Early this morning the stork paid us a visit, and he gave us the most precious gift. My second son, Charlie was born today.
He’s a strapping boy with dark brown hair and powerful lungs. Today he had to learn some important lessons: how to breathe air, how to eat, how to cry; crucial skills to survive in this world. But since it was his birthday, he got to spend most of the day lounging around on his mama, listening to her heartbeat (which he was so used to hearing from the inside) and smelling her familiar smells.
Charlie also met his older brother Jack.
Jack is a really great big brother. He put stickers on Baby Charlie, and rubbed his head too. Charlie popped his wrinkly little arm out of the blanket, and Jack rubbed the tiny fingers. They were like two old pals.
Two boys, two sons, my progeny, my little family, complete.
My first piano sonata took me over a decade to complete. Then Jack showed up and POOF, it was done! Strange how that happens.
I always call this piece “Jack’s Sonata”, but half of the music actually predates Jack by some time. In fact, the last two movements are my earliest completed piano music. I was working on the first drafts all the way back in 2006, maybe earlier, when I was still living in the dorms at Cal Poly, a time when I knew I wanted to be a composer but had no idea how to actually write music. I remember so clearly the frustration of having music in my head, but lacking the skills to notate it. Hence, I started this music with the best intentions, but quickly became frustrated when I couldn’t finish it and tossed it in the ash heap. Luckily my ash heap is just a folder on my laptop, so the music was easily resurrected. By the time I picked it up again 10 years later, I was more properly equipped to complete the task.
So why does this music belong to Jack if it was begun long before he was born? Because Jack got me to finish it. I write such better music when I have something meaningful to write about, and there’s nothing more meaningful than the birth of my first child. The gaps I had left in the music over the years were suddenly filled in by the waves of emotion I felt as a new father. Usually I write slowly and methodically, but Jack’s presence in my life lit a fire under me and kicked off an avalanche of creative activity. Jack gave me so many new things to think about, new ways of looking at the world, new experiences. Holding a newborn brought on such a strange combination of intense love and intense uncertainty, and all of that worked its way into my music. So even though the music is older than Jack, in a certain way he owns it. I’m not sure I ever would have finished it if it wasn’t for him. His little face is imprinted on every note.
Paul Dab, my former piano teacher, also owns a piece of this music. When it comes down to it, I had fallen out of love with the piano, and Paul rekindled that fire. He made me excited about the instrument and showed me new ways to explore it. That excitement drove me to finally finish this sonata (including the composition of two brand new movements from scratch). Paul showed me how to think like a pianist again. I put my hands back on the instrument after a long hiatus, not just to tinker with chords but to play, play, play! He gave me the tools to improve my technique, both as a performer and composer, and he showed me how to write idiomatically for the piano, something that is often forgotten when writing music directly into the computer. This work would not exist in its current form without his guidance. Therefore, even though I always call it “Jack’s Sonata”, it is officially dedicated to Paul Dab.
The Four Movements
Movement 1: Allegro con brio
Here’s what the first movement sounds like (computer rendition):
You might be thinking, “hmmm that sounds a little minor. I thought he said it was about his newborn son.” Well, yes and no. It was written right after he was born, but it’s not really ABOUT him. It’s really about me! It’s my musical reaction to some crazy-ass change happening in my life. It’s a burst of creative energy as my whole life gets flipped upside down. I think it’s fear of the unknown. It’s everything I felt when I held that precious, tiny, fragile, little nugget and pondered my place in the universe. This is an example of some music that just poured out. I had a lot of things to work out, and writing music is excellent therapy.
That being said, I still had to put a whole lot of thought into this movement. I spent hours and hours at the library hashing and rehashing ideas, experimenting and prototyping and testing ideas and staring blankly at the wall. Originally I had written an entirely different first movement way back in 2006. But when I picked this music back up in 2014, I realized that that whole thing had to go. There may have been some salvageable ideas buried in there, but I couldn’t help but see the whole thing as student work. I tossed it in the trash and started with a blank page. The music that came out of my brain belonged entirely to Jack.
