One of the most memorable cities was Rome.

***

Not to distract from our main story, but I have been to Italy once before. In 2005 I went to visit some extended family in Mola di Bari, a small town in Southern Italy. During my time there I met a kid named Nicky who was originally from South Carolina, but had moved to Mola at age five(ish).

Nicky and I became friends almost immediately – we were both excited to hear someone speaking English. However it wasn’t until I fixed his Playstation 2 that we became full-out comrades.

When Dimitri and I were planning the trip and decided to visit Italy, I gave Nicky a call to let him know the dates and to see if he could meet us. To our surprise he mentioned that he had just gotten a place in Rome and offered us a place to stay! We eagerly accepted – money was already going to be a problem, and a case of beer is much cheaper than room and board.

***

It was week three of our trip, and we’d already seen Madrid, Barcelona, Paris, Amsterdam, Prague, and Munich. We had recently left Venice and were almost in Rome. Our Eurail train debarked at about 10PM local time, and immediately I called Nicky.

“Hey man, we’re in town; we just got off the Eurail!”

“Awesome, ok you need to take the subway to [some stop]. Call me when you get there.”

“Sure thing, see you soon!”

We took the subway to [some stop]. It wasn’t very long, maybe 20 minutes. As we got out of the station, I called Nicky again to let him know where we were. He didn’t answer.

For almost two hours.

There we were, luggage in tow, sitting on the steps of a random train station in a random city on the outskirts of Rome. Looking around, we quickly noticed that it wasn’t the best of neighborhoods: dirty streets, skelly-looking people, few lights. Our only option was really to wait it out.

Suddenly at 11:30, Nicky calls.

“Dude I’m so sorry, I left my phone in the car.”

“It’s fine, whatever, where are you?”

“Well, now you have to take a train to [some other stop].”

“Wha..? What do you mean?”

“Just go to the train station and take it to [some other stop].”

“Nicky, the train station closed 45 minutes ago. How are we going to get there?”

After some bickering, we decided just to take a cab. Unfortunately, the cab fare to this particular destination was 40 euro. We weren’t very happy about it, but at this point our options were either to blow 40 euro, or to spend the night on the subway steps. It was an easy decision.

We got dropped off 25 minutes away on a dimly-lit street in front of a closed-down post office. After midnight. In Rome. With our all of luggage.

Fifteen minutes later, Nicky picks us up in a car. Now, you have to remember where we are; by “car” I mean one of those tiny FIAT rides that look like they could fit two and a half normal-sized people (or seventeen clowns). We then drive another fifteen minutes to his apartment.

Let me tell you, dear reader, that even after this long and terrible wait, my cousin and I are still ready to go out, party, and be assaulted by hundreds of beautiful Italian women. When we reached Nicky’s apartment, however, we were disappointed by the fact that there was absolutely zero chance of ever getting a decent young lady to come back to this place. Let’s step into the shoes of a visitor to this extremely humble abode.

The first red flag would have been the communal bathroom and kitchen for the floor. Actually, back up: the first red flag is step one into the building, where we are immediately told by Nicky to be extremely quiet so as not to wake anyone. No talking, no humming, no loud walking, no loud breathing.

Enter Nicky’s room (the apartment only had one). See complete disarray. Gaze for a spot to put your belongings for a moment until being told, “Oh, just move some things around; don’t worry about it.” Wonder how you will ever get a decent night’s sleep on top of three couch cushions, using your jacket as a pillow.

***

In the morning, we get up at around 7AM. Rome wasn’t built in a day, but that’s all the time we had to sightsee, so we needed to get an early start. I suppose it worked out that this also happened to be the time Nicky had to wake up for work.

The route to the city is actually a bus, then a train, then the subway, resulting in about an hour’s worth of travel. We board the bus, and ask Nicky if we need tickets. A chuckle and a “No” were the answer.

Then we watched in horror as the bus made its second stop and the ticket police boarded.

Dimitri and I look at each other with a wide-eyed “oh snap” kind of look, and then at Nicky with a “what the hell are we supposed to do now?” kind of look. Nicky says, “It’s ok, I got this.”

He proceeds to pretend to be an American tourist playing dumb. Let me remind you, dear reader, that Nicky has been living in Italy for the better part of his life and is a fluent speaker of Italian. This was possibly the worst idea ever.

After some back and forth, they lay it out to us simply: either we pay 50 euro each, we go to the police office and pay 100 euro, or we ditch the ticket, having a bill sent to our embassy for 220 euro. That pretty much made the decision for us.

