Earthquakes, Etruscans, and Unknown Melodies

The past week has felt like ten and it will be hard to pick which pieces to share, but here is my best try:

We spent last Thursday-Sunday in the mountain region of Abruzzo, specifically the town of Castelvecchio, an area that was heavily damaged by an earthquake in 2009. The talk from Paola, an architect who has devoted herself to the region, was centered around revitalization, restoration and rehabilitation. However, as I spent more time exploring, I realized that the abandonment is not a result of the earthquake so frequently referenced. Castelvecchio was a city at its peak in 1900 with 1200 residents (now only 50). The exodus began with an earthquake in 1915, then a bad economy during the 1930's, and then the havoc of WWII. So the emptiness has roots beginning about a century ago and the energy to revitalize is coming 50 years too late.

The frame of the destroyed Medici tower 

 My impression from the weekend (which Paola was not so excited to hear) is that cities die. People move, relocate and rebuild for all sorts of reasons, but they are usually valid reasons. Castelvecchio was populated during the time of shepherds and saffron. As technology and globalization created new materials and easier ways of communication, the country folks migrated to bigger cities. The herds of 3 million sheep that used to be marched on a long expedition through the mountains are now shuttled by truck. Castelvecchio is beautiful in its abandonment and while I support rehabilitation in general, there is a lot to learn about the natural habitation and consequent abandonment of this mountain town. Perhaps the energy would be more fruitful in building elsewhere and leaving this history as history, in peace and in the past. The soul of the town is of fondly storytelling of a time when life was bustling, but there is not a strong, forward looking perspective even from the few remaining residents. There exists a spirit of contentment and of acceptance. The abandonment brings comfort, a haven for the few who remain.

Hiked to Rocca Calascio (think Lady Hawke and King David movies)

We returned to our routine in Roma and the bustling heat of the city. Wednesday brought a visit to the Catacombs and Friday we went to the ancient Etruscan burial sites of Cerveteri and Tarquinia. We are working our way chronologically in art history, beginning with the pre-Roman times. The Romans, however, were not so keen on documenting the cultures they conquered so all we can understand about the Etruscan cities are through the cities of their dead. The Etruscans held a strong belief in the afterlife, so their tombs are intensely decorated with fresco paintings and carvings that speak of land ownership, occupation and family life. Their tombs were constructed as their homes were, shaped like mounds that rise from the earth. The main theme of the visit was how we preserve memory. Ezio (our fearless art history leader) has a nice saying that one is only truly dead when the last person who remembers him is dead.

Tumuli in Cerveteri

Fresco painting in Tarquinia

I ended the week by going to Synagogue for Friday night services. One of the wonderful parts of being Jewish is that you can usually recognize the Friday night melodies wherever you go... Not the case in Italy, as I found out. Jews settled in Italy around 160 BCE, so while we usually refer to Ashkenazi and Sephardic Jews as the main traditional distinctions, there are actually Ashkenazi, Sephardic, and Italian Jews. The Italian Jews pronounce Hebrew a little differently and have entirely different melodies than any other Jewish community in the world. This community is also threaded with a deep history of persecution, beginning with the establishment of the ghetto in 1554 and running through the Holocaust when 16 out of the 2000 deported Jews from a 4 block area returned alive. It felt both comforting and alienating, a little known and much unknown.

Always more to come. Sending love from Roma. Ciao!

running headphone-less along the tiber

Don't worry Mom and Dad, I didn't run with my headphones in. Aside from safety reasons, here's another little story about why that was a good decision.

I managed to drag myself out of bed early Thursday morning for a run along the Tiber river before the August heat set in. After about 15 minutes, another runner turned the corner in front of me who seemed to look like he knew where he was going, so I latched onto his pace and ran a few feet behind him. We came to a fence in the sidewalk, stopped, and looked at each other to see if we should go around it or down the path closer to the river. After a few seconds of awkward nodding at each other, he goes, "Do you speak English?" An American! We ran together for another few miles down the river and he is from Evanston! We chatted for a bit until I realized I still had to run back, so we said our goodbyes and I headed back to the Cenci.