This movement is highly structured, though it might not seem that way at times. Straight-forward, good old-fashioned sonata form. Ok, maybe not too old-fashioned. But really, it follows the same basic structure as the first movement of most Beethoven sonatas: Theme 1 in tonic, theme 2 in either dominant or (in this case) mediant, followed by an unstable gobblety-gook of the two themes all mixed around and intertwining, leading finally back to the first theme again in the tonic, and the lastly the second theme now transposed to the tonic. So though it may sound at times as if it contains a hundred different unconnected ideas, I assure you it is firmly rooted in classical forms.
For a first movement of a sonata, the music has got to be catchy, a bit flashy (but not decadent), and something the listener will want to hear again. For the first theme I got hooked into this angsty minor bluesy vibe that keeps falling into a mellow waltz. It can’t really make up its mind on what it wants to feel. The slightly slower second theme is cleaner, with a bass line reminiscent of a rock riff. I often find myself absent-mindedly humming this theme. It’s chipper, skippy, but never entirely major. Slices of it almost give off a pop vibe, though I made sure to end it on a sour note. These two themes are a microcosm of my psyche at the time.
Movement 2: Largo, but freely (“Jack’s Song”):
Here’s a computerized version:
And here’s a live performance from pianist Jun Cai, a student at the SF Conservatory (notice how much more flexible Jun is with the rhythm than the computerized version. There are infinite ways to interpret a piece of music):
This second movement truly does belong to Jack. As this music began to take shape, I was thinking a lot about what it means to be a father, which means my child shaped it. This music is a projection from my mind at the time, a reflection of my emotions and questions, my fear and love. The music fades in and out of coherency, at times directionless, until it finally lands on solid ground. It’s asking a question, and just as the answer comes within reach, it slips away again. This movement is tough to pin down, difficult to categorize. The music is searching, searching… It emerges slowly, pops in and out of view, like a distant ship in the mist. Sometimes it’s a love song, sometimes a lament, sometimes a hopeful look toward the future, and sometimes a lonely figure grasping for something in the dark.
I wrote a good chunk of this music in libraries, specifically the Richmond Library in SF and the Shaw Library in Washington DC. The whole ambiance of the library worked its way into this music. Libraries are bustling with activity: people walking around, searching, questioning, writing, working; children running around and older folks quietly reading the newspaper. Yet it’s also an environment where quiet reflection is of paramount importance. It’s a perfect mix of energy and silence, and I find it a very inspiring atmosphere to write music. This piece also feels to me like it is a mix of quiet and activity. I think this movement is one of my favorite things I’ve ever written… though when I first wrote about this music in my composition journal, I clearly wasn’t sure what I thought about it. (See below for the composition journal).
Speaking of my composition journal, reading the entries for this piece reminded me of how crucial sketching is when developing a new piece. I started this movement by jotting down various ideas without editing, then seeing where those ideas led. This was a period of time when the music was coming out rather quickly, and I think sketching had a lot do with that. When I’m feeling something and just need to write music, it is so important that I don’t edit myself, but instead just get everything out. Sometimes I don’t have the time or wherewithal to plan an entire piece in advance. Sometimes I just have to throw paint on the canvas then step back and figure out what shapes I created.
For example, this improv led to an important section in the piece:
And this one became the main theme (listen for Baby Jack in the background):
Movement 3: Minuet and Trio – Andante con moto
Here’ s what it sounds like, computerized:
This movement may very well be the earliest completed piano piece I ever wrote. I’m not sure exactly when I started it, because it predates my habit of keeping a journal. But I think I have a memory of working on it in 2004. I can’t be sure, but it was definitely in a semi-complete form in 2006.
The earliest draft of the minuet, undated but probably 2004 or 2005.
