The Ghost Town, the Labours, and the three day old canola

I love bringing people to Ostia Antica.

This ancient Roman port city is not only Italy’s best kept secret, it is a real opportunity to connect with archaeology, history, and the idea that despite the many years separating us, we are essentially the same human beings we were two thousand years ago.

Because of a receding coastline and a dramatic change of course for a river the old city was eventually abandoned and left to decay on its own.

 Like Pompeii it is a sprawling site with plenty of places to poke around. Unlike Pompeii it is not as well preserved and there is some restoration work that is quite...energetic. Also unlike Pompeii, though, it is a site where you are pretty much left to your own devices. One minute you are looking down from a railing at a sectioned off part of the public baths to enjoy a beautiful and complex mosaic, the next you are wondering through ancient streets and the houses that once stood complete. Stairs, windows, doorways and arches beckon you down other streets and around corners as you explore the old town. It is an ancient Roman ghost town beckoning you to explore it, to feel it out, to walk next to the shades of those who once lived there.

After four weeks of showing them art, archaeology, and literature, I have reserved this place as the spot in which I end our formal classes. Their assignment is to simply explore. I want them to walk through the ancient forum and theatre district and determine on their own what once thrived in the house and along the cobblestones. Take pictures of what appeals to you. Record what has grabbed your attention and imagination.

They come back two hours later with tales of underground passageways and fields and walls. They excitedly recall geckos and strange flowers and bugs. They show me photos of statues, a theatre, writing in stone. They are excited and declare that this was one of the best places we visited this month. I ask them why and they really cannot tell me an answer.

But I know why.

Because there are no guards to shush you, no guides to present to you, and no specific plan of action to organise you, you are left alone within the city. It is up to you to determine what you see, what you find, what you examine. As a result, you create your own connection to Ostia Antica. You are given a chance to commune with the Romans rather than observe or study. You walk their streets, play in their yards, and explore their homes.

All this for a 45 minute ride on public transit.

We had a great last night in Rome. We presented the kids with a 12 Labours of Hercules sort of exercise and sent them on a scavenger hunt.  While they ran about taking photos of wine bottles and fountains and people looking at maps, we sat in the piazza next to the Pantheon and ate tiramisu and drank lattes. Tough gig.

The night was perfect with a gentle breeze to make sure we never got too hot. Now the weather wants to cooperate!

The kids come back excited and energised. By the time we bring them home they are exhausted and still have to pack.

I sit here in my hotel room very early in the morning and listen to the city wake up. Rome wakes up with horns honking and men yelling. At least I think they’re yelling.

I have not slept at all this past night. Between  the late night return from our activities to the pressures of a day of travel I could not sleep. I rarely sleep on the plane but I might make an exception today.

 Desperate, I remembered I had a canola left in my bar fridge so I ate it. It’s pretty bad when you have a three day old canola for breakfast. I’m thinking my doctor would not approve.

It’s been a great month with a good group of kids, but I am ready to go home. I cannot wait to see my garden which is dying from the drought back home, my bedroom which is in a shambles because we have a new bed, and my television shows which may or may not be accessible because  of connection issues.

But most of all, I cannot wait to see Eric. He will tell my about his adventures in the North and I will work very hard to stay awake. I figure I will fall apart somewhere between Kingston and where we turn off the 401.

No worries, though. Eric will take me home.

Monumental Thoughts, Photo Shoots, and The Rape of Persephone.

Every time I arrive in Rome I am struck by how the cityscape is punctuated by the ruins of the days of the Republic and Empire. The Colosseum, Palantine  and Forum are obvious landmarks, to be sure, and the centrepiece of this vibrant city. But it is the drive-by viewing of the Baths of Caracella, the sudden appearance of the Pantheon as you turn a corner, or the stumbling upon of ancient tenements as you pass by the Capitaline Museums that strike me. In this city, the past is almost bubbling up from the cobblestones of old streets; always in wait to be discovered.

