This music is the first movement from “Burning”: a trio for piano, clarinet, and cello.
Excerpt from journal. Dated July 27, 2012 – Prague
On a recommendation from a bartender, we headed toward a pub away from the city center, on some twisted alley or another. Our bellies were full of dumplings and gravy, our hearts starving for adventure. We waltzed into a well-lit bar and took a drink of the scenery.
The air was viscous with cigarette smoke. I immediately felt as though I were deep deep underwater, in a pub at the bottom of the sea. The rowdy conversations of the crowd drifted slowly toward me; from a distance I could see the words coming my way, yet still I couldn’t quite make them out. Men and women emphatically slapped the tables in laughter, rattling the half empty glasses and late night coffees and honey cakes, sending them floating away around the room. Others sipped their absinthes knowingly, balancing their cigarettes so delicately atop their outstretched fingers.
Ah Prague, ah absinthe. In honor of Bohemia we ordered two drams of the green concoction. Actually it wasn’t green… but it did smell like licorice, and it burned, burned!
It suddenly became very warm in that bar.
I was taking in my hazy surroundings when I saw her, sitting silently beside a red couch. She wasn’t outlandish, wasn’t putting herself out there, just relaxing and blending into the scenery. I’m not sure anyone else in the room even noticed her.
She was a thing of beauty.
She had a strong yet elegant frame made of fine wood panels. Her golden pedals glimmered and winked at me, beckoning me. Her keys were made of real ivory, an authenticity that can not be faked. This was no tourist attraction. This was the real shit, the soft underbelly, the pearl, that hard-to-reach part of your back. I was suddenly helpless against a mighty river of desire. I let it take me, wash over me, sweep me away.
I could tell right away that she was played regularly; all the tell-tale signs were present. The keys were bare and open for all the world to see, draped flirtatiously like freshly painted fingernails. The bench was pulled out, a bare leg peeking from beneath a knee-length skirt. However refined she may have seemed to an untrained eye, I could see from across the room how much she loved to be touched, that her strings were tight, her music sweet and pure.
I realized I was in a conversation with a man at the bar. While pretending to chat, my gaze kept wandering to her quiet corner of the room. She stared back at me unabashed. I wanted to put my hands on her that very moment, to know her secrets.
Erica looked at my face and read me like a book. I was lost already and there was no point trying to pull me back. We locked eyes and she signaled that I was free to go. I immediately moved to the instrument.
When I touched, I fell into a trance. Twenty minutes of absinthe-fueled dream music left my body.
Dumplings and cigarettes and alleyways. Twisting streets and beggars with their faces in the dirt. Pianos and absinthe and my wife’s soft skin. Love and travel and hunger and… feeling so lost that you forget what country you’re in.
In the scorching heat of midday the villa was abandoned, deserted, post-apocalyptic. I hunted across the grounds, running my fingers through the golden Tuscan grass, snooping down dark hallways and looking out the ancient, cloudy windows that appeared to be made of clear honey, though they felt solid to the touch. I wandered into a giant barn. No farm equipment or hay, just faded wood panels and a colony of snoozing birds that had taken up residence in the rafters. The high ceiling and heavy, silent air reminded me of a cathedral; solemnly I knelt to inspect an old nail on the floor. Anxious to hear any type of sound, I lightly rapped the rusted door with my shoe, and the birds suddenly took flight in a panic of feathers and chaotic squawking, swooping down savagely at the invader, filling the previously silent space with noise and anger. I covered my face, perhaps in shame at how thoroughly I had destroyed something so serene, and ducked out the door into the burning sunlight, leaving the birds to return to their prayers. The hot, fallow fields and gentle hills in the distance looked on, unphased and without judgement.
A single gust of breeze meandered past the sweat on my neck, providing just the faintest hint of cool. I breathed deeply, filling my lungs with the air my ancestors breathed so many hundreds of years ago, when the villa at San Rocco was a powerful fortress guarding the countryside, a pillar of strength. Today the villa still stands a lonely guard upon its abandoned hill, but it’s empty and choked with native weeds, its only occupants birds who sing lustily from the treetops and build their nests in the red roof tiles. The outer walls of the buildings all have loops for tying up horses, but there are no horses that need tying up, and rusted farm equipment sits neatly in a line along the field’s edge, more as a creepy decoration than as tools ready for hard use. I dunked my head in a pool of cool water, and hid from the sun in a cobwebbed vestibule that no doubt once offered shade to a 17th century farmhand after a long day’s work. Sitting against a post in the shade, I began to dose. Two tiny birds flew in to get some shade and woke me from my brief nap, but upon seeing me there they departed in disgust. Wrapped tightly in the silence of the afternoon, I let my mind wander the fields.
