giovedì 20 dicembre 2007
Vanilla Sky
One of the benefits of being an American living in Rome, is the type of people you can meet. By serendipity or some reason or other, I have been able to embed myself into the Roman music scene. I have encountered a ton of groups here because of it, met Ian MacKaye, Geoff Farina, Bane, and became friends with a guy named Vinx, who happens to now be the singer of a group called Vanilla Sky, obviously a name taken from the film featuring Tom Cruise and Penelope Cruz. This band is taking Italy by force right now, I don't know if you've heard of them in the States or not, but they have been on Italian MTV, TRL, played all over Europe and Asia. And they even covered a really famous American song. Check them out.
venerdì 14 dicembre 2007
Romesick
I haven't posted in a while, and for that I'm sorry. Though I highly doubt that any of my friends are actually reading this. Anyways, here's my update:
I am back in the cold, cold Pennsylvania, fending for myself once again while my grandmother puts me up for free... I guess that doesn't constitute "fending for myself", but fuck off. I work at Charlie Brown's Steakhouse as a waiter. Most of my coworkers are either just out of high school or 30+ years old and act like they're just out of high school. Either way I don't fit in. I keep entirely to myself, and have only managed to memorize a total of 3 people's names. Thank God for nametags! I was told before starting that it wasn't unusual to make 100 bucks a day, but so far the most I've managed to make in one day is 65, bringing my week's total up to 200 bucks. Still not half bad, but not as good as I'd like it to be.
My grandmother, for those of you who don't know, is an insufferable old wench who spends her days drinking vodka tonics and watching the news. She is certifiably insane, suffering alternately from agoraphobia, schizophrenia, vertigo, paranoia, etc. If no one is around to cook for her the most she will eat on a good day is a banana sandwich. Maybe she'll put peanut butter on it. Maybe.
Last week her alcoholism caught up with her. At 7am she called me on my cell phone. This wouldn't be unusual if it weren't for a) it was 7am, and b) I live downstairs. I answered it all groggy and confused and she told me she couldn't get out of bed. She falls sometimes, a culmination of all of the above listed symptoms, and so I got out of bed and went upstairs. She asked me to hand her some pants and I grabbed what were on the floor. They were wet, and not wanting to know why, I threw them aside and grabbed another pair. Then I helped her into the bathroom before going back downstairs to fall back asleep. At 10am (3 hours later) she called me again on my cell phone and told me she couldn't get out of the bathroom. I went back upstairs and helped her back to her bed. She asked me to bring her
a glass of water. I handed it to her, but her hands were shaking too bad and she shook all the water over herself. I grabbed another one and set it on her night stand before getting dressed for work.
On my way out I stuck my head back into her room. If you need anything, I said, you know where I'll be. Ok, she said.
A few hours later a police officer showed up at my work. It was my second day, and having a cop show up asking for you on your second day doesn't bode well. Luckily my manager stood there while the cop explained that Carolyn (what I've always called my grandmother) was in the ER. My boss let me off work early and I went to see her. Carolyn is a feisty woman and when I showed up she was swatting at the nurses and pulling out all the IV's they'd stuck in her, screaming the whole time about how she was going to "sue everyone". The nurse asked me about Carolyn's drinking and I obligingly explained. Then the nurse asked where Carolyn gets the alcohol if she never leaves the house. Well, I buy it for her.
How stupid I felt having to explain that I'm the one who makes her daily liquor store runs. But what am I supposed to do? I live in her house for free, and I drive her car every day. If I refused she'd most likely kick me out of her house and disown me. So I do what I can.
The next week she was going through detox. If you want to know suffering, go watch a 20 year strong alcoholic go through detox. She hallucinated for 3 days and, as the nurse told me, didn't sleep at all. During my daily visits she never even realized I was in the room. She kept calling me "Brother Renfro." I don't know who "Brother Renfro" is or even if he "exists", but I imagine he is someone from her childhood on a Blackbelt cotton farm in South Alabama.
For the week it was me alone in her house. I was at a new job where I didn't fit in, and in a town where there is nothing to do and I know nobody. My only companion was my grandmother's pet dog, a small toy poodle, black, and named after an Uncle Remus, "Song of the South" character, Briar Patch. Briar Patch was never house trained. She is a yippy, neurotic dog who pees on the floor every time I walk in the room. Then she runs away. I get the impression that she doesn't like me. She spent all of the week hiding somewhere in the house and peeing all over everything tangible.
