figure for a long time; we used to gossip and listen to music and share weekly updates as we worked. I wonder how she is doing. In Sascha’s studio, my thoughts always slowed down and my hands moved of their own accord. I became synchronized. As I walk among these paintings, I feel as though I have returned to an old self. It has been a long time since I painted. I seek that state of calm and cohesion through other means now, like running and writing. They do the trick for a short time. But sitting down to draw or paint used to keep me suspended for hours. It’s strange that something so integral to my childhood identity could have faded in my memory. I had forgotten how formative these experiences were to my younger sense of self. I didn’t realize that this chapter was tucked so far away in the back of my mind; with the box now reopened, I register how much I miss it. Engulfed in both contentment and wistfulness, I admire each brushstroke. When Cassidy and I reach the end of the progression of rooms and have seen our fill, we walk out side-by-side. She, too, has been an artist her whole life. Similarly to me, her passion has been relegated to a secondary hobby since going to college. During that stretch of time in the exhibit, we understood each other perfectly. As we exit, we understand each other more deeply still. Our friends sit on the marble steps at the museum’s entrance. “We’ve been waiting for you for a long time,” one says. “What took so long?” Cassidy and I blink, a little surprised and dazed. I truly have no recollection of how much time has passed. I step outside into the sun, not feeling ready to leave quite yet. The world claims us again. Winding canals dictate the cobblestone labyrinth that is Venice, forming her web of streets. As I snake around corners on foot, it almost feels as though a small child was playing with a puzzle, grabbed the pieces he wanted to keep for himself and then bolted, leaving the city to fill in the gaps. Like Rome, ancient bricks and beautiful crumbling stones form the skeleton of every building, pushed up against one another and washed over by hues of sepia and pastel. On narrow and scarcely traveled streets, the water laps quietly against the stone, radiating a tone of calm acquiescence. The canals' surfaces lay still.
It is easy to leap backwards and imagine Venice as a crux of power and mystique. She has not lost her elegance with age. Masquerade shops line every street. The stores are filled with masks of all sizes and shapes. Delicate black-and-gold handicraft glitters alongside masks that are brightly colored. To window shoppers, each flaunts a slightly different identity. Years ago, people of status liked to play dress up and be someone else for a time. During Carnivale each spring, eager travelers still do the same today. Venice has always embodied wealth and prosperity. She makes her status clear. Historically, the city was a strategic naval, financial and commercial powerhouse. Commander of the Adriatic Sea. She was considered the most elegant and refined city in Europe. The wealthiest Venetian families constantly vied to demonstrate their prestige through the acquisition of art as well as the creation of literature and architecture. But Venice could never master the art of continuity. Her power remained fleeting. Time and again, Venice seized other lands and was seized; she conquered and was conquered. Under Napoleon’s power, Venice belonged to the Austrian Empire. When the city was a flourishing imperial power, she traded expansively with the Byzantine Empire, Asia and the Muslim world. Her identity was not Italian, but distinctively and proudly Venetian. She tried on one mask for a while then discarded it for an elusive new identity. Sometimes this was by choice; other times it was forced through surrender. But as Venice evolved, she always stayed afloat. Bridges connect one street to the next throughout this floating city. My friends and I cross one after another to reach the Grand Canal. The main streets are crowded with foot explorers like us, but suddenly we turn a corner and find ourselves surrounded by silence. At dusk, the emptiness feels eerie — but in a mysterious and glamorous way. Imperious, but never threatening. Moments later, we wind around another cobblestone corner and the bustle of chatter erupts once again. We recline in a gondola as the sun sinks and the sky darkens. A man in stripes paddles throughout the quiet canals, humming under his breath. The canals seem endless to me but he knows their routes like clockwork. The city begins to light up. Candles line apartment windows and lampposts cast a soft golden glow that glimmers over the water, creating reflections that dance back and forth quickly. We glide towards tiny islands, overcome by glamour and transience. The city is proud to show herself off, but she also doesn't quite want you to know who she is. She wears many names. City of bridges. City of masks. The floating city. She is always playing dress up. With each nightfall, her identity can start anew. Piles upon piles of pebbles line the block that stretches in front of me. No shape is identical to its co-inhabitants, yet the stones remain inconspicuous and anonymous. Each one is overcome by the next, reaching onwards until they are forcefully stopped by towering trees that line the forest’s edge. The little rocks are stripped of description, just like my grandfather and the thousands that slept upon straw mats atop those stones not so long ago. They, too, were forced to blur into the next. Reduced to ever-growing numbers as the arms that bore them were forced into camp after camp. One step closer to death. These people straddled the line between survival and an existence that barely resembled life.