When I revisited this music in 2014, I mainly focused on adding some subtle touches to it (integrating some of the motifs into the fabric of the piece, rethinking dynamics, making it more playable). I originally picked it up again because I was looking for a piece I had written that I might actually be able to play well. This is why I give Paul Dab a lot of credit for inspiring this whole sonata. Once I started tinkering with this old nugget again, I realized I was ready to complete the entire sonata. This is the movement that jump-started it, even though it’s the simplest and more straight-forward movement of the four.
This movement is in a truly classical form: minuet and trio. A short set of Baroque dances, usually inserted into a sonata or symphony, allowed the composer to construct a stately, graceful, low-key moment of rest before the rush of the final movement. Beethoven, Mozart, Haydn and all those dudes used it many times. I really didn’t add much to the structure or push the envelope with this one. It is truly a classical piece, fairly conservative. The form looks like this:
Conservative does not mean bad though. This entire sonata is full of traditional harmonies and forms, yet it still expresses what I wanted to express in that moment. This minuet is more traditional than I would probably write today, but when I started it in 2006 and finished it in 2014, that felt right in those moments. Sometimes going back to basics can unlock all sorts of new ideas.
This piece has a slight drunken quality to it, almost like the music is slurring its words. It gets a bit heated, but in a restrained way. The Trio is a bit angelic, very light, with just a flash here and there of tension. Overall, I don’t want to read too much into this one. Not all music is strictly progammatic music. When it comes down to it, this is a simple minuet and trio. I think I was playing more with form here than with emotion. This little dance is really just a calm interlude before the energetic and weighty final movement.
The minuet is nice to play though:
Movement 4: Rondo – Allegro Molto
Here’s what it sounds like (computerized):
This piece is a classic. I have a vague memory of starting it way back in 2003, but I only wrote a few measures before I couldn’t find my way forward. That was when writing a simple chord progression was an uphill battle for me, so this piece was born from pure gut and intuition. Those tools will get you only so far, before technical skill is required to turn a fun little building block into an actual piece. Though I could vaguely hear this music in my head (or at least feel the emotional direction I wanted to take it in), I couldn’t figure out which chords I should use to actually express those vibes. In other words, I couldn’t compose my way out of a paper bag. This tiny nugget was all I had, so I put the piece down for a couple years and focused on learning.
One of the earliest little nuggets I ever wrote, undated but probably 2003.
I used to call this music “Tempestates”, I think because I wanted to write a series of pieces about Greek gods or something along those lines. Instead I forgot about this music until 2006, when I was about to begin work on a final project for one of my composition classes. My professor, Meredith Brammeier (who is more responsible for my love of classical theory than anyone else on Earth) suggested that I write a medium-length piece with a clearly discernible form. After pondering my options for a bit, I rediscovered this musical fragment and thought it might make a decent rondo.
Rondo form is another classical form, usually appearing at the end of sonatas and symphonies. It goes something like ABACA, otherwise known as the deli sandwich of classical music.
This piece is very classical-sounding, or early-Romantic to be more precise. Essentially it’s in the style of Beethoven, since that’s who I was obsessed with (still am) when I was writing most of this. Back during that time, when I was still working at the Cal Poly library, I would push the cart of books around the different floors, listening to the entire catalog of Beethoven sonatas on my iPod over and over and over again, until I could hum every movement of every sonata. This Beethoven binge gave me a very strong appreciation of classical form and harmony, but also how to stretch those forms to express something deeper, how to turn form into art. Form is absolutely crucial in classical music, but it can’t be everything.
This movement probably leans more toward form for the sake of form than it does toward pure expression. As a young composer, I think I had to become proficient at form before I could wrap my head around pure expression. But built into this very structured piece is a nice dose of angst, nervous energy, and questioning, the same turbulence that guided the first two movements.