This trip had already cost us 150 euro, not including the phone bill for the night before. Thoroughly annoyed and relatively broke, Dimitri and I parted from Nicky and took to the city.

***

Rome is a gorgeous city. Although running around doing everything in one day was less than ideal, we still managed to appreciate everything and take a lot of great pictures. It’s definitely a city that you have to experience for yourself, if for nothing else than to see School of Athens and the Sistine Chapel ceiling at the Vatican.

With blistered feet and sore backs, we ran around the ancient cobbled streets in flip flops through the Vatican and Sistine Chapel, from the Pantheon to the Trevi Fountain, from the Spanish Steps to the Colosseum.

***

Later that night, we made a plan to meet back up with Nicky so that he could introduce us to some beautiful Italian women. We met him at a bus stop in the city. The three of us sat around waiting for Nicky’s friend to pick us up. Apparently he had some sort of plan, but none of us really knew what it was. None of us, including him, it seemed.

An hour later we crammed into another one of those Italian clown-cars and drove for 30 minutes. Dimitri and I had no idea what was going on. It was at this point that we discovered that our destination was the beach! We were a bit confused, though, as it was 10 PM and we were not in beach wear by any means. The Italians told us not to worry. Feeling annoyed and, much worse, completely out of control, Dimitri and I looked at each other with a look that said “How much worse could it possibly get?”

***

The next thing we knew, we saw green lights hovering in the clouds: huge, looming green lights in the sky, emanating from some big structure.

After parking, we found the source: un concerto sulla spiagia – a reggae beach concert!

Our Roman adventure suddenly took a sharp turn from frustrating and chaotic into happy and enjoyable. We were amazed and completely forgot about all the trials of the day and just enjoyed ourselves. Beer and wine and street food and lots of beautiful Italian women; how could it get better than this?

Even looking back on the entire five-week trip through nine different cities and eight different countries (not including the stops in between), this is one of my most treasured memories. I think it’s the feeling that we really just earned it; like all the discord throughout the day was just a precursor to make the icing on the cake taste that much better.

There’s a moral here somewhere, although I think I’ll have to stretch to find it. Maybe it’s that if ever you go to a strange city and your friend offers you a place to stay, make sure he isn’t just talking.

Editorial Board Review

Gay’s book is a naturalistic journey through personal memories. Using different mediums to illustrate these reminiscences, Gay utilizes acrylic paints, water colors, and pastels along with items found around her. What follows is an enchanted look at timeless experiences within her life. One can almost feel of the ocean’s spray and grit of the sand as you view the page entitled Beach. The brilliant colors of fall are reminiscent of walks in the park with leaves crunching underfoot in Leaves. And lastly the Rosemary page literally brings the pungent scent to mind when immersed in the beautiful imagery there.  A compelling portrait of fond memories.

***

Every Thanksgiving, my family would come together at my grandparent’s mountain house in north Georgia just outside of Helen. We went there mainly so my grandparents would not have to travel. It also is the most central location between all of my family. We are all spread out to where some live in North Carolina, and the rest all over parts of Georgia.

Every Thanksgiving was the same routine. We would pack the night before, go to school, be picked up by Mom and/or Dad a little early and head straight up to the mountains. As that time neared for my parents to check me out of Elementary school, the excitement always grew.

The drive up there seemed like it would take days because of all the anticipation and excitement to see everyone. Once we got onto the highway, it was just trees and cars. There really was not anything to look at. To help pass time, my brother and sisters and I would interact with each other. We often played the classic license plate game, trying to see who could find the alphabet in order first. My younger sister would always “win” partly because she had not quite learned the alphabet.

Another fun past time on the trip was to fight with each other. This game would often get mom and dad involved too. One time, we got into a fight over cup holders. As we drove through a fast food restaurant, my parents started to pass back the drinks. The problem was that the 1990 Toyota Previa we had did not have but maybe 2 cup holders, which were both located in the front. To help compensate, my parents bought several cup holders to hang from the window. We could not find all of the holders so we battled with each other over who would get a cup holder.

If not fighting with each other, my brother and sisters would sleep while I sat and listen to my Sony Walkman. I only had one tape at the time, the Free Willy soundtrack. While listening to the music, I sat there looking out the window at the same repetitive stuff, trees, grass, mountains, nothing exciting. All I could think about was how much fun it would be to go and play tag or capture the flag in some of the fields we passed. This also led to thoughts about what types of stuff us kids would do when we finally could get out of the car. When would we get there?

