City of Contradictions

Pier Paolo Pasolini, an Italian director, screenwriter, essayist, poet, critic and novelist, lamented: “What is Rome? Where is the real Rome? Where does it begin and where does it end? Rome is surely the most beautiful city in Italy, if not the world. But it is also the most ugly, the most welcoming, the most dramatic, the richest, and the most wretched… The contradictions of Rome are difficult to transcend because they are contradictions of an existential order. Rather than traditional contradictions, between wealth and misery, happiness and horror, they are part of a magma, a chaos.”

When the plane landed and I walked into the sunlit airport I felt a new kind of awareness coursing through my body. My senses perked up, my heart raced, and I could feel the blood rushing through my veins. The car ride was complete silence, a hazy blur, as I stared, my eyes brimming with tears of shock, at the city of Rome. I checked into my small hotel room, set down my bags and collapsed into my bed. Shock and awe washed over me and I fell into a restless sleep. We toured the streets of Rome that the evening. I was mute. Stunned at the beauty around me, the vibrant culture, the song of the Italian language all of this mixing before my eyes, piercing my ears, leaving me speechless. It was at this point that I fell madly in love with Rome.

I did not come to Rome with expectations or preconceived notions. Of course I came wary of Italian men, but that is to be expected. I came with a child’s notion that this might be fun, but not with an adult’s expectations or prior knowledge. With this as my starting point I was able to view Rome as it is, my own ideas not combating what I saw.

By 4am the skeleton of the market is already up, a few dedicated sellers cleaning and arranging their wares. The Plaza del Biscione is littered with broken bottles, cigarettes butts and the stench of marijuana. The young Italians, a medley of bad asses, who frequent this small plaza leave not only remnants of the nights’ activities, but new graffiti appears nightly. New tags, names, symbols, drawings and incorrectly spelled American swear words cover the stone walls and wooden doors in the plaza. Standing at the door, hunting through my bag for keys, I can hear the heartbeat of Rome: the noise of the market, the clinks and bangs from people already rising from bed, the noise of the few cars littering the streets. The sounds of Rome breathe a life into the city that can be found no where else.

Mornings in Italy force even the most fatigued to rise, not simply because the noise is deafening, but because the sounds are riveting. As my alarm abruptly breaks my dream state I immediately hear the conversations and laughter of construction workers, the honk of car horns, the dropping of construction material and the cries of vendors in the market. If it is a weekend I often hear the crying lady, or as Lisa has dubbed her the Biscione crier. She is a large, rotund woman, swathed in layers of black and dirty orange cloth. I often hear her screams during the day. No one knows why she yells or who she is yelling at so vehemently, but everyone in the Campo de’ Fiore knows who she is. If I am not awake by 10am I often gently nudged awake by the sounds of the Campo.

I sip my morning coffee at Caffé del Biscione, un café macchiato, and listen to conversations around me. Two Italian women sit smoking cigarettes inside, even though it’s not allowed, the rhythm of their conversation a melodic up and down song. A group of giggling American girls, who share the first floor conference room with me, stomp in a cacophony of noise, clicking of flip flops and bad Italian as they ask for their lattes to go. The owner of the café smiles graciously at everyone, but I realize as the American girls go to pay he has charged them an extra 10 centisimi. The owner and the tall, imposing, dark haired barman sing in harmony to the opera music cooing softly in the background. After I have paid, said my goodbyes (a volley of ciaos, buongiornos and gracious smiles) I enter into the plaza.

The fountain giggles as I walk past, the water splashing into buckets put out by the men at the butcher’s shop. My mornings are filled with walks through Rome. The more we stomp around this city the more I realize that there is a never-ending noise to the place, a hum that fills your ears and remains there long after you have left the street. The car horns, the clicking of heels against the cobblestone, the constant mutters of Italian men as high heels pass, the opening and closing of shop doors. These noises make Rome. They are the song that pieces together the streets of Roma.

On our walks through Rome churches loom on every street corner solemn and silent, standing as reminders of one’s duty to God and the Roman Church. As you pull back the heavy wooden doors you enter into a new world. The interiors are gilded, the ceilings high, and marble coats the walls. Within churches there are new sounds: the awe-filled gasps of tourists, the banging of heels against marble floors, the echoes of mass wafting from small chapels to your right and left, the constant mutter of students and teachers and the silent whispers of prayers. The universe within the walls of the church is different. The air is musty. The lights are dim. There are constant reminders to devote oneself to God, to give to the Church. The place wreaks of guilt. The opulence is often overwhelming, blurring and confusing the Church’s message of piety.

