One word: EPIC!
I cannot wait to see this movie! I'm a little curious as to some of the new scenes that we get a glimpse of, aka Harry and Voldy falling to their death. It's gonna be "totally awesome!" (A Very Potter Musical reference. Don't know it, YouTube it).
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Encountering Angels
I am in a Travel Writing class at school, and we write a lot of essays...most of them don't really go anywhere, but we edit a few and turn them in. I turned this essay into the creative writing contest at school and won third place! Here it is if you would care to read...enjoy!
The gentle night breeze blew as I walked down the cobblestone street towards my destination. An old Italian lady was wildly gesturing with her hands, speaking rapidly—angrily—to a man leaning in a doorway. When her arms waved up and down, her light jacket flapped behind her, giving me the illusion that the woman was flying.
Women in sky high heels and tight skirts passed by me without a thought—they were so used to seeing tourists with cameras strapped to their hands, only viewing the world through a tiny lens. The light behind one of the women streamed through her big, curly hair reminding me of a halo. I could only guess at the conversation between the women; by their outfits, I assumed they were going out for the night. The rouge makeup on their lips and olive cheeks certainly was evidence to my theory. They walked perfectly in their heels through the cobblestone streets, not even flinching as their thin stilettos met the cracks in between the stones. These were real Italian women.
The sun had just set, so there was a golden glow at the horizon and the sky was a deep sapphire. The lights on the streets flickered as they turned on for the night, reflecting off the layer of water in the street after a light drizzle early in the evening. As I walked through the puddles, I felt like I was walking on a mirror rather than an uneven passageway.
I glanced down at my map; I took a turn on Lungotevere Castello. I could tell I was getting closer; the tourist to native ratio increased dramatically with each step that I took—rather than the smart Italian style, cameras, sneakers, and t-shirts were prominent. I saw the green, white, and red flag flying high in the distance and knew that the Castel Sant’ Angelo would be resting along the river. I reached into my backpack and pulled out my camera to be prepared for the first time I would see the fortress.
The lights of the Ponte Sant’ Angelo gleamed on the Tiber River, creating multiple images of the magnificent bridge leading to the Castel Sant’ Angelo. The cylindrical design of the castel was an astonishing site. I had only ever seen pictures of the mausoleum turned castle turned museum. The angel on top guarded the museum with an outstretched hand grasping a sword that pointed down towards the roof rather than the typical skyward position. I snapped a few pictures, attempting to find the perfect angle. I kneeled on the rough stone, trying to get a picture from the perspective of a child—large, formidable, intimidating. My knee started to ache from the pressure. I stood and viewed my work on the digital two-inch screen; many of them were blurry from my unsteady hands and the lack of light outside. I walked to the front of the bridge. Positioning my viewfinder to the deepening colored sky behind the castle, I turned my camera at odd angles, hoping I was being artistic. I was never sure what constituted an artistic photo; blurriness, bright colors, weird angles, peculiar subjects, old women in the street, sunsets, angels, towers, basilicas, monuments, cloudy skies, mountains—it was all art caught in a distinct moment.
As I stood closer to the building, I found that the prime shot would be from the end of the bridge with all of the angels proudly standing in intervals along the Ponte Sant’ Angelo. I wandered among the people on the bridge, weaving in and out of groups of drunken adults and tourists setting up tripods to keep their professional cameras steady for the night shots. I took my time, stopping intermittingly to take pictures from various angles of each angel. The Angel with the Cross. The Angel with the Lance. The Angel with the Crown of Thorns. There was something—something—unique about the ten statues. Some were meek and timid, others were defensive and abrasive. I took a few pictures of each, wanting to capture their stories; I yearned to do them justice out of selfish pride. I desperately sought to be the photographer that captured that something that had never been captured.
I paced in half circles around the base of each angel—eager to stake my claim on the angels. The background changed with each predatory step. What did I want behind the angel? Buildings? The sunset? The Tiber? Which would bring out the foreground the most? Questions developed in my mind quickly—I began to think I was concentrating too much on an amateur photograph. I let those feelings go and continued to find the angels’ good sides. The lighting was ideal—the sun dropping, the street lights on, the mist after a light rain. The setting was right out of a movie. It was simple. I didn’t need fancy angles or extra lighting. The shots were pure. I wanted a picture to remind me of this moment, and I tried inadequately to create art. The angels were beautiful and personable in the soft lighting—they gave the rough exterior of the castle a personality.
