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Diedr Blake/dblake@johncabot.edu/ CW 356 Why Rome Knitting isnt Sexy Ive started knitting again. It isnt a good sign, especially given where I am. Really, Rome is a city of action (in every sense of the word), of connection (watch out for people and traffic), of well, stuffhow many stores can there actually be on one street? And, dont forget, it is a city of loneliness, but we can carry that just about any- and everywhere with us, right? As for me, the only action and connection that I have been getting lately have been my nervous fingers rapidly pushing double-pointed needles and passive-aggressively pulling at strings of yarn that Im certain, if they could speak, would ask me in plaintive unison, Why? As for stuff, well, I am beginning to understand that I lacked wisdom when I said, Oh, hell no! to paying that extra $50 to bring another suitcase filled with stuffyou know, like the oh-so-necessary ethnic minority-oriented stuff, given my cappuccino-colored skin and distinctly curly a.k.a. nappy hair (I can own it) and the recent melting of my LOreal foundation in the unexpected heat of the Roman autumncrying became my official method of selfexpression for a day. A piece of advice, dont try to freeze melted foundation. It doesnt help. Well, anyway, the point is that my tourist- love-affair with Rome is over. And it ended with the appearance of my knitting needles (double-pointed, straight, circular, bamboo, metal, plastic, you name it) and the disappearance of the once-present ye ole good nookie (which had taken the form of a tall, broad-shouldered, blonde dred loced musician from somewhere east in Europe). At the very least, I understand that the honeymoon is soooo over. I know this because I no longer have that warm and fuzzy feeling, something akin to nausea, when crossing the streets here. Actually, I feel quite ready to do battle against the buses, motorini, cars, vans, and

Diedr Blake/dblake@johncabot.edu/ CW 356 any other of the fast- moving vehicles that are driven by either maniacally sadistic Italians or completely incompetent touristsBring It On Now, it is me knitting at home. Me, sitting on a bus, knitting. Me, standing in the metro, knitting. Me, walking home or to the university or through my beloved Piazza Navona, knitting. I think you get the idea. There is a lot of knitting going on. I am in Rome. Rome is sexy. I am knitting. Knitting is so not sexy.

***** Cast on I thought that I had managed to cast off, pun intended, my old life and old ways once I boarded the airplane for Rome. Apparently, I was gravely mistaken, which is readily apparent by the growing stashno, not marijuana, I mean yarn. Just for the sake of full disclosure, I am Jamaican, but I am (apparently) the least Jamaican Jamaican that anyone who has ever met me has met. I hope that sentence made sense. The point is this: I have somehow managed to begin recreating the very circumstances from which I was desperately trying to separate. This was not just about the yarn and knitting issue. This was about my entire approach to rebuilding my life. As an art therapist, I suppose I should have painted my way through understanding why this happened and also towards a solution. Unfortunately or perhaps fortunately, travelling with paints has become quite a hassle these days. Thus, its me and my laptop and my words.

Diedr Blake/dblake@johncabot.edu/ CW 356 I suppose the best thing is to reflect a little on what brought me to this placeI will forewarn that my discussion of my past is limited at best. This is out of respect for myself and those who are important to me. After all, the past is truly in the past for me and hopefully those who have been in the previous chapters of my life. Well, lets see how far back I can reach without getting too tedious.

Diedr Blake/dblake@johncabot.edu/ CW 356 Action is a Step Away Rome is truly a city of romance. You know, tourists and Italians (mostly Italians) making out on the street, on buses, in the subway, in front of my apartment building. Everything about this city breathes and oozes sex (carefully disguised as love, of course). Just take a look around, from the Fountain of the Naiads in Piazza della Repubblica (truly a dedication to that other meaning of water sports) to the strange prevalence of lingerie stores throughout Romes historic centre. Yes, the upturned crotches of mens underwear (and womens too) of all colors, styles, and sizes are beautifully showcased in external display boxes, on internal graphically anatomically correct full- and half-sized mannequins (erect nipples and all), and any coverable surfaces in the many lingerie stores along Via Nazionale. This is one of the first things I noticed during my initial visit to Rome just over a year ago. The other thing I noticed was the abundance of religious persons: Nuns, priest, monks, etc.yes, yes, I know the Vatican, but still It is constant whiplash experience of the dichotomy inherent within the city. Rome begs you to move rapidly (or just get the hell out of the way) and yet to sit still (do you know about the bureaucracy here?). Forget the whole Eternal City mantra. Rome announces gladly to its visitors, Welcome to sacred hedonism. Today, I find myself surrounded by the people who are currently populating the city and those who have never left. That is, the madly-rushed touristsyou know, the Lets go see another site before the day is over, before we have to leave, before someone starts crying, or bitching, etc. There are also the cant-wait-for-a-coffee-and-cigarette-break employees, who have yet to start the days work. Mind you, when they actually do start work, their day is punctuated by that break every other hour and a potentially half-day long lunch. Yes, of course, I am trying to get a job here. Well, what of me? I am trying something new today.