Needless to say, I was going a little insane.
Carolyn got back from the hospital yesterday, however, and is now back to her usual antics, drinking and accusing me of doing made up things. My week was strange and led to some interesting self-reflection, but it was the destructive type of self-reflection, not the constructive type that Rome was always giving me. My life is waxing and waning right now. I don't know what else to say. The album I am listening to is about to end, and when it does I am going to stop typing, even though my blogs never really have an ending. Just a bunch of build-up and then no release, or an anti-climactic release. Maybe I should put more thought into these things, eh? What's your opinion, reader (reader other than Jim, that is)?
I am back in the cold, cold Pennsylvania, fending for myself once again while my grandmother puts me up for free... I guess that doesn't constitute "fending for myself", but fuck off. I work at Charlie Brown's Steakhouse as a waiter. Most of my coworkers are either just out of high school or 30+ years old and act like they're just out of high school. Either way I don't fit in. I keep entirely to myself, and have only managed to memorize a total of 3 people's names. Thank God for nametags! I was told before starting that it wasn't unusual to make 100 bucks a day, but so far the most I've managed to make in one day is 65, bringing my week's total up to 200 bucks. Still not half bad, but not as good as I'd like it to be.
My grandmother, for those of you who don't know, is an insufferable old wench who spends her days drinking vodka tonics and watching the news. She is certifiably insane, suffering alternately from agoraphobia, schizophrenia, vertigo, paranoia, etc. If no one is around to cook for her the most she will eat on a good day is a banana sandwich. Maybe she'll put peanut butter on it. Maybe.
Last week her alcoholism caught up with her. At 7am she called me on my cell phone. This wouldn't be unusual if it weren't for a) it was 7am, and b) I live downstairs. I answered it all groggy and confused and she told me she couldn't get out of bed. She falls sometimes, a culmination of all of the above listed symptoms, and so I got out of bed and went upstairs. She asked me to hand her some pants and I grabbed what were on the floor. They were wet, and not wanting to know why, I threw them aside and grabbed another pair. Then I helped her into the bathroom before going back downstairs to fall back asleep. At 10am (3 hours later) she called me again on my cell phone and told me she couldn't get out of the bathroom. I went back upstairs and helped her back to her bed. She asked me to bring her
a glass of water. I handed it to her, but her hands were shaking too bad and she shook all the water over herself. I grabbed another one and set it on her night stand before getting dressed for work.
On my way out I stuck my head back into her room. If you need anything, I said, you know where I'll be. Ok, she said.
A few hours later a police officer showed up at my work. It was my second day, and having a cop show up asking for you on your second day doesn't bode well. Luckily my manager stood there while the cop explained that Carolyn (what I've always called my grandmother) was in the ER. My boss let me off work early and I went to see her. Carolyn is a feisty woman and when I showed up she was swatting at the nurses and pulling out all the IV's they'd stuck in her, screaming the whole time about how she was going to "sue everyone". The nurse asked me about Carolyn's drinking and I obligingly explained. Then the nurse asked where Carolyn gets the alcohol if she never leaves the house. Well, I buy it for her.
How stupid I felt having to explain that I'm the one who makes her daily liquor store runs. But what am I supposed to do? I live in her house for free, and I drive her car every day. If I refused she'd most likely kick me out of her house and disown me. So I do what I can.
The next week she was going through detox. If you want to know suffering, go watch a 20 year strong alcoholic go through detox. She hallucinated for 3 days and, as the nurse told me, didn't sleep at all. During my daily visits she never even realized I was in the room. She kept calling me "Brother Renfro." I don't know who "Brother Renfro" is or even if he "exists", but I imagine he is someone from her childhood on a Blackbelt cotton farm in South Alabama.
For the week it was me alone in her house. I was at a new job where I didn't fit in, and in a town where there is nothing to do and I know nobody. My only companion was my grandmother's pet dog, a small toy poodle, black, and named after an Uncle Remus, "Song of the South" character, Briar Patch. Briar Patch was never house trained. She is a yippy, neurotic dog who pees on the floor every time I walk in the room. Then she runs away. I get the impression that she doesn't like me. She spent all of the week hiding somewhere in the house and peeing all over everything tangible.
Needless to say, I was going a little insane.
