Inspiration in Roma

[Note: I wrote the following entry towards the end of December. In the interest of giving my entries some semblance of chronology, I refrained from posting this entry until I had written and posted the entries from Bangladesh and Jordan. It appears in its original, unadulterated form, so when reading it, please bear in mind that it was written over a month ago, and refer to the next entry where I will post for more up-to-date information on what’s going on in my life at the moment. And as always, thanks for reading!]

Rome. Where do I start? How do I regale what was the most amazing and perhaps important trip I’ve yet undertaken? I guess I’ll take a page from Maria von Trapp’s book (of The Sound of Music fame) and start at the beginning.

As mentioned in a previous entry, my school closed for an additional three days in early December, bringing a previously seven-day holiday to a much nicer twelve days. So I decided I should go somewhere. Most of my friends at the school had already made their travel plans, and I didn’t want to latch onto someone else’s already-made plans. I knew that wherever I would go, I would go alone. I didn’t trust myself on my own in Southeast Asia or other such third-world locales (where many of my colleagues were going, albeit in groups), especially considering the instability and anti-American terrorism that the region has been rife with in the preceding weeks. I had been on two long trips since coming to Dubai in August: one to Bangladesh with three other teacher-friends and one to Jordan with two teacher-friends and twenty-one screaming high-school students. Lots of touristy activities and ventures (or, in the case of the former, as touristy as Bangladesh could be). See various places, experience the country, sharing the whole adventure with friends. Which is how I always thought I loved to travel: making memories with someone to share them with. But this option was not open to me for this break. Or rather, it was, it could have been, but I chose to forgo it. Work, life had become quite stressful for me in the previous weeks, and I felt that I had some introspection to do, some soul-searching if you will, regarding where I am, where I’m going, who I am, who I want to be, how I plan to get there, and other million-dollar questions of that ilk. Travelling alone would be an excellent opportunity for me to probe those questions, do some writing, get back to what makes me feel most fulfilled and alive. Where would be a good place for that? Where had I always wanted to travel? What part of the world so fascinated me with its history, its people, its edifices, its culture? Answer: Europe. The specific destination for this little trip? Rome, Italy.

I don’t exaggerate when I say that I could live in Rome. In fact, my pipe dream involving lucrative book deals and relative financial freedom in the near future also has me living in Rome for a year or so. There are thousands of stories just waiting to be written in that city. Its history, the churches, palaces, catacombs, and ruins, the mystery and majesty, the dark corners and rich artistry, the whole of the city just oozes inspiration. But I’ll come back to that later.

The cheapest flight I could find on Expedia was on Aeroflot, a Russian airline I had never heard of before. It routed me through Moscow (with a ten-hour layover en route, and a six-hour layover on the way back to Dubai), but as this flight was significantly less expensive than all the rest of my options, I went for it. As I would have had to apply for a visa to leave the airport (which requires both time and a sponsor within Russia, neither of which I had available), I spent the whole of my sixteen hours in Moscow in the airport. That first night in the Moscow airport was decidedly arduous. Considering my degree in history, I should have heeded the lessons provided by the errors of Napoleon and Hitler, but I travelled to Russia in winter regardless. Trying to sleep on a row of uncomfortable airport waiting area chairs in a poorly-heated (if at all) terminal manned by unsmiling and non-English speaking workers was an experience, to be sure. I sat next to a friendly Russian guy in his mid-thirties named Ilya on the flight from Dubai to Moscow. He spoke fairly good English, stemming from his experience in a university exchange program in the States in the early nineties. Nice guy. The only one in Moscow, I think. I know my experience with Russia and Russians is limited at best, but good heavens! They just don’t smile. Even to each other. Maybe it’s because they were on the night-shift at the airport in winter. Maybe it’s because I didn’t speak any Russian (I had brought an Italian phrasebook, but I wasn’t planning on spending much time, and thus, talking, in Russia, so I was admittedly ill-prepared in that regard), but they didn’t even smile to one another, so that argument loses credibility pretty easily. I think it’s most likely because Russia is (and has historically been) commonly associated with four things: atrocious weather, tyrannical leadership, depressing literature, and vodka. And those nesting dolls. I guess that’s their little ray of sunshine. But, at least at the airport duty-free shop, they were rather overpriced. As, I suppose demand for levity and joy would outweigh supply in Russia, so that makes sense. But now I’m getting analytical with something intended to be facetious, so we’re going to skip back to the story now. Sorry if you were enjoying my analysis of the cause of Russian antipathy. I don’t really know what the cause is for certain. I just know they should smile more. If they can do it in Bangladesh, they can do it in Russia. C’mon guys! Stalin’s dead. Laugh a little. It won’t get you killed (probably…).

