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The Long Walk |
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written
by joelnish / 10.24.2005 |
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Part 1: |
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Visually the Protestant cemetery is an interesting display of almost violent individualism. Each grave seems to be waging a war of egos with its neighbors, responding and overshadowing each other. There doesn’t seem to be a unifying theme that the graves are trying to enforce, only a collection of bodies disjoint in time, purpose and life. Individually the gravestones would draw me closer, asking me to inspect and read each tomb, trying to piece together the images that make a life. Yet the net effect I find is that I am overwhelmed by the wave of marble. I make a beeline for Shelly and then Keats’s grave, though slowly.
The oddest thing about the Protestant cemetery is how it manages to seem incredible quiet while literally being numbingly loud. The two sections of the cemetery each have their own dominant noise. The one that holds the grave of Shelly is filled with the sounds of what in America I would label crickets. The grinding, chirping racket I associate with the South or the tropics. The section that holds Keats is bordered by an incredibly busy thoroughfare. This makes it so loud that I almost have to shout in order to be heard. But this feels awkward, I’m afraid to break the silence even if there isn’t any. It is a statement about the power of the cemetery that it remains a solemn and meditative place despite its setting.
In fact the whole cemetery feels entirely detached from the outside environment even though the smells and sounds find their way in while the taller building peek at us from above the wall. Passing through the entrance way makes me feel as though I’m entering a world of the dead. The rich foliage of the cemetery reminds me of the richness of life but the very stillness of a tree also seems to scold movement and action. In fact there is a distinct lack of action all around me. Even the tomb stones with vivid sculptures of angles bursting into the sky seem only to reinforce the fact that they are frozen in stone, never to move--I think part of it is how the close the space feels, trees and graves squeeze in, there simply isn’t enough room for the angel to fly. I am left to meditate on the idea of individuality in the stillness of death.
The British military cemetery is a completely different feeling. The graves are lined into perfect rows like a phalanx. Trees are also made to comply to the order of the soldiers. The shape of each grave is the same as the other, only with different logistics. A disciplined millimeter or two of grass covers the ground between the walkway and the graves, seemingly guarding the graves from intimacy. The cemetery is more a monument than a resting place. It conveys the message that the men sacrificed their lives in battle for some great purpose. Even now they are unwilling to break their lines united in the time, place and purpose of their death. Their individuality is noted but it was the group that is important. There are no elegies. The outside world is more visible; it serves as a reminder of the noble sacrifice. The cemetery is elegant in its simplicity, though indisputably militant.
Yet the military cemetery falls kind of flat with me. The message that the cemetery conveys seems so at odds with the city of Rome as I know it that I end up with a quizzical feeling even if I started with a reverent one. I tend to think that the ideals that WWII symbolizes are valuable; but in Rome grand things are rather cheap—I use the Forum as a short cut and the Vatican as a post office. Rome is a grave of so many soldiers how are these few so different? Perhaps after seeing so many ruins of imperial ambition it is hard to recognize a monument to freedom. And now that Rome has me thinking I wonder how true those ideals of democracy and freedom are if in death the soldiers are granted only the smallest concessions to individuality.
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Part 3: |
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I was not drawn in by Piazza Testaccio. I actually felt more pushed out. I felt assaulted by the stale smell of raw meat and could only wonder about the quality of the red lumps of flesh the vendors displayed. The clothing vendors sold shirts that I did not care for, and clothes I most likely could not fit into to. The few men’s shoes that were for sale I knew would only end up being too narrow for feet that are wide even by American standards. It reminded me of the markets I’d been to in Bali and these bring back a hurried, stressed and sad atmosphere. Memories of an island vacation ruined by constant bargain hunting in a recession, and of business deals where one side felt cheated.
Even the structure of the place caught me off guard. The market seemed particularly disinterested in the world around it, making almost no effort to advertise or make its presence known to the passerby. Inside of a wall of aluminum shops that faced inside rather than out I could glimpse a larger opening that held fruit stands, open air and sun. Yet even though that particular inner courtyard seemed inviting I could not shake the feeling that I stood out too much, that I was somewhere where I wasn’t supposed to be. In the Campo markets I can blend in and fade away while I shop, but at Testaccio I don’t think I could become anything less than an oddity. Besides, tt felt too busy a place for someone who had no real business to attend to, so I left to eat, drink and rest.
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