Carolyn got back from the hospital yesterday, however, and is now back to her usual antics, drinking and accusing me of doing made up things. My week was strange and led to some interesting self-reflection, but it was the destructive type of self-reflection, not the constructive type that Rome was always giving me. My life is waxing and waning right now. I don't know what else to say. The album I am listening to is about to end, and when it does I am going to stop typing, even though my blogs never really have an ending. Just a bunch of build-up and then no release, or an anti-climactic release. Maybe I should put more thought into these things, eh? What's your opinion, reader (reader other than Jim, that is)?
giovedì 13 dicembre 2007
The Sun Rises at 7 AM in Rome
"You're an expatriate. You've lost touch with the soil. You get precious. Fake European standards have ruined you. You drink yourself to death. You become obsessed by sex. You spend all your time talking, not working. You are an expatriate, see? You hang around cafés."- Bill Grundy to Jake Barnes in "The Sun Also Rises" by Ernest Hemingway.
Last night, I went to a cafe with my friends and drank shitty European cocktails, when I came home, I opened a bottle of red wine and started to read "The Sun Also Rises." I came across this line this morning and decided to reevaluate my life.
My friend Eóin arrives today from America. Maybe we can go on a fishing trip in Spain.
Last night, I went to a cafe with my friends and drank shitty European cocktails, when I came home, I opened a bottle of red wine and started to read "The Sun Also Rises." I came across this line this morning and decided to reevaluate my life.
My friend Eóin arrives today from America. Maybe we can go on a fishing trip in Spain.
domenica 9 dicembre 2007
"Life" Drawing "Lessons"
Being an artist fresh out of art school in Philadelphia can be a tough life. Being a recently relocated illegal immigrant artist fresh out of art school is another world in itself, filled with barriers, beginning with language and ending in all together bad days.
It seemed to start like this; I had been going around Rome my new home in Italy posting flyers that stated I offered private drawing lessons in English. I will save everyone the effort and do all the translating from Italian to English. I placed thirty of these around the city, and received two phone calls! Just two. The first was from a student, and he thought my 25 Euro an hour fee was too high, the other was from a man that worked near Piazza Barberini, a really swanky part of town. He didn’t seem to have any problem with the price.
I usually work as a tour guide at the Vatican Museums. When one moves to a foreign country illegally, doesn’t speak the language better than a three year old and has a degree in sculpture this is what you do. I work with artists from all over the world, all trying to get by on our meager income and the generosity of our clients.
The tourist season came to an abrupt halt the first week in November, forcing me to find other work to pay off my student loans, and keep my mind off the fact that I have been living as a quasi-illegal immigrant for the past 3 months.
It was Thanksgiving Thursday, and I was leading a tour through St. Peter’s Basilica when my phone rang. I didn’t give it much thought to whom it could be, but when I finished my tour and dropped off the headset system at Bernini’s colonnade, I pulled my phone out and realized it was a number I didn’t recognize. I immediately called it back, and in my horrendous Italian began a conversation with my first real potential student. He told me he was from Ciampino a town outside of Rome that developed around the airport. It is the only real suburb in this part of Italy. I associate Ciampino with a few things. 1. Ciampino is where I would wait most nights to get picked up when I missed the last train to Marino. 2. Ciampino is the home to coatti (Italian for meatheads) 3. Ciampino is where that cute communist girl Silvia that I made out with one night lives. 4. Other than Termini train station, Ciampino is my least favorite place in central Italy, due to the amount of useless time I wasted there trying to get home at night.
I give the man the benefit of the doubt though, and because he says he works near Piazza Barberini see only dollar signs, or maybe Euro signs, but I don’t think there is a saying for that yet. I address him in the “Lei” form, which shows respect. I am trying hard to use this as much as possible with people I don’t know because it is important, especially when talking to the guards at the Vatican. He immediately answers me back in the “tu,” which I find to be a relief; it lets me put my guard down a bit. He apologizes and then asks if it is okay that he addresses me that way. I tell him “of course.” We discuss a little bit about the lesson, where they will be held, and when we can schedule. Rome has so many beautiful sights; I put on my flyer that lessons can be held indoors or out depending on the student’s interests. We agree that if the weather suits it we will meet at Piazza Barberini, if not we can meet at my house, because there is no way in hell I would go to Ciampino if I didn’t have to. He asks me if I am free immediately. I say “no, but I am free every day after three.” He asks, “Well, it is almost three, why can’t we meet today?” I noticed he was being a bit pushy, but chalked it up to a business attitude. I told him “Today is Thanksgiving. We can meet tomorrow at three if you wish.” He agrees. I am more than excited, thinking about that twenty-five euro that is going to be in my wallet come Friday!
