Testaccio (Writing Assignment 6)

I woke at exactly 7:30am to only a little over five hours of sleep. My mind knew. This misty Tuesday morning nudged a reluctant me out the door and into the chaos of Roman alleys. I was ready: gloves, boots, Google walking directions, umbrella, and my black notebook. I trekked across the river, pausing every few minutes to discreetly check my crumpled directions. I refuse to remain as a lost tourist. After navigating through the Trastevere labyrinth for twenty minutes, pleasantly accompanied by near death street crossings, I crossed the Ponte Sublicio bridge to finally enter Testaccio.

Unnerving, who is that man on the motorcycle staring at me? I crossed the intersection. He followed on his bike. My pace quickened as I buried my face in my upside-down Google directions. I shall not bore you further with frivolous details, but rest assured that I bolted down Via Antonio Cecchi. Where is this Piazza Testaccio marketplace? I must have passed it in my escape mode trance. There was a small opening against a wall that seemed to blend into the graffiti structures of this neighborhood. I peeked inside. Shoes, stall after stall, greeted my first steps into this rather Italian market. I wandered behind the shoe shops to a spacious open market. Butchers framed the area while produce vendors dotted the space within. I recalled Mercato Esquilino. So different. The vendors, unlike in Esquilino, were Italians not immigrants from all over the world. I strangely miss the loud and vibrant immigrant culture that saturated my senses. Here in Mercato di Testaccio, people were detached from each other. Some vendors sat behind stalls, hidden from customers. Maybe it was the gloomy weather, an early morning, or a lack of customers that formed a more exclusive culture of interaction compared to Esquilino. Esquilino was more diverse. Everyone was a stranger in this foreign country so they interacted and tried to make friends with other “strangers,” fostering a more inclusive, outspoken culture. I tried to buy some vegetables to talk with at least one person here. Two red bell peppers. I was overcharged since he didn’t have any change. After a full fifteen minutes through the market, I pulled my purple umbrella over my head again and decided to explore the rest of Rione XX.

My aimless walk led me to the heart of Testaccio, defined by the Parco della Resistenza dell’Otto Settembre. Everyone walked their dogs here, petite girls with Huskies and burly men with Pomeranians. My stroll led to walls of graffiti and a conspicuous pyramid at a busy intersection. The pyramid is situated directly behind a post office, modern in its minimalist contemporary construction. This dirty white box served as a stark contrast to the ancient-looking pyramid. I stole glances inside the gated entry of the Piramide di Caio Cestia. Scattered stones and overgrown grass. A sign informed me of the purpose of this bizarre structure in such a location: a cat shelter open from 2pm to 4pm. A wall enclosed the entire compound. The sign built into the wall revealed that it served as a memorial to the American-Canadian First Special Services Force that liberated Rome on June 4^th, 1944.

Following a brief history lesson (many thanks to the memorial), I treaded deeper into Testaccio. Everyone was so Italian. I sensed a more real Italy here. This is where Romans lived, not in some idealized eternal city of ancient ruins and charming apartments. Buildings did not attempt to conceal their unkempt, industrial state. The gilded mask of Rome was partially lifted here.

Three hours had passed before I trudged back through Via Mamorata to Trastevere and eventually my Campo. Oh I must tell you of a quaint bakery I discovered! When the wind and rain relentlessly punished my feeble umbrella, I ducked under a covered window to save it from its tragic, upturned state. I turned and realized I was facing a sweets galore. I peered into the window, almost savoring the rich aroma of each pastry. My admiring eyes caught a glimpse of a kind baker man against the window’s corner, smiling probably at my drooling situation. I will return and find out the name of that place for you, or me!

Ciao once again until more updates on food!

Alexis

Independent Research Outline

For my part of the project, I will be discussing the stories of the immigrants I met at Esquilino. It will serve as the tread of the paper. When I bring up different issues that they encounter, my other group members will discuss them in more detail. For example, if I talk about the issues they face for employment, then the person focusing on employment will delve deeper into that area with research on immigrants’ employment issues. My story will serve as the lead that each of the three topics will begin their discussion. When one issue is covered, I will move on to the next part of the story that covers the following topic until all aspects we have chosen are covered.

