Apart From Rome

APART FROM ROME

Written by Kyle O’Leary

I quietly shut the front door behind me and I could still hear the hushed Italian dialogue on the TV in the adjacent room. I could tell by the way the kitchen smelled that Stephania had cooked her Sunday usual —broccoli Romani casserole. 

Since I arrived in Trastevere, I had discreetly disposed of at least 6 slices of her beloved casserole. I refused her food, despite being raised differently, because I suspected her son of tampering with it once after stumbling into the kitchen (admittedly, I was wine drunk at the time). He claimed he was “feeding the pet turtles.” The turtles (named “Winston” and “Churchill”) apparently the only ones being subjected to that night's lukewarm dinner. Stephania’s son always carried a vibe of jealousy with him - the way he half smiled in reaction to my American anecdotes. The reason for his jealousy being he was no longer the precious center of attention at home. It was myself, the young American expat, taking away the attention given by his dear mother. By the way, as with any decent house mother, Stephania was very traditional in her cooking, which I respected, however I never found her Sunday casserole a delight.

 I turned away from tonight's possibly tampered with Sunday dinner and entered the foyer. As I made my way around the corner, I expected the same obligatory Italian small talk I’d grown accustomed to. 

Ciao, Pat! Come Stai? Tutto bene? 

Stephania could always be found between the hours of 4PM and 7PM on her couch or tinkering in the kitchen, as the Italian soaps played loudly on the TV. I answered Stephania in a polite, yet hurried, manner and banged around the corner towards the hallway and into my narrow bedroom. I shut the door, undressed, put my wrinkled night shirt on and checked my messages on my American phone. 

There were two WhatsApp messages from friends back home. I answered them quickly, then placed my phone down as I hung my belt on the wall. Then I heard a ping from my other phone, that is, my italian contacts phone. Reason I had two phones was to manage all of my data (photos, videos, ICloud data) on one device - my US IPhone. 

My Italian phone was slightly below state of the art, barely scraping by with smartphone capabilities. It was to contain work contacts, emails, and excel spreadsheets. My Italian phone was the only phone on a network. If it made a certain notification sound, I knew it was most likely a work colleague --although occasionally--it would be a social call. The Italian phone didn’t chirp as often as my IPhone, and when it did I felt a pang of anticipation. The notification came from a girl called “Juliana.” 

Juliana? The name was beautiful, but how did I meet this girl? 

I must have met her at one of the expat meet ups. My roommate was always on my case about attending these events. These “meet-ups” were usually held at rustic Osterie or painfully trendy restaurants displaying buffet tables adorned with smoked meats and day-old cornettos. The organizations were held in good intentions, however they would sometimes turn out to be colossal duds. Occasionally, the casual banter would grow into heated political arguments, in which case I would see myself out with a handful of smoked meat and a Negroni. 

I usually showed up to these things wearing my only pair of sneakers, my vintage jacket, and a forced smile. I usually did well at social events like this because I have an affinity for engaging with strangers, despite my being introverted. I am adept at first impressions, until I feel the charm wearing away in which case I apply the classic, yet distasteful method of the “Irish Exit.”

I wondered if Julianna was the girl with the greyish-blonde pixie haircut wearing the chunky black boots at the last meet-up? (At this time in 2016 the black on black chunky Doc Martens could be found on the feet of mostly every female twentysomething in my neighborhood). 

Was Juliana a potential client? A current tenant? 

I was mulling this over as I went to click the red notification. She sent the message via Facebook, so I had the privilege of virtually rummaging through her entire feed for answers. 

Hmm. Studied Biology. Seems popular. Very few selfies (a bonus). Some posts written in English. Others in…Portuguese? 

It didn’t seem that she was Italian. I was going to look through her friends list until I noticed a couple of her uploaded images and it clicked. 

A week and a half ago at the birra artigianale bar, this girl, Juliana, walked in and I noticed her immediately. We locked eyes briefly, with her breaking eye contact quickly. After much practice in the field, I can’t seem to grasp the art of the cross-bar gaze. I’m more of an indirect scanner.

 I would never have guessed she wasn’t Italian. She was light skinned, but had the dark hair, the Mediterranean features that I tend to gravitate towards. Her Bio read that she's from Sao Paulo, Brazil. 

Confirmed: not Italian. Better…Brazilian. 

I remember little of the night we met but I do recall giving her my full name (Italianized, for effect) and throwing in something about “reconnecting.” 

I try to be as genuine as I can in most situations, but when conversing with the Italians, especially women, I tend to lay on some foreign charm with considerable heft. But I was planning on reconnecting.