The C section is a soft interlude that plays with a couple motifs we heard earlier in the sonata. But this was not the original C section. I composed the new one mostly over Christmas break 2014 at Erica’s parents’ house in San Diego, on quiet evenings next to the giant Christmas tree, while Erica chatted quietly with her parents in the next room. The old one from 2006 was short, jolly, and fairly tight (not a lot of room to breathe). When I picked this piece up again in 2014, I probably could have expanded that old C section and gave it a bit more flair, but I decided to scrap it and start over. I wanted to write something restrained, quiet, and a bit jazzy, exactly what I wanted to listen to on those chilly winter evenings when the house was quiet.
Here’s the old C section on its own:
It’s got a bit of pep to it, but it doesn’t quite tickle me. I might salvage that one day, but for now it’s on the ash heap with so many other forgotten musical fragments.
Just for fun, here’s a video game version I made a while back:
So that’s about it for my first real-life piano sonata. Is it a perfect piece of music? Absolutely not. The final movement is too tightly wound for my taste. Were I to work on it now, I would stretch it out and let some of the ideas (and the listener) breathe a bit. I do love the first two movements, as they match my more current writing style. But as it stands they don’t exactly fit with the final two movements. This is a lesson I learned while listening to Ozma’s “Double Donkey Disk”: two very different EPs jammed together don’t exactly create an “album”. The two halves of this when taken as a whole do not feel organically written; but instead they resemble a slightly awkward arranged marriage. Which makes sense, considering the two halves were written a decade apart from each other. They are, however, united in one important way: I finished them all at the same time, motivated by the changes fatherhood brought to my life. So though the two halves aren’t necessarily united thematically, stylistically, or even artistically, they are forever united in my memories, and therefore they will remain together for eternity.
Below you will find my composition journal entries for this sonata:
I think I’ve finally hit my Rome stride. It takes me a good solid week to shake off jet lag, and perhaps longer to fully embrace the rhythm of a new home. Three weeks in one place is still a vacation, but it’s long enough to start to forget what it’s like in the real world. The vacation becomes all-encompassing. We have to go grocery shopping, and learn the layout of our neighborhood: drug store, metro stop, place that sells underwear for babies (our baggy full of Jack’s undies fell out of Erica’s backpack somewhere over the Atlantic). Today I feel like I’ve found my rhythm here. The right time to go out for a long walk in the sun, when to have a siesta, when to have an afternoon cocktail, when baby should go to bed; these are all crucial discoveries if one wants to prevent burnout. Today I have it down! I no longer have to try hard to feel at home here.
We took the number 3 tram on its long circuit from Trastevere to the North end of Villa Borghese. When traveling with a toddler, there is no better or cheaper way to keep them entertained than a long slow ride on a train. For 1.5 Euros, we basically got an air-conditioned tour of the entire eastern side of Rome, including a nice view of the Colosseum and Circo Massimo. I’m thinking perhaps sometime this week I will just hop on a regional train out into the countryside with Jack, with no particular goal in mind except to see what we can see.
An approximation of our route, based on memory.
Our goal today however is to rent bikes at the Villa Borghese and cruise around town. We arrive at the expansive park at midday, and quickly locate the little stand selling four-wheel pedal carts to tourists. With Jack perched in the front basket, we pedal our way across the park at a leisurely pace, stopping to play in fountains and listen to the random street musicians playing accordion music in the sun. The breeze in my hair makes me feel like a ship captain. Jack calls out “ciao!” to passersby, human and animal alike.
After the ride, we scarf down various sandwiches from a nearby café: spinach, egg, meat & cheese, tuna. These little white bread sandwiches are ubiquitous around Rome, very cheap, and very satisfying. Also easy to find in this city is amazing coffee. I never drink my coffee black in the US, but here it is just so rich and flavorful. Some guidebooks say that it is “un-Roman” to drink coffee all day, but I say drink it at every possible opportunity. My favorite is just a shot of espresso, with or without sugar. But also try machiatto, café freddo, and even café doppio (double shot) if you want a flavor explosion. We eat and drink coffee until we can’t move, then like amorphous blobs floating through space, we somehow drift back to our Rome Home.