Leaving the coldness of Russia and Russians behind me, I flew to Rome, Italy. Now, I could easily delve into a step-by-step recap of my trip in Rome, but that would not only be unnecessarily time-consuming (both for me as writer and for you, my faithful readers), but it would also be somewhat contrary to the purposes of my trip. For, you see, this was not a sight-seeing trip. Oh, sure, there were plenty of sights seen (and many more I have yet to see), but, as I mentioned earlier, this trip was different. It wasn’t the ‘go, go, go, rush, rush, rush, take pictures of everything I can and move on to the next church, palace, monument or ruin’ attitude that drives the trips of most tourists (myself included, albeit I tend to loiter a bit more, taking more pictures from more angles and such, than most). The girl who checked me into the hostel the first morning was surprised at the length of my stay (nine days, eight nights), as most travelers (especially young ones staying at hostels) tend to spend a few nights in one city before moving on to the next. So much to see, so little time. Go, go, go. But what I most wanted to see, what I most desired to explore and seek out was not a monument, a basilica, or a decrepit edifice from ages past. To be sure, my encounters with those sorts of locales provided an ideal environment for my true goal, but they served simply as a means to an end. What I wanted to see, to explore, to discover, was myself. And that I did.

I won’t share all of my deepest revelations here. For one, they are revelations primarily for me, and thus far more private than should be broadcast on a public medium such as this blog. For another, some of what I discovered I am in still in the process of analyzing: what I learned, what that means, and how it should (and will) be manifested in my life. Indeed, how those revelations manifest in my life, both at present and in the months and years to come, should be more than sufficient evidence as to the nature and importance of said introspective discoveries. I will share some of what I discovered, though; but first, the process.

As I’ve mentioned, this was not intended to be a touristy trip. As such, for much of my trip, I just explored. I wandered the streets, coming to intersections and picking a direction at random (unless I saw a church or particularly impressive-looking building down one of the streets, but even in that, I was often torn, as all-too-often there were multiple churches, etc. down each avenue… that’s Rome, for you, though). I discovered both the Basilica of St. John Lateran and the Basilica of Santa Maria Maggiore by accident, just stumbling upon them while exploring. In the course of my exploration, I made every endeavor to avoid tourists. Especially while eating. Most every restaurant I ate at was several side alleys away from the main thoroughfares and tourist sites. I spoke, read, and listened to as much Italian as possible. It’s amazing what you can learn of a language just by reading the signs and adverts around town. (Given, my knowledge of Spanish and my love of etymology certainly helped in my learning). In fact, I felt quite international during the trip, as I spoke a combination of English, Italian, Spanish, German, and French, depending on who I was with at the time, while reading a good smattering of both Italian and Latin (again, utilizing my knowledge of those and related languages, and using etymology and conjecture to fill in the gaps). Also on the international aspect, I befriended people from Italy (duh!), Germany, Australia, Brazil, Argentina, Greece, Korea, Spain, America, the Netherlands, and Israel. I went to St. Peter’s Basilica with my friend from Israel, and went on a couple of dates with a girl from Germany. After having lived in the Middle East for so long, it was interesting (and somewhat refreshing) to see the other perspective of things (just as getting the Middle-Eastern perspective was interesting after having lived in the States for so long).

I enjoyed the Italian nightlife, including frequenting a few pubs and partying at a nightclub that seemed to be built into the arched basement of a medieval building. Truly an experience. But the real experience, the real meat of the trip, both in the time dedicated to it and in the long-lasting importance from the trip, was my writing.

I wrote some on a short story for which I had found inspiration shortly before leaving for the trip. I also wrote a little poetry (including one poem about Rome penned whilst sitting on the Spanish Steps at sunset… how’s that for romantic (no pun intended)?). But the bulk of my writing, inscribed in a notebook I carried around Rome with me everywhere I went, took the form of journal entries. Meditative, introspective, reflective. I analyzed, I probed, I second-guessed, I considered, I reconsidered, I wondered, I pondered, I asked, I answered, I dug, I dreamed. The entries covered a range of topics and emotions. I wrote them in numerous churches and basilicas around Rome. I wrote them while sitting in cafes and ristorantes frequented by locals. I wrote them at the Trevi Fountain, in St. Peter’s Square, on the Spanish Steps, in the shadow of the Colosseum. I reflected on my experiences, on my thoughts, my emotions, my goals, my dreams, my failures, my successes, my hopes, my fears, what I thought I wanted, what I now know I want, who I was before, who I was then, and who I want to become. I probed and pondered my thoughts and beliefs, on life, on love, on God, on humanity, on art, on faith, on ambition, on identifying dreams and making those dreams reality, on the brevity of life, on the importance of seizing every moment, on priorities, on relationships, on nigh everything of true import in this life and the next. I can’t tell you everything I learned, for all of my answers are not yet fully formed, and indeed, it may take years to find the words (if such words exist) to properly understand, and then describe, what I learned in Rome (and have been learning since). And again, some of what I decided may be too personal than would be apropos to publish here. A few things I did discover, or perhaps reaffirm, though:

