I Make New Friends

Today I went to church. It's called the Rome Baptist Church; it's an English speaking church in the Piazza San Lorenzo. On the bottom floor of an apartment, the room has three rows of pews. I think today it was at capacity, at around 150.

Not everyone was American. In fact, very few of us were. There were three students, beside me, and a couple of tourists. The rest were from any number of nations, people who, like me, can't understand but a few words of Italian but still want the fellowship. That's why I went, by the way: I was lonely. I always thought I could live alone, with only myself and the people I invent, but that's not true. In fact, inventing people is rather unhealthy, and you last less long in isolation if you have imaginary friends. It's called going mad.

The best part was afterwards; two girls and a guy, all about the same age, who work in Rome, took the new students out to lunch and toured us around town (to sights we had already seen). I thought they were just being nice, but after talking a little I found that they were just as lonely as I. All their previous friends had gone home at the end of last semester.

Taina is from Finland, Esther from Switzerland, and Mircea (Mir-cha) from Romania. Tania can speak three languages, Mircea four, and Esther five. If time travel is ever invented, or if I ever get stuck in some sort of black hole anomaly that sends me back to ancient Greece, I'll be able to speak two languages. I was most excited about Mircea who kind of looks like Rufio, but with an eastern block nose. He tried to teach me Italian pick up lines (ciao, bella! bionda!), and kept catcalling girls way too young for him, but I guess that's a culture thing.

If you believe in this sort of thing, I think God answered a prayer.

I Attend a Brazilian Birthday Party

Carousing with my roommates Friday night, we stopped into the bar Bros, which serves wine and oranges, for some reason, at the foot of the hill that we live on. It was empty, with only a bartender standing guard; there was, however, a great party going on downstairs. We followed the music (for this is my motto in life and will be my epitath in death: He Followed the Music) down the stone stairs into Bros's cellar, where there were many happy Brazilians moving at the end of the room. We hung back for a second, ate some food,and then I took the plunge.

We were only discovered when I started dancing. As I graced about the floor, a tall Brazilian approached me. I thought he, too, wished to dance, but he only wanted to find out who I was. It was Felipe, the birthday boy. He guesstimated me to be American (because he spoke only Portugese and I spoke only the language of dance), and, after a brief announcement to the party goers to give me a sort of movement perimeter, I was accepted into his circle.

After a time of joy, tears, and more laughs than I could understand (but I laughed regardless) we all sang Happy Birthday in Portugese and I performed the traditional American birthday dance. It was actually the same dance I always do, but I insisted.

When I left the cellar, I said ciao and gave Felipe a hug, because, I believe that love can cross bounds of language, culture, and invitation only parties. Love, in fact, is the universal language. And that, knowledge, was my birthday gift to Felipe.

I Explore the Forum

Today we, as a class, followed our professors, Davide and Emilio, to the Roman Forum, on an architectural tour. Did you know that the area of the Forum used to be under 9 meters of dirt? Apparently everything in Rome is built upon something else, like science or legos. People kept knocking buildings down, filling in the cracks with dirt, and rebuilding.

Also, did you know that Mussolini was responsible for the excavation? He wanted to connect his Fascist regime with the Roman imperial glory of the past, or something or other. That's why he partially instigated the war: in order to reclaim Roman territory. So he excavated and restored not only the Forum, but countless Roman structures and artifacts all over the city and state. Evidently he's not such a bad guy.

So we saw the Temple of Saturn, referred to as the Fort Knox of Antiquity, because it seems the god Saturn was modeled after a leprechaun, and the altar where Julius Caesar was burned, and where now people lay flowers, in honor of his salad, but the thing that interested me the most was the Temple of the Green Gods.

It isn't much; just two perpendicular rows of columns. But it was the last pagan temple in Rome before the Christians shut it down. The Christians, who previously were horribly persecuted, now in power, were persecuting everyone else. It always sounded like Christians do their best thinking while under fire: Paul, the apostles, the pastor from The Patriot. Other times we don't think so straight, like lighting heretics on fire. It makes me think maybe this environment we've cultured is a bit unhealthy, where sometimes we are concerned more with politics and boycotting movies than forgiveness.

That's probably all rubbish, though.

I Am Mistaken for Patrick Swayze

I am begining to like Sacha, our real estate broker. He collects our rent for the local landlord, who never shows his face. If you see it, he has to kill.