As the drive continued, we became more and more antsy. Because of this, about an hour into the drive every other thing we said was:
“Are we there yet?”
“Are we there yet?”
“How much longer?”
“Are we there yet?”

When we finally arrived, I always rushed in to greet everyone unappreciative to the true value of those hugs. I was more focused on playing with my cousins. The house offered lots of games and activities for us to entertain ourselves with. The adults often sat around and talked…boring; my cousins, brother, sisters and I would gather down the wooded steps on the lower level where the temperature was always 5-10 degrees cooler than upstairs, and play. We would build forts, play board games, attempt to play pool, hide and seek, and almost any other type of game you can imagine. We really only stopped playing when lunch or dinner was ready. When we would finally come upstairs, the adult’s where still doing the exact same thing, only in a different location. How could people talk that much to each other? At that age, just sitting and talking seemed boring to me. It seemed like they enjoyed being bored.

As I started to get older, the house started to mature with me. Extensions to the house were built to help our growing family. The walls started to become covered with stories. The rugs became more worn in giving the house a true home feeling.
***

Thanksgiving came back around. This time much older, I had to make the travel solo. My brother and sisters were coming from different areas and all were on different schedules. We each had our own lives to live; our once fun filled car rides have now become solo adventures.

Driving solo was good because I could lose myself in my own music as loud as I wanted. I could have some alone time to do, say, think, and listen to whatever I wanted. The music helped thoughts about friends, lovers, jobs, and any other issues cross my mind in positive ways. The thoughts came in and out in non-stressful ways because I knew for one, I could control the music and change the song to more upbeat tunes for more positive thoughts, and two, as soon as I got to the mountain house, all of these thoughts would be gone.

Coming to the end of the highway, the noise and clutter quiets down to the peaceful openness of the mountains. The trees, which are in transition from one state to the next, suddenly have more meaning. They become real and relatable.

Arriving at the house, a much stronger feeling of comfort and warmth circulates through my body. This time the hugs have more meaning behind them. It becomes a type of hug that is for the moment and also for the ages. It gave me a sense of love and comfort, things that a teenager often seeks out. But at the same time, it almost comes routine. I can almost predict where everyone is sitting in the room before I open the door. I can also predict who is going to give me a hug first.

***

Two months before Thanksgiving, I am headed on my way up to the mountain house. Even though the mountain house has become a place that I always look forward to visiting, I did not look forward to going this time. Sure the family was going to be there but not the same type of circumstances as usual. Nowadays, the only time my family can come together is for the holidays. But this was the middle of September and Labor Day, the only holiday near, had already passed.

The drive up there was a much different drive. It was very short, yet long. It allowed for plenty of time to really think about past traditions and memories. There was no upbeat music this time but rather a nice slow melody to make the memories smoothly transition in my mind. The drive was filled with clouds and rain, making the trip even more miserable. The air was damp and cold with not the slightest sight of a sun ray. The grass was wet and the dirt turned into mud.

Not only was the drive different, but the house seemed to have a different vibe as well. The clouds blocked out the beautiful scenery that usually surrounds the house. The trees looked depressed. Drenched in rain, they looked as if they had been crying as well.

Entering the house was a feeling I had never really experienced before. It was a feeling mixed between sorrow, comfort and an overall feeling of something unreal. Instead of a happy welcoming, it was a more embracing welcome. The usual predicted first hug, the hug filled with the most love, was not given. Because of that, nothing felt real. The house was still full of love but by one less lover; my grandmother had passed away.

The stay was short and sweet. The world kept on spinning and we had to get back into it. As I walked away from the house, a tear came to my eye. The day, dark and gloomy with constant rain, represented the true feelings each one of us had, but we covered it up with smiles. As I closed my car door I knew that was it. The reality still has not sunk in and probably will not until Thanksgiving. The memories and experiences in the house and the love that once and still is there, has made the mountain house one special place.

I remember standing at her graveside, the drone of the minister’s eulogy vaguely humming in the back of my mind as I looked on the surrealistic scene. It seemed like only moments ago that I had ridden horseback through this very place as a kid, growing up on a farm just down the way. Here the black tarred road twists dangerously sharp in an s-curve around the cemetery, cutting blindly through the hill. It was safer to ride down the center of the graveyard on the dirt and gravel path than attempt to travel the road. The great, sentinel-like oak trees are old here, they remember much. They have seen much. There are many aged and sun-bleached headstones so old that the engravings have long been worn away by the elements. This is a small community cemetery far out in the countryside surrounded by rolling hills and farms. A peaceful place. A nice place to rest. My focus comes back to the scene before me as the minister’s closing coincides with my thoughts “May she rest in peace.”

