Emily Federico

As we stepped out from the Spagna metro stop, the bustle of the Spanish steps overwhelmed my senses.   The stomping of horses mixed with the calls of vendors and the lingering whiff of perfume from nearby fashion houses was almost too much to handle.   It wasn’t until I stepped under the cool shade of the Keats-Shelley house and away from the masses that I started to feel a sense of peace.   When we entered the building, we were greeted by a young British woman; I felt a guilty sense of pleasure at hearing the familiar sounds of English.   The cramped spiral staircase and chipped paint reminded me of my school in London, an oasis among the clogged streets of Bloomsbury.   We entered the first room and automatically my inner writer went into geek mode.   Nestled amongst the shining mahogany were fragments of letters from Keats and Shelley as well as portraits of family members.   Books, their spines gilded and hidden behind a fortress of glass, begged...

            Her curls bob as she ducks and weave behind palm trees, their shadow casting over her small frame.   She calls out to her father who is wandering the square, a slight smile on his face.   Despite her young age, she is full of fire and grace, darting between dogs and scooters and striding past strangers marveling at her cuteness with a sassiness to rival Beyoncé’s.   A day in Piazza Cavour, cavorting among Italian government officials and student is a rare luxury for her.   She spends most of her days trapped between four walls, textbooks stacked higher than her torso and hands cramped from clutching a pencil for hours.   English conjugations are ingrained in her memory, mixed with European history and the Pythagorean Theorem.   Her eyes strain from looking at math problems and the tiny inch of blue sky peeking out of her window, a world she so desperately wants to explore but her father ...

            The scent of orange trees reaches me on the slight wind and intermingles with jasmine and clover.   The drip of rainwater onto gravel paths collects with the blossoms and washes away the gas and cigarette clouds commonly found on Roman streets. The screech of young children, along with the linguistically confused rants of a man on the corner wall, combine to form a sense of chaos among the orchard, the pesky sounds of human existence among tranquil nature.   The click of the camera shutters and the occasional blare of car horns from the nearby street only reinforces the immense presence of human life on the hill.   My back stiffens as I hear the crunching of footsteps coming towards my solitary perch but quickly pass by for a view of the city.   Even amongst the noise, I can still hear the muted gasps of those admiring the skyline and the wincing of elbows being thrown for the perfect Instagram shot...

             He is broken, slumped over in marbled pain.   His face is turned towards the base, eyes downcast and searching for any sign of hope among his despair.   Chiseled lines concave into folded flesh and his hand steadies him on the base, elbow bent in despondent resignation.   His beard grazes the inside of his chin, a collar of his shame.   A small wound bled from his folded chest, marbled blood spitting out of his sides and into his concaved stomach.   His torso is an emblem of defeat, folded and grotesque, the mark of a strong and athletic man diminished by the bending of flesh.   Scattered around him are marks of war, fragmented sword, and shields scattered around Gaul, emblems of a failed military conquest.   He pays no mind to the destruction surrounding him.   His gaze focuses on his hand, placed on his bent knee as if to steady himself from his fall from grace.   The surrounding statues s...

Giornale #2             As I walked along the street, the marble façade and saint figures, arms outstretched towards the heavens, loomed in the distance.   Its green doors yawned into the cavernous space beyond, beckoning me away from the rush of Vespas and the cries of young Italian soccer players in the courtyard.   Once I passed through the doors, the cacophony of noise faded away, replaced by the mutterings of an Italian mass and the hushed quiet of tourists milling about.   The priest’s calls to remember the works of St. Paul and the importance of baptism as a way of spreading Jesus’s message reverberated throughout the cave-like ceilings.   Throughout the service, several worshippers nodded as the glasses-clad and bean-pole priest spoke with a calm but authoritative reminder to remember the Gospel.   These words stuck with me as I wandered the church’s aisles.   Decorated frescoes of Mary holdi...

Her skirt swishes against the cobblestone and her habit trails behind her as she sways toward the basilica entrance, hands folded in prayer.  Despite the glaring sunlight, she wraps her fleece tighter around her willow frame as she continues her solo trek to the basilica.  Her cross glints against her periwinkle cloth, her divine armor against the secular world.  She strides across the piazza, oblivious to the chattering tourists surrounding her with iPhones and tour guides.  She is determined to see her bridegroom and savior and command plow through the crowds with the strength only her faith gives her.  The life of a Roman nun never appealed to her as a teenager.  She used to scoff at the sandal-clad women walking by as she drank full bottles of wine, slumped in the streets or vomiting in a back alley while her friends passed wrapped papers of whatever the street offered to them that day.  She found shallow pleasure in kissing random strangers in p...