I wake up that Friday, and have a lunch appointment with my friend Yashar at one. After getting dressed, and eating a small breakfast consisting of a cornetto dipped in milk, I head out to buy materials for the lesson. I also said that I would supply the student with the first set of materials. I buy a pad of paper, pencil and eraser, totaling nine euro. My twenty-five Euro is now down to sixteen. I get on the metro, and meet Yashar at Piazza Re di Roma, where we usually meet for lunch at a place called Dominus. We eat; discuss finding an apartment together, and the upcoming weekend. He says, “Hey man, I’m proud of you, you moved to Italy and got a good job, and now you have private students too. Awesome man!” After lunch Yashar and I go to the supermarket and I buy some fruit for setting up a still life. My sixteen Euro is now reduced to eleven.
I get back on the metro and start thinking about how I will run the lesson. When I get close to my house, the man calls. He says, “Meet me at the Piazza, I think the weather will be nice today. I am wearing a black hat and a black scarf.” I get to my house and pack up my book bag with all my materials, and some examples of my own work. As I exit the front door, I run into Elena, my landlady and the girlfriend of Jordan, my only American friend in Rome. Jordan is the guy that gave me the idea to give private lessons. He makes a lot of money giving English lessons to kids. Elena is an interior designer, and owns the studio apartment I live in and also the house above me. (We live in a community of buildings built between the 17th and 19th century. In the early 20th century this place was brothel community. Pasolini also made parts of his movies here. The people that live here now are all related to the art world in some way.) Elena offers me a ride on the back of her motorino (scooter) into the center of town. After riding the metro more than five times already that day I hastily agreed.
I had never ridden on the back of a motorino before, and had never been on one at all in Rome. The only feeling I could compare it to might be something like being Audrey Hepburn in "Roman Holiday". It was the giddiest I had ever felt. We passed by Rome in a flash, jetting across streets and staring at monuments. I remembered why I moved here, and was excited to be giving an art lesson to a real Italian.
Elena dropped me off at Piazza Repubblica, and I jumped on the metro one more time to go one stop to Barberini. I exited the metro and looked at my phone. I had three missed calls from my student. I had put him in my phone as “draw,” because I didn’t understand his name. I called draw, to see where he was. He informed me that he just received a phone call from some out of town friends and he had to go to Termini Station. He would be at a place called Bar Bruno, and would be ready for me when I arrived. Frustrated I got back on the metro for my seventh time that day and went to meet him.
I exited the metro, walked through Termini to the Via Marsala, and found the bar. Walking passed some shady looking characters and to the back of the bar, I realized there was no one in the place except for those shady characters. I walked back to the front of the bar, and asked saw the man in the black scarf and black hat. He didn’t resemble the man I had talked to on the phone at all, but his voice matched perfectly. I thought maybe something was up, but I didn’t want to judge anyone based solely on appearance. He was missing his bottom row of teeth, and his nose was covered by broken blood vessels. I put my hand out to shake hands, he took it, squeezing firmly, and then moved in to kiss me on the cheeks, a very normal thing for friends in Europe to do, but I was to be this man’s drawing instructor, not his friend. I began to feel the slightest bit uncomfortable, and thought maybe it best to leave. He gave me the opportunity, asking if I could wait outside for him while he spoke with his friends. He told me he would be ten minutes, and since I had already spent the money on his art supplies, I decided to call my friend Yashar, and ask his advice on if I should stay or go.
Yashar didn’t really have a chance to say anything, because when he answered. I had already decided that I would leave the man there by himself, because he had already wasted an hour of my time, but by the time I got these words out, I could see the man leaving the bar. I told Yashar “If you don’t hear from me within the hour, contact the police.” He seemed frightened and concerned, but the man was approaching. I hung up on Yashar and decided I would stick out the lesson.
We got on the metro, and rode the two stops to the Piazza Barberini. On the ride, I started asking him basic questions about drawing. I ask him why he wants to study drawing and what type of drawings he would like to make. He says, “I’m not sure, but five years ago, there was a man that made portraits atop the Piazza di Spagna. He made a portrait of me, and it cost me thirty Euro. I would like to be able to make the same type of portraits for my friends. Do you know how to make portraits?” I let him know that I specialize in portraiture and figure drawing. He tells me “I want to take pictures and make them larger.” The man has obviously never studied drawing before, but I have a good feeling that I can teach him enough that he will be able to one day make a decent portrait from a photo. I tell him to bring a photo he likes next time, and we will learn how to enlarge it. We exit the metro.
