Reflections of My Italian Experience - Part I

In 2004, I decided to enroll in a study abroad program (going into my senior year at The University of Tampa). I must say, it was one of the best decisions I ever made. I was overdue to see another world and learn about other cultures. And, personally, I was feeling lost in my life. I invested $5,000 in what I knew would be a healing, spiritual, and educational haven I never had before. I felt that if I could be successful in this program, I could regroup and focus on getting admitted to law school, which doubts hung over my head as a thick fog. This is my reflection of my Italian experience.

Even before I received a syllabus for my government class entitled “World Affairs," I was excited about the study-abroad program and the prospect of traveling outside my own country for the very first time. I could not imagine that anyone who had the opportunity to travel to Italy would not feel the same. If for nothing else, Italy -- after all – is home to Rome, the capital of the country. The Coliseum of the gladiators; the Pantheon, temple of all the gods; and the incredible basilicas are synonymous with the name Rome. Much more than that, ancient Rome was, historically, the best example of a democratic republic. In later years, the Catholic papacy would demonstrate its tremendous religious and political influence. One of the greatest Western civilizations to have ever existed, a world center for thousands of years, I could not wait to set my eyes on the “Eternal City.”

The prospect of walking among the places of the great orators and statesmen was intriguing to me, but I also hoped to be tantalized by the ancient architecture and the great works of famous artisans like Michelangelo, Bernini, and Raphael. I longed to experience another culture and to taste different foods, but was most interested in bearing witness to the animated lives of the Italians with their stereotypical body language and their love for noisy streets. I knew I could watch them for hours after reading Luigi Barzini’s commentary: Italians have nearly mastered the art of being happy, of making others happy, and they have an eagerness and zest for life. Stereotype or not, their emotions go undisguised; and I thought to myself, how refreshing that would be since I wear my own on my sleeve; I may feel right at home.

And so, there I was, even before I left “The States,” with my sights set on Italy excited and with the full knowledge that it was the beginning of my exploration into international affairs not solely from an academic viewpoint, but from a very personal one. Looking back through all my photographs during my time in Italy, I noticed it was evident amidst the most spectacular sights that I felt I was right at home, indeed.

In almost everything I saw from travel day one, I felt both the flashback to history and a soulful connection with it. I absorbed and connected with everything, in an almost neurotic way, even made myself laugh at some ridiculous connections. When one is flying across the world in a plane for nine hours in a window seat, it is amazing what the mind will conjure up to entertain itself. One flash after the other: “Detroit, home of the Motown Sound…Motor City, USA; there’s Canada; oh we’re flying over the North Atlantic…Titanic is at the bottom…dam this ocean is big!” I watched the GPS tracking system on the plane to see what cities sounded familiar to me: “Bordeaux, France, as in the famous wines; the French countryside, amazing…can see why the French kings loved it so; I wonder if I can see Monaco from here…can’t recognize it anyway.” And then, “Wow! There’s Corsica…small island…didn’t Napoleon come from there?” I was filled with childlike wonderment. We flew into Rome, Italy, not over a sprawling metropolis but instead over small farms, a disappointment.

I vowed to immerse myself into the culture and that included refraining from speaking English. Spanish would substitute for my limited Italian that I learned through a ten-day exposure to the language CDs before I left the States. It was not long before I became enraptured by the fountains, as described by Eleanor Clark, and then strolled “the scene of the great relics” as described by George Eliot. Funny, I though, how after reading their works and seeing Rome, I felt that time had stood still. After all, Ms. Eliot had visited Rome in 1860 and Ms. Clark about 100 years later. I am sure that there have been many changes since then, but perhaps I did not see it because I was viewing the city through their eyes. All they viewed still remained; and the attitudes of the people were just as they described. Ms. Eliot noted “the crowded mean houses of the modern city” and “the wonderful spectacle of the illumination of St. Peter’s…so wondrous, so magically beautiful.” Ms. Clark might be disappointed to know that the fountains are still “being drunk from, and splashed in and sat on… [with] all kinds of rubbish.” I must admit I am guilty of the first two.

In my first few days, I allowed myself to become hypnotized by the sights, smells, and scenery. Rome is a time capsule of many ages – from the ancient forums, which date back 2000 years to the Baroque and Renaissance eras that are held within the basilicas and the Vatican. I was wooed by Rome’s spectacles, was seduced by Rome’s grandeur, and fell hopelessly in love. The tours throughout Italy brought to life all I learned in the history books. It is because each city has each era preserved within it, that Italy is like a storybook come to life – all of its tales unfolding before one’s eyes. The evolution of international affairs was clear.