In the afternoons the city shuts down: doors close, shutters click shut, the traffic slows and the streets seem bare. Restaurants fill with hungry customers the buzz of Italian coupled with wild hand gestures makes every meal an adventure. Schools also have adopted this break. The Pantheon fills with youngsters: laughing, eating and playing in the piazza. Slowly the streets begin to fill again as everyone leisurely strolls back to work. This abrupt stop in the day took me a month of adjustment. The idea that life could slow for two hours, that lunch could be eaten at a leisurely pace instead of a quick run to McDonalds, shocked me.

After the break shops grind back into action, the city picks up again, cars bustle down the streets. As the sun begins to go down there is a new buzz to the air. Students are done with school. Jobs end. Restaurants open their doors. By 8pm the city is a bustle of hungry people either on their way home or on their way out to eat. This is when Rome is filled with laughter. From every restaurant the clink of silverware on plates can be heard. The hum of laughter, raised voices, the whoosh in the air of wild hand gestures all blend into to a cacophony of joyous sound.

As the sky becomes filled with stars, the moon glistening down on the ancient roads a new life emerges: the nightlife. By 10pm the Campo is filled with Italian and American voices. The bars filled with chatter and noise, music from each restaurant and pub echoes through the Campo mixing and melding together with the conversations happening throughout the square. Men and women dressed in their best coming home from dinner. Teens stand smoking in the Plaza del Biscione. The girls fix their hair, snap their gum, stare with looks of superiority at the foreigners, and giggle at the boys as their young suitors make fools of themselves. The boys roll joints, drink beer and play fight. They are loud and excited, constantly acting up for the attention of the surrounding girls. The Americans stick out in the crowd: stiletto heels stuck in the cobblestone, short skirts, sweats and drunken behavior. By midnight the Americans can be spotted drunkenly stumbling out of the Drunken Ship giggling and falling over one another. By two the Campo is filled with the remainder of drunken Americans, most of the Italians have left for home. By three the Campo is silent, the tourists have left, the Americans have stumbled home, the pubs all closed.

Life in Rome is an amazing adventure full of interesting and shocking surprises. One of the greatest changes for me was the way Italians approach time. Drinking small, quick cafes in the morning, a two minute event. Then in the evenings or over lunch you are never asked to pay or given the bill until you are ready. The pace contradicts itself. One minute you are rushing to finish your café in order to make more space at the bar and the next you are leisurely enjoying a 3 hour dinner not once thinking about rushing. The same is true with traffic. Drivers in Rome like to drive with minimal notice to laws: cutting corners, running red lights, and speeding are their main pleasures. On the road Italians are maniacs, but on the streets they stroll, walking as though they have no where to be in the world but right there. This contradiction is a pleasure to me. There are certain activities that deserve the time taken to truly enjoy the experience. Dinner with friends is a pleasure that should be enjoyed. Walking the streets of Rome there is so much to see that taking the extra minutes to get from point A to point B is worth it. Coffee drinking and driving are activities dubbed less important and therefore the time spent on them is less.

Romans also have a unique friendliness. Store owners, workers and every once in a while fellow occupants of my apartment say hello and goodbye at every meeting. At the grocery store or the market Italians meet and make small talk with the workers. I am never treated poorly for not speaking the language or laughed at for my unique miming technique. But, this friendliness only reaches so far. It is a surface friendliness. When I walk around the streets of Rome I am accosted by stares, not simply of men, but also of the haughty Italian women. The teens sneer as I walk out of the building into the plaza at night. I am constantly aware of the piercing eyes of Italians, summing me up, coming to conclusions. The contradiction between friendliness and coldness is about Italian’s pride. The hellos are a friendly gesture, something ingrained in the culture. The haughty response to foreigners comes from a love of Italian culture and a desire to maintain that vibrancy and life with minimal outside interference.

Rome is a beautiful city, filled with antiquity and yet the city is dingy. The streets are dirty and grimy, although every 12 hours the street cleaners appear and sweep the streets with their witches’ brooms. Minutes after the streets are freshly cleaned the trash begins to pile again, the cigarette butts litter the ground and the trashcans start to overflow. At night the streets fill with the younger Italian crowd, who jeer, sneer and yell at the Americans. They stand outside my big, green door and break bottles, chant communist sayings and from time to time riot in the Campo. Graffiti covers the walls of many buildings, a mixture of American and Italian sayings and swearwords. Italians have such a love for their city and culture and yet they disrespect the city they live in. At the AS Roma games the stadium reverberates with Roma cheers, Roma pride bubbles over the edges of the colosseum. But, when you leave you see the youth tagging buildings and the crowds dropping their trash on the ground.