The exit of the metro is also the beginning of the Via Veneto, the same street that houses the US Embassy. He says he knows a park near us, where we can have the lesson. I try and stay away from this part of town because the food is expensive, and I usually want to steer clear of US officials, but I am unaware of this park he speaks of, and since Rome has so many beautiful parks, I am eager to see a new one. We get on the 53 bus, and travel up the Via Veneto. He informs me “I used to be a boxer, I come to this park to practice sports.” In my mind, I think “Okay, that is reason enough for his missing bottom row of teeth, and battered nose. Maybe this guy isn’t all that bad.” He asks me if I every played sports. I told him I rowed crew for seven years, I had to explain crew by making the rowing motion. He asked me if I had ever boxed, I told him “no, but I had taken Karate.” he asked if I had a black belt, I said, “no, it became too expensive, but I had studied both American Kenpo and Goju Ryu. Like the Karate Kid.” He didn’t understand. He begins to tell me about this problem he has with his leg that has been impeding him from running lately. Asks me if I know anything about muscles, I tell him “I know anatomy from studying sculpture and karate.” He goes on to tell me that he had to go to the pharmacy and purchase a cream that needs to be applied, to get rid of the inflammation. Our bus ride ends.
As we exit the bus, I immediately know where I am, we are at the North East entrance of the Villa Borgese, a park about as large as New York’s Central park, and filled with some of the best museums in Rome. I tell him “I know this park very well, over there is the Galleria Borgese, with all the most important Bernini sculptures. Why didn’t you tell me the name of the park? We could have met here, everyone knows where this is.” He kind of ignores me, his mind seeming to be on other things, asks me if I want a cigarette, I let him know I don’t smoke. He lights up. He asks, “So you’ve done karate, then you know how to give massages?” To this I really get back on my guard, my adrenaline had been pumping since I encountered this guy, but now I was really wishing for my knife. I had left it at home, because when I work at the Vatican I can’t bring it. I emphatically told him, “No, I do not know how to give massages, I know how to give drawing lessons!” I had been sizing the guy up since he asked me if I had ever done sports, and when he told me he was a boxer, I thought it was an intimidation tactic. I figured I could take him. He was smaller than me, and smoked a lot. He also seemed to be in his later 40’s. I knew I could take him, and I really wanted my money, I figured even if I had to fight for my money, I would get it, but this was the first time I had the feeling that this guy didn’t want to mug me, he wanted something a little more personal.
We continue our trek through the park for about three minutes, it is filled with people, and I am comfortable with my surroundings, I know I will be able to get away if need be. I tell him I don’t want to go any further, and if he wants his lesson, we should stop walking and begin. He reassures me that the place he wants to draw is really close by, and points to it. It is close, and also close to the highway. The Villa Borgese has a highway running through it, and is raised a good seventy feet from the road. He points to a staircase. This staircase leads down. There are lights; it resembles the type of staircase one would find in a parking garage. He motions for me to follow him down the steps. I exclaim “I do not feel comfortable following you down the steps, and I would like to hold the lesson outdoors in open air!” He says, “No, come here there is light, and it is clean.” I let him know that he has to go down at least fifty meters ahead of me, because I don’t feel comfortable. He agrees, I take this as my chance to disappear, but out of curiosity, I begin traveling down the beginning of the staircase searching for the bottom. I can’t see it. I know he is far beneath me, and have no real sense of danger. Then, I look up, and he is right next to me. He says, "Leave me here, I have to pee." The staircase reeks of human feces, and now I am really scared. I look over the stairs, and see a disgusting mattress and a locked door that leads to nowhere. My only way out is passed this man, who has covered the three steps in front of me with urine. I try to calmly say, “There’s a problem.” He replies, “Is there someone sleeping there?” I say “yes!” “Hold on one minute while I piss, then I will fix the problem!” He reassures me. I take my chance to escape as he is still urinating. I leap over the piss covered steps and run for my life. He screams after me, “JIM, JIM, WHERE ARE YOU GOING?! IT’S CLEAN!” I scream back, FUCK YOU! I’M NOT GAY! I GIVE DRAWING LESSONS, NOT BLOWJOBS ASSHOLE!” I keep running, passed groups of people, onto the Via Veneto, and into what looks like metro entrance. I slide down the escalator, movie chase scene style, pushing Italian women out of the way, and keep running. The hallway is lit red, and is so ominous feeling that I am about to cry, I realize that I made a wrong turn and I am in a parking garage and not the metro, I frantically search for the exit, I find it, and go up. I am back in front of the park entrance. I did all that running to end up closer to the fucking crazy sex solicitor than I was when I started. I tried my getaway again, this time straight down the Via Veneto, running like the illegal immigrant I am passed cops, and into waiters, almost knocking one over. I get to the real metro stop assured that I am out of any danger, and call Jordan. I start screaming, ”The motherfucker wanted to solicit sex from me!” Jordan lets me know, “I was meaning to tell you, I just forgot, there are a lot of crazies in the city, and a lot of people that just want blowjobs, you have to be careful.”