That is only one of the stories from my first week here and each day feels a little more unreal than the last. I live in the Cenci, a building sandwiched by the Tiber river, the Jewish ghetto with more Kosher restaurants than the North shore of Chicago, and the ruins of Pompeii where Caesar was killed. I can wake up and walk five minutes to the Pantheon. Five minutes the other direction and I hit Campo de Fiore with a fresh foods market. The other direction and there's the Colosseum. Right around the corner is a plaque locating where the Jews were rounded up this time of year in 1943. I explore a little more from home base each day as I get more comfortable here and expand my neighborhood.

The Cenci is named for the Cenci family that lived here in the 17th century. The story goes that Beatrice Cenci and her brother murdered their abusive father and were consequently beheaded in the main square in front of an audience of a few thousand. Past EHPers say her spirit still haunts the Cenci today, but I have yet to see anything suspicious.

Not only am I learning how to live here (as opposed to travel here), but I am here with a group of inspiring and creative RISD students. Each person brings a unique way of traveling, experiencing, and processing the world. While the majority of our studio work is independent, we have one initial group assignment: with 3 meters of fish line, we go to different piazzas and take photos of us using the fish line in some way that affects the space. The rest is up to us! Photos to come.

Nearing the end of week one with a limited, but growing, amount of Italian vocabulary (I can say I like peaches and one coffee please...and almost all of the gelato flavors), a semester of adventure awaits. We beach to Sperlonga tomorrow and head to the mountain towns surrounding Rome next week to cool off. I am starting my individual research simply by collecting and observing the things that interest me. I am particularly looking into the idea of Rome as a cannibal, or a city that eats itself. It recycles, layers, rebuilds, destroys and erodes. Nature takes back over the city and then the city takes over itself again and again. Hopefully more to come on that, but for now arrivaderci!

off to new adventures

Writing has always been somewhat of a meditative practice for me. It has allowed me to collect my thoughts and remember certain things from my travels. The Road Less Traveled has a wonderful tradition of writing letters to oneself at the end of each summer to be received in January. I have to continued that tradition each year, writing little notes to myself about where I wish to be or what I wish to have accomplished in six months. Often in the middle of a stressful year, it is so refreshing to read some summertime wisdom and bliss. I've never shared these letters; they're my own little secrets. And whenever I open one letter, I go back to all of the others to see what I thought a year ago. These letters take me back to San Blas, a mountain range in India, blisters in Alaska, Mt. Rainier, Costa Rica, my first job failures and successes. This first entry is the beginning of another sort of writing to myself...and to you.

While writing is an old friend, I have to admit that writing for others to read along with me is not. So I appreciate your interest, patience and support. It is always difficult, and often lonely, to share stories of my experiences once I come home, but maybe this blog will help me with that. I invite you to journey with me. Risk with me, laugh with me, grow with me. I'm so happy to have you here.

I tend to think about home just as I am getting ready to leave. Last week, the woman I worked for over the summer asked me where I see myself living and working in five years. My shortened response for some time has been that eventually, at the end of all this adventuring, I'll end up back in Chicago. I have roots here, I usually say, my family is here. Truthfully, it is troubling for me that I don't know why I would choose Chicago aside from my family. I want to have my own motivations to pursue a life here. But as I travel far from Chicago, as I have many times before, I believe it will become clearer to me why I come back. I've felt this itch to get out every year like clockwork since I've been 15 years old and I took my first RLT trip. The urge to travel has only grown since. For me to gain perspective and appreciation of my home, I need to leave and live in someone else's home in Rhode Island or Alaska or Rome or India. I need to take all of pieces of these wonderful places and beautiful lives, put them in my backpack, carry them home with me, carrying them with me for the rest of my life.

I hope you enjoy what I have to share with you for the next 5/6 months and I so happy to have you reading with me! Tell me what you're up to and comment back. Thanks again for joining me and see you soon!