Diedr Blake/dblake@johncabot.edu/ CW 356 I have decided, given my many months now in Rome, to take a familiar path to an unfamiliar place. (Hmm Perhaps, Ill take one of those many side streets and happen upon, oh I dont know, a hidden piazzawhat are the chances of that happening?). So, its a happy jaunt through the ever-populated Piazza Navona to a new place I have circled on my well- used street map, Campo Marzio. I am beginning to get a sneaking suspicion as I make my way through alleyways, catcalls, peddlers, and psycho drivers that I have been this way before. This became even more apparent when I made a rather loud A- ha! sounddo this, by the way, if you want to frighten random tourists and pickpocketsat rediscovering Giollitti, a rather large gelateria that I am sure has been blessed by the gods, ancient and modern. Mind you, I have only tried the gelato here once, and that was quite some time ago. Still, I like that my memory keeps intact my own version of reality. I walk on. I will not give up hope. Rome is a city of hidden treasures. Thus, I continue my journey and make my way down (or up, I am no t quite sure) Via di Campo Marzio towards the general direction Piazza di Spagna. (Yes, I have been there, but I figured the back alleys should provide some novelty.) This street reminds me of a quainter (if that can really be said) version of the ridiculously opulent Via dei Condotti, where people find it safer, financially, to take pictures outside of the store windows and signs than to actually enter. At least, they can say, I was here. I wouldnt call myself a window shopper, but I do have a tendency to look at stuff in windows and subsequently the prices of said stuff. Via di Campo Marzio is lined with stores that label their stuff with prices that would cause me (and perhaps others too) a mild coronary. As a

Diedr Blake/dblake@johncabot.edu/ CW 356 result, my desire to look at window displays all but disappears as I walk along. I cannot even bring myself to glance in the general direction of one store, Davide something-or-other, which has decidedly taken up half the block, the rest is possessed by Herms. There are few tourists here. Actually, there are few people here, with the exception of store employees (men), who keep busy by checking themselves out as well as the odd passerby (women).

Diedr Blake/dblake@johncabot.edu/ CW 356 Connection isnt Obligatory There is a particular occupation of Italian males that I be lieve must be highly expected and duly ignored. I call it the Sexual Objectification Initiation Program. It is like a built- in computer program that is implanted at an early age in the brain of the average Italian male. I will explain in further detail. Just keep reading. Rome is a city of attraction. Attraction, sexuality, sensuality are a way of life here. Above all, there is an exceptional appreciation of beauty that surpasses issues of race and ethnicity. Really, I have been told, on more than one occasion, that Romans are not racist. Romans merely suffer from an acute case of grand aestheticism. No, no, really (my Italian friends assure me of this every time they see me), no matter what race you are, if you are perceived as beautiful, then Romans will accept you. Not only that, but they will absolutely let you know about it. (Now, think back to the above- mentioned Program.) Roman males, in particular, try to be specific in their feedback and will let you know just where you fall on their personal attraction rating scale, even if they do not know you at alllets not worry, for now, about whether or not you have asked for this information. For them, it is seemingly an automatic thought-to- mouth (or foot- in- mouth) experience of the Program, which if I had to write its code in Standard English would be something like this: 1. If Roman man, then notice all women. 2. If woman perceived as young and attractive, 3. Then stop mid-action, mid-conversation, mid-anything. 4. Ignore intelligent thought.