Why do I find myself feeling jealous of these happy Tuscan birds? As I drift across the countryside searching for something that will lend meaning to my life, these small creatures are content to lay in the sun, to cool their feathers in a pond, to sleep the day away in the rafters of an old barn. Life seems to have purpose and no purpose all at the same time. One day I will disappear and be forgotten, perhaps as if I never existed, much like my ancestors who lived in Italy for hundreds of years, of whom no record exists, whose lives have been utterly forgotten by posterity, entire lives full of laughter and sadness and sex and longing and glorious moments and religion and debate and watching the sun set in the hills and babies born and tragedy and art, erased and forgotten; just as the two birds who flew into my vestibule might never have existed at all, and perhaps lived only in a dream, a dream which I am already beginning to forget. I’m sorry little birds! I don’t want to forget you. I want you to live forever, wild and free in the Tuscan sun. But if you must be forgotten, I want you to live your lives with reckless happy abandon. I want you to drink the air with hearty gulps and dance in the breeze and dive like missiles. I want to join you. Then we can be forgotten together, but we won’t care because we will be birds, smooth and fast, and we’ll make our nests in the tiled roofs of old villas.
Back inside the cool, dusky main house I glimpsed the curvy figure of a piano tucked away in the darkness. The instrument called my name, beckoned me seductively. I approached in a trance. Staring transfixed at the candlestick holders bolted to the wooden frame, I reached desperately for her smooth, white keys. But sadly when she finally felt my tender caress, she could only respond with the dull creak of decrepit age. Dust choked the arteries that once pumped sweet music down these old halls. The piano and I wept together as two lovers who have irreconcilably grown apart. I did not touch her again.
I wandered down a hallway filled with ghosts. A laughing cavalier smirked at me as I tried a locked door. Though the sun still boomed through the open window, the hallway grew more ominous as I crept down toward the dead end. This hall was different from the others, more silent, more deserted, painted differently – as if the craftsman rushed to complete his job and be away from this place. I felt something slide under my skin, an urgency, the instinct to flee. These old ghosts are not scared of the burning noon sun. They are Romans and Tuscans and hard men, and they can smell the softness of my pampered hands, the hands of an untried and cocky young man who fancies himself an adventurer. They mock and beckon. Feeling their presence, I fled in shame and with much haste. Put me on a train back to Rome, get me out of San Rocco, before I join the ghosts and become another smirking face in some faded painting, inviting naive tourists down well-lit hallways that reek of death and lead paint.
I think I’ve finally hit my Rome stride. It takes me a good solid week to shake off jet lag, and perhaps longer to fully embrace the rhythm of a new home. Three weeks in one place is still a vacation, but it’s long enough to start to forget what it’s like in the real world. The vacation becomes all-encompassing. We have to go grocery shopping, and learn the layout of our neighborhood: drug store, metro stop, place that sells underwear for babies (our baggy full of Jack’s undies fell out of Erica’s backpack somewhere over the Atlantic). Today I feel like I’ve found my rhythm here. The right time to go out for a long walk in the sun, when to have a siesta, when to have an afternoon cocktail, when baby should go to bed; these are all crucial discoveries if one wants to prevent burnout. Today I have it down! I no longer have to try hard to feel at home here.
We took the number 3 tram on its long circuit from Trastevere to the North end of Villa Borghese. When traveling with a toddler, there is no better or cheaper way to keep them entertained than a long slow ride on a train. For 1.5 Euros, we basically got an air-conditioned tour of the entire eastern side of Rome, including a nice view of the Colosseum and Circo Massimo. I’m thinking perhaps sometime this week I will just hop on a regional train out into the countryside with Jack, with no particular goal in mind except to see what we can see.
An approximation of our route, based on memory.
