I Am Finished

An hour ago, I finished my schooling here in Rome. At the end of four months, all I can remember now, after about an hour of slipping away, is that the painter Caravaggio killed a man and spent his artistic career on the lam. That's a fact you don't easily forget (neither did the authorities, who hunted him until he died at 35, immediately after being pardoned). However, all other knowledge not tied to interestingly colored anecdotes have passed away, lost in the swirling edies of unconnected thought - no, my mind isn't always disjointed, but it is on most occasions double jointed.

The point is, I've spent a semester learning a trade that I'll only remember by tidbits and fun facts. If I ever return to Rome, I foresee a future staring at various buildings and art pieces, knowing that at one time there was a place in the very back section of my brain, a section cubicle that held all the information pertaining to the art and artisan, yet I'll draw a blank. I will have previously spit out all the pieces that slowed me down and distracted me from distraction. But I guess that's what blank spaces really are: areas of information which we threw overboard in storms, to try and make our heads lighter and concentrate on the things that really interest us, like Caravaggio's off color life. Now that's entertainment.

I haven't lost it all; I have some records, notes and notebooks of what will seem, in a short while, jibberish, but which involve mostly all that I've learned. I've also my sketchbook, which I had to keep for the architecture portion of the program; I had to practice sketching one building and then the next, expanding my understanding of arches and supports and flying buttresses and such (there's something I will remember: the flying buttress. I won't remember what it did, but I sure will remember it).

I had to turn in twenty of those sketches as a part of my final. All the other students, who have been so sketching going on at least four years now, came off with sheets that I would hang on my walls. I cam off with some odder things.

This comes from Hadrian's Villa, in Tivoli, south of Rome. As you can clearly see, Boba Fett was there, flying over the main wall of the courtyard.

These are the apartments of the Garabatella, which people were put in when Mussolini demolished their neighborhoods to make way for his nationalistic boulevards. And yes, that is the Hamburgler there, on the balcony.

This is the view of the Tate Modern in London, from the Millenium Bridge. Honestly, this is as good as it gets. And you may say, that's not a true likeness of the sun, but, have you ever tried to sketch the sun?

And yes, I did turn these in as part of my final grade. Pity me, I dare you.

I Am Hired As Immigrant Labor

Last night my friend Virginia the Architect and I were in my personal domain, the cafe Bros, having coffee, when I was approached by the owner Claudio. He sat down in the middle of a private conversation and began speaking with incredible speed in languages including, but possibly not limited to, English, Italian, and Portuguese (as Bros is a Brazilian bar). After several minutes, I was trying my darnedest not to wear my confused face, but Claudio noticed. So he concluded his speil by asking, "Agreed?" I responded, "Si," and we shook hands. Then I shook my head.

After Virginia left, I went back to Claudio, sat across from him, and asked him to speak once more, a little slower. I'm still not exactly sure what all was said, but I did catch a few key points: 1) Aurora University is an American institution in Rome, 2) Aurora University has reserved Bros next week for a private party, and 3) Claudio told them I would host it.

I'm not completely familiar with international law, but from my limited understanding, I don't think that I can legally work in Rome on a student visa. Does this make me an alien (something I've always wanted to be)? At the very least, it puts me in the same situation that many families are in, in Northwest Arkansas.

The specifics, as I understand them, involve me contacting Aurora University, arranging all the specifics, and hosting the party next Friday, April 4th (which, coincidentally, is the premier of Battlestar Galatica - I didn't tell Claudio this). I believe I will be paid in coffee beans.

Fun Fact of the Day: Coffee beans were used as currency in Ancient Egypt.

Only now am I beginning to understand the extent of the damage my mother incurred when she was here. I introduced her to Claudio, and, in my absence, she told him to take special care of me. Ever since them, Claudio has called me by name, given me free coffee and appetizers, used my computer to check his mail, asked me to fix his own computer, and generally hosted me old fashioned. Normally this would be a relationship I could only wish for - my own private coffee confidant. But early on in the semester I claimed Bros as my workshop - I usually spend several hours a week there, writing. In the last few days, I've been seeking out another place to write in, because everytime I go into Bros, Claudio wants to be nice to me.

Not content with taking simple care of me, he felt he needed to offer me a job.

A Place To Read A Book And Write A Letter: Ravello

After Pompeii, I took a train to Salerno; Salerno's a port city, an industrial city, and thus not a tourist destination. It can be used, however, as a jumping off point for prettier, less productive costal towns. The main pedestrian walkway is wide and looks like a lower class Spanish Steps, with less people. The rest of the city smells like fish. Good hostel, though: it runs flush with a church, and at night the choir might sing you to sleep.

In the morning I took a bus to Amalfi, a popular costal town, then to Ravello, on the cliff above. The road from Salerno to Amalfi was like a basketball hoop: you are positive only one ball can fit at a time, but, sure enough, two basketballs can barely slide by, side by side. The road from Amalfi to Ravello, though, was like a small plant pot, into which two basketballs are being forced. Exciting.

Ravello is kind of famous for its villas. Up on the cliff, old people (as in people of old) built first the Villa Rufolo, then the Villa Cimbrone, looking out over the Mediterranian Sea. I walked the Villa Rufolo first. It was purchased and renovated by a Scottish botanist a century or two ago, and is known for its gardens. Even in the winter, these gardens were beautiful. I can only imagine (or look at pictures on the internet; see above) how it looks in the spring. Upside to visiting in January: there's none else here. How it looks in the spring is filled with hordes of ignorant tourists. Not at all like myself. Rufolo is now owned by the Rufolo Foundation, which is a great advocate of Richard Wagner's music. Apparently, he called Rufolo the physical representation of his music (I know what you're thinking, cause I thought it too; no, he's not the same guy who was in Hart to Hart).

Villa Cimbrone is probably three times as big. It didn't have any flowers, not yet, but it did have extensive walking ways, and a lot of statues; it reminded me a lot of Pemberly. I ended up sitting on a bench at the edge of the property, overlooking the sea, AGAIN (are you serious? I mean, enough is enough, Mediterranian), and hung out with a statue I named Steve for a couple hours. Good man, that Steve. Fun Fact of the Day: Greta Garbo, 1930's starlet, eloped in the Villa Cimbrone.