One of my students asked “Why don’t we have something like this in Canada?” A naive question, obviously, but we went into a discussion about how young Canada is. Then the next logical question is “Why would people come to Canada if we don’t offer monuments to look at?”

But we do. They are just not three thousand years old and made of stone. Sure, we have the man-made testaments of our ingenuity, circumstances and adaptability. The wall of Quebec City, the Canals in Ontario, and the railroad come to mind. And we have the statue of Terry Fox near Thunder Bay and the memorial to the Famous Five on Parliament Hill. And don’t forget the museums that are spread across this land.

But I really think what attracts most tourists to our country, as a generalisation, is the land. The very geography that defines us as a people is, I believe, the great monument we offer the world. One of my students is from Cold Lake, Alberta. I think she is very much aware that she lives in a beautiful place. But I am not convinced that she understands that she lives in a very valuable place. There are no hinterlands left in Europe. Humanity has encroached throughout the spaces between urban centres. To drive for hours and see only nature is unheard of here.

When I tried to explain that to some of them they listened politely, but I am not sure they were convinced. I hope so, though, for it is their generation who will need to work hard to not only maintain our greatest offerings to the world, but to recover it as well.

We toured the Colosseum, the Forum, the Palatine and then visited the Pantheon. It was a hot, challenging morning but it was worth it. I love the fact that there are fountains everywhere for us to refill our water bottles and that the water is pretty much the same stuff they package up and sell to us in North America. The Colosseum was a resounding success. The Palatine was “interesting” and the Forum, while really cool, was very hot. We had some gelato and found our way to the Pantheon.

My partner and I on this trip have managed to organically create this system wherein sometimes she leads and sometimes I do. She is the map master and is constantly trying to make sure we are going the right way. I am a “feeler”. I know the general direction I need to go and I go that way. At first it was a challenge for us to blend our methods, but now we have it down to a science.

After feeling our way through the streets of Rome I stopped and let the kids pass me by so that they can watch the Pantheon appear from behind a corner. It is an imposing figure within the square and I felt satisfied when they all reacted with surprised excitement. Inside we walked about and gazed upon the tomb of Boticelli. Above us the opula, a circular hole in the roof, allowed the bright sun to pierce the dimness of the sanctuary (for it is a Christian church today) and shine upon the marble floor. Around us are the spaces where once stood the whole Pantheon of Olympic gods. Today, they are replaced with the Virgin Mary, Joseph and the Disciples.

Our group is a nice group, but they are very much a crowd of posers. Except for a few exceptions, every little thing is a reason to get dressed up and get our photos taken.  We are going to the Trevi Fountain! Get some photos taken! We are going to see the Forum! Get some photos taken! We are walking by a public washroom! Get our photos taken! It seems that between the bathroom breaks, the water breaks, the cash machine breaks, the other bathroom breaks, the choosing of the wardrobe, and the photo shoots it is a bloody miracle we managed to leave London!

Oh well. At least they take good photos.

I should point out that I have had the following flavours of gelato thus far: straweberry, chocolate, hazelnut, coconut, vanilla, bacio, orange (Sweet Jesus! This was awesome!), egg cream, straciatella, tiramisu, lemon, lime, nutella, nutella cream, and caramel. There was one in Paris called Sweet Velva. 

I think I knew what they meant but I was really too freaked out to actually try it.

I will admit to having about a half dozen canolis and about four tiramisus. I think I have accidentally signed on to the Diabetic Tour of Rome. The good news is I am almost avoiding my salt intake as per my doctor’s orders! So I should be okay.

Basically, I will die if I stay on this trip one moment longer than I have already committed to.

I took the kids to see the Borghese museum. After the National Gallery and British Museum in London and the Louvre in Paris, I figure it was time to challenge the kids to see how they would do as gallery patrons attempting to ascertain and interpret a work of art. I must stay that I was pretty impressed that they were pretty impressed with all of the pretty impressive art work. After showing them the Caravaggio paintings in the gallery portion, though, I have come to the conclusion that my class is pretty much sick of my love of Caravaggio.

