Argument in Transit, Ghost in Rome

How do you arrive in a city when your past gets there first?

I landed angry. Seven hours of turbulence—none of it in the air. Just a thumb cramping over half-sentences to a man in the US, vitriolic filled rage that had welled up and exploded over the Atlantic, WiFi flickering like a bad metaphor. The argument wasn’t really about the message. Or the missed delivery. It was about the months, no, years of emotional fog that came before. About all the gentle, persuasive rewritings I’d let happen in the name of staying soft. I was furious at the question that kept stalking me: Who am I performing for? The irony wasn't lost on me, given I was en route to perform at a conference in a former Soviet bloc country. The performance would be a reenactment of the past, always different once the context changes. I didn't think about how each time I returned to any place, it was a reenactment, and a kind of performance.

This time, Rome shimmered on arrival. It always did. The color of it seduces you into forgetting its sharp edges. I took a cab to my friend's apartment, proud of my pronunciation with internet assistance, mimesis had somehow always guided me to fit in just enough to pass undetected. A different apartment, but that same light coming through the windows and balcony, like the whole sky was blown wide open. We walked through what used to be the Zecca di Stato—the State Mint, the place where value was once made real. She lives there now, in a renovated flat she owns, but I am told the neighborhood remains ungentrified. Rome's ancient architecture blends with such historical precedent that my naive eyes have a hard time understanding what ungentrified means exactly. I see no HUD federal Section 8 Blocks reminiscent of cell blocks. Just Corinthian columns against a backdrop of a crane swinging over something mysterious.

To keep reading, subscribe for access to the full essay—on what it means to live in a city that certified value, when you’ve never been certified yourself.