But, the greatest contradiction of all is that while this city is grimy, the younger crowds can be menacing and troublesome, people can be rude and pushy there is never a moment that I do not feel safe and in love with this town. There has not been one moment in my trip that I have not rejoiced at the inconsistencies of this place. That I have not simply laughed at my grocery store being closed at five for no reason or smiled and waited patiently in line at the Post Office for an hour and a half. Rome teaches you to slow down, to learn to smile at contradictions, laugh at closed doors, revise schedules and never once complain. Rome wants you to fall in love with this lifestyle, to embrace the three-hour dinners and long walks through the crowded streets. Rome asks that you choose to slow down and appreciate life and learn to live it to the fullest.

The Counter Reformation and Bernini’s Cornaro Chapel

Walking up to the Cornaro chapel the figure of St. Teresa in Ecstasy loomed above me. The statue was lit with a golden light and placed so that I felt I was witnessing a heavenly scene. On either side of the statue were marble windows with spectators, from inside St. Peters, viewing Teresa’s ecstasy. The scene in front of me was moving. Witnessing Teresa, the angel raising his spear to pierce her again, evoked curiosity. The reclining woman above me, limp to the world, was receiving God’s love not forcing it upon herself. St. Teresa was experiencing a miracle from God. The viewer wants to have the same experience, wants to be touched by God as well. After seeing this chapel, seeing the serene, reclining figure of St. Teresa, I felt if I been a 17th century viewer I would have wanted to have the same experience with God.

I walked up a small step and was in the Altieri Chapel. I was only a few feet away from the statue of the Blessed Ludovica Albertoni. Ludovica is not placed on a heavenly level, but directly in front of the viewer. The chapel is plain, the decoration minimal all denoting the earthly world. The sculpture itself is carved differently than many of Bernini’s other works. There is minimal definition between textures: the robes and the bed seemed to meld together. By bringing this image of ecstasy to an earthly plane I felt Bernini was telling the viewer that this experience could be had on earth.

The difference between viewing St. Teresa in Ecstasy and Blessed Ludovica Albertoni is that the first is a heavenly scene removed from the viewer and the latter a scene of ecstasy on earth. St. Teresa in Ecstasy was commissioned by the church and therefore the scene needed to be removed from the viewer and raised to a heavenly level. The scene could also be viewed in an erotic manner and by moving the statue up, away from earth, the sculpture loses any hedonistic reference. When viewing Blessed Ludovica the viewer is invited into the scene, asked to watch the ecstasy. This is a private commission by the Altieri family and is not required to fulfill the desires of the church. Bernini does not shy away from eroticism in this piece. Ludovica is more feminine, she clutches her heart, her toes curl in ecstasy. Ludovica is of the earth. These two statues both show a similar experience, but their commissioners dictate the viewers experience with the sculptures.

The chapels also serve very different purposes. The Cornaro Chapel is ornate: gilded stucco and marble coats the place. The statue sits high above the viewer with marble columns surrounding the scene. The image is encased in a marble chamber that removes the scene even further away from the viewer. Rays of golden light shine behind the sculpture. The Altieri Chapel is markedly plain. The walls are bare, there is minimal gilding and the only source of vibrant color comes from painting of the Virgin Mary and Child hanging over Ludovica’s sculpture. The chapel is small and Bernini opens the space by angling the walls out toward the viewer, opening the space and inviting the spectator in. The Altieri Chapel is not imposing, upon entering the chapel you feel welcomed in, a bench sits to the side where you can rest and experience the chapel. The Cornaro Chapel is closed to the viewer while the Altieri Chapel opens itself to the spectator.

As a 17th century viewer of these chapels the two messages you receive differ greatly. In the Cornaro Chapel the scene is removed, it is a heavenly scene that is gated from the viewer. In the Altieri Chapel the chapel is wide open inviting you into the scene. The church is showing the viewer the miraculous nature of God and encouraging the viewer to act piously. The private Altieri Chapel shows Ludovica’s experience on an earthly plane, bringing the viewer close to the experience. Both chapels are dedicated to God’s miracles, but the church removes those miracles from the viewer while the private chapel brings the experience closer to the spectator.

Silence and Belief

A small young nun, pious and kind looking, let us into the cloister. The air was filled with the song of prayer from a door to our left. As we moved into the cloister the singing stopped and the air reverberated with the trickle of the fountain and the crunch of gravel beneath our feet. We each took up post at different ends of the cloister, nestled ourselves into the columned niches and began to write. Sitting in the silence, the leaves rustling through the shrubs and scattering the water droplets from the fountain, I was amazed at my own sense of inner peace and comfort.

