As old as time: A tour of Italy
By Mehreen Ahmed
The Palatine Hills --- the domicile of the Roman kings, the mighty Caesars who lived, ruled and died here. And now this great place lies in ruins of timeless mourning, the scattered brick walls, tunnels and the olive groves, stairs and palaces testifying the splendor of their existence --- what Rome (Roma) was once upon a time.
The Roman Forum is situated just down the hills with Saturn's temple towering over the remains in its fractured glory. This is perhaps common knowledge that Julius Caesar after his demise was laid to rest in the forum where the assassination by Brutus occurred. Ironically, a teeming population of everyday life --- official and of public affairs also thrived in this very place.
It is almost inconceivable that the forum was once the seat of all commercial, religious, political and legal activities of the city. At present, it remains a sacred and monumental area of great antiquity. The valley of the forum lies between the Palatine, the Capitol and the first slopes of the Viminal and the Quirinal: three of the Seven Hills of Rome. Dating back to the late bronze age and early iron age, around 7th century B.C, it received its first pavestone and ever since this part of the valley has been the nerve centre. With the construction of the Curia, thus meetings of the senate were held and Comitium for the assemblies of the people. Magistrates had their official seats and offices here; the consuls and the senators in the Curia, the Tribunes in the Comitium and the Praetors in the courts. It was from the Rostra that the magistrates and the candidates harangued the crowd for a political career. Thus, magistrates were elected by the people in the Comitium and the Curia was set aside for the senators when they met. The sacrifices to the gods also took place here as well as the grand funerals. Speeches were delivered on the Rostra and one of the most famous ones of its time was Mark Anthony's which was made in honour of the departed soul of Julius Caesar.
The larger part of the forum which was the square was used for shops and markets mingled with the city's sanctuaries of Vesta, Saturn, Janus and Castor.
Now that the god's are mute and the vibrant life that once was has passed into oblivion as,
"…nothing beside remains. Round and decay of that colossal wreck …" just like Shelley's Ozymandias.
Well! It is time to move on. And this time it is Florence, the birthplace of renaissance. Brunesclelli's magnificent duomo (Santa Maria del flore), the imposing dome has created the stone skyline … the profile of Florence. Michelangelo so aptly had said that he could perhaps construct a dome, "bigger? Yes, but not more beautiful." As the tourist bus stops and starts at different places, the gigantic residence of the Medici family is vaguely noticeable. Mostly covered by trees on a huge garden, the residence also has a fence built around it. And the Piazzale or The Michelangelo Square over looking the majestic beauty is not far from this place rendering for a panoramic view of Florence.
Flanked by other historical buildings and museums, namely the Uffizi Gallery, the most notable is the Accademia Gallery which houses Michelangelo's David in nude, a masterpiece of renaissance sculpture. The marble statue stands there, cold, "quiet" and "unravished" captured in ageless antiquity. As opposed to the uncomplicated story of the bride in the Grecian urn that Keats found, this statue tells the tales of his heroic deeds of greatest courage.
Over the bridge of the Arno River our tourist bus drives. And as we go past, the city's buildings positioned along the two sides of the river comes within sight. Classical architecture at its best is how this view can be described. The ornate façade decorated with flowers, animals and humans show the love for exquisite details of the architects of the time.
The last destination for the tourist bus is the train station. This time the euro train is geared up for Venice, a city in Northern Italy.
Through the carriage window as the train pushes slowly forward, I view the pristine breath taking beauty of the Italian outback. The natural mountain springs, the little villas on the hill tops against the azure sky, the magic of the wilderness, the sheep high up on the peaks makes for the most idyllic setting. Shelley's "Adonis" would have come alive as the imagination fires up to the very image conjured in that pastoral elegy with allusions to 'flocks', 'streams' and 'music'.
Soon, I arrive in Venice. Distinct as it is, the train slows down to enter the city of water. The Venetian lagoon is formed out of the Adriatic Sea which shapes the landscape. The ubiquitous presence of the lagoon is sensational; It looks as though the place is flooding again from acqua alta or high waters. This feeling continues for sometimes until the train stops at the Venezia station.