Centuries old, mammoth walls, called “mure,” that surround Rome, Florence, Sienna, Lecce, and many other cities, still stand as evidence of their role in protecting the citizens from barbarian invaders. The style of the “mure” is quite an ingenious invention for these ancient people. Some nine or ten feet thick, the “mure” start many feet underground, which discouraged tunneling by the opposition. I cannot recall exactly how tall they are, but I imagine it would be extremely difficult to climb them. At any rate, the towers along the top, known as “castles,” would have been home to defending soldiers who would shoot invaders with arrows or javelins. The walls are imposing and irresistible to the touch. My hand caressed them in passing; and I wondered how many battles they had seen over the years. Some of the bricks were lose or on the ground. How many of its scars were battle wounds; how many were from age? It was impossible to tell.

Even today, the only way to enter the cities and towns hidden behind the walls are through the gates called “porta,” Italian for the word “door.” Porta Napoli, Porta Maggiore, Porta Pia – each one has their own name. Some are elaborate, decorated with statues; others are simple, but no less imposing, and boast Latin inscriptions along the top that make references to emperors like Claudius. All of them are in a picturesque setting, wither it is alongside a winding river or flanked by 2000-year old umbrella trees. In some towns, the “porta” can be found at the end of a walkway lined with large, flowering pink and white oleander.

One impression of the walls stands out in my memory. I followed Via le Carlo Felice in Rome, which connects the Basilica of Santa Croce in Gerusalemme and the Basilica di San Giovanni in Laterano, only to find a long stretch of a grassy park. Carefully placed park benches beckoned me to stop and absorb the scene. The people around me were so cavalier; and it seemed they did not have a care in the world. They napped on blankets; a couple talked with their heads close together, obviously in love; a mother bounced her baby on her knee; and a group of small children kicked a soccer ball around. In the background, standing tall and strong was the brick Mura Aureliane, the Aurelian Walls, with all of its graceful, decorative arches dripping with moss and ivy. I breathed in deeply and closed my eyes for a moment. When I opened my yes, I turned to look in the direction of San Giovanni and noticed a grand, bronze statue of Saint Frances of Assisi, with his arms outstretched and his disciples at his feet. Though the surrounding streets were teeming with the noise of hurried, screeching traffic, I thought, “It doesn’t get any better than this.” And I crossed the street to hit up the small gelato shop to get a cone – one scoop of banana gelato, one scoop of chocolate. Simply divine!

I could have spent days walking the dusty, rocky streets of Pompeii, those streets with ancient ridges carved into them by chariot wheels. I could have lived there a thousand lifetimes ago, if it were not for the threatening sight of the ever-growing volcano, Vesuvius, its peak a mere five miles away. A government and law student, I could not help but play the role of a tourist when I asked a friend to take a photograph of me in front of the crumbling courthouse. I could not help but to be amused when I heard that the early universities throughout the country began with only two fields of study: medicine, and my personal favorite, law.

The city of Pompeii is incredibly, well-preserved. There are stores and taverns with fantastic marble or mosaic counters and bars. The homes still have the carved names of their owners outside the doorway and richly-colored frescoes on the wall still remain. One of the houses has a near perfect mosaic of a dog with the words “Cave Canem,” meaning “Beware of the Dog.” Walls along the street show that at the time of the disaster, the city was in the midst of an election campaign. The names of the politicians are still painted in shades of red, gold, and blue.

The warehouse areas in Pompeii are loaded with artifacts. Endless rows of shelves are neatly stockpiled with enormous terra cotta pots and containers used in the transportation of wine, oil, perfumes, and other market goods that were traded with other civilizations. Many of the artifacts are in near-perfect condition, but gray–colored dust betrays their exposure to the wrath of Vesuvius.

Despite the annihilation caused by the volcano, cities sprouted up again in defiance of Mother Nature, this time even closer to Vesuvius. Perhaps that Italian carefree attitude is being revealed yet again. As the new cities have been growing in population, the volcano has been growing a second peak, larger than the first that destroyed Pompeii, still active, and ready to explode at any time. As impressed as I was by the city, I did not take my eyes off of Vesuvius.

The ports of Naples and those along the chiseled, limestone rocks of the Amalfi Coast are still the bustling ports they have been for centuries. The ancient, cliff-side villages, once major trading centers during the Middle Ages, continue to host commercial ships and private yachts, which dot the sparkling Mediterranean Sea. It is an amazing view from the narrow, winding roadway.

