Ta ta for now!

Just so you don’t think I fell off the Earth… Tomorrow morning my laptop (which will soon be packed inside the suitcase I’m shipping home) will be gone, and in 4 days I will be in Madrid.

Alex, Keshia, and I will be meeting in Madrid (that’s be a pretty phrase for so long I can hardly believe it will be reality, and soon), and then traveling to Granada (where we’ll meet up with Sascha who I met here in Rome) and Sevilla, and then finally to Marrakesh.

I will return to the US on the evening of the 22nd, at which point I will get my hair done (I have an appointment scheduled for the afternoon of the 23rd – shocking I know) and ROCK my face off at the DEMF. Then hopefully I will run away to the woods for a couple days – get some closure or something like that – and then begin my grown-up life on June 2nd.

ch-ch-ch-changes…

love love love

yours.Rachel

“Dali would be proud”

…she said as she sat making flashcards for her Baroque art class final. Not at her diligence, but at the scene surrounding us. We’d escaped the school and hoped to study in this cafe, just around the cobble-stone corner from the school that will be ours for only 7 more days. Immediately upon entering we were hit with a wave of sound, decibels at the level of a live show but in the belly of an empty bar. She sat facing the door to the patio for fear the television screen would distract her, and I settled into a chair with a panoramic view of the empty room. Dark wood chairs sat unused and the walls, flaking white plaster, were interrupted only by shelves filled with wine bottles. The only light in the whole place was what streamed into our table through the patio door and the colored glow emanating from the television – a VH1 countdown with the sound on mute. It caught my attention, and I found myself laughing out loud at the picture I saw. We were being serenaded by a 1970s rock-star, jacket glittering with red sequins and a bold gold cross hanging just a few inches below his luscious afro. Beside him a bunny-like blonde in a shiny white one-piece swimsuit leotard (complete with pseudo-oxford collar and wrist-cuffs) smiled and danced. But instead of the Hard Rock Cafe jam one might have expected in such a situation, the table was vibrating with the bass from an uber-dark and eerie indie album (think Frou Frou in emotional quota, plus an extra dollop of depressing).

The coffee we ordered finally came, my caffelatte in a Seagram’s logo-cup and her cold coffee in a martini glass. Our glittering lip-syncher faded to a video flashing phrases beginning with the words “Right Now.” (Van Halen, for you VH1 buffs) “Right now people are having unprotected sex.” I engaged her in conversation, trying not to fixate. “Right now God is killing moms and dogs because he has to.” Outside Trastevere buzzed by on motos and on foot. “Right now is just space between Ice Ages.” Students meandered past, throwing their arms up in frustration about finals, and tourists peered in the cafe curiously, wondering whether the waiters inside speak enough English to help them find their way out of the sud-Vatican labyrinth. “Right now maybe we should pay attention to the lyrics… <that we couldn’t hear> miss a beat, you loose the rhythm, and nothing falls into place.” The music went silent for a moment, and after eternity in an instant it switched to a South American groove. “Right now your parents miss you.” “Write this down” she said. There’s a blog entry coming, I responded, I can feel it. “Right now is harder than it seems.” Well, no shit Sherlock. “Right now, oysters are being robbed of their sole possession.” She was hard at work. “Right now a tired man with a wounded heart is seated on an East-bound trans-Atlantic flight looking out the window wondering how to say ‘dog’, ‘howl’ and ‘moon’ in French just in case it comes up.” The waitress was taking orders outside, and an inked Egyptian-eye stared directly at me from her midriff. “Right now she is going on with her life” Well yes, I thought, but burning that lovely picture seems a little excessive. “Right now time is having its way with you.” The waitress with the gauged clay swirl in her left ear complimented my companion’s ring by pointing at it – she didn’t know the word in English. I realized I didn’t know what its story was, but I forgot to ask. “WRITE NOW” appeared in bold letters – OK OK I’m doing it! I’m writing! “Right now keeps happening”. Yes, it does seem that way doesn’t it? The door to the men’s room closed on the television screen as a door in the cafe slammed, and I turned my eyes to her – she was still making flashcards.

Two women walked behind her, carrying drinks and wearing tee-shirts with cartoonish sea-creatures. A fish and a colorful turtle stared at me with googly-eyes, leaving me feeling like my caffelatte must have been laced with something slightly psychedelic. Outside I can hear an accordion. I couldn’t see its player, but after this long in Italy I didn’t need to see him to picture him perfectly. A man in his 50s, curly hair hanging to his shoulders, his face wrinkled and tan but merry (and hoping for a euro). The cafe’s speakers were still blasting a South-American guitarist who had now begun to wail, and the TV had been taken over by Snoop Dog, dressed in this mock-70s finest. Is it strange that Snoop Dog makes me think of home? Maybe, but there are stranger issues at hand. Like how we, two sweet American girls in cotton tops and broken-in jeans, are sitting here in an Italian cafe drinking coffee from booze glasses that are shaking on the table to the bass of South-American yodeling. And She was plugging away at those flashcards.

“These sugar packets are stolen”, I mused, furrowing my brows. She looked up and I explained that one was from The Rosella Commune, and the other was from another cafe – Cafe C… the waitress came and took our dishes, as if to keep me from discovering their dirty secret. She laughed, and I looked back to VH1. It was Barry White, sporting sunglasses and a velvety bathrobe, sliced in with shots of a women in a white bikini who dived into the sea just as the video concluded. “I’ll be 5 more minutes” she said. But I was in no rush.

I thought about my to-do list for the next 7 days, feeling a twinge of guilt for having a list shorter than my companion. But I reminded myself I have plenty to get hysterical about, and that I should savor this sweet moment of calm. She closed her book, loudly as could be with a relatively thin paperback, and I gently shut my gold-leafed journal. We took one last moment to look around the place, but as the South-American singer raised his voice a full octave we exchanged knowing glances and bolted for the door.

“Surrealism is embedded in the everyday, in the daily experience.” – Katherine Conley

yours.Rachel