Before I get into this, I must explain something. I can’t speak for Europeans, but when it comes to Americans in the social sphere, we have reached a near deficiency of common courtesy when it comes to following up. At first we are cordial, and seem more than willing to carry through with scheduled plans. As days or weeks pass, the general consensus is mutual silence. Prime example of this being the increased popularity of the term “ghosting.” That being said, Americans still crave connection- a consistent connection - with other human beings. If the digital age promised us anything its more community.

 It seems to me the American Milennial has become consistently inconsistent when it comes to the crucial part of the plan - the followthrough. Italians, in my experience, navigate the social landscape more naturally. They still live, relatively, in the old world. Remember when you couldn’t cancel your plans last minute because the only way to get in touch with your friend was their home phone? Italians much prefer that world. Unlike the US, in Italy it doesn’t appear that WiFi is an essential tool for survival. Italians certainly don’t bring many devices to a dinner party. The US exists in constant technological discontentment, while Italy appears content where they stand. It was only when I observed Italian culture in the field that I truly grasped the concept of la dolce vita. So I decided to follow the lead of my surrounding Italians and follow through with my plans to meet the quirky, intriguing Brazilian named Juliana.

So it was confirmed that Juliana was Brazilian. She didn’t care for Italians, but she could follow up like one. It was refreshing, and it drew me in. But what was she doing in Rome?

I combed through the hazy memories. 

How did she look? How did I look? Did she have a dead tooth? Any strange vocal tics? Did I say anything embarrassing? 

At first, very little of our conversation came rushing back to me. What I did remember was her ripped jacket and the inward, gentle curve of her nose. It was her nose that was her defining characteristic. Her hair was long and dark and wispy and I remember the way it smelled like Lucky Strike cigarettes and coconut. 

I’d find later that we skipped pleasantries and went right into big ideas. She informed me of some of Brazil’s political problems and we discussed why pancakes are like food therapy.

I didn’t know this yet but Julianna was unlike anyone I had met in Rome. Or anywhere else. Understated, present, and abruptly sarcastic. It was a surprise to me that I’d let her escape my memory, despite the obvious intoxication. I definitely wanted to see her again, not simply from loneliness or homesickness but because I wanted to feel her eyes on me again while I watched her search for the correct word in English. 

Her message read:

Hey, would like to see you again :)

I sent back:

This american doesn’t have much time in Rome, so let’s make it happen.

Two hours later, she responded with: 

Yes, lets. Unless you are more Italian now. You must know how I feel about those men...

Ah, yes. Her resentment for Italian men. I remembered a bit more of our conversation from the other night now. The ellipses in her message suggested something more disdainful than she had previously mentioned. I considered her past - maybe it contained more Italian men than she would like to admit. 

I reassured her that I still haven’t assimilated very well, which wasn’t an outright lie, and that I was still 100% American. Very little Italian tendencies. I had been accustomed to masking my national origin anyhow. After the 2016 election, I started bracing for conflict after mentioning that I was an American expat. “Don’t hold it against me” became a personal cliche of mine whilst mentioning my nationality. 

Juliana and I chatted back and forth for a while longer before finally deciding to meet that Friday in the trendiest part of Monti for aperitivo. 

Friday arrived. I got off the tram at the piazza we agreed upon. I sat down for a few minutes to look around and stare off into space and daydream the way I often would at night in Rome. Eventually, I thought I could see her coming about 100 feet into the distance, across the street walking confidently in my direction. As she glided towards me I began the inner dialogue. I remembered all the times I’d squandered first impressions on dates, appearing too eager. This time I stood up, and I let our eyes meet from afar. Juliana seemed taller, she was wearing statement stilettos. Clearly, I misread the situation. 

Expecting a casual snack for aperitivo and the usual date banter, I wore my walking shoes and leather thrift jacket with an unclean t-shirt. From my past experience , I learned to manage my expectations when venturing out on a date. Too many times where I’d show up in an obvious date shirt, the girl sitting next to me at the bar wearing a premeditated this isn’t a serious date outfit while I sit there and struggle to pry myself out of my own head.

Juliana looked like a veteran - like she had been here before. She was older (by two years) and this was something I found attractive about her. She wasn’t my run-of-the-mill, early 20’s, date-chick who spent most of our night together  struggling not to look down at her phone.

 It became apparent in my mind where I wanted the night to take us. On the train I imagined what her expectations were: A strong drink and a dance? Sexually charged conversation on the patio? 

In my experience, it helps to match her expectations from the jump. I saw Julianna striding in my direction, thumping with feminine swagger. Again, I was reminded why I prefer women older than I —they seem to possess a knowledge of themselves that no longer requires such a tedious process of elimination while I struggle to navigate their expectations.

I was building an intimate scenario in my head, no doubt an idealistic one. I pulled out of my inner world, stood up, and greeted her. 

“Ciao!”