I paused. She drew my attention immediately. Maybe it was St. Peter’s Basilica in the distance, or the lights reflecting off the river, or my innate need to find something worth a thousand words, or some divine energy drawing me nearer. I didn’t know why I was enraptured—and I still don’t—but she was heavenly. The angel was resting on her pedestal, relaxed and poised. With clouds at her feet and the light draping of her dress flowing gracefully between her legs and behind her, she reminded me of an ancient Greek goddess. The angel stood in direct line of an illusory, perpetual wind that Hollywood actresses dreamed of. Her arms held out towards me were cradling what I thought was a cloth that wove elegantly between her fingers and wrapped around her arms—it was actually a set of whips. Her body was S-shaped; she was stuck in a tranquil, yet defiant state. The curly hair on her head looked soft even though she was made of stone. Her wings gently embraced her body. I sighed in response to the picture I was imagining playing out in my head. The Angel with the Whips.
St. Peter’s Dome lit up the night sky behind her, an eternal reminder of the Church and its power and precedence in Rome. The sky was still a deep indigo as I took out my camera to capture the fading moment. The dark blue weakened as it reached the horizon and a golden blush took over the rest of the frame. A light on the bridge just to the right of the angel cast a heavenly glow upon her body, reinforcing her otherworldly status. The glow dipped in and out of the creases in her gown. It created depth and dimension to her stony character. Written on the base of the statue were the Latin words, In Flagella Paratus Sum—I do not fear the flagellation.
I brought the lens to my face and peered through the small hole, lining up the shot perfectly to capture the martyr, St. Peter’s, and a few surrounding buildings. I clicked the button—letting the flash surround the portrait as my camera memorized the frame. The statue would forever remain frozen in time, on my camera and in life; I wanted to freeze, too—right there, in front of that angel. I stood still with my eyes tightly closed for a moment, hoping by some chance I had happened to stop time for me as well.
I opened my eyes, looking back up at my angel still staring into the distance with blank eyes. I moved my foot, and I backed away from the scene and took in the rest of the pleasant night with a walk back to the metro. As I gazed at my angels once again as I strolled past them towards the castle, I flipped my camera to the picture viewing mode. The first picture popped up on the screen, illuminating my face with the light as I took in my creation. I smiled. Turning off my camera as I looked out over the Tiber River, I rounded the corner onto Lungotevere Castello once again.
Encountering Angels
The angel stared at me—straight through me. With the statue’s clean expression, the river, and the Basilica on the horizon, I couldn’t resist my instincts to take a photo. I hoped my camera wouldn’t fail me in this moment—the batteries had a tendency to die even when brand new. The shutter opened, and I took aim with my right eye through the lens, squinting my left eye so hard I could feel my face twitch. I pushed the button and with a click the flash blared, illuminating the angel in a mechanical, earthly light. • • •
I had been in Rome for half a day, and already I knew why the religious devotees, the honeymooning lovers, and history aficionados flocked to the city—the churches with their high vaults and guilt-ridden patrons, hotel rooms with a balcony over-looking Vatican City, and the ancient hills with their crumbling ruins. The city oozed culture and history. There was magic in Rome. The gentle night breeze blew as I walked down the cobblestone street towards my destination. An old Italian lady was wildly gesturing with her hands, speaking rapidly—angrily—to a man leaning in a doorway. When her arms waved up and down, her light jacket flapped behind her, giving me the illusion that the woman was flying.
Women in sky high heels and tight skirts passed by me without a thought—they were so used to seeing tourists with cameras strapped to their hands, only viewing the world through a tiny lens. The light behind one of the women streamed through her big, curly hair reminding me of a halo. I could only guess at the conversation between the women; by their outfits, I assumed they were going out for the night. The rouge makeup on their lips and olive cheeks certainly was evidence to my theory. They walked perfectly in their heels through the cobblestone streets, not even flinching as their thin stilettos met the cracks in between the stones. These were real Italian women.
The sun had just set, so there was a golden glow at the horizon and the sky was a deep sapphire. The lights on the streets flickered as they turned on for the night, reflecting off the layer of water in the street after a light drizzle early in the evening. As I walked through the puddles, I felt like I was walking on a mirror rather than an uneven passageway.
I glanced down at my map; I took a turn on Lungotevere Castello. I could tell I was getting closer; the tourist to native ratio increased dramatically with each step that I took—rather than the smart Italian style, cameras, sneakers, and t-shirts were prominent. I saw the green, white, and red flag flying high in the distance and knew that the Castel Sant’ Angelo would be resting along the river. I reached into my backpack and pulled out my camera to be prepared for the first time I would see the fortress.