But Sacha came over last night during dinner to give us some dance pointers ("Do not go to that club. It has the, come si dice...gangsters") and take our down payment, and ended up staying a while. Through the conversation, we had this exchange:

"You are, uh...Californian, typical americano. You like [makes surfing motions]..."

"A surfer?"

"No, like the, uh, Point Broken, no?"

"Point Break?"

"Si! Patrick Swayze!"

He also compared me to Michael Knight.

An update: Wheels and the Wheelies have found a place, and are moving in this weekend. It's near the Spanish Steps, which means it probably isn't cheap, but it's better than living in cardboard boxes.

Which wasn't what they were doing. I just think it's better than that certain situation.

Three's Company, But Four Is Just Unhealthy Overcrowding

As you might have heard (because news about me travels fast), I'm taking this semester off to live with three girls. At first I thought I would pretend I was gay, and then we could be best friends with no sort of tension, and I could have an excuse for dressing nice all the time. But I decided to go a straighter route, and my roommates have be very courteous. I've lived in a bubble all my life: a nice, septic, beautiful bubble that kept me very conservative, so this arrangement is far outside my comfort zone. But I have been given my own room and bathroom, and in exchange I do the dishes and am in charge of the directions. It's much better than being gay. I suppose.

Before I commited to live with Ashley, Ellen, and Rachael, I thought about living with a group spearheaded by Keith Wheeler, aka Wheels. I saw Wheels at orientation yesterday, and he told me a horror story. Apparently, after they signed their housing contract and paid two months in advance, their apartment went back up for rent. When they tried to contact their broker, they found that he had changed his cell phone and left Rome. Now Wheels and the Wheelies are out two thousand plus euros and are without a place to stay. The hidden fees I find myself paying to our own broker, "You Liking the Disco" Sacha, seem a bit trivial in comparison.

NWA: the Original Gangsters

Northwest Airlines does operate flights to Europe, but they operate out of the seventies, so the standards are not that high. Two aisles of seats, a piece of chicken, and one showing of Daddy Day Camp. After Daddy Day Camp, if you are so lucky, a large Dutch man will drop a red backpack on your face. I was so lucky. I was not so lucky as to have him apologize. Because that is how NWA rolls.

I did sit next to an old German man named Maximilian, but whom I called Maxamillions. Maxamillions had hands that looks like old trees. He also had some stories. He told me that once he flew over the Atlantic in a zeppelin. But I think he was a liar; not because of the zeppelin, but because he told me he used to be a prisoner of Austrailia when it was still a penal colony. That makes no sense, chronologically.

Maxamillions did tell me he was from Dresden, which was a major location in Slaughterhouse-Five. I asked him if he ever read Vonnegut, and he said no, which is sad, because Vonnegut is the best thing to ever happen to science fiction (and since science fiction is the best thing to ever happen to language itself, concordently...). I asked him how Dresden was today, and Maxamillions said it was beautiful. Then I asked him how it was growing up in Germany, as it was, and he told me this story:

When we were kids, we were so poor that for Christmas our parents gave us boys pants with holes in the pockets, so we would have something to play with.

And then he laughed all the way to Amsterdam.

Luda Says I'm Taking Trips from Here to Rome

There's this television show called Pushing Daisies which is pretty good - it's a clever murder-mystery-supernatural-comedy-pie-making-really-cute-girl show that makes me laugh. But the best part of the show is the entire world that it takes place in. It feels like a Christmas claymation world, with a pie-shaped pie shop, color saturated fruit, and mosaic tiled sewers. In this town (which has a French name; remember, when not used as an insult, French language and customs equal magic in fiction), there is even a narration by a very nice old man, or at least someone who sounds like a nice old man. I wish he was my grandfather.

The point it, this show Pushing Daisies is how I imagine Rome is: bright colors and entire shops devoted to pop-up books. It's a retreat from here to a Technicolor world, where, I imagine, some wonderful people who always wear scarves will feed me delicious free gelato.

Oh yeah, if you didn't know, I'm going to Rome. Sorry. But I don't mind.

Someone said I should have a blog, and when I said I'd think about it I was really lying, because back in November I created a blog and furiously related science fiction to the world. I was just trying to get more people to watch Battlestar Razor.

So I'm in Rome for a semester, and if you feel like it, you might read this blog once in a while. I strongly suspect the whole trip will be one extended picnic, with some mixed pastas and wine, so if you're into that sort of thing you should do it yourself and not read about it. But if you don't like the outdoors, old ruins, democracy, history in general, the Catholic Church, or the last Winter Olympics, yet have a sincere interest, maybe you might read this once or twice more.