Diedr Blake/dblake@johncabot.edu/ CW 356 5. Revert to caveman- like utterances, of which the only intelligible words are ciao and bella. 6. Ignore womans response. Be persistent. 7. Repeat process until life on earth ends, 8. OR if wife and/or girlfriend present, break process by remaining silent (unless complete asshole). Ciocolatta It is evident at this point that Roman men are completely fixated on some completely erroneous notion as to the sweetness and sexual disposition of Black women well, at least, this Black woman. What is this notion? Simply that Black women are always readily available for sexual favors. How do I know this? Well, it is so much of an issue that while researching my first visit to Rome online, I discovered a warning for Black female travelers to be aware that Italian men might think that they are prostitutes due to the high number of North African women who are prostitutes in the major cities.

Diedr Blake/dblake@johncabot.edu/ CW 356 Stuff is Found Everywhere Leaving the-place- formerly-known-as-home has meant spending a lot of time now thinking about all my stuff that I left behind. I rarely miss people and I do not understand the concept of homesickness. But man, do I miss my stuff. Travelling has been a way of life for me from a very young age. Being rooted somewhere has been something that I could hardly conceive of until I came to Rome. It has been strange to feel so strongly connected to a place, where I have very few of my personal belongings. My relationship with Rome has been like this, however, from the very start. It has been over a year now since my very first days here. And through the accidents of life, those first days were spent alone. I had to be with myself. More importantly, I had to deal with my stuff (yeah, the other kind of stuff), which I had been successfully avoiding for (lets just say) a very long time. Rome is a city of history. Perhaps it was walking through the ancient streets. Perhaps it was the beauty of the towering ruins that put my own mortal life into perspective. Whatever it was, Rome allowed me then to let go of all that burdened me. That first week was the first time that I felt free from everything. Now that I am living here, I understand that most people (a.k.a. tourists) have come in search of something within the ancient ruins, something magical. Perhaps they believe that Rome will give to their lives something more than they had before. I see this often in Piazza Navona, which is always filled with people, animals, building and stuff Sitting there one night, I tried to capture some of the essence of visiting Rome (or at least the piazza) with a bit of writing,

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Diedr Blake/dblake@johncabot.edu/ CW 356 Pseudo-vendors, pashmina scarves, knock-off bags, street musicians. Prints of prints, genuine art and gelato, waiters and those who would invite you inNo refrigerated foods here. Broken cobblestones. Carabinieri who never see anything or anyone. Homeless, legless Beggars of all varieties. Three fountains, buildings form a unit. Time never stops. Time doesnt exist. Pictures taken. Sadness felt. Happiness bought and sought and lost. Children will not remember, babies especially. But still parents point and say, Look! See! Empty. Construction workers repair old fountain, north entrance then south. The middle In Rome, Piazza Navona is the most ruined piazza of them all. So, at least one person says. Spinning lighted wheels twirl high in the air and create magic at night for those who will not stay, cannot stay, choose not to stay, or say vacation not home. Red roses drip still wet from being drenched in ancient-looking standing water fountain, where hands were washed, bottles filled, pictures taken The piazza, a mountain filled void. Is it too late for a disclaimer about the writing?

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Diedr Blake/dblake@johncabot.edu/ CW 356 Loneliness isnt Everything I live in Garbatella, a neighborhood that was built in the 1920s (yes, think Mussolini) and I swear is Romes lesbian Mecca. I mention this, because I am very queer. (By the way, Im in the midst of shuffling sexual identity labels, going from lesbian to I dont know, womanwho-sleeps-with ) I moved here earlier this spring, and my apartment and its little dead-end street have become my sanctuary. The studio-type space that I live in is pink. The walls are pink, the curtains are pink, the bedding is pink, even the knick-knacks are pink. Now, you might think, Dang! Whats up with all the pink?? To me, it is comforting and takes me back to my childhood room, in which everything was pink, my favorite color (then not now). Also, there is a convent at the end of the road, not that Ive ever seen the nuns. Even so, just seeing the convent reminds me of the five really strange years that I lived in a convent, from ages nine to fourteenStrangely enough, this is comforting too. All these memories have been keeping me company as I try to build my new life here in Rome. Rome is a city of companionship. I have managed to become friends with some of the street performers of Piazza Navona as well as students at the university, not to mention the more harmless of the Italian men who love to endlessly greet and meet you as you go about your day. I have even managed to become friends with myself. It is hard to be alone in Rome There are just too many people and there is just too much going on. People here are in your face, dismissing the concept of persona l space, and busily trying to shove you out in order to take your place. Rome makes you aware that you are a part of something, of history, of people.