The next week is spent sorting through our mother’s things. I vaguely remember doing this. Mom had set out pretty well how she wanted things split but it was the little things that caused the most pain…”Who gets the old crock set?” “Who gets the pea salad bowl?” “Who gets the potato salad bowl?” Seemingly inconsequential items but they hold many memories of family holidays and get-to-togethers. Memories of mom’s cooking. Memories of happy segments in time. Memories before leukemia. Such an exotic word, isn’t it? Sounds innocuous, charming even. But it’s a dark word. It holds an icy grip of dread in the night, haunting the mind, disturbing my sleep.
Muted shapes at the edge of sight
Shadows prowling the darkness
Nightmares of the soul in the dimness
Imagination reflecting like a mirror the fright
Disconnected pictures and dire specters of the black night
Haunting, torturing, restless
Doubtful whispers between reality and madness
Affliction of the mind’s plight
Shaking against the cold
I strike against the prison of sleep demanding obeisance
Phoebus Apollo!
Calling forth the light so bold
Grasp tight the dancing radiance
And so the days go on, the calendar relentless in its march toward the future. I return to work after the allotted bereavement leave only to find out that the company is downsizing and I no longer have a job. “Hope you had a good time during your time off.” They said. “What the fuck? My mind screams. “Don’t they realize what I what I just went through?!” “Are they insane!?” But I look at them through bewildered glazed eyes and force a pseudo smile to my tightly drawn lips and nod mechanically while I numbly listen to their inane list of reasons the company must do this and that it’s actually a good thing for the public and their service to them. Without sensation in my mind or my body, I sign their non-disclosure forms and agree to leave quietly. In a fog I drive home and collapse on the couch. “What next!?” A question you really shouldn’t ask if you truly don’t want an answer.
Not knowing what to do with myself I took a temporary job through a staffing agency. Mindlessly plodding through day after day, just doing my tasks with no passion or feeling like a good little automaton. One day I get a call from my twin sister. “Hey! Want to come to Georgia?” “Georgia?” I ask. “Why?” My sister doesn’t have any family down there to help her through the grief and I didn’t have a job. Sounds like a good idea! In this reflection of the past, I realize now it was just a good excuse to escape. Rationalizing it to myself and to my fiancé John, we agreed it would be a good thing to do. Lying to ourselves, we even considered making a real move to Georgia. “I’ll check out the housing and job markets while I’m down there honey. Maybe things will be better than here. Sounded good too. [shrug]
Georgia. The peach state. Hoping to find the sweet nectar of change to be the catalyst that would amend my life, I went down to become a Georgia peach. The plan of course was to stay with my sister so we could “help each other heal from our loss.” Did this work? Of course not! In the beginning though, the prospects looked good in Atlanta and I had located several good areas to buy a house so I put my Illinois house up for sale. BUT, and you knew there had to be one, my sister couldn’t get along with my fiancé and we argued heatedly for days because she wouldn’t even let him in the house when he came to visit me. I moved out.
My house finally sold so I was expecting John to join me in Georgia. Remember? We wanted to start a new, better life? Only this didn’t happen. He found a much younger girl with red hair, he liked red hair, that he wanted to start his better life with. “I want children” he said. His own children that is. My son and daughter are from a previous marriage and I no longer can have more. He knew this seven years ago when we became a couple! “What the hell?!” I packed up my things again and went back home to Illinois to try and start over. Alone.
I lost my mother, I lost my job, I lost my relationship with my twin sister, and I lost the man I had been with for the last seven years. Believe me, I didn’t ask “What next?!” this time! No wonder my mind put this year behind such blurriness so I couldn’t see it clearly, looking at it like a stranger through a dirty glass window from the outside. Nothing really standing out. Shadows of a time best forgotten.
Now, forcing myself to travel back through this period I see there was much more on the other side of the glass than I realized. I also see now how this time has so greatly affected who I am, why I became reclusive, not letting anyone in to become too close, too involved. However, I have reconciled with my sister and I value the relationship even more. Writing all this down, putting it out there in the light of day, helps me to reconnect with my past and recognize the only way to continue moving forward is to know where I’ve been so I’m not traveling the road that cuts blindly through the hill.