She leaned in, this time two kisses on the cheek. She gave me a confident smirk. I realized she was taking me out. This I was not accustomed to. I immediately began to feel a desire welling up inside me. This feeling had little to do with lust but more being transported into a mood or ambience. I began to feel the sensation, the spell, that a man will surrender to when he is far away from home and fully entranced in the moment. 

As we began to walk, her stilettos clacking along the cobblestones, I admitted I didn’t remember much of our first encounter. 

She snickered. “Typical American. You don’t have the courage to talk to a woman without a couple drinks in you?” she jokingly asked.

Her command of American slang was startling, but pleasantly disarming. Now I knew I could at least throw a few zingers into the conversation. Plus, she was dead on about the drinks and the courage. But I felt the need to give a harsh retort, one apparently laced with complete ignorance. I was posturing. Totally out of my element here. I just let the conversational sparring begin. 

I shot back with, “Typical Brazilian. Critical of a culture you borrow from constantly.”

After it flew from my mouth I realized the statement didn’t make sense. I’ll admit it now; the Brazilians seem very independent from American culture, definitely not deserving of my misfired quip.

“How is that typical Brazilian?” she asked, looking slightly taken aback.

I didn’t know. Obviously. The statement was nonsensical. Again, she wasn’t wrong. I was attempting to out-wit the girl. This was textbook me, that is, trying to establish a good first impression for which to ride the night on. Momentum was paramount.

I learned quickly Juliana had a sharp intellect of which she applied mercilessly. She was conscious of this and I think she enjoyed the notion of her displaying the upper hand. After I squeezed out of that pathetic situation, I licked my wounds and we made our way to the bar, which was bursting with Romans and expats alike. 

I shook my head, my face still burning with embarrassment. 

“I realized that was dumb before I even said it. You win that one. Drinks on me.”

Juliana smiled affectionately. “That’s more like it. Now get me a beer. Please and thank you.” 

She looked good. I smirked and pushed past the first row of bar patrons, flagging down the barkeep. 

“Two ales, grazie.”

I tipped him generously and made my way back to Juliana. I placed my hand, maybe a bit too firmly, on the small of her back. She was receptive, and I felt confident again.

As we made our way outside, where it was quieter, I felt her right side dip and her knee buckled. Down went the beer, and she placed her hand on the ground as she rolled onto her right side. I looked down and noticed her stiletto heel had been broken, separated from the heel of the shoe. Quickly realizing what had happened, I reached down to help her up. She proudly brushed me aside. 

Juliana looked up at the sky and rhetorically questioned the void: “What the fuck? How does this happen? Right now? Really?” 

I muttered something inaudible as I grasped her elbows and brought her to her feet. The breaking of a stiletto was something I expected to happen at any point during the day in Rome, where women can be seen in heeled shoes (of varying height) gracefully walking upon ancient cobblestoned streets. The sheer probability of a tiny stiletto breaking under cobblestone conditions seemed to me inevitable, yet, Juliana was right…why now?

I looked at her and asked what we should do.

“Well, now what? How are we going to do this?” I asked. This being the rest of our date.

Juliana threw her hair back and hiked up her skirt, adjusting her outfit. 

“The night is in your favor now, let’s go back to my place. It’s closer anyway.” 

Before I could mutter that was easy under my breath, she was already on her phone hailing an Uber. 

I made light of the situation.“You know, I’ve sort of been expecting to see this happen. Seems like the last place a woman should wear those things is Rome. Look at the streets!” I pointed down towards the weathered stones beneath our feet.

She looked agreeably at me. “You’re definitely right. But you have to understand the risks of being a modern woman. We want to look right. If that means heels on cobblestone, then, well... here we are.”

I thought about what she said. This was ultimately her defining personality trait showing off. Juliana was candid, brash. She liked to shine light on all things whether ugly or beautiful; sensible or extreme. I found her transparency attractive.

When the car arrived she took off her heels and got into the Uber, like we had just got off the dance floor at a wedding. I suddenly felt like I knew her. There was an ease to our conversation. We were in it now.

The Uber pulled onto her street, we thanked the driver and I opened the door for her. She found this amusing, and I felt a little emasculated somehow. I laughed it off as I carried her broken shoes for her, which didn’t help. I was in default chivalry mode.

“Are you going to carry me, next?” she asked.

I chuckled. Awkwardly.

“I guess I like things to progress quickly.”

Not exactly what I had in mind. I envisioned myself holding her waist gingerly as we made our way up the stairs to the top floor. I stopped in my tracks, stared at her intently and jokingly asked, “Sorry, are we newlyweds?”

Language barrier. She hadn’t heard this before. I repeated the quip, this time slower. This is a surefire way to come off rude. It was not to the desired effect. Still didn’t quite understand. She snickered, dismissively, and we made our way up the stairwell. We ascended the stairwell, and again I caught some of her coconut Lucky Strike scented hair. We reached her apartment door. 

