Se mai continga

It was the dead of winter in that drafty old Florentine palazzo when my Italian literature professor stood up with explicit force in class.  Stooped like a leafless elm, I could see his breath spouting the poetic pain of exile in a language far more awesome than my own.  The epic swan song of a …

Indignitas

As I set out to make my way from Rome’s infamous armpit of Termini Station to the more gracious Campo de’ Fiore, I found that the location of the square was all but obliterated by a deep faded crease in my once trusty old paper map.  The good thing about the city of Rome is …