In the hubbub of church on a Sunday (people watching, music, rustling of clothing and chairs) the spiritual experience can be lost. Many churches today focus their services on celebration and leave their congregants on their own to find an outside, quiet connection with spirit. Silence is a spiritual experience for me. While sitting quietly alone, with no distractions one is able to take a step back from the business of everyday life. In the constant day in and day out chatter and fast-paced life style reflection can be put to the side to handle more pressing matters. Silence gives one the opportunity to breathe deeply, slow down and reflect.

Silence can also be a terrifying experience. Only when I am silent, when I let my body relax and breathe deeply, do I become aware of my honest feelings. So often business can act as a mask or Band-Aid to cover one’s true emotions. While I sat in the Santi Quattro Coronati cloister I was shocked to realize that I have not taken a moment of silence this trip. I have not stopped to reflect upon my experience here or to breathe deeply and be calm. So much of this trip has been an overwhelming jumble of thoughts and feelings, my emotions on a never-ending roller coaster of awe and amazement.
At this point in my reflection the buzzer pierced the silence. I sat waiting as the nun let a three older women and a man into the cloister. The women’s shoes clicked on the pavement: two of the women speaking loudly until shushed by the nun, the man clicking photos with his wife. I was shocked and affronted at the abrupt intrusion upon my silence. I watched and as they began to walk through the cloister they slowly fell silent, the soothing nature of the place washing over them. Then we all quietly experienced the space, all enjoying the peace within the place. I closed my eyes letting the sounds soothe me and sat silently. The noon bell began to chime, vibrating through the place, shaking up the cloister. We all packed up, everyone migrating towards to door and postcards. The sound of water, the echo of the bell and the whistle of the wind escorting us through the door.

Walking out from the grey and dismal church into the blinding sunshine I was shocked at how wonderful I felt. I felt free, happy and at ease. I felt like smiling and dancing down the street. Silence is a spiritual and healing experience. We walked down the winding hill, speaking very little, all still stunned with the cloister and our experiences in it. As I walked I kicked a small stone and it bounced joyously in front of me. As I watched it bounce I was reminded of the first mediation training I co-facilitated. We were all given rocks with the word breathe written on them because during my first mediation I scrawled “breathe” all over my page because I was so terrified. I spent the rest of the day thinking about my rock and reminding myself to breathe and take the time to reflect.

As a group we visited the S. Carlo alla Quattro Fontane, a church designed by Borromini. The church is a wash of white, with little decoration. The place soothes you when you enter it, invites you to sit quietly and breathe deeply. Attached to this church is a small cloister that mimics the plainness of S. Carlo alla Quattro Fontane. We walked from the church into the cloister and the calm feelings stayed with us. There was no business within the cloister, no noise at all, except for the jarring clop of shoes. We only spent a few minutes enjoying the quiet cloister and left marching out onto a busy street.

The experience at S. Carlo alla Quattro Fontane was unique because I am used to the overwhelming, ornate churches that flood the streets of Rome. I have never entered into a church and seen white or felt as though I was meant to sit quietly and relax. The churches here so often seem to invite awe and not spirituality. The cloister was a continuation of this experience of peace and serenity. I was amazed that I could experience that in both spaces of the church.

The cloister experience in Santi Quattro Coronati was a more profound experience for me because I was able to sit quietly, alone and reflect upon the space. In the cloister attached to S. Carlo alla Quattro Fontane my time was rushed and I was still reeling from my experience within the church. The cloister in Santi Quattro Coronati is an inviting place with places to sit and greenery. The cloister in S. Carlo alla Quattro Fontane is colder. The cloister acts as a continuation of the church, as a place to stand and admire, but not to get lost in for hours.

I do not consider myself religious, but I consider myself spiritual. I feel there is interconnectedness, an ebb, a pulse that links us all. For me I am most aware of this feeling when I sit in silence. My belief is somehow confirmed, it is inexplicable, but my connection with spirit and with my own spirituality is strengthened through silence. Silence reminds me of vastness of the Universe and forces me to remember that I am here to enjoy life and live it to the fullest, not to be weighed down by petty matters. I am reminded to let go, to release and to enjoy life. Silence helps me to redirect and find a new path when I am lost. In the Santi Quattro Coronati cloister I was reminded again that all I need to do is breathe and relax - to not get caught up in the business of life.