Today, instead, I could not find the words I needed to compliment Him. “Oh, my God” was the best I could conjure up to give my note of satisfaction.

-Meghan Devine

June 16, 2002
Rome.

So THIS is where it all started. THIS is where civilization began. They built these buildings with their two hands, the same 2 hands I have that have done nothing in comparison. They labored, chiseled, and hauled these rocks together to form buildings, Colosseums. No modern tools, no electricity, no one instructing them from before. Pioneers. I cannot even begin to fathom. Their dedication…immense.

People say I am a dedicated person, not nearly Roman, but I take things on in full force. I am a dedicated runner and through running, I saw the other side of Rome, the Rome not on tours or maps handed out at McDonald’s.

It was 5 o’clock, and even though I had been walking all day, seeing what I “had” to, I was craving a good, long run. I jogged through the winding, cobblestone streets, not the best surface for knees, but the views were worth the soreness.

Teal green shutters amongst old stone buildings, a restaurant with an ivy awning. I could picture the lights twinkling as people dined underneath. A small dog on a leash, enjoying the warm air. I was in my own thoughts, my own daydreams, and Rome became the scenery to these dreams. THIS is the “City of Romance.” THIS is how I pictured it to be.

-Suzanne Tallarico

June 18, 2002
“Bastardo,” the dark-haired man shouted at the television.

The referee called yet another foul against Italy.

The dark-haired man, appropriately dressed in a Michael Jordan jersey, leans back in his chair.

The green plastic deckchair wobbles and breaks, sending the Italian to the floor, hard.

The clock stops. Half time.

The uninjured, but frustrated man tosses the legless chair out the door into the piazza.

A face, wrinkled and confused, appears moments later. An elderly man wobbles past the café, relying on his cane for extra support.

“Nice shot,” grumbles the bartender to his friend, who is rubbing an aching head. The fall apparently knocked no sense into the victim, for when the second half of the game begins ten minutes later, he’s seated in yet another chair.

“Vafungo!” CRACK! BOOM! CONK!! Oh, no, not again. He couldn’t even wait until Italy mmade another goal. Nope, our dark-haired friend has fallen once again. One leg of the useless seat hangs limply as, this time, the bartender throws it from the door.

Italians are up 1-0. They just might win.

“Bastardo! Idiota!” Another foul. This time, Totti is out of the game.

CRACK!

Oh, great! The brilliant one has managed to snag his third chair, and now on his feet as though something has bit him, he glares down at the half-broken leg.

Three strikes, and you’re out.

“ITALY LOSES IN THE LAST OVERTIME 2-1.”

Fitting, huh?

-Anna Yost

June 22, 2002
Half-way point.

Friday started out like any other day but became somber when the USA lost to Germany (in the World Cup). However, in the process of sulking over our team’s loss, I noticed something wonderful happening: The Italians were rooting with us. I don’t think there is any bar in the world like Caffè del Commercio. Bicio and Dodo have made us feel like the café is our home. Watching them get excited with us as the red, white, and blue fought so valiantly against the rival Germans.

That night, we hung out there again and Carlo the fireman said something I’ll never forget. He said, “You guys are real Cagliesi. I’ve seen many try out, but you guys got it. You can’t go home to America.”

It was at that point when I realized how much of an impact we made on this little mountain town. The bartenders know my name; they pour me a beer before I even ask.

We are Cagliesi, and what is most impressive is that we have been accepted so quickly. We’re not seen as invaders anymore. To some of the native Cagliesi, we are friends.

-Joe Salvati

June 29, 2002
At the museum in Florence.

I am drawn mostly to the Madonnas. She is portrayed universally holding her holy son, but she is different from sculpture to sculpture. In some, her face is lean and youthful, her expression one of wonder at her newly found mission. In others, she looks older - matronly, showing in her face the pain of motherhood, as if she knows already her son's fate. I ponder these for a while, but there is much to see, so I move on.

At the top of a marble staircase, there is a small, but active, Asian tour group. I do not see what is in front of them, so I wait quietly for them to disperse. Except for a guard, I am left suddenly alone with on of Michaelangelo's Pietá's. I read from my book and learn that this particular sculpture was intended for Michaelangelo's own burial chamber, but that he died before he finished his work. The face of St. Matthias is Michaelangelo's own face, fixed in a look of compassion, holding in his own arms a grieving mother and her lifeless man-god son.

His features and form are rugged - unfinished, as is the cloak of Mary, under his left arm. Her face is pressed tenderly into the body of her son. There is little of the serenity of the Vatican Pietá to be found in her face. She is clearly mourning, and in need of comfort. In her arms, Jesus is sprawled, his peacefully resting body is polished to a sheen. He looks regal in his post in the arms of his friends and his mother. Even in death, it is him they turn to for comfort.

Crouched near his feet, is Mary Magdelene, her face turned up towards him, ever his servant, searching the face of her savior for direction, even orders. No one is holding Mary Magdelene, but she is the picture of strength, her face a stone carved expression of pure love.

Flipping through my book, I find that Donatello's Magdelegna is displayed nearby, I set off to find it. I find myself in another small room, its walls adorned with vestaments and chalices, which a couple is silently admiring. The Magdelegna stands in the center behind a polygonical velvet rope. She stands on a pedastal, and is about my height. I meet her gaze and am surprised to find that her eyes are chrystal blue in her bronzed face. I have to squat to see them clearly - she is looking down. Her mouth is gaping slightly, revealing a few crooked teeth. She is caught mid-sentance, and seems to be pleading for my help, or warning me of something. I lean in closer, almost expecting to hear her words, or to see her lips move. This is a very different Mary Magdelene. This Mary is still a sinner in a tattered cloak with outstretched arms - proving that she is ready for salvation. Her hair falls stringy and matted over bare shoulders. There is nothing beautiful about her - I do not pity her, because I know the rest of her story. I am sympathetic. Though I know she is nothing but bronze, and the work of an inspired artist, I want to take her hand, to comfort her, and to thank her for reminding me that there is hope for us yet. She is lost, but she will find what she is looking for...the rest of us cannot be too far behind.

-Emily Moroni