Here I described so far what my second encounter with these immigrants entailed:

I’m a stranger. We are both strangers. This is what Rahmen told me when I talked to him the second time after our brief initial encounter (described in my Esquilino post). He described the familiarity he felt towards me and the need for “strangers” to connect. He wanted me to feel welcomed in this foreign land, since he was fully aware of the lost and confused feeling when he first arrived in Italy 20 years ago (in 1989). He was from Bangladesh and before he came to Italy, he worked as a sailor on a boat for 5 years. He has been to places all over Europe (Spain, Italy, Greece, etc.), Asia (China’s Canton, Shanghai, Hangzhou; Singapore; etc.), Brazil, and the U.S. Through his travels, he met a lot of people and made friends from all over the world. His experiences taught him the importance of building friendships with “strangers,” plus he enjoyed meeting and befriending new people (which provided him with a more worldly view). He introduced me two his friends around his shoe store (he worked for its Italian owner who had a Nigerian wife, Tomi): Raju (from Bangladesh, who sells clothes and shoes and been here for two years) and Sohel (also from Bangladesh and sells shoes and clothes).

One of the most interesting conversations I had was with Tomi. She is Nigerian, but she has lived in Italy for almost 30 years and is married to an Italian (the owner of shoe shop Rahmen works at). Both of them live around Piazza Vittorio. She met her husband as a student in Italy during her vacation (learning English and Italian in Nigeria before coming to Italy). Currently, she works at the Nigerian Embassy (concerning immigration) and is studying French so she can work in the French Embassy. We talked for a while and when I told her I will be traveling to Naples soon, she warned me for at least 20 minutes of the dangers of that area and how to protect myself (her stories were shocking but interesting). I felt genuinely cared for and protected from her, from Rahmen. Tomi was like a mother figure in the way she gave me advice (what to do to protect myself, who can be trusted, and if I need anything just call her). I told her of my depressing Italian ability. She nodded and smiled. Tomi: I know. I was once you, in your situation. Don’t worry, we are your friends. I will help you. If you ever need anything, just let me know. I will be here. They “were” strangers, but I feel familiar, comforted, and at home with them.

I adored her and her family and the way that she interacted with her mother-in-law(describing the funny situation of her mother-in-law speaking Roman Italian with another vendor speaking Neapolitan Italian) and husband. They were all so affectionate towards on another (Tomi, her husband, her mother-in-law, Rahmen, and vendors). I talked with them until the shop closed. Even when everyone had to leave, they stayed to joke, laugh, and hug before they finally parted ways (at least 15 minutes after closing).

Then Rahmen and I went to a café near the market (run by Chinese) where I had a cappuccino and a slice of cake (his treat). While there, I met another one of his friends who is Moroccan and talked briefly to him. Both kept on commenting on how I look do not like a Chinese person, more of a mix (maybe part European)—they’ve seen many Chinese immigrants around their area and don’t think I resemble them. After our conversation, he took me to the bus and said goodbye. He offered Indian food for my next visit! I will visit them again soon and I can’t wait to learn more about them!

Two Stories

“Back Alleys”

Where do babies come from? Shockingly what I used to believe as a gullible five year old resurfaced in “Back Alleys.” This story begins with a man thinking he would find a baby in the dumpster, which sounds strangely familiar. I start to recall what my parents told the five-year-old me of my arrival twenty years ago. Apparently, I was discovered at a dumpster near my home by my dad. The story continues even more outlandishly.

Ok enough about my parents’ bizarre stories of human reproduction. I shall get back to analyzing “Back Alleys.” The confusing storyline jumps from discovering babies in dumpsters to the speaker’s experience as a foreigner being checked by police for legal residency. The incoherent story progresses from the protagonist’s near fatal attack by a flying rat to a bladder emergency to the death of his annoying neighbor. He continues to write in a stream of consciousness style when imagining his neighbor’s death. The story ends with him contemplating moving his friend Piero into the dead lady’s place.