A name derived from Veneti, a tribe inhabiting this place in the Roman times, Venice among other things is a place of gondolas and lovers. As I step out of the train station, the Grand Canal flows just before me with handsome gondoliers rowing away. Picture perfect, one such gondola cruises with a couple of lovers, holding hands. Their kissing is not witnessed yet but most likely it will take place under the bridge of sigh which will grant them eternal bliss as the legend decrees.
Gondolas being expensive, I hop on a water taxi to take me to San Marco or Saint Martin's square. A central landmark for the tourists, also popular with pigeons; I have been warned, nevertheless, that tourists have sometimes been covered in pigeon feces. Up against the mouth of the Grand Canal which is open to the lagoon, the Doge's palace, St. Mark's Basilica, St.Mark's clock tower and cafes are located. On the paved square, constructed from 1309 to 1324, Doge's palace or the ducal residence was built in Gothic design. It still has the colossal late-Gothic gate on the side of the palace which leads to a central court-yard. Adjacent to it is the prison which is linked by the bridge of sigh. The interrogation rooms of the prison are in Doge's palace which is also connected to this bridge. The famous Casanova escaped from this prison in 1755.
On my way to the hotel as I hop back on the same water taxi, I see a number of old venetian buildings along the Grand Canal. The fish market is also among them. The fish have been sold here for 600 years. I could not help but think of Shakespear's Shylock making clandestine money lending deals somewhere in the dark alleys between these tightly situated quarters.
My hotel is just around the corner from a shopping centre where I walk across for lunch. The charming little place which has a few hand full of shops seem almost deserted. A pedestrian on the sideway tells me that everybody has gone for a siesta. And as I window shop on that quiet summer afternoon, waiting for restaurants to open, I get mesmerized by hand blown Venetian glasses show-cased on the windows – the remarkable Murano glass from the island of Murano on the Venetian lagoon. Enclosed by cafes and shops, a medieval church also stands in the middle of everything with a huge bell hanging from the top. I could almost hear the heavy chiming of the church bell welcoming people to congregate for prayers --- it still does as I am told.
Speaking of which siesta is over. The pizza café is soon opened and business has never been better. I order a margarita and a macchiato; the margarita is piping hot as I bite into the stretchy, cheesy slice.
The late after-noon has rolled over into a summer evening. It is laden with mediterranean breezy romance as I saunter back to the hotel to take a last look at the Venetian skyline. In a flash not as majestic as Rome perhaps, but charming as it is, it has attracted poets and artists through-out ages for art, poetry and architecture to flourish.
The time for my departure has finally arrived. I take a moment to recap the tour of the three places in Italy which was enlightening as it was exciting. And while I am on my way to a transitory abode, the Romans have gone to their enchanting Heavens above where Venus, the goddess of love, reigns eternally.
Spots of Time By Mehreen Ahmed
Yes! It is the spring of 2011 that my "Spots of Time" as Wordsworth phrased, arise out of the tour de Granada. An unforgettable experience, I travel through its historic hotspots in South of Spain, within the province of Andalusia. I connect not just with the past but with the present as well, the city of today … Granada and its people. High up on the mountains while La Alhambra, an imposing, yet magnificent landmark serves as being one of the tourist destinations, the mysterious Albaicin is singled out for its old, snaky alleyways; the provocative cuevas or the caves are worth a mention too for their ingenuous interiors within which casas or houses have been built. Needless to say, that it is just as easy to fall in love with these sites, the people, as it is with the landscape.
Pre-eminently, it is the rugged exposé of Granada that has attracted travelers over many centuries, travelers such as Washington Irving who found the "romantic mountains of Andalusia;" truly exceptional! But it is also not devoid of plains either; it sweeps right through one end of the craggy hills to another. In contrast to the Nasrid gardens that I describe below, it looks quite severe for not being garnished with that many groves and forests perhaps, nevertheless owing to the precipices, there is an inescapable look of sublimity in the landscape.
Partly on foot and partly on bus, I make way through to La Alhambra. I walk to Centro from my hotel and then hop on a tourist bus to take me up the meandering mountain paths to the residential palaces of the great Moorish Emirates. Decked with luxurious charms, the scenery is largely beset with numerous homes built on the hilly slopes of the voluptuous mountains; visible also are the snowy peaks of Sierra Navada meaning the snowy range in Spanish, whose snows of spring still melt over the horizon.