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Diedr Blake/dblake@johncabot.edu/ CW 356 And even so, Rome can make you lonely

On Being Single And Not When the news that my ex, who had been strategically avoiding contacting me for some months, had started a relationship upon my departure reached my ears, I was pleased. No, really. I was pleased. I wanted her to move on. I wanted to move on.

Welcome to the Jungle Rome makes you a cougar. I dont know why. Its just the way of Rome. You come here thinking and feeling that you would never date someone ten years older yourself and then, WHAM, you find yourself involved with some boy who has yet to learn what it means to live independently. Actually, lets rephrase that, because there are many men in their 30s here in Rome who are still living at home with their parents. So, WHAM! You find yourself involved with some boy who has yet to complete college. Actually, lets rephrase that, because there are many men in their 30s here in Rome who are still trying to complete their undergraduate degree. Do you think the third time will be the charm? The reality is that there isnt much difference between dating a younger man and a man your own age here in Rome with one exception. Typically, the man your age is married with children and wants you as a side event (Ignore it when he says that he is separated or really not together. It means only for the moment of the conversation that you are having with him.)

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Diedr Blake/dblake@johncabot.edu/ CW 356 On the other hand, there is a prevalence of the desperate and divorced, almost middle-age and older men who are seeking women who are ten to thirty years youngerI have a feeling this is insurance for the later years when they will need to be taken care of.

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Diedr Blake/dblake@johncabot.edu/ CW 356 It is What It is My friend Rola asked me the other day, Why Rome? It is not an unfamiliar question. Ive been asked this question perhaps a hundred times or so since making the decision to create a life hereI asked myself this even today. I could be effectively eating, praying, and loving my way through my life as a soon-to-be-divorced thirty-something year old Buddhist, who is recently out of a torrid love affair with a young artist type and seeking to find happiness and self- love. That could be in the realm of possibility. I could be simply following a fated path, being pulled along by some unknown force towards a predestined future. That, too, is possible. I could be trying to know what it is to finally live for myself and not for others. I could be trying to allow my life to define itself by the happiness I feel in each day based upon the actions that I choose to take, rather than the decisions I have been forced to make. I could be simply taking life as it comes something that I have learned here in Rome. Life is like knitting. In knitting, there are only two stitches: knit and purl. Yet, with those two simple stitches, you can make many intricate and beautiful things but you can also make a hot mess of a tangled misshaped monstrosity. Luckily, with knitting you can unravel and start over (or shove the horror in a dark corner and never speak of it again). Luckily, too, with life you can choose to end what is not working, find a new path and begin to move forward once more. In the end, it is what it is whether knitting needles in hand or Rome as home.

Entering the Jungle I am the type of person who enjoys staring, which works out well in Rome, where everyone stares at you with either hostility or lust. There really isnt a middle- ground, which

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Diedr Blake/dblake@johncabot.edu/ CW 356 works out well for me. I know who to avoidalmost everyone. Anyway, I remember learning this as a child from someone, possibly my mother or a book, that staring was rather impolite. I found over the years that following social constructs was not to become one of my strong suits. The point is that at this very moment I find myself sitting in Termini Station, engaged in the activity of staring. My mother would not be proud, regardless of the fact that this time I am staring with purpose. There is a constant flow of people that move through the halls and tunnels of Termini. Approximately four hundred and seventy- five thousand people enter Termini between five in the morning and midnight (2:00am on Saturdays) for one purpose or another: working, dining, shopping, meeting, coffee-drinking, traveling, stealing, living, dating, exhibiting (drunkenness and private parts), and being arrested (when the Carabinieri pay attention long enough to do their job). I am of the meeting variety, at least tonight.