Our goal today however is to rent bikes at the Villa Borghese and cruise around town. We arrive at the expansive park at midday, and quickly locate the little stand selling four-wheel pedal carts to tourists. With Jack perched in the front basket, we pedal our way across the park at a leisurely pace, stopping to play in fountains and listen to the random street musicians playing accordion music in the sun. The breeze in my hair makes me feel like a ship captain. Jack calls out “ciao!” to passersby, human and animal alike.
After the ride, we scarf down various sandwiches from a nearby café: spinach, egg, meat & cheese, tuna. These little white bread sandwiches are ubiquitous around Rome, very cheap, and very satisfying. Also easy to find in this city is amazing coffee. I never drink my coffee black in the US, but here it is just so rich and flavorful. Some guidebooks say that it is “un-Roman” to drink coffee all day, but I say drink it at every possible opportunity. My favorite is just a shot of espresso, with or without sugar. But also try machiatto, café freddo, and even café doppio (double shot) if you want a flavor explosion. We eat and drink coffee until we can’t move, then like amorphous blobs floating through space, we somehow drift back to our Rome Home.
Nap time for baby, siesta time for adults. Here in Rome, Jack naps from 3:30 to 6:30, so by the time we venture out again it is much cooler and the locals are beginning to emerge from the caves they hide in during the hottest part of the day. By 8pm, the piazzas of Trastevere are packed with people, eating, drinking, strolling, living the Roman lifestyle. I love this time of day here. Taking Jack for an evening stroll through the crowd of revelers makes every night feel like a festival, and maybe it is here. Jack likes to wear sunglasses at night.
I recently encountered a Roman who told me that people in this city don’t know how to work hard. I can’t comment on whether that’s true, but it certainly does seem like nobody is in a rush to do anything. I could sit at a café for three hours with one glass of wine, and the waiter will never rush me out the door. As an American, so used to immediate gratification, so used to a culture that teaches all young people that hard work for its own sake is a virtue, I sometimes struggle to accept this slower pace. But really, what is the point of hard work for its own sake? The point of work is to accomplish a goal, not to achieve a sense of soul satisfaction simply from the act of working. Here people have jobs, but they certainly don’t seem to value industry above all else. Maybe I’m buying into a stereotype, but they don’t seem to care all that much about getting things done. Joy is derived from the act of hanging out with friends, laughing, eating, and taking it slow. It’s almost as if I need to unlearn how to be an American in order to fully appreciate this life.
Yesterday I saw a group men in their thirties sitting on a park bench in the middle of a work day. These were not bums, but well-dressed men of working age. There they sat, with nowhere to be, doing nothing, without a care in the world (as far as I could tell). I watched them for sometime as Jack played in a nearby playground. They weren’t eating lunch, just sitting and watching. At one point, one man stood and wordlessly walked over to a child’s bicycle leaning against a post. He looked at the bicycle quizzically for a moment, as if he had never encountered such a thing before. Then he rang the little bell twice, turned around to look silently at his friends, and returned to his seat, his curiosity satisfied.
What is that life? How do I bring that home with me? Now granted, I do like to work, I love having a project. I couldn’t give up that Puritan work ethic, its baked in too deeply (even though I can claim no Puritan ancestry). But can I bring home a balance that includes just a piece of that Italian vibe? Can I still satisfy my insatiable need to create (that same drive that makes me write music, update a blog, build a website), but still be able to sit on a park bench for hours and find satisfaction in leisure? After all, why do I work hard if I can’t then put down my project and enjoy the finer things? Like lying around while my son performs a melodica solo.
Aren’t moments like these the most important moments in life?
After our siesta, we walk to Ponte Sisto, a piazza next to a bridge where young Italians are to be found every evening lounging on the steps, listening to the rotating street musicians who seem to work in 20 minute shifts. Down the steps to the banks of the River Tiber, a long row of restaurants and bars trace the curve of the river. More eating, more drinking, more sitting. By the time we get back home, it’s close to midnight, another Roman day well-spent.
Did we build great structures? No. Did we get richer? No. Did we relax and enjoy life, bond and laugh and lounge and live like Romans? Si! Right now, I couldn’t ask for more.
P.S. Jack made friends with an Italian waiter at a cafe today. The waiter was watching Jack from afar as Jack sat in his chair at the cafe, basking serenely in the sun like a cat, enjoying every bite of his chocolate cookie. Jack was in no rush to go anywhere or do anything. He was a master at chilling. His only job in the world was to savor good food, to people-watch, to close his eyes and rest, to just be. He was a true Italian. The waiter came up to us and said, “Now there is somebody who knows how to live.” I couldn’t agree more.