The lights of the Ponte Sant’ Angelo gleamed on the Tiber River, creating multiple images of the magnificent bridge leading to the Castel Sant’ Angelo. The cylindrical design of the castel was an astonishing site. I had only ever seen pictures of the mausoleum turned castle turned museum. The angel on top guarded the museum with an outstretched hand grasping a sword that pointed down towards the roof rather than the typical skyward position. I snapped a few pictures, attempting to find the perfect angle. I kneeled on the rough stone, trying to get a picture from the perspective of a child—large, formidable, intimidating. My knee started to ache from the pressure. I stood and viewed my work on the digital two-inch screen; many of them were blurry from my unsteady hands and the lack of light outside. I walked to the front of the bridge. Positioning my viewfinder to the deepening colored sky behind the castle, I turned my camera at odd angles, hoping I was being artistic. I was never sure what constituted an artistic photo; blurriness, bright colors, weird angles, peculiar subjects, old women in the street, sunsets, angels, towers, basilicas, monuments, cloudy skies, mountains—it was all art caught in a distinct moment.
As I stood closer to the building, I found that the prime shot would be from the end of the bridge with all of the angels proudly standing in intervals along the Ponte Sant’ Angelo. I wandered among the people on the bridge, weaving in and out of groups of drunken adults and tourists setting up tripods to keep their professional cameras steady for the night shots. I took my time, stopping intermittingly to take pictures from various angles of each angel. The Angel with the Cross. The Angel with the Lance. The Angel with the Crown of Thorns. There was something—something—unique about the ten statues. Some were meek and timid, others were defensive and abrasive. I took a few pictures of each, wanting to capture their stories; I yearned to do them justice out of selfish pride. I desperately sought to be the photographer that captured that something that had never been captured.
I paced in half circles around the base of each angel—eager to stake my claim on the angels. The background changed with each predatory step. What did I want behind the angel? Buildings? The sunset? The Tiber? Which would bring out the foreground the most? Questions developed in my mind quickly—I began to think I was concentrating too much on an amateur photograph. I let those feelings go and continued to find the angels’ good sides. The lighting was ideal—the sun dropping, the street lights on, the mist after a light rain. The setting was right out of a movie. It was simple. I didn’t need fancy angles or extra lighting. The shots were pure. I wanted a picture to remind me of this moment, and I tried inadequately to create art. The angels were beautiful and personable in the soft lighting—they gave the rough exterior of the castle a personality.
I paused. She drew my attention immediately. Maybe it was St. Peter’s Basilica in the distance, or the lights reflecting off the river, or my innate need to find something worth a thousand words, or some divine energy drawing me nearer. I didn’t know why I was enraptured—and I still don’t—but she was heavenly. The angel was resting on her pedestal, relaxed and poised. With clouds at her feet and the light draping of her dress flowing gracefully between her legs and behind her, she reminded me of an ancient Greek goddess. The angel stood in direct line of an illusory, perpetual wind that Hollywood actresses dreamed of. Her arms held out towards me were cradling what I thought was a cloth that wove elegantly between her fingers and wrapped around her arms—it was actually a set of whips. Her body was S-shaped; she was stuck in a tranquil, yet defiant state. The curly hair on her head looked soft even though she was made of stone. Her wings gently embraced her body. I sighed in response to the picture I was imagining playing out in my head. The Angel with the Whips.
St. Peter’s Dome lit up the night sky behind her, an eternal reminder of the Church and its power and precedence in Rome. The sky was still a deep indigo as I took out my camera to capture the fading moment. The dark blue weakened as it reached the horizon and a golden blush took over the rest of the frame. A light on the bridge just to the right of the angel cast a heavenly glow upon her body, reinforcing her otherworldly status. The glow dipped in and out of the creases in her gown. It created depth and dimension to her stony character. Written on the base of the statue were the Latin words, In Flagella Paratus Sum—I do not fear the flagellation.
I brought the lens to my face and peered through the small hole, lining up the shot perfectly to capture the martyr, St. Peter’s, and a few surrounding buildings. I clicked the button—letting the flash surround the portrait as my camera memorized the frame. The statue would forever remain frozen in time, on my camera and in life; I wanted to freeze, too—right there, in front of that angel. I stood still with my eyes tightly closed for a moment, hoping by some chance I had happened to stop time for me as well.
I opened my eyes, looking back up at my angel still staring into the distance with blank eyes. I moved my foot, and I backed away from the scene and took in the rest of the pleasant night with a walk back to the metro. As I gazed at my angels once again as I strolled past them towards the castle, I flipped my camera to the picture viewing mode. The first picture popped up on the screen, illuminating my face with the light as I took in my creation. I smiled. Turning off my camera as I looked out over the Tiber River, I rounded the corner onto Lungotevere Castello once again.
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Guat's up?
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| Our suitcases on top of the van! |
This is already much later than I promised, so I apologize. School has a funny way of just demanding all of my attention, and even then, I still struggle to get everything done. But, as promised, here is one of my blogs dedicated to my time in Guatemala. I hope to have the other one up soon, but as seen in my last blog promise, it may not happen. I have every intent on trying though!