Hehe. Too bad for them.

In any case, they each picked a sculpture and discussed it with me. They were, as a whole, very impressed with Bernini, stating that every time a sculpture dominated a room or grabbed at them it always seemed to be a Bernini creation. Apollo and Daphne and the Rape of Persephone were the two standouts for them.

I really advocated for this gallery visit and my employers, Global Journeys, were very gracious to allow it as it significantly increased the cost of this section of the trip. It was worth it, though, to see young people embrace great art.

We are approaching the final stretch of the trip and the class instruction is pretty much over. The next few days promise to be busy ones.

I am looking forward to going home. I have had a blast but I am now anxious to return to my favourite village and see the ones I love. Soon.

Until then, the gelato...and the marking...continue.

The Hussy, The Queen of Bitter, and The Parisien Fantasy.

As the sun finally began to show itself in Paris after about five or so days, I was able to finally put away the cheap umbrella I bought in London. However, I also managed to develop major blisters on the bottom of both of my feet. In fact, they were so bad that after walking to the Jardin de Luxembourg, the Champs Elysees, the Arc de Triomph, Notre Dame, the Bastille Monument, and the Louvre I was pretty much toast.

So much so that I could not climb the stairs up the Eiffel Tower. Instead I spent three hours waiting for the kids and watching the crowd pass me by during the cool evening.  What an experience. After the people selling wine, umbrellas, plastic bags to wear as coats, reproductions of the Mona Lisa, and little toys that lit up and flew into the air finally got tired of me waving them off I was pretty much invisible.

I saw one young couple make out about three feet away from me for about eight minutes. Then they ran off...presumably to their hotel, I imagine. There was also the sweet British young gay couple that argued which way was where they would find the Louvre.  They agreed which way to go and I think it was the wrong way. There was the elderly couple who groaned as they sat next to me on the bench, sat for about five minutes without saying a word, then left in silence. And let’s not forget the young couple with the screaming baby. They kept singing different songs to calm it down. When they walked on they were beginning to look really desperate.

But nothing compared to the tour group from Boise, Idaho.

A couple of the ladies met by me and waited for the rest of the group to find them. All of them eventually showed up and surrounded them...and me. I never said a word and they never acknowledged me. But I was smack dab in the middle of a group of about thirty Americans very excited about being in Paris.

“I love this town but they should do something about the sidewalks.”

“I thought more people here would wear black.”

“The Louvre was nice, but there was no real organisation to the place.”

“Did you notice that that Joyce woman keeps flirting with all the men.  Even that newlywed boy, Jake. What a hussy!”

“If Joyce goes near my Willard I swear I am going to smack that girl down!”

“Isn’t Willard, like, thirteen?”

“Fifteen. But he’s pretty mature for his age. And he’d be happy to hook up with Joyce, I can guarantee you that!”

“The sparkling lights are like Christmas, only better. Too bad they are only white. They should be mulit-coloured.”

This went on for about an hour.

Because of my feet I was forced to cancel my trip to Pere Lachaise cemetery for class to examine the iconography on some of the graves. This was a real bummer for me. The kids, however, recovered quickly and took off to go shopping. I am under the impression that they did not recognise how awesome my class would have been.

We  stayed at the Hotel Ibis Bastille Opera. Ibis is a chain and the place feels like a Comfort Inn with more pastries for breakfast. It is clean and I liked it, but I have to admit I got into a bit of a power struggle with one of the cleaning staff.

First of all, I have never met a more miserable and rude member of a hotel cleaning staff ever. 

Usually they are friendly and say hello. Sometimes I feel it is a bit too much, really. But the lady in charge of my part of the hotel is the Queen of Bitter!

It has been my experience that when you have an extended stay at a hotel, say...more than a couple of days, they will adjust to your needs. If you move a chair they will keep it there for example.  In my room I have one garbage can. It is in the bathroom. I do all of my marking at the desk next to my bed so I move the garbage can there.

