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It seems to me civilization originates with wolves.
I don't mean literally. Wolves don't build aqueducts or public baths. Not with those adorably lethal paws they don't. Nor does one normally associate the lupine persuasion with engineering or civil philosophy.
Wolves aren't concerned with utility at scale like that. Not traditionally. But it happened, anyway. According to tradition that is.
Sure, Egypt had engineers. I'm sure tombs edifying a death cult's fever dream are quite impressive. I believe it when I hear those pyramids are wondrous. I have no reason to doubt it. But they only serve the dead. And tourists.
I also have no reason to doubt the Athenians made impressive contributions to philosophy and politics. But one wonders at the form they chose. After Cleisthenes handed them their democracy, they handed us little else of use.
When faced with a water problem, the Egyptians turned to the magical thinking inherent in all tyranny to raise and lower the Nile. Pharoah will save us with that arm waving thing they do! Hurrah for Ra!
The Athenians and Spartans gave it a solid ponder, but no more. What even is water and are you sure you want it? Have you tried going without? I don't drink the stuff. Fish poop in it. Now, wolf urine, that's my poison.
It was wolves who saw their thirsty comrades and built aqueducts to slake it, not content with digging wells. It was wolves who savaged and harassed nature into submission. It was wolves who did this only for glory.
It was wolves who probably learned how from the Greeks.
I should explain the fascination with wolves in an abridged, tragically non-factual fable.
The story goes, almost three millennia ago, a set of infant twins were abandoned on the Tiber River. Certain to die, their wails and cries attracted a she-wolf. But rather than devour the children, she nursed them.
These twins grew large. In that time, this likely meant about five-foot-two. But these figurative wolves towered over the literal wolves until it became time to release them into the wilds and kingdoms of man.
A variety of violent, bloody adventures awaited their return to mankind. But they held the advantage. They were raised by wolves.
Their peers were somewhat awed by them. A pair of warriors without a war. At first. They would create one when they needed it. And they did, proceeding to wolf-handle the area around the Tiber River on the Italian boot.
During their bloody ballyhoos, they managed to kill a king. Blood feuds were a serious matter. That king had killed their family and would have done for them, too.
A disdain for kings would become part of their lupine legacy. But not yet. Not until after making themselves king. First things last.
Their adventures attracted a following. A modest camp bulged to the size of a city. So, they made it official and began to build walls. But wolves play rough, and one brother slew the other. They would not share power.
King slayers from the start. Even their own. Especially their own.
The remaining wolf called his new city Roma. From there, he invited fugitives and convicts and exiles of other cities to live. He demanded the poor, the unwashed, the rough, and rowdy.
He demanded more wolves no matter their nation. And the wolves came, because wolves can smell their own. Also, the ancients tell us you could smell Rome from miles away.
Marcus Tullius Cicero once remarked of Cato, “He speaks as if he is in Plato's Republic and not Romulus' Shithole.” His words! Not mine. Cicero had a potty-mouth. According to Marc Antony, anyway. And Cicero’s writing.
Wolves play rough. It’s the claws and paws, I think.
We arrived in Rome much the same as those first wolves did, I imagine. Hungover, mildly drunk, and leaving our baggage far behind. We were, as always, assured our luggage would find us.
By now I had adopted my customary response to adversity by committing myself entirely to the hard work necessary to ignore it. We had arrived in The Eternal City. I didn't have time to care about bags.
Our past stalked us. There was no need to seek it. I'd heard there were wolves around. I needed to make friends, not enemies.
We found our hotel just outside the Old City, off a side street a block from Via Nazionale. That's National Street, to be clear. Not a Nazi festival. This wasn't 1943. Or 2017.
This was our main route in and out. A city bus sometimes services it, I'm told.
In Rome, public transport behaves like quantum particles. It cannot be predicted with precision and the attempt affects their motion. The only surefire method to conjure a Roman bus is to patiently wait for the check at a cafe overlooking the bus stop.
You then watch it drive away without you. Ciao!
Unlike Firenze, I do know what Rome looks like from the outside. It looks like any other city. Modern streets, metrosexuals wandering about unafraid for some reason, and public transportation running whenever it feels like it.