Twenty-three. The square slab of cement marks the row where Jakob slept for three months as the war neared its end, where he sat amongst bodies crammed into barracks and where he wolfed down whatever meager scrap he was given in order to awake again. I trace the outline of twenty-three; its ridges jut upwards. My fingers brush this tangible concrete connection to him. Tiny bumps protrude from the surface. The cement refuses to be completely smooth; each minuscule bump claims its identity in the universe, unwilling to conform here. I never knew that he lived in row twenty-three. I didn’t know that his daily task was to dig tunnels or that Nazis herded him to the Austrian Alps as winter descended upon the world and hope crept eastward in the form of Allied trucks. Then, wind probably raged and snowflakes obscured the clouds, shielding prisoners and captives alike. Today, a vast blue sky blankets my three friends, Bernd and me. Bernd: the guide who I just met today but who voluntarily began mapping out my grandfather’s murky past. Before I set foot here, unbeknownst to me, Bernd unraveled the details surrounding Jakob’s proximity to this place. Dachau is one of many stretches of time about which Jakob scarcely spoke during his life — so I am told. Bernd physically has handed me maps and dates, routes and figures: the puzzle pieces that construct an identity my father could not fully unwind while his father lived, nor throughout the twenty-five years that have marked his absence. Face-to-face with row twenty-three, I choose to believe that one’s identity can evolve but cannot really vanish. Violence, terror and fear can crumple someone’s sense of self. But even such demons cannot completely erode it. Souls cannot disappear, but perhaps they may become lost for a time until allowed to exist freely. Experiences do not erase us, but they can form us again with different strokes. Sometimes, these strokes are disjointed or broken. As I walk along the grounds, I am overcome by the unlikelihood of Jakob’s survival. Statistically, there were innumerable reasons that he should not have made it. So many chances of death shaped Jakob’s daily life — more chances than the few that engendered his perseverance. And as a result, here I am. Even when humanity closes its eyes, I think identity is the interminable matter that endures, hidden in cellars and masked by skinny bones, kept alive by some burst of tenacity which allows me to walk these fields and this earth. I rest against the rusted post, legs outstretched on the pavement. My eyes scan the receding bridge as my hand flits across the page in quick bursts, trying to capture the curves of the bridge and sloping bend of the river. The air is still and the water’s surface remains unmoving. Leaves fall over the crumbling marble, which appears white against the darkening tones of the dusk sky. Light blue fades to a soft pink, followed closely by a hazy grey that settles in and blankets the horizon.
My gaze measures the angle of the staircase as it meets the bike path. Every few minutes, the patter of lone footsteps or smooth rustling of bicycle wheels punctuate the stillness. I own this stillness. I work it into the surface of my sketchbook, trying to align its character with my charcoal marks. The shadows shift as the sun sinks behind the bridge; my scene changes. They dance with my eyes, teasing me. They always win. I accept it. A man clutching a large Canon approaches, asking if he may photograph the scene. After a quick chat, I agree and return to my page, surrounded by clicks. The speed of his snapshots fluctuates, swift and then slow as he roams the vicinity. He thanks me and continues on his way. Moments later, a young couple interrupts my solitude again. They sit beside me upon steps that dangle over the water. They laugh into each other’s eyes as another photographer orchestrates — then promptly captures — their bliss. We exchange hellos and I try to decipher their story by the curves of their posture. Soon, they too pass. Leaving me and the river and the bridge: our stately and towering sentinel. A soft wind rustles over the water. My hand keeps dancing, and for the first time today I can hear myself think. |
Carly Stern
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