Roman Crazy
Page 24
When was the last time I’d walked into an art store? I couldn’t remember. But this store was like entering Mecca. Every kind of medium you could dream of was there. And the sketch pads alone made me ache to take them all home.
There’s something really special about an art store. Here you have colors and blank paper of every size and every color, every saturation and every combination at your fingertips. Everyone walks out of the store with essentially the same thing. But it’s what happens after it all leaves the store . . . the possibilities are endless. I couldn’t possibly count the amount of times that just being in an art store had inspired a new piece, or changed my direction on a current project.
I honest-to-God breathed a sigh of relief just being in this store. How in the world had I ever been gone from this world for so long?
Does anyone truly know the beauty of a brand-new box of perfectly sharpened, never-been-used colored pencils? Can anyone ever really appreciate the curve of a brand-new sable paintbrush, edge never before dipped into a vibrant cerulean acrylic and swirled across a virgin canvas?
Simply put, it’s something I’d never take for granted again.
The stores, no matter the country, were set up mostly the same. Different media grouped together to make it easier for you to browse. And browse I did. With a basket and a smile, I carried myself through the store, carefully selecting a small set of pastels, a handful of pencils, and a large spiral sketch pad. I could have gone crazy in there, but I had other plans for the day, and lugging a giant bag with me wasn’t practical.
After I paid, I left and decided to walk until I hit water, no matter where it took me. I rummaged through my knapsack for a euro and held it in the palm of my hand. When I had free time in Barcelona, if I wasn’t with Marcello, I would flip a coin to see which direction I’d go.
It was my first full day alone in Rome and I had an idea of what I wanted to do, but I was letting fate decide. I closed my eyes and flipped the coin. It came up heads. Heads was west. I pulled out the map to see what I might run into going west as the universe had dictated.
Ooh, Campo de’ Fiori. It sounded familiar. Daisy had mentioned it, hadn’t she?
I quickly consulted my guidebook.
Ooh, an outdoor market.
I bounded down to the corner and headed west.
* * *
THE WALK TO THE CAMPO de’ Fiori took a bit longer than I’d intended. The street signs were plentiful, but so was the graffiti sprayed across them to throw you off.
But with some patience, a few surreptitious peeks at my map, and a little luck, I made it! When I entered the Campo de’ Fiori square, all the air left my lungs, rendering me light-headed and in awe.
It was bustling, alive, colorfully explosive, magnetic, and I felt charged just walking through it. It was like the farmers’ markets at home but so much more. These vegetable stands boasted tomatoes the size of a dinner plate. Royal purple eggplants, luscious green zucchini, and plump, hearty mushrooms. They were being gently placed into baskets across the front of one of the tables. Another stand had fruit just as colorful and lush. Cheese in wheels, some was shredded, while others were ground into a Parmesan pillow.
And pasta—lord have mercy. Maybe it was the years of carb watching, but I nearly burst into happy tears at the sight of bags and bags of pasta just waiting for me to buy them.
Maybe I could cook dinner for him? I meant Daisy. Yes, Daisy.
As if on cue, my stomach growled. Loudly. A young man carrying a basket of vegetables chuckled and pointed to a little pastry shop just outside of the square.
Food first, people watching later. Armed with another cornetto alla crema (they were quickly turning into my favorite breakfast) and a coffee, I moved through the crowd that milled about with their baskets.
I heard the water trickling before I saw the giant, ancient fountain that it was pouring from. Noticing the inscription, I tried out my Italian. “Fa del ben e lassa dire,” I mumbled to myself.
An elderly woman was sliding over on the ledge, freeing up a seat for me to enjoy my breakfast, and clearly overheard me puzzling out the meaning. She smiled, looking for all the world like a sweet jack-o’-lantern with missing teeth and sparkling eyes.
“It mean, ‘Do the good and let them talk,’ ” she explained, and pinched my cheek before hobbling away, leaning on her umbrella as a cane.
Huh. A strange woman had just pinched my cheek, and it didn’t feel at all weird. I freakin’ loved this town.
Scrambling up, I had a perfect view of the outlying city while being enveloped in the heart of the square. I rolled over the quote in my head while I ate, trying not to take it as some Italian sign about Marcello. Marcello was good. Very good. Was he the good I should be doing? Was this a sign to do him again? Hmmm.
An image of myself stumbling through the streets of Rome, clad only in a borrowed trench coat came to mind, and I immediately shook my head.
With a mental slap to get my mind out of the gutter, I focused on the market. To my left were white tented tables filled with everything from fresh seafood to the most vibrant flowers I’d ever seen. There were a few restaurants with outdoor seating and red-checkered cloths. If I could choose a postcard image to represent Italy, Campo de’ Fiori would be it.
I sat cross-legged on the edge of the fountain and pulled out the sketchpad. It was wrapped in plastic and I was like a kid on Christmas tearing into a present. I lifted the cover and ran my fingers down the blank page. It was pristine white and I couldn’t wait to get started.