Nap time for baby, siesta time for adults. Here in Rome, Jack naps from 3:30 to 6:30, so by the time we venture out again it is much cooler and the locals are beginning to emerge from the caves they hide in during the hottest part of the day. By 8pm, the piazzas of Trastevere are packed with people, eating, drinking, strolling, living the Roman lifestyle. I love this time of day here. Taking Jack for an evening stroll through the crowd of revelers makes every night feel like a festival, and maybe it is here. Jack likes to wear sunglasses at night.
I recently encountered a Roman who told me that people in this city don’t know how to work hard. I can’t comment on whether that’s true, but it certainly does seem like nobody is in a rush to do anything. I could sit at a café for three hours with one glass of wine, and the waiter will never rush me out the door. As an American, so used to immediate gratification, so used to a culture that teaches all young people that hard work for its own sake is a virtue, I sometimes struggle to accept this slower pace. But really, what is the point of hard work for its own sake? The point of work is to accomplish a goal, not to achieve a sense of soul satisfaction simply from the act of working. Here people have jobs, but they certainly don’t seem to value industry above all else. Maybe I’m buying into a stereotype, but they don’t seem to care all that much about getting things done. Joy is derived from the act of hanging out with friends, laughing, eating, and taking it slow. It’s almost as if I need to unlearn how to be an American in order to fully appreciate this life.
Yesterday I saw a group men in their thirties sitting on a park bench in the middle of a work day. These were not bums, but well-dressed men of working age. There they sat, with nowhere to be, doing nothing, without a care in the world (as far as I could tell). I watched them for sometime as Jack played in a nearby playground. They weren’t eating lunch, just sitting and watching. At one point, one man stood and wordlessly walked over to a child’s bicycle leaning against a post. He looked at the bicycle quizzically for a moment, as if he had never encountered such a thing before. Then he rang the little bell twice, turned around to look silently at his friends, and returned to his seat, his curiosity satisfied.
What is that life? How do I bring that home with me? Now granted, I do like to work, I love having a project. I couldn’t give up that Puritan work ethic, its baked in too deeply (even though I can claim no Puritan ancestry). But can I bring home a balance that includes just a piece of that Italian vibe? Can I still satisfy my insatiable need to create (that same drive that makes me write music, update a blog, build a website), but still be able to sit on a park bench for hours and find satisfaction in leisure? After all, why do I work hard if I can’t then put down my project and enjoy the finer things? Like lying around while my son performs a melodica solo.
Aren’t moments like these the most important moments in life?
After our siesta, we walk to Ponte Sisto, a piazza next to a bridge where young Italians are to be found every evening lounging on the steps, listening to the rotating street musicians who seem to work in 20 minute shifts. Down the steps to the banks of the River Tiber, a long row of restaurants and bars trace the curve of the river. More eating, more drinking, more sitting. By the time we get back home, it’s close to midnight, another Roman day well-spent.
Did we build great structures? No. Did we get richer? No. Did we relax and enjoy life, bond and laugh and lounge and live like Romans? Si! Right now, I couldn’t ask for more.
P.S. Jack made friends with an Italian waiter at a cafe today. The waiter was watching Jack from afar as Jack sat in his chair at the cafe, basking serenely in the sun like a cat, enjoying every bite of his chocolate cookie. Jack was in no rush to go anywhere or do anything. He was a master at chilling. His only job in the world was to savor good food, to people-watch, to close his eyes and rest, to just be. He was a true Italian. The waiter came up to us and said, “Now there is somebody who knows how to live.” I couldn’t agree more.
Tonight I am in Rome, cooking with my son. On the menu: antipasti plate, insalate, and potato gnocchi all’amatriciana (a traditional Roman sauce made from guanciale – find the recipe here). Jack is my special helper in the kitchen. I have found that one of the best ways to pass the time with a three year old is to cook a luxurious meal together. Jack loves to put spices in a bowl, fetch ingredients, sample the food as we cook it, and talk about what’s happening in the pan (“look Jack, bubbles!”). One of my primary goals on this trip was to cook a massive Roman feast for my family, so I intend to draw this out as much as possible.