It seemed to start like this; I had been going around Rome my new home in Italy posting flyers that stated I offered private drawing lessons in English. I will save everyone the effort and do all the translating from Italian to English. I placed thirty of these around the city, and received two phone calls! Just two. The first was from a student, and he thought my 25 Euro an hour fee was too high, the other was from a man that worked near Piazza Barberini, a really swanky part of town. He didn’t seem to have any problem with the price.
I usually work as a tour guide at the Vatican Museums. When one moves to a foreign country illegally, doesn’t speak the language better than a three year old and has a degree in sculpture this is what you do. I work with artists from all over the world, all trying to get by on our meager income and the generosity of our clients.
The tourist season came to an abrupt halt the first week in November, forcing me to find other work to pay off my student loans, and keep my mind off the fact that I have been living as a quasi-illegal immigrant for the past 3 months.
It was Thanksgiving Thursday, and I was leading a tour through St. Peter’s Basilica when my phone rang. I didn’t give it much thought to whom it could be, but when I finished my tour and dropped off the headset system at Bernini’s colonnade, I pulled my phone out and realized it was a number I didn’t recognize. I immediately called it back, and in my horrendous Italian began a conversation with my first real potential student. He told me he was from Ciampino a town outside of Rome that developed around the airport. It is the only real suburb in this part of Italy. I associate Ciampino with a few things. 1. Ciampino is where I would wait most nights to get picked up when I missed the last train to Marino. 2. Ciampino is the home to coatti (Italian for meatheads) 3. Ciampino is where that cute communist girl Silvia that I made out with one night lives. 4. Other than Termini train station, Ciampino is my least favorite place in central Italy, due to the amount of useless time I wasted there trying to get home at night.
I give the man the benefit of the doubt though, and because he says he works near Piazza Barberini see only dollar signs, or maybe Euro signs, but I don’t think there is a saying for that yet. I address him in the “Lei” form, which shows respect. I am trying hard to use this as much as possible with people I don’t know because it is important, especially when talking to the guards at the Vatican. He immediately answers me back in the “tu,” which I find to be a relief; it lets me put my guard down a bit. He apologizes and then asks if it is okay that he addresses me that way. I tell him “of course.” We discuss a little bit about the lesson, where they will be held, and when we can schedule. Rome has so many beautiful sights; I put on my flyer that lessons can be held indoors or out depending on the student’s interests. We agree that if the weather suits it we will meet at Piazza Barberini, if not we can meet at my house, because there is no way in hell I would go to Ciampino if I didn’t have to. He asks me if I am free immediately. I say “no, but I am free every day after three.” He asks, “Well, it is almost three, why can’t we meet today?” I noticed he was being a bit pushy, but chalked it up to a business attitude. I told him “Today is Thanksgiving. We can meet tomorrow at three if you wish.” He agrees. I am more than excited, thinking about that twenty-five euro that is going to be in my wallet come Friday!
I wake up that Friday, and have a lunch appointment with my friend Yashar at one. After getting dressed, and eating a small breakfast consisting of a cornetto dipped in milk, I head out to buy materials for the lesson. I also said that I would supply the student with the first set of materials. I buy a pad of paper, pencil and eraser, totaling nine euro. My twenty-five Euro is now down to sixteen. I get on the metro, and meet Yashar at Piazza Re di Roma, where we usually meet for lunch at a place called Dominus. We eat; discuss finding an apartment together, and the upcoming weekend. He says, “Hey man, I’m proud of you, you moved to Italy and got a good job, and now you have private students too. Awesome man!” After lunch Yashar and I go to the supermarket and I buy some fruit for setting up a still life. My sixteen Euro is now reduced to eleven.