There is magic in the air this after-noon; it is heavy with seductive aromas from the diverse oriental flowers as I step into the huge gardens of generalife in Alhambra known as Jannat-al-Arit in Arabic or the architect's garden. I stand on the edge of it and take a few moments inhaling the fragrant air, enthralled!
Bordered by majestic pines and hedges, the gardens are adorned with Myrtles and myriads of Roses in yellow, pink and red; the white Tiger Lilies, the unfathomable bushes of lavender Lilacs, the Carnations and the Scarlet Geraniums are also some, among the foliage. The most prominent are the Roses however, flanked alongside and around the fountains of varied shapes and sizes … a posy of Roses, overlooking either the circular or the elongated basins while the hedges rise above everything else, setting boundaries between the several passageways.
Sensuous? Indeed! Infused with the tranquil sound of the cascading waterfall, the splendor of the perfumed flowers, the pregnant orchard with Oranges, Lemons and Pomegranates, the chirrup of a lonely dove are nothing but expressions of idyllic milieus, short of an oriental paradise! Wandering through these gardens and the orchards, my unbridled imagination gets the better of me. Although, the ticket I bought from the booth at Alhambra lasts only until 2 'o' clock in the afternoon, I can not but ignore the palpable romance. Vivid as it is, I begin to dream of a prince losing himself into the enchanted eyes of a Nasrid princess right here where I stand today, in the Garden of Eden as it were, among its leafy vines over the lofty old Moorish walls. And yet! These are just the gardens of the Generalife where only the Sultan's summer palace is situated. The main palaces lay beyond; I plod heavily out to make my way towards them.
The palace complex, the al-hambra in Arabic, meaning the red fort for the color of its clay, is constructed on the hilltop of Assabica and belonged to the rulers of the North African Nasrid dynasty with Mohammad 1 (1238-1272) as its founder, up until the reconquesta in the late 15th century. Although the palace complex reached its zenith in the mid 14th century with Yusuf 1 and Mohammad the 5th, it can be traced back in Islamic times to the 9th century around 860 which marks the existence of the "Red Fort," for it was a fortress until palaces were built, though nothing of this remains today. The contours of al-hambra began to take shape under the Nasrids while the actual palace area was developed by Ismail 1(1314-1325). However, the general belief is that Torre de Comares or the highest tower which houses the throne room against the backdrop of the court of the Myrtles in the Comares Palace, is the oldest structure known.
Away from the king's palace but on the same plateau, a citadel or The Medina, was also built which was accessed through the Puerta del Vino or the wine gate. People entering upon the city, were asked to pay a toll at this public pavilion. The city was equipped with baths, ovens, silos and sisterns and houses of top government officials, court servants, and employees. Then again, the Alcazaba, now in ruins, is not too far from the gate of the wine either. It is an old fortress that served both the Moors as well as the Christian kings. The living quarters of the army officials, these were small but elite because they belonged to the permanent guards of the whole complex keeping a watch over the palaces. The huge bell that hangs in the tower today is said to have peeled as it announced the reconquesta by Isabella the Catalica, the Christain queen of Spain, an extension of the old Moorish tower which the Christians constructed at a later date.
Among several palaces, one of the masterpieces of Islamic cultures and breathlessly stunning is the Riyad Palace also known as Palacio de los Leones or court of the lions which I describe now. As I walk through the royal apartments of this exotic palace, I am smitten by the sheer magnificence of its walls and ceiling decorations. It does not feel as though it is a work of human hand but divine craftsmanship. I sit at a corner of one of the rooms … the hall of Abencerrajes and look up at the ceiling mystified by the grandeurs of this very impressive dome. It is based on a central star motif made up of muqarnas prisms which merge into the square shaped ground plans with the help of hanging muqarnas spandrels. As though bejeweled, these rooms literally shimmer from ceiling down to the floor, speckled with pearls, pink rubies, white sapphires and sparkling diamonds in gilded silhouettes. Lost in its unrivaled beauty, I pinch myself to believe that I am not in any oriental fairy tales.