Every time the room is cleaned the basket is moved back into the bathroom. This is fine. It does not bother me in the least. I just move the basket back to where I want it because the alternative would be to mark in the bathroom and I cannot do that because the bathroom is too small for me to do anything in there.

So, I am stuck in my hotel room keeping off my blistered and abused feet and dealing with student work. Ignoring the do not disturb sign, Chuckles the Cleaning Staff From Hell barges in. I say it is okay to skip my room today and she insists. I insist it is okay to move on and she ignores me. I then go back to work and ignore her.

She take the garbage can and empties it and puts it back into the bathroom. I barely notice this until I need to throw something out from my mess of papers. No...recycling is not really present in Paris. I get up, get the garbage can and return it to the space I use it next to my desk.

With a great exclamation of disgust she strides over to me and makes a great display of grabbing my garbage  and slamming it back into the bathroom. “For bathroom!” She hisses at me.

Now...if you know me at all, you know that I always present myself in the most calm, easygoing, mature, de-escalating way possible.

I get up and grab the garbage can and slammed it back onto the space next to the desk. “For me!” I declare.

She goes three shades of purple and starts a big intake of breath but I cut her off “Va!” I said as firmly and as informally as I could, pointing to the door. She said something in French as she left but I chose to let her have the last word.

I did not get nougat on my pillow anymore after that experience.

Paris, like Montreal, is a city that seems to run more organically than most other major metropolitan areas. I do not recall seeing very many iphones and blackberries on the streets as people slowly walked along the Seine.  There is something very special about a place where nobody seems to be rushing to work and everyone seems to be sitting at a cafe in the middle of the day.

This is fantasy, of course, but it is still very Parisien.

Swooping, Dancing, Raining and Leaving

Greetings from Rome!

Due to difficulties in wifi availabilities, time restrictions and, to be honest, energy reserves, it has been quite a while since my last blog. Sorry about that.

I will talk about our time in the Eternal City at a later blog, but for now I want to tell you about our time in Paris.

Our time in London was very rewarding. It was exciting to be a part of a world-class city that was bracing for the upcoming Olympics. You could sense the excitement, and anxiety, as you walked the streets. I cannot count how many helicopters flew overhead during our stay there. Once even swooped down and seemed to check us out while we were gazing at Buckingham Palace. Now that I look back, that may have just been Prince Harry on a joyride I suppose.

But after a great many days of rain, sogginess and grey skies of London we were ready for a change. 

So off we went to experience the rain, sogginess and grey skies of Paris. While the weather was disappointing at first, we refused to let it put a crimp in our croissants.

To celebrate Bastille Day we went to the Fireman’s Ball. Apparently, each year, Paris firefighters host a dance complete with a dj and dance floor in the station house where they park the engines and live music and a fair in nearby public spaces. The deluge outside made for the interior dance floor to be quite popular. I have never danced in a fire station before so it was a unique situation for me. Mind you, the only time I have ever been in a fire station before was when I took children through on a tour in Kamloops and when I was a cub scout. I do not recall the firefighters being so...buff...and toned during those tours many years ago, but I can certainly attest to the youthful vigour of the Paris Fire Brigade.

The kids all gussied themselves up for the night and we took a photo in the hotel lobby. They looked so happy...and dry. We took another photo when we returned and, believe it or not, they looked even happier soaking wet. One of them commented that the craziness of walking in high heals down a dark street while having water dumped on you from the sky kind of made the evening.

This is one cool group of kids.

They do, however, like to dress up. We’re going to the Eiffel Tower...let’s dress up! We’re going to see Notre Dame...let’s dress up! We’re going to the breakfast room to have croissants and chocolatines for breakfast...let’s dress up! It’s no wonder so many of them had overweight suitcases. 

We were charged a hundred pounds by Easyjet in London for our excess baggage. And this is after they reduced our charge by two-thirds!