Tonight I am in Rome, cooking with my son. On the menu: antipasti plate, insalate, and potato gnocchi all’amatriciana (a traditional Roman sauce made from guanciale – find the recipe here). Jack is my special helper in the kitchen. I have found that one of the best ways to pass the time with a three year old is to cook a luxurious meal together. Jack loves to put spices in a bowl, fetch ingredients, sample the food as we cook it, and talk about what’s happening in the pan (“look Jack, bubbles!”). One of my primary goals on this trip was to cook a massive Roman feast for my family, so I intend to draw this out as much as possible.
Before we begin I open a bottle of Barolo, also known as “the king’s wine,” and let it breathe for a bit.
This particular wine goes very well with meat and cheese, so my first task is to craft the perfect antipasti platter. My particular version might not necessarily be “authentic,” but it includes everything I am in the mood to munch on. Let’s see, we have salami ventricina, prosciutto, pesto, crusty bread, soft bread, ricotta cheese, Romano cheese, green olives, anchovies, tomatoes, basil, olive oil with red pepper, and balsamic vinegar.
As I set each item out, I discuss the colors and textures with my sous chef, and we sample each item one by one. By the time everything is arranged, the wine is ready to drink! The flavors are warm and inviting, rich and complex. I especially enjoy the anchovies with bread, salami, cheese, basil, and tomato. These anchovies come pre-filleted and packed in oil and salt in a jar, perfect for eating or cooking!
Jack’s favorite is crusty bread and green olives. I’ve never met a toddler who loves olives as much as Jack (I certainly didn’t at that age, or even now to be honest). I think perhaps people are born either loving or hating olives. Perhaps it’s like a gene. Some scientist will probably study this in the future and solve this mystery once and for all.
Well I could eat this combo all night, but there is work to be done. Time for another glass of wine! I mean, time to cook more stuff. First we brown the guanciale just a bit, until it starts to shed some of its yummy fat into the pan. Guanciale is a type of pork made from pig jowls (mmm jowls). To say the least, it is succulent. It isn’t really a bacon flavor, but instead a buttery, soft, melt-in-your-mouth little chunk of fat that give any dish it touches a distinct porky flavor. A little goes a long way, so I decided to cook up a bunch! I’m not sure where I will find this meat in America, but I intend to hunt for it.
Now come onions, red pepper, mushrooms, and tomatoes, cooking together in the pig fat (with some olive oil too because why the hell not it’s delicious).
I’ve heard that Americans cannot tell the difference between rancid olive oil and fresh olive oil, so many of the olive oils in America are crap. I’m not sure if that’s true, but I can say that this jar I bought today is fresh and aromatic and flavorful! In fact, all of these ingredients taste so high quality, so fresh, so gourmet, as if I bought them at a five star restaurant. But they were all purchased with a 100 yards of my apartment in Trastevere. It makes me wonder what kinds of additives and impurities I eat every day in America. What is really inside a can of American tomatoes? What chemicals are sprayed on American basil? What hormones did the pig ingest? It’s sad to think about, so I’ll save that conversation for another day. It’s best to be mindful and live in the moment. My kitchen is starting to smell incredible, and I have lots more wine to drink. I am in Rome with my son, cooking traditional Italian food with authentic ingredients, sweating in the heat of the afternoon, drinking the king’s wine. Ah life!
I’m realizing that most of my favorite travel memories seem to involve food. On all of my road trips and journeys around the world, culinary experiences stand out in my mind like monuments. The fish eye I ate in Taipei, the fried pickles in Idaho, the lobster in Maine, the dumplings in Prague, the currywurst in Berlin… those are the experiences I take home with me, the scents and flavors I cherish when I reflect on past adventures. But I am more than a food tourist. It’s really about the whole ambiance, the vibe of a place. In Rome, it’s the food, but also the gentle lull of the dialect, the long relaxing meal, the exquisite wine, the hand gestures, the cigarette smoke, the cobblestones, the beautiful dresses and finely-tailored suits, the vespas, the crumbling buildings, the clothes hanging on wires, the all-encompassing heat. It’s all part of the package, all part of the magic.
