7–7–16 Trieste
Roxy Music is on in this seedy little cafe on the main city street. The city seems so rich but still there is this working class presence. It’s like the buildings are rich and the people are regular people. We could feel there was less stress here than Milan before we stepped off the train. A city poised between worlds like this should act as the fulcrum to a thousand levers and I don’t understand why Trieste is not more like London. Perhaps it will be.
Yesterday we walked up to the cathedral and learned the deal here. It was essentially a re-built Roman temple to Jupiter, Juno, and Minerva, with many parts used whole, and blocks and bits scattered throughout. I got the humbling, quieting deep peace I sometimes get from cathedrals, considering the space and the art. A setting of beauty for a jewel of suffering.
Eliza gets a little freaked out in these places. We were careful not to step on the sarcophagi in the floor and there were many, many of which were unrecognizable from foot traffic. There was a massive painting of the murder of St Justus, drowned by Romans, on the walls. There was an eve dedicated to a nobleman or martyr with a marble altar under which sat a darkened human skull. There was an active confessional booth in the back with the “available” light lit. A disheveled looking woman hurried through the front door and went in as if she were late.
Walking to find the old Roman theater, Eliza explained that she didn’t like theaters per se, what she liked was plays and stories, and that this was boring, difficult, and endless. I didn’t try to argue any of this, but we kept walking because that is what we came to do. We knew that there would be lots of walking and things she would think are boring. Also that there would be a lack of kids to play with most of the time. People congratulate us frequently for taking our kid on such a trip and I hope they’re right, but sometimes I wonder.
We made our way to the coast and found, hidden between industrial harbors, an after work crowd and a public beach. We walked toward it like we were locals, exhausted from work, making our daily visit. It looked vintage 1950s, a concrete entrance dividing into two portals through each of which you could see people and beach. I followed through the left one and was instantly transported to a dimension of noise and sun and gravel. People of every age in various states of dress were evenly distributed and closely packed, kids running and yelling, so many topless women of every age. I didn’t see any men, but I had seen some men outside the gate, so there should be some men in here. I occurred to me that this could be a women’s beach and I should have turned right at the entrance. If that is true, I reasoned scientifically, I should be unable to find any men on this beach, other than myself. I scanned the beach quickly and hard and was unable to disprove my hypothesis. I turned to Laura, who was looking for a space to put the towel down, and said “Am I in the wrong world?”
She said, “Oh… maybe!”
“I’m going to go over there.” And I walked into the ocean and towards the line in the water implied by the wall which divided the beaches. No one seemed to pay me any mind. I think we are generally well understood in Europe. If we do anything unusual, it’s assumed we are tourists, probably Americans, who don’t know how to act.
Once around the wall, I scanned the male beach, and took a deep breath. All was tranquility here, relatively empty, a few men were sleeping on reclining chairs in the sun. A few boys playing soccer but not getting in anyone’s way. I could hear the small waves washing the gravel. There was a row of hooks on the back wall where shirts and pants with belts still in the loops were hung over shoes. I couldn’t tell if it was ok to totally disrobe here or if you had to do the magic trick with the towel. Having no towel, I went to the bathrooms on the far side, all of which were empty. There was room to change in there because there was no toilet, only the square of porcelain where you squat over the hole. I changed, hung up my pack on a hook by the pants, and met my girls in the ocean at the frontier. As other fathers of only daughters can attest, there is an occasional loneliness and a certain peace that comes with the position.