Is it credible though that the heinous slaughter as the legend decrees, might have taken place here? But the legend stands as true as that marvelous star of the dome that through the wicket of the portal, gallant cavaliers of an illustrious line, I feel I can almost see them, being introduced one by one into the court of lions and getting brutally murdered by the white marble fountain in the centre of the hall. But the magic takes over at once as the place suddenly becomes animated with the tinkling of the princess's laughter in unison with the gentle water gushing out of the mouths of the twelve lions … the renowned fountain, mingled with the cries of the nightingales; for these were also the private quarters of the Emirs who lived here with their family and the royal harem. But what is most enduring perhaps is the life of art itself; not only are the artiste immortalized on account of it but so are the Moors! Their last sigh is encircled around the cold marbles of the pillars, within the Arabic inscriptions on the walls and felt over the intriguing mosaic of the halls, a sigh that is steeped in memory.
To-day al-hambra has gone through many renovations, as I stop to ask a Spanish guide in my broken Spanish who in his equally broken English tells me some of these tales. The fantasies are just as romantic as its history and they are endless, just as endless are the gardens, the courts and the palaces: Is it possible to encapsulate al-hambra? I say no, therefore, I say no more. And as I move ahead to the next stop, the Albaicin, the music of the royal courts linger on.
I hop back on the tourist bus at the stop to take me to Albaicin, but on the way, it stops at Centro and I decide to get off for dinner before I head off. The sun does not set until 8`o'clock in the evening so I walk towards the city centre to have the Spanish tapas, as suggested by a friend. Filled with restaurants, this vibrant place is basically an open air eating area with rows of restaurants located on either side of the alley. These alleyways are the eatery where tables and chairs are placed in close proximity. It is quite hard to get a table here because people are in no hurry to leave, even on a week day. Dynamic and fun loving, the hedonistic crowd enjoys dining and wining until the midnight oils burn, sometimes beyond.
Sauntering through one of these alleys, I look for a table and as I do so, singing minstrels come within eyesight passionately playing the Harmonica. But they sing no ballad, just popular western songs. Although the Arabic style harem pants are quite popular, women seem mostly clothed in European dresses. And judging from the number of people eating out, I gather the economy must be doing okay although a stranger tells me at Alhambra that bank employees receive reduced salary; it has been slashed to half recently. However, by no stretch of imagination is this decipherable by their life style. Hardly anyone eats indoors; this place is always teeming with men, women and children. They seem as though business has never been better! Admittedly, I see beggars on the street but somehow they too take part in the merriment!
The hot tapas soon arrive and it is a combination of Paella and deep fried Calamari. It is Mouth watering … my very first taste of the Paella. I enjoy it as leisurely as I can for I am pressed for time; my next visit is Albaicin.
I tread softly down the wide stairs leading to many interwoven narrow pathways. Ahead of me lies hundreds of these intertwining, never ending serpentine pebbled conduits appearing and disappearing into one another around the corner to meet the next one. Like a huge jigsaw puzzle, this place has an entrance but hard to know where the exits are, not visibly linear anyway. Each step at a time, I treasure the moment, observing the awesome medieval buildings (approx13th century) either rendered or stucco finished, on both sides. I stroll mindlessly ascending the slope of the plateau of the old Moorish quarters. Not as grand perhaps, but picturesque as they are, these homes belonged to the commoners of Granada when the Moorish Emirs ruled. I touch the age old bricks on the walls and feel its vibes running right through. Perfectly habitable, people love living in them as gathered by the level of care they take for their abode, no matter how humble; almost every window sill has a little pot garden laden with spring flowers which are bursting with millions of bright colors … purple, blue, red, orange and violet. The decorative doors still have the olden wrought iron exteriors with unique built-in smaller doors into unwieldy huge wooden ones, opening and closing at all times; people have not tried to modernize them. Each tiny window is cased within outer vertical grills mostly for security reason and they too remain unchanged.
By now the setting sun has taken possession of the day as I walk towards the edge of the hill. To my astonishment the sun's last ray reflects a familiar building just opposite to where I stand across a lush crevasse. And yes! You have guessed it. It is the Alhambra, the most beautiful sunset imaginable. The memorable russet towers stand tetchy against the departed sun and becoming more radiant in the process as though it mourns for its colossal loneliness and its grand defeats; it mourns so much that mourning becomes Al-Hambra, the sensuality of the orient shrouded in eternal obscurity.
