Roma, Italia
The early morning fog is heavy. It sticks to my sweaty skin. It is cold this morning, around ten degrees Celsius. Anna is sleeping in our small bed of an apartment only half a kilometre from the Vatican. I am walking to Piazza Giuseppe Garibaldi; it is a hill near the River Tiber. There is a statue there and I will see the sunrise one last time in Rome before I must leave. Anna is homesick and she finds her solace in sleep. So I let her dream of moose and mountains and the green trees of Alaska. The sun is always true and the same no matter what part of the planet you are on, but I must see it rise above the Pantheon, or I am lost.
Munchen, Deustchland
Our friends, Christian and Regina, have showed us Marionplatz and Karlsplatz. I love this city. It is stretched out and comfortable. The Christkindlesmarkt sells Gluhwein in the day and snacks but mostly wooden, traditional, proper German Toys. The Germans speak in a forceful, brunt and beautiful way. Bravaria is god’s gift to Europe and only the most blessed call it home. Regina is beautiful and young. Sie ist Frei as only the jung can ever be. I am jealous because I feel myself growing old, and full of cynicism, but to these two young Germans life still is. It seems to be that way with the jung no matter where we go in this country. We eat dinner, Regina teaches me how to eat schweinnschnitzel as the Germans do. We laugh and in a few days we become drunk on Gluhwein and I can never be this happy I think but I am and it is enough for it to exist.
In the evening of another day, Anna and I walk through a golden park. It is called Englischer Garten. It sprawls itself out. A creek bisects a field bordered by the trees. People have come here to relax and to have play dates with their children, friends and animals. It is quiet even though the crowd is in the hundreds. Anna relaxes for the first time in a long while. I hold her hand and we talk in hushed voices as everyone does. The sun begins to set and the people’s shadows grow long and thin. It will be dark soon but the German sun settles is fingers on my shoulders and I feel it massage out the sore muscles of sitting on trains for too long and carrying luggage up too many flights of stairs. I am looking for the word for what I feel as I hear soft laughter of children around me. A man plays a guitar, a woman plays an accordion and I sigh. I feel the weight of burden of nothing lift from my shoulders. The German sun takes it away.
Finally, Ich verstehe. Ich bin Frei.
Roma, Italia
I climb several hundred feet very quickly. Roman hills rise instantly away from the River as though they have no time to worry about anything else. I stop halfway up the hill at a stand and order aqua, still, grazia. He gives me a bottle and I hand him a euro, fifty in coins. He wishes me a good morning and the land sings to the Italians, so in turn they must sing with their voices to the world. They oblige. I resume my trek after I share a sigaretta with a Canadian tourist. Il fumo dannegia gravemente te e chi tis ta intorno! The package warns. It is a dirty habit we share in the pre-dawn grey of the city. He is from Quebec and speaks mostly French but also knows English and Italian. He asks where I have been and how long I shall stay. I tell him not long enough because L’Italia e un sogno. And I do not wish to awake. And he tells me “Tout le monde doit awken finalement.” I verbally resolve that if I must awaken I will sleep again. He laughs and tells me life is not about the sleep, but about the awake. After we speak I motion toward the top of the hill, he says he has already been and is now going to St Peter’s Piazza to photo the sunrise. But the fog is not promising he says. I say I understand. We bid each other farewell.
I make it to the top with ten minutes to spare, but the fog is beginning to worsen in the morning. I shoot what I can as the sun pulls itself from the top of the mountain. The mist makes its way up to the hill where I stand. I shoot a lone pillar in the mist. It pushes through the fog to see the Romans rising and beginning their day. I sit for a while and enjoy an espresso alone as I sit on the railing overlooking the city. In Italy one must never have coffee after lunch, because that is for wine, but in the morning you may drink all the coffee you want. So I do.
We see many things in Rome. I cried when I left the Roma Forum for the last time and kissed the pillar of Saturn’s Temple goodbye. A piece of me was left there and I wish I could return to feel whole again, but if not, I know that at least that piece of me is the happiest it could be. Yet I feel forlorn without it. The final day we sat in the Piazza of the Pantheon and drank Peroni. It is a disgusting beer compared to German and Irish beer, but it does the trick. A man played a cello for the crowds. His music wafted to us as we spoke to each other. He plays Mozart and Bach. Then techno and finally over again. His strings vibrate and bounce off the walls of the square. The waiter brings me another Peroni and I drink it dutifully. L’ultimo. I tell him. He nods. I watch the fountain’s water with Anna and photograph it.
The man finally finishes his mini-concert and we stand to leave. I kiss Anna deeply and she is ready to go home. So I acquiesce. After all, each of us must awaken eventually.
Storied By Josh 