The sauce has been bubbling for quite some time now, so I think it’s time for me to go boil some gnocchi. For now I will say ciao! As the Italians say, may you eat well, laugh often, and love much.
This ancient city will always hold a special place in my heart. The last time Erica and I were here, we had been married for exactly one day. Dazed and elated, as in a dream, we found ourselves gliding across the yellow countryside on an Italian train, bound for Rome. This was our first stop on a whirlwind European adventure through multiple countries. We only had a couple jetlagged days to soak in the magic of this place, so we followed the well-trodden path of the typical American tourist: running from monument to monument in the blazing sun, feasting on pasta and pizza and gelato until we couldn’t move, gaping in awe at the wreckage of an empire that once spanned the known world. We were two newlyweds in a very old place. We felt the weight of history. We woke at the darkest hour of the night and compared the sizes of our feet.
Now five years later we have returned, this time with a special traveling companion: our three year old son Jack.
Magic and wonder, those are the first words that come to mind when I picture traveling the world with my son. Some people write about the difficulty of flying across the sea with a young child, others provide strategies for what to pack and how to keep the little tyke entertained while you dine out. I just want to write the words magic and wonder, because that is what I feel.
Jack is the most amazing little person I have ever met. His curiosity and adventurous nature are contagious. He is easy-going and excited for life. He wears a fedora like he was born to do it. Watching him march confidently down a Roman alleyway, or try new varieties of food, or shout “ciao” to passersby (and dogs) fills me with such love I cannot describe.
Again the weight of history bears down on me. Jack is such a new little life, exploring his world, and I am his parent shielding him and teaching him and showing him the ropes. How many others have come before me, how many have walked these same streets, streets that were paved before Christ was a glimmer in his Father’s eye. How many parents have loved and guided their tiny children in this endless city, watched with trepidation as those babies took their precarious little steps over these worn out cobble stones? How many husbands and travelers and lovers and writers and artists and dreamers and musicians and businessmen (and all the other things I try to be) have thought these same thoughts while staring at the Tiber? Who has stood where I stand today, and what did they think and feel?
Practicing our Italian at the Trevi Fountain.
Being human means celebrating one’s own uniqueness while recognizing that everything we ever do has been done with endless repetition across the span of time. I love picturing the father who visited Rome with his wife and three year old son in the year 1291. The Pantheon and Colosseum were ancient even then. Did he watch his beautiful child play in a fountain and ponder his place in the universe? Did he squeeze his wife’s hand and whisper “I love you” as the sun set over the ruins? Did he keep a blog on some long lost scroll?
This is what history means to me, that we are all the same, that we are all connected by our humanness. Now that I have a tiny human of my own I feel more connected than ever.
Jack isn’t quite so philosophical as all that. He mostly wants to eat biscotti and splash in the fountains.
We have rented an apartment for three weeks in the heart of Trastevere, a restaurant-packed medieval neighborhood full of twisting alleyways and bars bursting with real-life Roman locals. No racing from place to place, no all-day walks across the burning city, no tourist track this time. We want to live like the Romans live. Jack and I go out in the morning and buy fresh fruit at the nearby street market. I drink coffee while he plays in the piazza, in the shadow of a 1,000 year old church. Erica and I eat at our leisure and people-watch and drink wine in the heat. We’re in no rush.
Jack loves to run up and down the alleyways. Up and down, up and down, repeat. He runs as fast as he possibly can, pumping his arms and scrunching up his little face into the very definition of (cute) intensity. Then he gets tired and plops down, mission accomplished. When he’s tired he sits on a stoop and looks around, taking it all in, storing up energy for the next sprint. For the moment he is perfectly content to sing quietly to himself, stare at the bright summer sky, and say ciao to any dogs that pass by. For Jack, it’s about the journey.
Cherishing the local cuisine.
Tonight we sat for two hours in the Piazza di Santa Maria in Trastevere. Jack brought some toys and spread them all out on the steps of a fountain. I sipped a large beer and watched as young people gathered on the steps to laugh and smoke and gossip. Street musicians came and went, but we remained. Nowhere to be. Basking in the ambiance of a clear Roman evening, practicing the art of doing nothing.
When I return to California, I plan to bring this Roman style of living back with me. That will be my souvenir. Stop, cherish life. Eat well, love passionately. Laugh, drink, live!
