Walking towards the ticket office, we passed imposing statues of Ancient Roman leaders from Julius Caesar to Trajan to Augustus-I didn’t know chiseled bronze could make me so happy. I thought it was a collection of overgrown ruins (which it is), but the significance and true awesomeness of it missed my stupid brain. During my last Roman rendezvous, I skipped the Forum because I was 1) lazy, 2) overheated, and 3) grossly uncultured. But walking down gummed and peddled sidewalks to the ultimate destination-the Forum-phased me less than a C on a managerial accounting exam. In Rome, the heat is dry and pounding, unlike the scorching bath of humidity in Gainesville or Saint Petersburg. Sweat clung to my underneck and the yellowing fabric of a white dress despite the early morning time. I knew what each panel meant, I recognized each chiseled sibyl in her ornate niche-and I still grumbled at the mass of tourists, all so interested in sneaking a picture rather than looking at Michelangelo’s talent. Although I had seen the Sistine Chapel last time, the unparalleled skill and sheer monumentality still barreled my 4’11 frame over. “Art appreciation” is such a bland term, but I appreciated the hell out of any work I came across, from an El Anatsui in the modern collection to the mammoth Sistine Chapel. All those pages I’ve read in static textbooks finally came to life through cracked marble and faint paint stains. Apollo Belvedere, Laocöon and Sons, Hercules, The School of Athens, etc.-basking in their pure forms was remarkable. However, this time, I sucked down the collections like icy Vitamin Water, reveling in the marble busts I had studied in school. I was an ignorant little beast of petty drama and middle school angst in 2011, not caring or knowing about art. My sister and mother lounged in their cardboard beds while my father and me trekked in the liquid heat to Vatican City. Cash cryptically handed over to our concierge. This time, with a brain stuffed with knowledge and feet that craved Roman sidewalks, I wasn’t blind or unaware-I was a hypersensitive detective, feasting on every image the city had to offer. The first time I went to Rome, I was a blindly curious traveler, one that follows parental footsteps and a Rick Steves guide without understanding prior culture or history. Excitement, the kind that kicks your lungs and cramps your entire body, was coursing through me. A taxi with a hottie driver swooped in to eat away our wallets and anxiety, but it eventually dropped us off at Hotel Florida (*we stayed at this hotel last time too*). What a typical Patel move! We’re the kings of cheap Europe, but the bus we clambered onto was the wrong one, despite its attractive 5 euro per person price. The 30-euro flight landed, the luggage was heaved onto a sketchy bus, and my family got royally lost in Rome. Here’s what I experienced and felt on this second trip, a bath of sweat and ecstasy that lasted five days. I was back home, finally, after an American exile of five years that robbed views of the Colosseum, Pantheon, and Forum from my starved eyes. This past summer, in the brutal blaze of August, I returned to Rome. I was a Roman podcast geek! I threw parties to celebrate the anniversary of me studying Rome! I was an unbridled dork in every sense of the word, taped glasses and Steve Job sweaters the only thing missing from my tiny frame. That trip was the catalyst for my Everything Rome mania, a lasting obsession that culminated in writing two books set in that ancient Italian heartland. I first traveled to Rome in the summer of 2011, the sticky months of ignorance and unformed personality gracing my 14-year-old self. Hi all! It’s been graying eons since I’ve posted on LTA, but here’s a stereotypical MACKENZIE PATEL post about my one and only stable, reliable love: Ancient Rome.
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