Rome’s aspiration to greatness has been unending, rising time and again from each fall. If there is a reason to build a monument, the Romans will find it. Triumphant, marble arches stand amidst the rubble of the Forum: The Arch of Constantine, the Arch of Titus, and the Arch of Septimius Severus. The arches have managed to survive earthquakes and storms; their exquisite carvings boast of battle victories and the writing serves to exalt their leading emperors. Romans have always loved to build and create with marble. The entire city was once covered in its whiteness. Some 1,700 years later, the tradition continued: marble monuments to their leaders. The Vittorio Emmanuel, tremendous as is nearly-everything Roman, in white marble, was built in reverence to Italy’s first king after its unification. I stood in awe making the connection that all of Rome once stood as grand, bright, and polished as this monstrous edifice.

The evolution of international affairs can be applied not only to trade or military action, but to entertainment as well. The famous Vespasian Amphitheater, commonly known as the Coliseum, was the site of gladiator fights and mock naval battles. In its heyday Romans enjoyed the challenge to search the world over for unique beasts and fowl to supply their wild animal events, which more often than not resulted in their slaughter for sport. I crouched down to peer into the pits and cells that once held the beasts, prisoners, and criminals but the sounds of their ghosts were drowned out by the noise of the tourists around me.

And then there is the influence of the Catholic Church, which permeates throughout not only the surrounding capital but, indeed, the entire country. There are churches everywhere: Santa Bibiana, Santa Maria, San Carlo alle Quattro Fontaine, Santa Maria della Vittoria, Santa Teresa, San Ignatius, Santa Caterina, Santa Maria Maggiore, and San Pietro in Vincoli. In cities like Florence and Sienna, cathedrals are fondly called “Il Duomo” – the Dome.

The country of Italy is relatively new in comparison to the rest of Europe. Once ruled by different powers until 1861, the unification of Italy came at the expense of a civil war and the invasion of Papal States, which controlled most of the peninsula for approximately 1,000 years. The church had profound opposition to secularization and the State establishment that would reduce its authority. In 1929, the independent state of the Vatican was established (The Holy See). One would never guess the church’s influence is any less, especially with over 650 churches in Rome alone. It seemed that, as I walked around the city, there was not a street that did not have at least a small chapel. It is an amazing experience to stroll through the tiniest streets in Rome, Florence or Sienna only to come across a grand “piazza” (square) with an outrageous, somewhat misplaced, marble cathedral in the middle of it. The presence of their gigantic bell towers and rounded cupolas is surprising to say the least.

If the church is not there physically, it is found in other ways. I could not help being amused by a billboard in Lecce that advertised the Italian Post Office with an imposing picture of St. Peter’s, which is the Vatican – another country altogether. A Catholic, born and raised in New York, I was always impressed by the grandeur of Saint Patrick’s Cathedral; but it is dwarfed by the basilicas of Italy, which made a greater impression on my psyche.

It is no wonder Fascism, Nazism, and Communism, as known to the former Soviet Union, was unable to grasp control of this country. Religion is so intertwined with their personal and political beliefs. While the ancient pagans of Rome once flocked to their temples before the time of Christ, the modern-day Romans flock to the Catholic churches. It is the same kind of thinking; religious doctrine is a priority. It was a bargaining tool for Mussolini; and he used it as source of respectability: his deference to the Church. Religious deference was more important to him than improving the lives of the peasants. There was no way a complete totalitarian regime could have been realized due to concessions to the Catholic Church, especially on education and family issues.

If buildings or monuments were not designed or created to be churches, the power of the pope was able to change the purpose of the building. The power of the pope could in fact save a building from complete destruction; all that was needed was for it to be consecrated. Temples in the Roman Forum that are in ruinous form have a cross at the top. The Pantheon, glorious with all its varying colors of marble, was once a temple to serve all pagan gods. It holds the sarcophagi of two of Italy’s kings and the funeral monument of the artist, Raphael. Evidence of its transformation into a Catholic church is in the beautiful altar that faces the bronze doors at the entrance. The Coliseum, once the site for the blood thirsty games of the emperor, has also been consecrated as a church by a pope. Once covered in marble and decorated with beautiful statues, it has been stripped down to bare brick by barbarians and natives alike. A simple cross in the middle stands alone to protect it from further pillaging.