The last time I was in Paris was when Eric and I had our impromptu honeymoon. We stayed in a no-star hotel where the window didn’t close properly and the bed was basically a mattress on the floor. We decided it was like La Boheme but without the really loud singing...and the death. I packed the wrong shoes and dirty laundry instead of clean clothes because it was so last minute I had only twenty minutes to pack. In fact, instead of packing the instructions to our new camera I packed the instructions to our new waffle iron. This was not of any use in Paris for the record.

Anyways, while I enjoyed seeing Paris again, I kept thinking of Eric and when I was last in Paris. It made me a little homesick.

The Louvre was just as overwhelming and intense the second time around. We got there early and I dragged the kids through the museum at breakneck speed to the Mona Lisa in order to avoid the crowds and get it done. It was like an overwrought version of The Terry Fox Run but with me at the back hissing “Hoof it, bucko!” and “This way! No, THIS WAY!” I admit that it wasn’t my most scholarly portion of the trip. But we got to the Mona Lisa early enough so that we only had to share it with sixteen thousand other tourists and the kids eventually took their photos and wondered what the big deal was all about.

Good question, by the way. It is my humble opinion that what makes this painting so very famous is the fact that it is so very famous. Enough people tried to steal it, write about it, make up controversies and mysteries about it and talked about it that the general population was forced to come to the conclusion that something famous was going on so it became famous.

You know, like Kim Kardashian or Justin Beiber.

I am not saying that it isn’t a masterpiece. It is. I am just saying that the hype has taken over the subject. It is not the most impressive masterpiece around. It is not ever da Vinci’s most impressive masterpiece around. It is just the most hyped masterpiece in the western world.

Anyhow, that is my humble opinion. Please send your emails of complaint and disgust to www.idontgiveadamn.ca.

After we separated for a while and then getting hopelessly lost in one of the larges museums in the world I reconnected with the kids and had them present to me a painting of their choice and discuss the themes we have been exploring in class. To have young people use the great masterpieces of western art as a tool to explain the major themes you are exploring with them in preparation for post-secondary studies is a great moment indeed. As a group they are still feeling their way around this larger discussion of the heroic quest, hieros gamos, and the idea of balance but you can sense the synapses firing as they take these ideas and apply them to these paintings.

One of my favourite things in the Louvre is Nike of Samothrace. This headless statue of winged victory is the inspiration for the swoosh found on every runner made by Nike. This connection was immediate for the kids, but they wanted to linger and examine the imposing figure that looms over a great staircase.  After awhile, I dragged them through the museum to see the Venus de Milo and other famous works of art, but it was the Code of Hammurabi that thrilled them the most. They had heard so much about it in some of their previous courses that they were thrilled to see the real thing.

During one of my quieter times I found myself alone in a cafe trying to do some marking while having lunch. A couple sitting next to me were speaking in English. She had a British accent and he was obviously French. I tried not to eavesdrop but the tables are so often very close to each other. She kept getting up to go the washroom and returning with a sigh and he kept fidgeting with an envelope. They spoke quietly but did not whisper. Her voice sometimes shook but she never cried. They never touched their drinks and I don’t even know if they had food.

It became very clear as I tried to mark that next to me was the moment that a relationship was going to end.

They spoke of practicalities. Her brother had picked up some of her smaller furniture items and a trunk. He would keep Euclid (which I assumed was a dog) as agreed and he would make sure her former employer would send the final cheque to her aunt’s address in Lyons.

He handed her the envelope saying he purchased the best seats he could afford and she thanked him and called him a sweet, sweet man. Then she gave him a key and told him that she was sorry it did not work out.

He told her he was grateful to have the time she allowed.

They got up and kissed a long, long time. Then she left without looking back.

I had finished my lunch but I don’t think I marked more than one or two papers during this whole time. When I left the cafe the man was smoking a cigarette out on the patio, looking down the street in the direction where the woman had left.

It was sad, to be sure. But it was also just a little beautiful. I suspect it had had its moments of anger and ugliness, but that day in Paris it was a simple recognition that the shared narrative had come to its natural conclusion.

That afternoon it seemed perfect that it was raining in the City of Lights.