Digging through the bag, I pulled out the pastels and eyed a fruit stand that had a tower of apples. Still life was never my favorite subject, but this was back to basics.
There’s something really special about an art store. Here you have colors and blank paper of every size and every color, every saturation and every combination at your fingertips. Everyone walks out of the store with essentially the same thing. But it’s what happens after it all leaves the store . . . the possibilities are endless. I couldn’t possibly count the amount of times that just being in an art store had inspired a new piece, or changed my direction on a current project.
I honest-to-God breathed a sigh of relief just being in this store. How in the world had I ever been gone from this world for so long?
Does anyone truly know the beauty of a brand-new box of perfectly sharpened, never-been-used colored pencils? Can anyone ever really appreciate the curve of a brand-new sable paintbrush, edge never before dipped into a vibrant cerulean acrylic and swirled across a virgin canvas?
Simply put, it’s something I’d never take for granted again.
The stores, no matter the country, were set up mostly the same. Different media grouped together to make it easier for you to browse. And browse I did. With a basket and a smile, I carried myself through the store, carefully selecting a small set of pastels, a handful of pencils, and a large spiral sketch pad. I could have gone crazy in there, but I had other plans for the day, and lugging a giant bag with me wasn’t practical.
After I paid, I left and decided to walk until I hit water, no matter where it took me. I rummaged through my knapsack for a euro and held it in the palm of my hand. When I had free time in Barcelona, if I wasn’t with Marcello, I would flip a coin to see which direction I’d go.
It was my first full day alone in Rome and I had an idea of what I wanted to do, but I was letting fate decide. I closed my eyes and flipped the coin. It came up heads. Heads was west. I pulled out the map to see what I might run into going west as the universe had dictated.
Ooh, Campo de’ Fiori. It sounded familiar. Daisy had mentioned it, hadn’t she?
I quickly consulted my guidebook.
Ooh, an outdoor market.
I bounded down to the corner and headed west.
* * *
THE WALK TO THE CAMPO de’ Fiori took a bit longer than I’d intended. The street signs were plentiful, but so was the graffiti sprayed across them to throw you off.
But with some patience, a few surreptitious peeks at my map, and a little luck, I made it! When I entered the Campo de’ Fiori square, all the air left my lungs, rendering me light-headed and in awe.
It was bustling, alive, colorfully explosive, magnetic, and I felt charged just walking through it. It was like the farmers’ markets at home but so much more. These vegetable stands boasted tomatoes the size of a dinner plate. Royal purple eggplants, luscious green zucchini, and plump, hearty mushrooms. They were being gently placed into baskets across the front of one of the tables. Another stand had fruit just as colorful and lush. Cheese in wheels, some was shredded, while others were ground into a Parmesan pillow.
And pasta—lord have mercy. Maybe it was the years of carb watching, but I nearly burst into happy tears at the sight of bags and bags of pasta just waiting for me to buy them.
Maybe I could cook dinner for him? I meant Daisy. Yes, Daisy.
As if on cue, my stomach growled. Loudly. A young man carrying a basket of vegetables chuckled and pointed to a little pastry shop just outside of the square.
Food first, people watching later. Armed with another cornetto alla crema (they were quickly turning into my favorite breakfast) and a coffee, I moved through the crowd that milled about with their baskets.
I heard the water trickling before I saw the giant, ancient fountain that it was pouring from. Noticing the inscription, I tried out my Italian. “Fa del ben e lassa dire,” I mumbled to myself.
An elderly woman was sliding over on the ledge, freeing up a seat for me to enjoy my breakfast, and clearly overheard me puzzling out the meaning. She smiled, looking for all the world like a sweet jack-o’-lantern with missing teeth and sparkling eyes.
“It mean, ‘Do the good and let them talk,’ ” she explained, and pinched my cheek before hobbling away, leaning on her umbrella as a cane.
Huh. A strange woman had just pinched my cheek, and it didn’t feel at all weird. I freakin’ loved this town.
Scrambling up, I had a perfect view of the outlying city while being enveloped in the heart of the square. I rolled over the quote in my head while I ate, trying not to take it as some Italian sign about Marcello. Marcello was good. Very good. Was he the good I should be doing? Was this a sign to do him again? Hmmm.
An image of myself stumbling through the streets of Rome, clad only in a borrowed trench coat came to mind, and I immediately shook my head.
With a mental slap to get my mind out of the gutter, I focused on the market. To my left were white tented tables filled with everything from fresh seafood to the most vibrant flowers I’d ever seen. There were a few restaurants with outdoor seating and red-checkered cloths. If I could choose a postcard image to represent Italy, Campo de’ Fiori would be it.
I sat cross-legged on the edge of the fountain and pulled out the sketchpad. It was wrapped in plastic and I was like a kid on Christmas tearing into a present. I lifted the cover and ran my fingers down the blank page. It was pristine white and I couldn’t wait to get started.
Digging through the bag, I pulled out the pastels and eyed a fruit stand that had a tower of apples. Still life was never my favorite subject, but this was back to basics.
