Downward Dogs and Why Caesar Isn’t All That Great
Our time in Rome concluded with a tour of the Colosseum, Palentine Hill and the Roman Forum, provided by Context travel. Context’s tour guides are certified historians, holding Masters degrees (or Phds in some cases) in the subjects they share with clients. This translated to four of the most informative hours of my life with a guide that was so giddy during her (mostly futile) efforts to download eight centuries of information into my brain that I half-anticipated her to try and tip us for the opportunity. Lessons were learned, pictures were taken, and for long stretches the imagination ran wild with mental digressions that “spoke” over our enthusiastic (and, unbeknownst to her, muted) tour guide.
One of my aforementioned digressions is worth sharing. My subconscious (henceforth dubbed Vern) is decidedly more dark and brooding than myself, so apologies in advance for the void of laughter that is the following paragraph.
In western society, few individuals are held in higher regard than Gaius Julius Caesar. He is perhaps THE image of Western success, acquiring heaps of power and wealth over his lifetime. However, the penning of his multi-millennial legacy seemed to be quite the drag, and not in a fun, Caitlyn Jenner kind of way (ha Vern! Humor despite your brooding). His lifetime was spent murdering Gauls, offing a partner (albeit a shitty, backstabbing one) and unexpectedly concluded with a social-stabathon courtesy of his co-workers and friends, including the infamous Brutus whom he considered a son.
This leads me to believe that the manner in which we teach history, and those we choose to highlight as heroes, is partially to blame for the deep unhappiness that seems to permeate through the masses. Placing men like Caesar (and far worse) in the pantheon of individuals that shaped “history” (it’s in quotes because it doesn’t have to be defined through an imperialistic, capitalistic perspective) creates a bit of a double edged sword. We either pile up self-hatred as we fail to become our heroes (a near guarantee, statistically speaking) or lead a miserable life as we do what’s necessary to navigate the road to “success”. A lot of us end up with a little bit of both self-hatred and misery, for the reasons above, which seems doubly fucked. Perhaps a more enlightened future society may try to avoid incentivizing its population to correlate success with the disproportionate acquisition of finite resources.
What’s that now?…People did live like that!…Well where the heck are they?! I can’t wait to chat with them abou… Oh… well shit.
Vern’s shift is over now, so back to happy story time. Yay! After leaving Rome, Zoë and I set out on my fourth Yoga retreat. Four yoga retreats is not a profound amount, but when one considers that I don’t do yoga, at all, it starts to become more impressive. You see, Zoë LOVES yoga, and since I follow her like a Christian dog follows Jesus with bone-in-hand, I come along when I can. Most of these retreats seem to be located somewhere between paradise and eden, and yogis tend to be ridiculously nice people, so it’s not like she has to twist my arm. Zuzana and David’s retreat at La Capitana proved no different.
We spent our time eating amazing food (that surprisingly included meat!), making mandalas and meditating. While Zoë participated in several hours of life-changing yoga, I aligned my chakras by chastising people with opposing political views on Facebook (I love election years). Zuzana is undoubtedly one of the most impressive public speakers I’ve ever witnessed live. The moment she opens her mouth a seemingly never ending stream of wisdom and inspiration flows from it seamlessly. She makes Obama seem like a stutterer for his occasional “uh”s. I especially enjoyed her first meditation where she asked us to identify experiences that make us feel “alive”. It’s funny what semantics can achieve. I’ve spent much of this trip trying to find what new venture could make me “happy”, but by focusing on what makes me feel “alive” instead of happy, several pathways opened up to me. Give it a try.
This feels like far too short of a summary for what was a moving experience, but what do you want from me? Spiritual importance and what I spend my time lamenting about have long been negatively correlated. People wore spandex and stretched a lot. I might have cried. Once. For like a second.
A cab ride and train trip later and we found ourselves in Florence, known to Italians as Firenze. Quick note to whomever is in charge of location-name translations for english speakers: Stop overreaching. We can pronounce Roma. We can pronounce Espana. They are literally written in the same alphabet. Brasil just uses an “s” instead of a “z”, for fucks sake. You’re making maps unnecessarily difficult to navigate while abroad. Thanks in advance. Sincerely yours, Vern.
Florence has been a dream, literally and figuratively speaking. Black out blinds have inspired a few late mornings, and we’ve been able to enjoy many of the historic sites this beautiful city has to offer, including David and Piazza del Duomo. Florence is much smaller than Rome and it’s dependence on tourism is made obvious by the plethora of “authentic” Florentine leather shops owned and operated, almost exclusively, by men from Bangladesh. This Disneyland-esque feeling negatively impacts it’s positioning on our “we could live there” rankings, but doesn’t make it any less of a joy to visit.
Florence has made a great base largely due to it’s central location in Tuscany. It’s proximity to all of what the Tuscan region has to offer has spawned one day trip to Pisa (at sunset nonetheless), and set up tomorrows canine-led truffle hunting adventure in the Chianti region. I’ll check back in soon to profess my newly developed love for our fungi-finding hound.