Before we begin I open a bottle of Barolo, also known as “the king’s wine,” and let it breathe for a bit.
This particular wine goes very well with meat and cheese, so my first task is to craft the perfect antipasti platter. My particular version might not necessarily be “authentic,” but it includes everything I am in the mood to munch on. Let’s see, we have salami ventricina, prosciutto, pesto, crusty bread, soft bread, ricotta cheese, Romano cheese, green olives, anchovies, tomatoes, basil, olive oil with red pepper, and balsamic vinegar.
As I set each item out, I discuss the colors and textures with my sous chef, and we sample each item one by one. By the time everything is arranged, the wine is ready to drink! The flavors are warm and inviting, rich and complex. I especially enjoy the anchovies with bread, salami, cheese, basil, and tomato. These anchovies come pre-filleted and packed in oil and salt in a jar, perfect for eating or cooking!
Jack’s favorite is crusty bread and green olives. I’ve never met a toddler who loves olives as much as Jack (I certainly didn’t at that age, or even now to be honest). I think perhaps people are born either loving or hating olives. Perhaps it’s like a gene. Some scientist will probably study this in the future and solve this mystery once and for all.
Well I could eat this combo all night, but there is work to be done. Time for another glass of wine! I mean, time to cook more stuff. First we brown the guanciale just a bit, until it starts to shed some of its yummy fat into the pan. Guanciale is a type of pork made from pig jowls (mmm jowls). To say the least, it is succulent. It isn’t really a bacon flavor, but instead a buttery, soft, melt-in-your-mouth little chunk of fat that give any dish it touches a distinct porky flavor. A little goes a long way, so I decided to cook up a bunch! I’m not sure where I will find this meat in America, but I intend to hunt for it.
Now come onions, red pepper, mushrooms, and tomatoes, cooking together in the pig fat (with some olive oil too because why the hell not it’s delicious).
I’ve heard that Americans cannot tell the difference between rancid olive oil and fresh olive oil, so many of the olive oils in America are crap. I’m not sure if that’s true, but I can say that this jar I bought today is fresh and aromatic and flavorful! In fact, all of these ingredients taste so high quality, so fresh, so gourmet, as if I bought them at a five star restaurant. But they were all purchased with a 100 yards of my apartment in Trastevere. It makes me wonder what kinds of additives and impurities I eat every day in America. What is really inside a can of American tomatoes? What chemicals are sprayed on American basil? What hormones did the pig ingest? It’s sad to think about, so I’ll save that conversation for another day. It’s best to be mindful and live in the moment. My kitchen is starting to smell incredible, and I have lots more wine to drink. I am in Rome with my son, cooking traditional Italian food with authentic ingredients, sweating in the heat of the afternoon, drinking the king’s wine. Ah life!
I’m realizing that most of my favorite travel memories seem to involve food. On all of my road trips and journeys around the world, culinary experiences stand out in my mind like monuments. The fish eye I ate in Taipei, the fried pickles in Idaho, the lobster in Maine, the dumplings in Prague, the currywurst in Berlin… those are the experiences I take home with me, the scents and flavors I cherish when I reflect on past adventures. But I am more than a food tourist. It’s really about the whole ambiance, the vibe of a place. In Rome, it’s the food, but also the gentle lull of the dialect, the long relaxing meal, the exquisite wine, the hand gestures, the cigarette smoke, the cobblestones, the beautiful dresses and finely-tailored suits, the vespas, the crumbling buildings, the clothes hanging on wires, the all-encompassing heat. It’s all part of the package, all part of the magic.
The sauce has been bubbling for quite some time now, so I think it’s time for me to go boil some gnocchi. For now I will say ciao! As the Italians say, may you eat well, laugh often, and love much.
