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The Long Walk |
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written
by nmdaybaz / 10.24.2005 |
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Part 1: |
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Upon entering the Protestant Cemetery, one is immediately greeted by tendrils of ivy brushing against the visitor to these grounds. Rows of tombs fill the gradually inclining bank, each marker as unique as the deceased they represent. Lives from throughout the past several hundred years are at rest in this cemetery. The sites are gently dappled with sunlight that is filtered through the leaves of the many trees shading the cemetery. On the tomb of one, a black cat stretches and yawns, while a tabby cat gazes lazily from beneath the bushes of a grave nearby. Various types of foliage are abundant at each site, nestling the gravestones in a mottled sea of green. Walking along the paths, reading the personal epitaphs engraved upon each stone, one comes to realize that this is more than just a final resting place for the dead. It is a place of comfort, a place of love and care. Each gravesite is carefully tended; the plants that grace the tombs are not weeds, but selections worthy of a garden. Stray cats call the cemetery their home, and can expect a full meal once a day at place nearby. It is a welcoming place, inviting anyone in to enjoy the sanctuary it provides. Amidst the busy traffic in the streets outside, it offers a tranquil oasis for the passerby.
Only a brief walk away is the British Military cemetery. One enters into the cemetery through a stately gazebo, on which a proclamation regarding bravery of the soldiers buried is inscribed on the interior ceiling in both Latin and English. From the gazebo itself, rows of orderly headstones are visible. Dignified white marble, they stand at attention, as if they remain in command in place of the deceased soldiers whose graves they mark. Each identical headstone differs only in the individual epitaph and symbol inscribed above. The rows of graves, parallel to the wall of Rome, are precisely spaced between a neatly manicured lawn and a token plant is well pruned between each headstone. There are no paths between the graves, and one feels as if they are to be admired from a distance. The atmosphere is peaceful, yet filled with admiration and respect for those who gave their lives for freedom. This cemetery is a place of quiet reflection, and reverence for the dead.
Both cemeteries accomplish the same purpose: providing a resting place for the dead, and a place to mourn for those living. Yet despite this commonality they share, there is a distinct difference between the intentionality of each site. The Protestant cemetery provides a comforting feeling to the visitor, as if it is inviting them to stay and meander through the graves. Enclosed by its own walls, the cool shade of the trees and the friendly presence of the cats creates a relaxed and tranquil ambiance. One comes to mourn the individual, as each grave has its own story, from its own period of time. People varying from poets and writers, to children and politicians are at rest at this site. This is in contrast to the feeling created by the British Military cemetery, in which the visitor feels as if they should whisper out of respect to the dead. Bound on one side by the wall of Rome, it is as if the city is now protecting its defenders. The uniformity of the graves is representative of the uniformity of their purpose. Each soldier died for the same objective, and one can come to the cemetery and mourn and honor the group as a whole. They were together in battle and now are together in their resting place.
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Part 3: |
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Upon approaching the market in Piazza Testaccio, brightly colored skirts hanging amidst other women’s clothing catches my eye. I walk up and run my hands through the material, not even looking at the individual items, but just taking in how they feel. Despite the tempting price tag and the inviting colors, I just give the vendor’s wares a glance over and continue my path into the market, knowing that I can return if I don’t find anything else more tempting. Passing by odd booths of shoes, where pairs of women’s shoes hang by string as if they are cuts of meat, I finally make it into the center where all the food is being sold. I pass by a few counters full of raw meat and produce until I realize that our group is the only non-Americans in the market. Watching the meat vendors banter back and forth, I almost feel as if I know what they’re saying, although I don’t understand a single word of their conversation. I imagine they have grown up with this market, and their children will carry it on for them as they did for their parents. Even some of the customers milling around the counters seem to be on intimate terms with the vendors, as if they come every day- and probably do. I feel like an outsider, initially drawn in by the bright colors- like some strange magpie- and once inside I realize how out of place I am. But as I continue through the market, I realize that I’m not an outsider, I may not be life long friends of any vendors, or even speak the language. Yet despite this, as I exit the market I realize I am no different than anyone else. I still have money in my pocket, the vendors want to sell things to me, and I look to buy them. These are the same things that any of the Italians are at the market for, and the same reasons that any market exists. As I pause one last time to peruse a table full of beaded jewelry, I know that I am just another potential customer, the language I speak may be different, but the money I carry is still the same.
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