I get back on the metro and start thinking about how I will run the lesson. When I get close to my house, the man calls. He says, “Meet me at the Piazza, I think the weather will be nice today. I am wearing a black hat and a black scarf.” I get to my house and pack up my book bag with all my materials, and some examples of my own work. As I exit the front door, I run into Elena, my landlady and the girlfriend of Jordan, my only American friend in Rome. Jordan is the guy that gave me the idea to give private lessons. He makes a lot of money giving English lessons to kids. Elena is an interior designer, and owns the studio apartment I live in and also the house above me. (We live in a community of buildings built between the 17th and 19th century. In the early 20th century this place was brothel community. Pasolini also made parts of his movies here. The people that live here now are all related to the art world in some way.) Elena offers me a ride on the back of her motorino (scooter) into the center of town. After riding the metro more than five times already that day I hastily agreed.
I had never ridden on the back of a motorino before, and had never been on one at all in Rome. The only feeling I could compare it to might be something like being Audrey Hepburn in "Roman Holiday". It was the giddiest I had ever felt. We passed by Rome in a flash, jetting across streets and staring at monuments. I remembered why I moved here, and was excited to be giving an art lesson to a real Italian.
Elena dropped me off at Piazza Repubblica, and I jumped on the metro one more time to go one stop to Barberini. I exited the metro and looked at my phone. I had three missed calls from my student. I had put him in my phone as “draw,” because I didn’t understand his name. I called draw, to see where he was. He informed me that he just received a phone call from some out of town friends and he had to go to Termini Station. He would be at a place called Bar Bruno, and would be ready for me when I arrived. Frustrated I got back on the metro for my seventh time that day and went to meet him.
I exited the metro, walked through Termini to the Via Marsala, and found the bar. Walking passed some shady looking characters and to the back of the bar, I realized there was no one in the place except for those shady characters. I walked back to the front of the bar, and asked saw the man in the black scarf and black hat. He didn’t resemble the man I had talked to on the phone at all, but his voice matched perfectly. I thought maybe something was up, but I didn’t want to judge anyone based solely on appearance. He was missing his bottom row of teeth, and his nose was covered by broken blood vessels. I put my hand out to shake hands, he took it, squeezing firmly, and then moved in to kiss me on the cheeks, a very normal thing for friends in Europe to do, but I was to be this man’s drawing instructor, not his friend. I began to feel the slightest bit uncomfortable, and thought maybe it best to leave. He gave me the opportunity, asking if I could wait outside for him while he spoke with his friends. He told me he would be ten minutes, and since I had already spent the money on his art supplies, I decided to call my friend Yashar, and ask his advice on if I should stay or go.
Yashar didn’t really have a chance to say anything, because when he answered. I had already decided that I would leave the man there by himself, because he had already wasted an hour of my time, but by the time I got these words out, I could see the man leaving the bar. I told Yashar “If you don’t hear from me within the hour, contact the police.” He seemed frightened and concerned, but the man was approaching. I hung up on Yashar and decided I would stick out the lesson.
We got on the metro, and rode the two stops to the Piazza Barberini. On the ride, I started asking him basic questions about drawing. I ask him why he wants to study drawing and what type of drawings he would like to make. He says, “I’m not sure, but five years ago, there was a man that made portraits atop the Piazza di Spagna. He made a portrait of me, and it cost me thirty Euro. I would like to be able to make the same type of portraits for my friends. Do you know how to make portraits?” I let him know that I specialize in portraiture and figure drawing. He tells me “I want to take pictures and make them larger.” The man has obviously never studied drawing before, but I have a good feeling that I can teach him enough that he will be able to one day make a decent portrait from a photo. I tell him to bring a photo he likes next time, and we will learn how to enlarge it. We exit the metro.
The exit of the metro is also the beginning of the Via Veneto, the same street that houses the US Embassy. He says he knows a park near us, where we can have the lesson. I try and stay away from this part of town because the food is expensive, and I usually want to steer clear of US officials, but I am unaware of this park he speaks of, and since Rome has so many beautiful parks, I am eager to see a new one. We get on the 53 bus, and travel up the Via Veneto. He informs me “I used to be a boxer, I come to this park to practice sports.” In my mind, I think “Okay, that is reason enough for his missing bottom row of teeth, and battered nose. Maybe this guy isn’t all that bad.” He asks me if I every played sports. I told him I rowed crew for seven years, I had to explain crew by making the rowing motion. He asked me if I had ever boxed, I told him “no, but I had taken Karate.” he asked if I had a black belt, I said, “no, it became too expensive, but I had studied both American Kenpo and Goju Ryu. Like the Karate Kid.” He didn’t understand. He begins to tell me about this problem he has with his leg that has been impeding him from running lately. Asks me if I know anything about muscles, I tell him “I know anatomy from studying sculpture and karate.” He goes on to tell me that he had to go to the pharmacy and purchase a cream that needs to be applied, to get rid of the inflammation. Our bus ride ends.