The churches are so different from each other varying from the simplistic, small churches of the third and fourth centuries to those grand basilicas and cathedrals hosts to an artistic, baroque style. One cannot make a tour of the churches without stopping at the Scala Santa, the Holy Staircase. These so-called steps of Pontius Pilate, which were climbed by Christ and are dotted with his blood, can only be climbed on one’s knees. They were brought by Saint Helena to Rome in the Fourth century. Admittedly too lazy to go up on my knees, I climbed the staircase alongside but nonetheless was stirred by the pilgrims who knelt in deep prayer.

The Vatican is home to the masterpiece that is Michelangelo’s Pieta, the Madonna holding a dying Christ, which brought me to tears. The pity of Mary for her son leaps from the marble statue. His other Pieta, though unfinished is now located in the Museum of Santa Maria del Fiore (Il Duomo) in Florence; and it is nearly as beautiful. The artists face superimposed on the body of Nicodemus, who cradles the Christ as if just off the cross, is mournful; and the Christ is limp. One can clearly see the damage inflicted where, unsatisfied with the grain of the marble, the artist smashed the arm of Christ. As I gazed upon his Moses in San Peitro in Vincoli, I could not understand why Michelangelo was not pleased with his work that he refused to finish it. I learned he could be quite temperamental during his creative processes. I guess the old adage is true: we are our own worst critics. Donatello, one of the most talented sculptors of the 1400s, provided some of the most beautiful bronze statues the world has ever seen. I certainly was not an art major; and, yet, I could appreciate his brilliance.

I went from a state of euphoria -- to disgust – to terror in a matter of days: from the seat of the pope, Saint Peter’s, host to the world’s greatest and largest collection of art; to Il Duomo in Florence, whose museum displays the finger of some saint; to the Cattedrale di Santa Maria Annunziata that houses the skills and bones of the 800 martyrs who were beheaded after their refusal to convert to Islam in the 15^th century. I do not think I shall ever be able to shake both the glorious and scary images from my mind. I soon came to the realization that my trip to Italy, rather than provide answers about my own civilization, society, and religion had instead created more questions for me.

I began to feel quite strange about how the innumerable churches and basilicas of Italy serve as tourist attractions, houses of worship, museums, and tombs for popes and cardinals, while their marble stairs have become the seats for the poor, ragged beggars who shake their straw baskets and paper cups in hopes of receiving a few coins. It is a palatable irony to see these rich, gold accented cathedrals looming over some of the most wretched human beings I have ever seen.

I was looking forward to making a spiritual pilgrimage during this trip. I had not come solely to increase my academic knowledge. I knew I would be able to be in the presence of holy relics: the fragments of the cross, the wooden pieces of Christ’s manger, and the miracle of Saint Peter’s prison chains. Thousands of Christians had made the journeys before me for 2000 years. There was no way I could have been prepared for the vision of the poor souls who huddled beneath the shadows of the bell towers.

This is where they sit – a sorrowful sight. But perhaps their placement is more deliberate – an effort to jar the conscience of those pilgrims with a better life, a location selected by the poor themselves or by divine intervention. I felt the spirit of God with me: “Before you submit your offering to religious authority, give it to those in front of you who are in need.” My mind reeled back to a hymn from my childhood: “Whatsoever you do to the least of my brothers, that you to unto me.” Who knows how many Euros I gave out on those days. I certainly did not give to those on a regular street, outside the storefronts, or in the parks; but on those days where I sought out a church for peace and solace, which was often, I could not deny the suffering and gave them the coins. I made it a habit to carry a few in my pocket each day for them, with a simple greeting, “Bon Giorno”; and the same response from each of them -- a bow of the head to me, “…ahhh, Grazie Signora.”

I remember well a day when I went into a church, covered with my black shawl, feeling frustrated at the difficulties of the day and looking for solace. I was able to say my silent prayers that day to the sounds of chanting monks – it was a heavenly experience. I walked out of the church only to meet another beggar dressed in rags. Face-to-face, I was forced to tell him, in Italian, I did not have any money for I had placed my last few coins in the offertory; and I had no bills in my purse, for I had not cashed my traveler’s checks. He had simply responded, “ ‘s-okay Signora.” How it tugged at my heart that I could not remember the name of the church, but I can remember his pitiful face. Overcome with guilt, I found it difficult to visit any more churches for several days.

By Liza Lugo, J.D.

Read part 2 of Reflections of My Italian Experience at

http://lawdoctorlee.hubpages.com/hub/Reflections-of-My-Italian-Experience-Part-2

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