It is 1`o' clock in the morning, yet the open air restaurants bustle with laughter and music as I walk past the night cafes to return to my hotel; I see people through smog of cigarette rapt in conversation in the sedentary night.
Next day, I head off again and this time for the caves. Deep into the mountains of Sacramonte, the five thousand years old caves have housed fine museums, restaurants and homes. Although made suitable for human habitation but not in an overtly modern way, these seem to have gradually evolved into this present form, yet reverberating the evocative past. I can almost visualize Flamenco, the seductive gypsy art: the dance originated among them and then spreading into the wider community, in the dim lights of the cave fire. The pictures in the cave museum, each tells a story of cave-dwelling since the days of the gypsies, however, they also make it clear that after the reconquesta, it was the hiding place of many vanquished Moors from their Christian captors … a legacy that runs through history.
Jutting straight out of the mountains, the interiors are adequately whitewashed with stucco finish on the walls and the ceilings with cave-like formation kept intact. Among the various exhibits within the interconnected rotund rooms, one typically simulates a modern cave bedroom. Furnished with a double bed and bed linen with two small sized bedside tables, this low-ceilinged snug room is complete with pictures hung on the wall; they depict fire, burning gently inside a hearth in winter, contrary to the cool comfort in the blazing heat of summer. Led through an alcove of the museum, an adjacent old style kitchen with stove, hearth and chimney is displayed. Prosaic perhaps to the naked eye but imagination can light it up into the little hobbit's room in the Lord of the Rings, Bilbo Baggins.
I stop at a cave for agua or water. The wall pictures in this restaurant state similar stories of the nostalgic past, the actual cave-dwelling when the nomadic gypsies lived scantily, eating outside and sleeping on the cold, hard floors. Their frugal living amply compensated for their passion for singing and dancing perhaps and the ability to roam free. Yes freedom! That they have and are blessed that way. Descending those mountains, I notice quite a few taxis on my way down. These incredibly narrow roads are for two way traffic but precarious as it is, cars and mini buses get through anyway that adds to the general charm of this panoramic view. Also available are adult scooters with gigantic wheels which haul people up and down, a much cheaper option.
Before returning to my bed and breakfast hotel, I go to an Arabic restaurant for dinner. I try their couscous with aromatic lamb and sliced carrots placed vertically on its bed. A rich dish undoubtedly, but a gastronomic marvel. This is followed by apple tea which arrives in an equally exotic, oriental teapot. The teapot has a broad floral base and a tall narrow neck conjoined in the middle with a spout. Served in a transparent floral glass, seated on small sized saucer to match its size, the refreshing hot tea takes the oily tang away. It is nearly midnight and I turn in to catch an early flight the next morning.
I leave my hotel, Puerto del los Aljibe, for the airport, about 20K away which costs 50 Euros in taxi. The Iberian airline flies me out to Madrid and then Emirates all the way out of the Iberian Peninsula or Spain, if you like. As much as I want to, my journey regrettably, comes to an end; however, I gather solace from the fact that at least my thoughts are documented here, within the "spots of time!" And this is infinite!
AUTHOR'S BIO:Mehreen Ahmed has been publishing since 1987. Including a novella, Jacaranda Blues, published in August 2011, her newspaper articles, short stories, and travel narratives have appeared in The Sheaf: University of Saskachewan campus newspaper, VelvetIllusion Literary Magazine, Asia Writes, New Asian Writing Short Story Anthology 2011and The Story Institute. Her works have also been published in leading CALL journals such as Computer Assisted Language learning: Lisse, The Netherlands, On-Call, ISTE. She has currently reviewed Teaching and Researching Language Learning Strategies by Rebecca L. Oxford for ISTE, October issue 2011.
She has completed two MA degrees, the first in English Literature and the second, in Applied Linguistics (Computer Assisted language Learning) from the University of Queensland, Brisbane. She lives in Brisbane, Australia.
Mehreen10@gmail.com.
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