The literal meaning of metro means mother, by the way. A metropolis is a mother city. You do the math on metrosexual.
While waiting for a bus I noticed two oddities.
Many manhole covers in the city are emblazoned with the abbreviation SPQR. This is old school stuff. The Romans of old put it on their battle standards and tagged it on foreign skate parks.
It shortens The Senate, the People, and Quirites of Rome.
There is some debate regarding the Q among scholars. They're not entirely confident what Quirites refers to, which means I can make it up. Queers. It means queers. Queer wolves conquered the world under that banner. With adorable paws.
The other bit of strange was a notice pinned to a nearby street pole. It admonished every passerby to only frequent White Taxis. Now, I'm not the most progressive fellow in the world but this seems callow and stupid.
Do better, Rome.
I guess the taxi unions were fighting the rideshare services like Uber and Lyft and “pirate taxis.” Rather than wash the urine out of the seats or quit running tourists over, the unions put up signs instead. Makes sense now.
Unreliable public transport means you have to hoof it everywhere. Great for taking in the sights, but it is hell on your feet. At least for a lazy, lower class intellectual like myself. But I found a decent treatment on the cheap.
The locals call it a bidet. I think it's Proto-Latin? Or some language attempting Latin with three hundred kinds of cheese in its mouth. Oh, right! French. It has something to do with butt stuff. I don't know what.
I requisitioned it for feet stuff. When your dogs are dying after looking for wolves all day you can soak your feet in them.
I sat on the toilet side saddle and let ‘em soak in the cool water while reading Tacitus. He is Rome's greatest historian. Also, their greatest literary man. A wickedly funny fellow, he knew it isn't possible to be good in Empire. But he didn’t have a bidet.
I expressed my appreciation of such luxuries at the hotel desk, but they didn't seem to understand.
In fact, they didn't understand much at that hotel. About foot-soakers, bus schedules, or thermodynamics. While smoking in the courtyard, we were told quite clearly, “It is impossible to smoke here.”
Look, lady. I get it. I'm American. We despise smokers now too after hooking the world with tobacco. But it was obviously quite possible to smoke there. There was oxygen, fuel, and a spark to light it up. I demonstrated every day.
Amazingly, she stuck to this stupid claim the rest of our stay. The stress of magical thinking in the face of contrary evidence was obviously taking its toll on her. Every day she told us it was impossible to smoke there.
By now I was beginning to question the whole wolf narrative I'd been told. This lady wasn't a wolf at all. She was just a bitch.
I needed to find these fabled wolves quick. I started at McDonald's.
Now, I can actually hear a few readers shaking their heads at this fine dining establishment of choice, what with pasta so common it dried on clotheslines. I can even hear that head shaking in Megan's voice.
But a man can only eat so much delicious, perfectly crafted pasta before he longs for garbage.
All the same, I did try. The carbonara is incredible at all times in Rome. It is their dish, they told me, and I believe them. So good. No one should enter Elysium without having tasted Roman carbonara.
No one should attempt to cross Via Nazionale after having consumed so much carbonara, either. Waddling across that busy arterial with a gut full of pasta encourages the safe, licensed taxis to send you straight to Hell.
Inversely, any Roman cheeseburger is a ticket straight to Tartarus. While breaking from pizzas and pastas and anti-pastas (eyeroll) I tried a cheeseburger at a couple Roman joints, and they were all terrible.
I don't know what they did to them. Even I can make a bloody cheeseburger. Make meat into a puck and put it on a hot surface. Add cheese. That's it, guys. That’s bloody it. No fat Etruscan hog required. No noodles. Just heat and meat.
But the burgers in India are way better. If anyone can puzzle that out let me know. Just the right amount of salt and sacrilege, maybe?
If it was only the Roman McDonald's, I'd get it. That McDonald's smelled like the Florentine H&M. Alas, I'm out of Mario Brothers and can't do another plumber joke. Half of you don't know who Toad is and he was probably driving the bus, anyway.
After a dozen bad burgers all over Rome, I despaired of finding my wolves.
But by now an astute and possibly infuriated reader will note I haven't described the Old City at all yet. And that's where I found them. Wolves. Tons of them. Majestic, statuesque, lifeless.