First, I love writing. Writing, and the inspiration that leads to my writing (often taking the form of exploring new places, reading and researching, and traveling) is the single most fulfilling thing I know how to do. I’ve been told I have a gift for it. I don’t know about all that, but it’s what I love to do, and, increasingly, it’s what I know how to do. If I could write for a living, I might be the happiest man alive. And even now, though my profession is non-writing, whenever I write, I am brimming with satisfaction and a sense of fulfillment. More and more, I feel that writing is my calling. Whatever you take that to mean, it’s where my heart is, where my talents seem to lie, where my personality, interests, and goals all seem to fit. And I feel confident (as do many of my friends and family who unwaveringly support me and my pursuit of this dream) that I will be a published author someday. Perhaps sooner than I think. God’s got a way of surprising me like that, and, generally speaking, when I get an idea into my head, an idea that’s more than just a fleeting thought but is the type one structures ones life around, when I get a solid goal in my mind, I pursue it doggedly (I guess that’s my Taurus coming out). And almost without fail, it comes true. The fact that, against all odds and logic, I’m writing this in Dubai should bear testament to that.

Second: this isn’t so much a nice concise ‘discovery’ that I can pack into a little nugget for you (and me), as it is a feeling, a point of growth that happened on the trip. On the trip, in all of my striking out on my own, my exploring, my meeting people, my engaging in new, unfamiliar experiences, I found myself growing in confidence. There are more aspects to it than that (for, to be sure, I have been striking out on my own, exploring, meeting people, and experiencing new things ever since coming to Dubai), and I won’t get into the specifics of the new level of confidence I’m finding myself having, but it’s definitely a higher place of growth and understanding, both of myself and my place in the world around me.

Third (or third and fourth if you prefer, for at this point, the ideas become fairly enmeshed): the world is rather quite different than I had imagined from my relatively sheltered life in Tallahassee. Given, this is a fact that I have been becoming gradually more aware of since I came to Dubai, but this came out all the more in Rome; whether this is because of the numerous experiences I had and everything I encountered while on my trip, or if it is due primarily to my time of reflection, I cannot say; I simply know that I gained a greater acquaintance and understanding of the bigger world while in Italy. When I say that the world is different, I do not mean to say that it is necessarily better or worse; I simply mean that it is different. Certainly some aspects could be argued, from one moralistic worldview or another, to be better or worse than my initially conceived notions, but, as these notions were based on hypothesis and ideals, and as the world I’ve since encountered is based on fact and experience, to compare the two would be a fallacious enterprise.

Following on the heels of that discovery comes a nugget about my writing (this would be where the ‘fourth’ revelation would begin, if you wish to break them up as such). I began writing my first in July 2006, after drawing inspiration from my first trip to New York City. That year, from the summer of 2006 to the summer of 2007, I just wrote. My source material for my writing came from my own head. And, though perhaps not quite crap, it left much to be desired, both in content and in style. Stage 2 of my writing development began in September 2007: I started to read like crazy. In fact, since September 2007, I’ve read over 200 books, most of them novels. There’s an adage or two about having to read to be able to write, and they are decidedly true. When I picked up the pen again to start working on my novel (after a too-long hiatus from the work, but having read dozens of novels in the interim), I ended up scrapping most of my previous work. The overarching story remained, but most of the scenes I had penned thus far (and almost all of the writing) got the axe. And the work was all the better for it. I could recognize good writing and bad writing much better. I knew what worked and what didn’t, what should be told and what should be shown, all the little nuances of writing and pacing much better than before (but certainly, even now, I have much, much more to learn and grow in). (I apologize for the lengthiness of this ‘nugget’ I’ve claimed to have discovered, but I promise its end is forthcoming.) I thought I was done with stages, that I would continue along the path set forth by stage 2 of reading much and writing even more to grow as an author. But, in moving to Dubai, and in all of my new experiences, in all of the new locations I’ve explored, in all of the encounters with ‘real life’ I’ve had, in all the discoveries about how the world really is, I’ve found inspiration, both for new works and for how to make my current works better, more authentic, more relevant. Enter stage 3: engaging in life, experiencing and understanding how the world really works, instead of writing from an isolated, sheltered perspective which anyone who has actually lived outside a box (which would be most of my readers) could recognize as artificial. And I’ve been blessed with an ideal place for that. A place where travel is easy, where life comes at you fast, where can be found a microcosm of all the world’s joys and ills, of peoples and languages, of experiences both new and timeless: Dubai. Dubai may be a shallow, often artificial place, but there is much here that will provide both insight and inspiration, both as a writer and as a person. After all, this is the Middle East: underneath the shallow sand of the glitz and glamour, there’s bound to be some petroleum reserves of experience, wisdom, and encounters with the real world that I can draw on in my stories and in life. And to find it, I just have to dig.

Just like I did in Rome.