My fellow ASBers (the group of 12 students and two adults) and I left for Chicago on a Sunday night, planning on getting to Chicago at about midnight on Monday as our flight took off on Monday at 2 a.m. After a loooong drive to Chicago, we boarded our plane and arrived in Guatemala at about 6:30 a.m. We quickly grabbed our luggage, breezed through customs, and entered the country of Guatemala. As warned by our trip supervisor, Ali, we had to hold onto our suitcases tightly once we exited the airport because taxi drivers may try to take our bags and put them in their cabs. Nervous, I gripped the pull out handle and ventured out into the morning sun. It was gorgeous outside! It was almost 80 degrees and it wasn't even 7 a.m. yet! My worries vanished quickly as we waited for our "taxi." Valerie, the Merida study abroad program director for Central, met us at the airport exit. Then, all of our suitcases were tied to the top of the van for our hour trip to Antigua.
From first glance, I was shocked at the state of the capital city. I knew before leaving that Guatemala is a third world country, but I assumed that the capital would be much nicer. It was compared to the rest of the cities we visited. There was a lot of rusted metal sidings used for fences, roofs on remote houses on our way to Antigua, and piled on the side of the road. It was definitely dirty, but immediately I felt like there was something I could do to help the people. On the way up the mountains, we had gorgeous views of the volcanoes, most of which are active. One was actually spewing a little ash as we drove.
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| Most famous arch in Antigua. |
The drive did not feel like an hour; we were all too preoccupied with our surroundings to notice the quick trip. As soon as we arrived in Antigua, we dropped off our luggage at our hotel which used to be the vice-president's home. There was a courtyard that was dripping in vines and as the sunlight streamed through the non-existent roof, I thought I must be in paradise. There was a hammock off to the side of the courtyard, and I could have swayed there for hours if I could have. But, considering we only had a day there, we figured we should probably explore a little.
Antigua was the capital of Guatemala from its establishment, but in 1773, an earthquake destroyed most of the city, leaving it in ruins, many of which can still be seen today because much of the city was left the way it was after the earthquake. The capital was then moved to Guatemala City. The grandeur of the city was not lost, though. I could see the Spanish colonial influence on the city easily--the bright yellow colors of the churches, the massive archways, and the monumental cathedrals and churches. And I cannot forget that the entire city sits in the shadow of the Volcán Agua (Water Volcano), the volcano know to spit ash from time to time.
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| The alfombras made of sand. |
On our walk, we visited a few churches, and because it was Lent, we were able to see some very interesting mixes of the Catholic and Mayan religions. In the churches, there were alfombras (carpets) of colored sands. It looked just like a carpet from far away, but the detail up close was spectacular. The hours spent on putting those together would be exhausting, but the cultural significance is truly amazing. The bright colors are seen all over Guatemala, and it is almost synonymous with their country. Also, there were many, many, many, statues and depictions of saints and Jesus in the churches, but not only that, they were very gruesome when depicting Jesus. There was a lot of fake blood, and the welts on his back from the whips were disgustingly life-like.
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| The market with vibrant colors. |
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| Me with the Volcán Agua. |
After a day of shopping in which I bought most of my souvenirs, we headed to Pollo Campero, the restaurant equivalent of McDonald's (although there are McDonald's there...more on that soon). It was all chicken, hence the name Pollo, and it was pretty good. Very cheap food that was more than filling. I ended up with a breaded chicken sandwich, fries, and a soda for something like six or seven dollars. Another side note: we were warned about some of the food before going. If we wanted to remain un-sick for the duration for the trip, we could not eat food that did not have a peel (tomatoes, lettuce) because they way they wash the foods is different. Also, no water off of a tap (and that meant not getting any in our mouths while showering or brushing our teeth with sink water). This was not a reflection on the Guatemalan water system--it isn't necessarily dirty; we are just used to purified and processed water, whereas their stomachs can handle water that hasn't been through that kind of treatment.
From there, we toured the local McDonald's. I'm not joking, it was like a sit-down restaurant. The McCafe had cheesecakes and a whole separate room! There were gardens and a fountain with outdoor seating. Pretty damn fancy for a McDonald's. We went back to the hotel for a bit, and then some of us explored some more. We went back through the markets and made our way back to the hotel. After a nap on my part, a few of us went to dinner and walked the streets at night. But one of the greatest adventures of the night was the shower! My room didn't have a shower, so we had to use one in another part of the hotel. My roommate was using it at the time, so I asked another person in our group to use theirs. It was a fairly large shower, but the water kept getting hot and cold and it puddled at my feet. And most of our group had broken showers, so the hotel was fixing them at all kinds of the night. Right after that, I passed out in bed.
The next morning we packed up our things, had breakfast, explored a few ruins before leaving for San Jorge La Laguna, the small town we would be working in. I will pick up with the blog at San Jorge soon. But, this was getting long, and I know most people just don't have that kind of attention...oh, look, something shiny! Gotta go!
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