The Transformation

Written on a train from Venice to Paris, 9/15/2009 at 10:12 p.m.

With every mile traveled and every step taken, the world slowly drips off my shoulders. How can I write myself a new beginning? I’m Atlas, but instead, I find myself taking a knee, passing the world to the next unsuspecting soul that stumbles through, and suddenly, I find my life is my own.

It’s intimidating, knowing that there is no veil between you and the world, no harness to keep you seated , no emergency break to slow you down. If you crash, it’s because you were too drunk at the wheel, too hell-bent on the destination, too paralyzed to raise a finger. Moreover, it’s releasing. I’m learning, but on my own schedule, and only about my own world, no one else’s.

Italy was amazing. Surrounded by religion, I don’t understand how someone’s faith couldn’t be restored, or strengthened, or even awakened. Even outside of the Christian tradition, a certain holiness emanates from a church such as The Vatican. Buddhist, Hindus, Muslims, Jews, and Christians alike would all be able to find a common ground within these places, where instead of hell being preached as an ultimatum, love, forgiveness, and brotherhood are the central tenets. Finding myself in the pews of these ancient churches, I couldn’t help but kneel and give my thanks for the life I’ve been given, and the world that’s been made. It was a spiritual awakening, even if I didn’t fully understand it.

Besides the churches, I saw an abundance of amazing religious art, of which the highlights were The David by Michelangelo, Madonna and Child by Leonardo Da Vinci, Laocoon, and of course, the Sistine Chapel. Other highlights included the Uffizi gallery, Titian and Tintoretto’s masterpieces in Venice, and a modern exhibit in Florence’s Galleria dell Accademia depicting the movement of the human body in a series of snapshots (not religious, but still linking the body and mind).

My favorite part about Italy though, was of course the food. Never in my life have I consumed so much pizza, pastries, pasta, or gelato, and never again in my life do I think I will again. On the average, I ate every hour, and even then, I wasn’t satisfied. With so many choices of food and flavors, I was upset that I couldn’t try each and every one. With this much trouble in Italy, I can only imagine how unrestrained I will be in France.

Overall, Italy progressed much more smoothly than Greece. Every night, I slept in a bed, and even now, as I sit on a train from Venice to Paris, I’m laying down in a sleeper coach, relaxing before I lay down to sleep, and preparing for my arrival to school tomorrow. I’m almost disappointed that not much went wrong in Italy, because at least in Greece, my frantic, physical journey matched my tumultuous, inner journey. Now I’m stuck here, writing about my feelings and my perceptions, with no action to give import to my words.

I sometimes wonder if I am one of those people who become obsessed with finding himself? I can be a proclaimed Buddhist, or social transcendentalist, who covers up his lack of success with a flow of words and a pretty turn of phrase. It’s these self doubts that make my transition so much more interesting. If I’m always questioning my own motives, then at least I’m keeping my mind in the right path, even if I’m just going in circles. I’d like to think I’m growing, as I’m so frequently encouraged to do.

In the morning, I will have reached Paris. I’m scared of the new life I am about to begin, in a school where I know almost no one, in a country where I marginally understand, much less speak, the language. Mostly, I’m worried about my habit to shy away from people. I’m nervous in front of people, subconsciously intimidated by them, and my biggest hope for the semester is to let these introversions go. However, these slight worries can’t compare to how excited I am to reach a country that holds so much promise to me.

Paris has become a dream of mine ever since I began believing that it could provide some of the answers I’ve been struggling to find. I want to find my release, my passion for life that I’m lacking, and I know that this city of dreamers and artists can at least point me in the correct direction. Without the satisfaction of a life well-justified, or even in the right pursuit, I can only remain hopeful. I doubt three months will cover the entire journey, but at least it will lay a foundation for the arduous search to branch out from. Like any person going to Paris, I’m searching for love, for myself, for the world, and for the journey itself.

So here’s to Paris, the city of light, love, and new beginnings. I hope you can give me what I’m searching for.