Every day we waddled down Via Nazionale to the Old City. This part of town is hard to miss, unless you're looking straight at what the locals call That Damned Wedding Cake. A massive palace in bleach white topped with a chariot and horses.
It is tall, imposing, and looks absolutely nothing like anything else nearby. The honky white walls clash with the aged, yellowed browns of the ruinous beauty it obscures. The locals all claim to hate it. But passed that sparkling blight is the Old City.
A long, descending stairway flanked by literal hole in the wall shops and grub vendors is your route in. As you reach the top step, your eyes travel up and down the length of Trajan's Shaft. Our tour guides called it a column.
But I know wolves. It's a shaft.
Several stories tall, it is encircled with images and that crazy abbreviated Latin depicting the various mass murders conducted by the emperor Trajan. But only hinting at them. It is somewhat understated so far as royal murder monuments go.
Just beyond his admittedly impressive shaft lies your first peek into what remains of the Temple of Pompey.
I say your first peek, because you will see it exposed in front of Augustus’ Forum. And then a quarter mile away you will come upon another ruined wing of what was once a single complex. Built by wolves.
Cats live in it now. Hah! There's a kitty shelter down there.
It is massive and runs under many of the shops, restaurants, restrooms, and other tourist traps erected on its glorious corpse. It is mostly fenced off. But in parts, you can go down narrow steps to its ground floor of two millennia prior.
Back in the day, it was illegal to build a permanent stage in Rome. You could erect a sad little dramatic stage of wood or anything else you could break down and move. But not stone. Definitely, absolutely not marble.
Actors and stages got swept occasionally like homeless camps do in super liberal cities. Bad element, they say. Well, the Romans did. They were more honest about being afraid, if not exactly why they were afraid.
Or so some of the most dishonest individuals in history assure us. Roman writers, I mean. I have my doubts, personally. Look at Hollywood. They seem fine. I'd totally let anyone of those people babysit your kids. No problem.
These days, the sloganeers would just say they're experiencing actingness.
So, when Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus built a theater complete with a stage to make Shakespeare stutter, he called it a temple. He dedicated it to Venus Victrix, the Victorious Venus. You remember her? I ran into her crotch in Florence.
The Divine Gaius Julius Caesar was impeached here over two millennia ago.
The Vatican is in Rome, of course.
It is technically a separate city-state with its own walls, because Christ's representative needs to keep people out and taxes sheltered.
None of that humble Christian stuff here. That's for you, folks. The Vicar of Christ needs a palace. Not to mention the College of Cardinals, which is more or less a straight continuation of the Roman Senate. That is, mob families running the State.
I wish I had one of those guys in my private parts. It would have made for a more interesting visit. All the good stuff is locked away otherwise. Ancient manuscripts, St. Paul's skull, Yeshua’s flip-flops, etc.
The Vatican tour does have neat stuff, but the crowds make it unbearable. I suppose that's why the walls. But even just attempting to scale an empty chunk of the wall summons angry clowns with halberds.
“It is impossible to climb here!”
Obviously not, he-bitch. It is harder with you distracting me, though. Rome is so much like Assassin's Creed but not. Damn your eyes Hollywood. First the boxcars, then Lincoln, now Rome.
In the Sistine Chapel, a dude yells Silence! Silencio! Shhhhh! No photo! into a microphone while two hundred people take pictures and chat. Then it's over and you leave to check out cool stuff instead back in Rome.
Like the Tribune's Palace. This guy is nestled just above the Tiber. It has several statues out front. Cicero is there, posed as if he is in Plato's Republic and not Cicero's shithole. My words, not his. Loitering nearby is the villain from Ghostbusters 2.
That last line isn't a joke. Vigo the Carpathian stands and scowls right there at anyone passing by. I swear by all the gods above and below, I am not making this up. You’ll just have to go see him yourself.
On my birthday we had dinner with Megan's parents near the Teatro Argentina.
Megan bankrolled this entire operation. This Italy trip was her birthday gift to me.
The swank little restaurant let me back into their kitchen and down a brief tunnel - free of Etruscan hogs sadly - into a submerged chunk of the Temple of Pompey. It's easy to feel the weight of history underground.