This ancient city will always hold a special place in my heart. The last time Erica and I were here, we had been married for exactly one day. Dazed and elated, as in a dream, we found ourselves gliding across the yellow countryside on an Italian train, bound for Rome. This was our first stop on a whirlwind European adventure through multiple countries. We only had a couple jetlagged days to soak in the magic of this place, so we followed the well-trodden path of the typical American tourist: running from monument to monument in the blazing sun, feasting on pasta and pizza and gelato until we couldn’t move, gaping in awe at the wreckage of an empire that once spanned the known world. We were two newlyweds in a very old place. We felt the weight of history. We woke at the darkest hour of the night and compared the sizes of our feet.
Now five years later we have returned, this time with a special traveling companion: our three year old son Jack.
Magic and wonder, those are the first words that come to mind when I picture traveling the world with my son. Some people write about the difficulty of flying across the sea with a young child, others provide strategies for what to pack and how to keep the little tyke entertained while you dine out. I just want to write the words magic and wonder, because that is what I feel.
Jack is the most amazing little person I have ever met. His curiosity and adventurous nature are contagious. He is easy-going and excited for life. He wears a fedora like he was born to do it. Watching him march confidently down a Roman alleyway, or try new varieties of food, or shout “ciao” to passersby (and dogs) fills me with such love I cannot describe.
Again the weight of history bears down on me. Jack is such a new little life, exploring his world, and I am his parent shielding him and teaching him and showing him the ropes. How many others have come before me, how many have walked these same streets, streets that were paved before Christ was a glimmer in his Father’s eye. How many parents have loved and guided their tiny children in this endless city, watched with trepidation as those babies took their precarious little steps over these worn out cobble stones? How many husbands and travelers and lovers and writers and artists and dreamers and musicians and businessmen (and all the other things I try to be) have thought these same thoughts while staring at the Tiber? Who has stood where I stand today, and what did they think and feel?
Practicing our Italian at the Trevi Fountain.
Being human means celebrating one’s own uniqueness while recognizing that everything we ever do has been done with endless repetition across the span of time. I love picturing the father who visited Rome with his wife and three year old son in the year 1291. The Pantheon and Colosseum were ancient even then. Did he watch his beautiful child play in a fountain and ponder his place in the universe? Did he squeeze his wife’s hand and whisper “I love you” as the sun set over the ruins? Did he keep a blog on some long lost scroll?
This is what history means to me, that we are all the same, that we are all connected by our humanness. Now that I have a tiny human of my own I feel more connected than ever.
Jack isn’t quite so philosophical as all that. He mostly wants to eat biscotti and splash in the fountains.
We have rented an apartment for three weeks in the heart of Trastevere, a restaurant-packed medieval neighborhood full of twisting alleyways and bars bursting with real-life Roman locals. No racing from place to place, no all-day walks across the burning city, no tourist track this time. We want to live like the Romans live. Jack and I go out in the morning and buy fresh fruit at the nearby street market. I drink coffee while he plays in the piazza, in the shadow of a 1,000 year old church. Erica and I eat at our leisure and people-watch and drink wine in the heat. We’re in no rush.
Jack loves to run up and down the alleyways. Up and down, up and down, repeat. He runs as fast as he possibly can, pumping his arms and scrunching up his little face into the very definition of (cute) intensity. Then he gets tired and plops down, mission accomplished. When he’s tired he sits on a stoop and looks around, taking it all in, storing up energy for the next sprint. For the moment he is perfectly content to sing quietly to himself, stare at the bright summer sky, and say ciao to any dogs that pass by. For Jack, it’s about the journey.
Cherishing the local cuisine.
Tonight we sat for two hours in the Piazza di Santa Maria in Trastevere. Jack brought some toys and spread them all out on the steps of a fountain. I sipped a large beer and watched as young people gathered on the steps to laugh and smoke and gossip. Street musicians came and went, but we remained. Nowhere to be. Basking in the ambiance of a clear Roman evening, practicing the art of doing nothing.
When I return to California, I plan to bring this Roman style of living back with me. That will be my souvenir. Stop, cherish life. Eat well, love passionately. Laugh, drink, live!
