A Day in the Life of...

I wake up, startled by the irritating sound of my cell phone’s alarm. I roll over, grab the phone, press the ‘end’ key, and all is silent. Lying in bed I fight off the hypnotic power of sleep. 10:00am. I’ve already hit the snooze button twice and I will most likely be late enough as it is. The edges around the window glow as the rays of sunlight try in vain to penetrate the wooden shutters. My eyes take a moment to adjust. My roommates are both still sleeping.

I sit up and swing my legs over the side of my tiny twin size bed. Grabbing my towel, I walk into the hallway and find the shower room to be occupied. “Oh well”, I think to myself as I head back to my room for another five minutes of shut eye.

Twenty minutes later I am showered, shaven, deodorized, and clothed. I sit at the oversized kitchen table wolfing down a bowl of Kellogg’s Coco Pops, one of the few reminders of my more permanent place of residence, and washing it down with a strange Italian fruit drink involving Blood Orange, Banana, and Grapefruit. To my left, out the window, the eternal city of Rome sprawls for as far as the eye can see. In the distance, the dome of St. Peters is visible through the haze that perpetually looms over the city.

10:25am. I have class in five minutes. Time to go. I hurriedly wash my bowl and spoon and toss them back into their respective cabinets. Back in my room, I quickly make my bed, gather my belongings, ensure the windows are shut, dash out the door, and down the hall. There are 145 steps to street level from the fourth floor. By taking the stairs two at a time, I only need to walk down 73 stairs (taking into account the landings that occasionally throw off my gait) and thus, I have dramatically reduced the amount of time it takes to transition from a vertical plane of travel to the horizontal one that must be traversed in order to reach my final destination (I’ve got this getting around thing down to a science).

The cobblestone streets are slippery from a mixture of rubber, oil, city slime, and moisture from an early morning rain. It never stops raining here. I must pay extra attention to every step else I risk slipping and falling; an event that would ruin anybody’s morning. 10:33am. I am three minutes late for my Italian class.

1:00pm. Italian is over. I exit the building and turn right, walk a few meters and turn right again. I find myself on a very busy Via dei Baullari. Locals scurry about, their gaze directed downward, paying little attention to the details that surround them, while tourists pause every few moments to soak in every storefront, façade articulation, and giant sausage sitting outside the entrances to bakeries and butcher shops.

Expensive cameras hang from their necks, daypacks stuffed with all the necessities for a day of sightseeing weigh them down as they huddle in groups of two or three (or fifteen) around trusty maps which they use to reorient themselves and navigate from sight to sight. At one time they and I would have had few differences, but lately this foreign land has begun to feel more and more like home. I would likely blend in seamlessly with the locals were I not a six foot, two hundred pound, Irish-American with bright red hair.

I make a pit stop at a small Panini stand on the left side of the street. I order the usual, “Uno salame e mozzarella panino perfavore. Caldo. Grazie!” I say. In less than 180 seconds I am on my way. With one hand holding my hot panino and the other stuffed in my front pocket, I stroll through the Campo dei Fiori farmers market, mostly people-watching, but keeping an eye out for goods that were not offered the previous day.

At around 1:30pm I make my way to studio just around the corner on the third floor of The University of Washington Rome Center located inside the famous Palazzo Pio. Here I will spend the next four hours sitting at my desk scribbling thoughts down in a three by two inch sketchbook and refining designs over and over again on trace paper. To some it may seem silly, but this is what I’ve signed up for.

8:00pm. Studio is long over, but many students have lingered to talk to Vyt, Skype, or waste time on Facebook. My stomach rumbles and my neck hurts from staring down at my desk for so long. I pack my things, lock up my computer, tidy my desk, and depart. It is dark now, and no evidence of the farmers market remains in Campo dei Fiori. Instead the cafes and restaurants have transformed into bars, setting up their tents and preparing for the massive amount of teens and twenty-something’s who flock to the famous piazza every night. I take a shortcut, bypassing the piazza, and soon find myself climbing back up the 145 stairs to my floor. I alternate the flights, taking every other one two stairs at a time so as to utilize separate muscle groups and prevent fatigue.

As I walk down my hallway, I pass by the usual faces of the Arts and Science majors in the Wintergarten surfing the web and connecting with people back home. I open the door to my room, remove my coat, and set down my belongings. From there, I immediately proceed to the kitchen where I find a gathering of students nourishing their bodies with fantastic home cooked Italian food. I take part in their laughter, stories, and occasional drinking while I boil water and heat up tomato sauce for my meal.

1:00am. I lay in bed cradling a novel which I read with the assistance of a convenient flashlight built into my phone. Two candles flicker away on my nightstand casting fascinating and ever shifting shadows across the walls. I turn the pages, absorbed by the adventure until my eyelids grow heavy and I struggle to make sense of the strange symbols printed on the page. I place my bookmark and close the story, gently placing it in a tiny bin under my bed. With a single breath, the already dying candles are extinguished and I lay my head down. I give in to the seductive call of sleep and let my mind wander. My heart rate slows and thoughts begin to bend, twist, and blend into one another. At last, I rest...

-BJC