As we exit the bus, I immediately know where I am, we are at the North East entrance of the Villa Borgese, a park about as large as New York’s Central park, and filled with some of the best museums in Rome. I tell him “I know this park very well, over there is the Galleria Borgese, with all the most important Bernini sculptures. Why didn’t you tell me the name of the park? We could have met here, everyone knows where this is.” He kind of ignores me, his mind seeming to be on other things, asks me if I want a cigarette, I let him know I don’t smoke. He lights up. He asks, “So you’ve done karate, then you know how to give massages?” To this I really get back on my guard, my adrenaline had been pumping since I encountered this guy, but now I was really wishing for my knife. I had left it at home, because when I work at the Vatican I can’t bring it. I emphatically told him, “No, I do not know how to give massages, I know how to give drawing lessons!” I had been sizing the guy up since he asked me if I had ever done sports, and when he told me he was a boxer, I thought it was an intimidation tactic. I figured I could take him. He was smaller than me, and smoked a lot. He also seemed to be in his later 40’s. I knew I could take him, and I really wanted my money, I figured even if I had to fight for my money, I would get it, but this was the first time I had the feeling that this guy didn’t want to mug me, he wanted something a little more personal.
We continue our trek through the park for about three minutes, it is filled with people, and I am comfortable with my surroundings, I know I will be able to get away if need be. I tell him I don’t want to go any further, and if he wants his lesson, we should stop walking and begin. He reassures me that the place he wants to draw is really close by, and points to it. It is close, and also close to the highway. The Villa Borgese has a highway running through it, and is raised a good seventy feet from the road. He points to a staircase. This staircase leads down. There are lights; it resembles the type of staircase one would find in a parking garage. He motions for me to follow him down the steps. I exclaim “I do not feel comfortable following you down the steps, and I would like to hold the lesson outdoors in open air!” He says, “No, come here there is light, and it is clean.” I let him know that he has to go down at least fifty meters ahead of me, because I don’t feel comfortable. He agrees, I take this as my chance to disappear, but out of curiosity, I begin traveling down the beginning of the staircase searching for the bottom. I can’t see it. I know he is far beneath me, and have no real sense of danger. Then, I look up, and he is right next to me. He says, "Leave me here, I have to pee." The staircase reeks of human feces, and now I am really scared. I look over the stairs, and see a disgusting mattress and a locked door that leads to nowhere. My only way out is passed this man, who has covered the three steps in front of me with urine. I try to calmly say, “There’s a problem.” He replies, “Is there someone sleeping there?” I say “yes!” “Hold on one minute while I piss, then I will fix the problem!” He reassures me. I take my chance to escape as he is still urinating. I leap over the piss covered steps and run for my life. He screams after me, “JIM, JIM, WHERE ARE YOU GOING?! IT’S CLEAN!” I scream back, FUCK YOU! I’M NOT GAY! I GIVE DRAWING LESSONS, NOT BLOWJOBS ASSHOLE!” I keep running, passed groups of people, onto the Via Veneto, and into what looks like metro entrance. I slide down the escalator, movie chase scene style, pushing Italian women out of the way, and keep running. The hallway is lit red, and is so ominous feeling that I am about to cry, I realize that I made a wrong turn and I am in a parking garage and not the metro, I frantically search for the exit, I find it, and go up. I am back in front of the park entrance. I did all that running to end up closer to the fucking crazy sex solicitor than I was when I started. I tried my getaway again, this time straight down the Via Veneto, running like the illegal immigrant I am passed cops, and into waiters, almost knocking one over. I get to the real metro stop assured that I am out of any danger, and call Jordan. I start screaming, ”The motherfucker wanted to solicit sex from me!” Jordan lets me know, “I was meaning to tell you, I just forgot, there are a lot of crazies in the city, and a lot of people that just want blowjobs, you have to be careful.”
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