This work of writing seems to be a mesh of thoughts that the writer pieced together as his mind wonders. It is him scribbling down a day’s random musings. What does it all mean? The dumpster baby, immigration issues, Moroccan boys, flying rats, and a dead neighbor? How or do they tie together to form a theme or message for this story?

“The B-Line”

I have lost count on the number of times I have read and reread this barely two-page story. The first time I read it, I was confused at where this place was. It could be on a bus, train, ship, or any kind of transportation. The stops gave me clues, specifically “San Paolo Basilica” and “Termini.” The speaker must be in Rome. Then my question shifted to the title, “The B-Line.” Could it be a mistake and actually mean “Bee Line?” Raised in the internet generation, I naturally googled B-Line. Google has yet to fail me. Once again, success as Wikipedia reveals that the Line B was the “first line of the Rome Metro to be built." The stops that this line contains are each referenced in the speaker’s writing. She first gets on at Eur Palasport and eventually ends at Termini.

After I figured out the bolded words of metro stops, my focus turned to the speaker’s reactions following the announcement of each station’s arrival. The reader knows what she is thinking, but she does not actually speak (to say that she speaks while on the metro). However, one can sense that she is searching for words, but cannot find any word to truly express the depth of her thoughts and emotions. She needs time to continue her search for those “perfect” words. Until then, I almost sense that she will remain silent. The silence refers not to speaking everyday language. Rather, it is an expression of her soul as she describes, “It takes a long time to penetrate the fabric of the soul” with the correct words. She has yet to find the right words, so she leaves (Termini—the end of all stops) “wordlessly.”

Home Revised (Writing Assignment 5)

My dazed eyes turned to the train window, seeing but not aware of the fleeting images of a less than picturesque Italian countryside. I pressed my hands against the glass and stared at my faint reflection, thinking. Will I miss Rome? I adore this city—the art, architecture, food, fashion, people, the list never ends. Will I love Florence more? Skepticism mingled with controlled excitement, I daydreamed about this new city warmed by a late morning sun. The day held the pale blue promise of a golden day. I drifted awake after the churning wheels slowed along the tracks. I dream of Firenze, a city quietly waiting for you and for you to love.

The walk from the Santa Maria Novella train station to Hotel Giada entailed a rather rhythmical clanking of luggage wheels on cobblestone footpaths. Make way! The racket shamelessly announced our arrival. Such conspicuous tourist we sounded and looked. Pulling my baggage along stalls after stalls of identical leather pieces amid shouts of vendors in English, I admit I was less than fond of this city. How can it rival my Roma?

Then came the rush of storing luggage, rummaging for passports, and bolting out the door. Now began Florence’s slow seduction. The morning sun sprayed a classy cityscape in a honey tint. Within the first ten minutes, the magnificent Duomo, sinful sweets, and charming shops delighted my eyes. The fragrances of warm vanilla and faded leather lingered in the Florentine air. I must be in a dream, in one of Monet’s paintings. This place, a delicate beauty kissed by touches of quintessential romance, bewitched even the most jaded of travelers. Hours passed before I noticed the soreness of my cheeks from involuntary grinning. I can’t help it. Just like the locals, I love this city with a justifiable intensity although I show my emotions through nonstop smiling. The seduction continued as I spent the next three days strolling through Florence collecting favorite moments and tucking them into my handmade leather bag. The frescos, paintings, sculptures, and architecture of Michelangelo, Donatello, Botticelli, Giotto, Ghiberti, and Brunelleschi were everywhere. Wandering into room after room in museums, opening doorway after doorway of palaces, and passing tomb after tomb in chapels, I thought to myself, so this is where they keep all the famous art.

I did not miss Rome. Rather, within a couple of hours, I decided that one day I will live here. I steal glimpses of a life, maybe imagining mine. I am a journalist, living in a white apartment with a stone balcony that brims with pots of pale yellow lilies and overlooks the river. In the mornings, I munch on waffles wider than my mouth and sip a foamy cappuccino from the café below. I converse to locals in a torrent of quick Italian on philosophy, art, and politics from steps that frame the ancient plazas. As darkness cloaks the city, I would venture into my favorite gelateria to order crème caramel and lick every last drop as the street corner artist sang my favorite Pavarotti operas. I may at times feel alone, but I know tomorrow’s sunset will make me fall in love once again.