I was told the curia where the Divine Julius died was somewhere around there. I was flabbergasted they weren't wholly sure where it was. The locals, at least several I spoke with, actually seemed to resent the ruins.
Eventually, I asked a ludicrously handsome fellow how they managed to build anything with all the ruins all everywhere all the time. With a heavy sigh, Romeo replied, “We don't.”
Unthinking conservatism again, weighed down by history, enslaved by the dead. We do this kind of thing in the United States, too. Don’t get me wrong. But I can throw a rock without looking and probably not hit a two-thousand-year-old temple.
Even if it probably will hit a person experiencing unemployment from actingness experiencing homelessness. Get through that sentence? Good. Don’t let the bastards win.
In Rome, if you pull up a rock, you have to make sure it doesn't say something on it. In a museum in Greece, there is a tiny lead ball used in a sling for war which says, “Julius Caesar sucks cocks.” Their words. Not mine. And I’m not making that up.
I will say, there was one particular sight which gave me hope for the future of Rome. On top of the Domus Aurea - that’s one of the emperor Nero’s palaces now mostly buried - was a children’s playground with a swing set, merry-go-round, etc.
Palaces are neat looking and artistic and such. But a playground has real utility. So long as we let them play, the kids will be all right.
We may even see wolves again.
But who can say? Such things are not mine. I'm no poet, I’m no Virgil or Cardi B. Nor a prophet, like Samuel or Tina Fey. The future belongs to Fortuna alone.
The influence this ancient place has had on our current is immense. As large as the Pantheon still standing in Rome two thousand years later. It houses the corpse of a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle. Raphael, I believe. The others are elsewhere.
One of them liberated David's tiny penis from marble, if you'll recall.
You can find most of their works in Rome. Several at the Capitoline Museum, which I didn’t describe here but urge you to visit if you find yourself in town. You will know it by a giant statue of My Man Marcus Aurelius riding a horse and pointing up.
But only after ascending and passing between Gemini. That’ll make sense when you get there.
We left Rome eventually and unwillingly. I have, without exaggeration, read every single Roman historian whose work survives to this day. Even the later imperial writers, too terrified of emperors and bishops and angry mobs to tell the truth.
The Eternal City, despite my style of cynicism or whatever it is, is my love. Its people, then and now, make me smile. And not like I smile at a mob and demand they please me orally. What a bunch of Caesars, those Phobia show people.
I will always be thankful for visiting Rome. Damned shame about that public transit, though. I guess it's impossible to ride the bus in Rome.
I can talk about Rome all day. All book. But I’ll spare you.
Still, two things need to be mentioned before I release you all back into the wild. I’ll be brief. I know you likely have cubs to neglect.
Our luggage, given up for dead and presumed floating face down in a Venice canal, arrived just before we left. Bellissimo. I was worried I wouldn’t have to bother with checking luggage at the airport.
I don’t know why someone stole it for two weeks and I don’t care. If they really needed to run around import taxes on flour or whatever I found in there, that’s their business. But after two weeks, just keep the bloody bags.
Still, we dutifully checked them at the airport, boarded our plane, maybe smuggled cocaine, and Megan slept soundly for a good dozen hours.
We transferred planes, we took off, we landed, yada, etc. We had arrived back in Seattle, and I found a mixed emotion of sorts. I was home, but that home was still Seattle. Bittersweet is the word, I’m told.
Tragically, when we arrived at our front door, someone had locked the damned thing. It had to have been me, two weeks previous. I knuckled my forehead and sought our keys. No luck. No keys. Not anywhere. Megan had similar luck.
There was nothing to do but go Assassin’s Creed on my own house. I scaled the side of the thing, busted out an apparently expensive screen, and forced the window to the bedroom open.
I made a mental note to scare Megan like this later in the middle of the night. If I don’t play tricks on her occasionally, she gets a bit too big for her beautiful britches.
Slamming onto the ground inside with all the grace of a pregnant whale, I got up and limped over to the front door. I opened it, and there was Megan, as expected.
What I didn’t expect was for her to be dangling the house keys in front of her with the half-smile of Venus Victrix. Oh. I get it, now. She had the keys the whole time.
I love that woman. I have no idea if I’m a wolf or not. But she's a fox.
THE ADVENTURE CONTINUES IN TASHKENT