The list of losses inside the sermons pew does not concede to one, but the passing of my dog seems the worst. Discarded sense of literal, maybe I never met the pew for his burial, but no reason for a formal wave goodbye for something as simple as a pet. Still his death meant so much, because I watched it pass. Death, as displayed on screen, is not an easy thing with which to cope, not a two line movie conversation. It’s never quite as glorious as the war depictions show, nor as happy as the medicated comedies. To feel the reality of life disposed, it must touch basis with your heart, not like a movie will, but rather from a touch given by that of someone you where close too. The same it did when he passed. Once you’ve felt the end so close upon your heart, you then begin to question what it’s all for. You hope the best for the passed away connections, but can’t guarantee your wants. When he died I watched his eyes, and they didn’t even close. No signs of souls torn free to float too heaven, but I guess it was never predicted for my dog. Left out perhaps the implications of dog heaven, much the same to ours. If the chance where real, did he find his way? Is he there now enjoying all his time. In me I will always hope hes found some sort of heaven, but without having passed with him, I could never understand where he is now.

I feel the same kind of pain and thought for family losses as I did for him. Questioned the chances of an afterlife condition as beautiful as it sounds. Want the best for them. They always say they’re waiting for you up in heaven, but what if their claim to perfect was different from my own? Would they have been sent into a different version, or do you find all the loves you lost in yours even if they’re in another? Then they’ll reside as just quaint representations of the ones you remembered. It might seem suffice to see them in that light, but it kind of kills the “I’ll see you again”. Literally yes you will, but technically it seems life takes this one against you. Seems it will have replaced what you used to know, with what you will simply recognize. This will satisfy you, and you may not even know the difference, but lies are always hard to spot. Seems we’ll be taken for a fool if heaven does exist unless, as I believe, heaven already exists inside of us. You can never be a fool within your own memories.

“The white of everything shined bright in front of me. Maybe there was a heaven to find. Maybe heaven was not an after death experience but rather moments of perfection graced inside your life. Can only hope that in death your sent to live within those times, the rest of your life in heaven held by memory. A nice compliment to life”

This passage grown from my own hands is where I began to find my way. The character succumbed to realize the possibility of what heaven might really be. As we pass through our days, we combine our senses to form recollection of the times we’ve had. Everyone we’ve loved holds multiple afflictions within our memories. You can’t shake the things that helped shape you, nor destroy the things that help you to smile. All those times under sunlit promises scattered along the lines into your past. Follow them closely and you’ll see how much of them are you. How much every second you remember really means. Even dreams stick with us, as they overtake our sleep. Nightmares the other side to the spectrum. All of it to shape us. Sure not all our past is pleasant, regret will always find its place. Loss of a loved one also sad. Even the worst of things have their silver linings though. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and to you nothing but your own memories will shine quite as bright.

We work to create all these times as we pass through life. Then death finds the better of your world, no way around its pull. The people watch as your caskets lowered, their prayers fallen with you. Your mind though, even dead, I still believe will play. Your soul the power to its screen. As you lay within your final sleep, you watch as memories recollect inside your eyes. From day one till the final sunset, you watch all you have remembered, and it’s beautiful to you. You realize this is a heaven in a sense. Stuck within the happiness you’d long forgotten. The scenes may even be relived to an in depth constriction. The senses overpowered by what you remember as you reach the touch of loved ones closely. Your eyes may read from first person holdings, or maybe from the side. Either way your heart is kept alive as it warms and beats against your memories. This is why in the end you will see your loved ones again, it was not a lie at all. Just under a different light. Any light with them will be well spent.

I can’t forget though, the other side. Strangely enough, as good as heaven sounds, it’s not hard to create a world more perfect than our own. Crime combusted in an entirety around the world, with war scorched pasts from every culture. Screams of buried soldiers who never found their heaven, because we commanded them to hell in battle. Can’t have heaven without hell. Takes the opposite to understand the extremities of the beauty that is heaven. How many have found hell though that have been promised of a heaven. How many have we lied into our minds, really found themselves within the burnings of a fire. It like heaven is hard to fathom, and also hard to prove. It seems though, that if my beliefs where true, hell would not be made of fire, but rather the burns of your regret. You live a life of simple selfishness while hurting those around, then all your memory reads are those times of your imperfection. You must sit inside the scenes of all you’ve done without a happy time to find. Freeze in your own dedication towards the top, just to end at the bottom of our prayers. Enjoy the walls abound your chest, they’ll always hold like the shield you kept between the contact of all those who tried to love you.

My eyes closed as I searched for sleep
the afterlife made by memories
a piece it seems, both of heaven and hell
I’ve done some good, yet bad as well
and now I’ll live inside these times forever