The sunset was the final seal of my adoration for Florence. On the second day, I braced myself against the piercing wind and climbed a zigzag path that culminated to a breathtaking view of Florence atop Piazzale Michelangelo. So this is where snapshots of Firenze postcards are taken. After a few minutes, a crimson ink stained the sky, wrapping the Florentine horizon in surreal hues. In an instant, rows of lamplight flooded the riverside with a candlelight glow. I couldn’t stop taking pictures as my camera cried in exhaustion, no more batteries. Still I stayed long past numb fingers, breath clouds, and frozen cheeks. I did not want to leave.

The next day, I had to leave Florence. The thirty minute train ride to Prato depressed me. The gray rain clouds cast a bleak aura around this industrial town. Where are the artworks, colors, and delicious aromas? I was surrounded by a stark cityscape of concrete buildings covered in dirty plastic. Despite the dreary view, I found a pair of gorgeous boots. I decided to go back to the shop after visiting Prato’s Duomo, but yet again, my sense of direction failed me. Naturally, this translated to circling streets and landmarks. I tried speaking to a few Italians but either they didn’t understand me or I didn’t understand them. An Asian guy passed. I recalled hearing that Prato had some of the most Chinese immigrants. I approached him. Me: Do you speak Chinese? Him: Yes. Do you speak Italian? Me: No. He was on his way to the post office near the train station. He offered to take me there. I followed him, knowing that my shoe shop was only a few minutes from the station. We spoke briefly, mostly me asking him some basic questions about his profession and life. Then we parted ways. Here I was in Italy, lost but eventually found my way through communicating in another language that was neither Italian nor English. A pleasant relief and surprise.

On the Prato trip, I kept on asking, where are the rolling Tuscan hills and villas I see in pictures and movies? There were no lush green hills when you drive through valleys of golden wheat fields. Needless to say, I was a bit disappointed and quickly falling out of love with Tuscany. However, now when I reflect on my two hour Prato adventure, I appreciate how it juxtaposed a dream that is Florence. Prato was real, not a gilded Italian façade for tourists.

A romanticized Italian landscape continued in Cinque Terre, my weekend destination after Florence. The sleepy coves with waves exploding in foams against a cliff of pastel houses lulled travelers into a deep dream, never to awake or leave. Scenic hikes, seafood dishes, and more pictures ended my adventure at next day’s twilight.

A week after, I welcomed the mask of Italy. From Lido to Venice, the rainy romance ensued. The labyrinthine passages reminded me of Campo’s alleys. I’m lost again like in Roma! The city of lights and old world charm, Venice will never cease to enchant all beauty lovers. Yet, after a couple of days I longed for the comfort of Rome.

I was tired. Florence, Cinque Terre, and Venice merely whispered and I fell in love, but I wanted to go “home.” And that was Rome. I didn’t realize my attachment to Rome in just five weeks. I suppose it was the familiarity of my surroundings compared to the rest of Italy. Strange. I only felt the absence of home, Rome, after leaving it. In another way, it also applies to my home in Seattle whenever I travel abroad for extended periods of time. One must leave home to feel the loss of familiarity, a void that grows with each passing day one is away. Home, no matter the allure of the outside world, will always be your refugee, comfort, a piece of your heart left behind. You will come back or long to return and end a vagabond life.

Dove è la tua casa?

Alexis

Questions for Caritas visit

It seems that Caritas Roma is focused on helping immigrants adjust/adapt to the Italian culture by providing housing, Italian lessons, and other services. It is an idealist goal considering the amount of immigrants in Rome and all the goals this organization wants to achieve. The immigrants all over Rome selling various objects and food are the obvious outsiders, isolated and at times discriminated against. Were they helped by Caritas Roma? Do the gypsies qualify as a people to enjoy the services of Caritas Roma? When do immigrants cease to qualify or are pushed down the list of offered assistance into adjusting to a foreign environment? Do a lot of immigrants know about this program? How do they find out? Is it offered to most or does it have a selective aspect on who it is willing to help? What do the immigrants think of this program? And the Italians? Who funds this organization?