She rummaged for her keys, and produced a knotted mess of lanyard and chapstick. She found her key - a rustic, worn out piece of scrap metal - and inserted it into the gaping key hole. Pulling and tugging, she finally managed to pry the door open after a few moments of much effort muttering under her breath in her native tongue.              

The ancient looking key lock system on Julianna’s door wasn’t unique to that apartment building. In fact, many of Rome’s neighborhoods haven’t bothered to update its door security systems. The medieval looking iron keys just simply won’t go out of style. It’s one of the aspects of Rome that expats find both romantic and unbearably frustrating. Every key, padlock, and keyhole seem to be characteristically like a snowflake, that is, unique in shape.  Equally as unique is the keyhole functionality. Turning your key to the right will simply not open most doors, I have found. Talk to any non-Italian apartment owner in Rome and they may admit their personal vendetta on their apartment door. 

I very clearly remember being locked out of our second floor office one day and throwing a minor temper tantrum until, embarrassingly, my coworker had to make her way up the stairs and relieve me. She explained to me that doors have “secondary traits” that you need to learn to coax. This is because every door seems to have a pressure point (or, as my coworker once explained, a “D-spot”) that allows you to bypass its secondary security mechanism. This is not by design, just flawed engineering. In Rome, doors have personality traits. I thought back to my friend Fabrizio the plumber explaining that “you must explore every door like you explore a woman’s body.” 

I thought about Fabrizio’s joke as Julianna hung up my jacket for me. 

“Stubborn door.” I said. “Like most Italians, no?”

Juliana smiles, turns herself toward me.

“Judgmental. Now you are becoming more Italian,” she replied. 

She walked into her kitchen, putting the Moka pot on the stove to make us coffee. I took a seat at her kitchen table and yawned. Julianna took notice.

“If you are bored, we can make pancakes.” she offered .

I politely declined.

“Maybe tomorrow, I’d like some coffee. Maybe some wine.”

As she brewed us coffee, we talked for a bit. 

In my mind, I can't help but make comparisons. There was only one other woman I have ever met that was as magnetic as Julianna, and that other woman was married. I couldn’t believe there was another one with a force like hers. I’m not sure if this was the effect she had on every man, but at this moment I didn’t care. I was here, being cast away from the world and its unending complications for a moment, however brief it was.

 I sat and watched her struggle for words in English. I let her finish her sentences, no matter how long it took. I was torturing her, and she knew it. I never interrupted her because I found it so amusing, and we were connecting. We were connecting because we were far from home and both of us felt like home to the other despite being from vastly different cultures.

Juliana said she had a roommate that was in Paris for the weekend. 

“I’ve never been to Paris, and I don’t think I will,” she said.

I found it odd that she said that. A woman like her seemed destined to succumb to the romance, the grandeur, of a city like Paris. It was a city with a population rich in soul searchers like she seemed to be. I turned this over in my mind as she discussed why Paris intimidated her.

 “The idea of living in Paris intimidates me,” Juliana said. “The heaviness of it. The beauty. The poeticness of it. If you know what I mean. But the population? That's no matter.”

I looked at her very intently.

“That's how I feel about all big cities,” I responded. “Some days I feel protected by all the humans that surround me, although sometimes it's suffocating. But most days I like the fact that I can go almost anywhere and still be anonymous. Not sure if this is a recognized human emotion or if there is a particular word. But it’s like a protective shield. I hated the visibility of living in a small town. Do you understand?”

She hesitated, thinking hard.

“I... think I know what you mean,” she replied. “It is not boring to me to be alone. Yet, I want other people around me. It is...strange. It’s the only way I know to describe it. Even in Portuguese.”

I was astonished she felt the same. It was a bit overwhelming, if I’m being honest. I felt a burning going on inside me. I continued with what I had to say. I had to go on, I felt she had to hear me.

“It's almost selfish, the way I feel about living in a big city. I don’t really want to engage with all the millions of people, I just want them there for some...bizarre peace of mind. Like I need them to look at, to be around them, to feel a part of humanity, yet remaining to myself. I want to be a part of, yet remain...apart from.”

She didn’t quite grasp the “apart” part. Understandable. I moved on and explained to her what I meant by “peace of mind.” I knew I was getting outside her realm of understanding in English, but I could tell she really wanted me to go deeper, divulging more of myself than I felt I needed to. I could read the immense intrigue on her face.

When she understood, I could tell he loved this phrase.

“I believe this is all I ever look for,” said Julianna. 

 Then she looked at me pensively.

“I think I know what you mean. It’s like...I want to be here, but not seen. Is that making any sense?” she asked.

I responded sarcastically with -“That’s your most coherent statement of the evening.”

She kicked my shin under the table.

Ironically, I don't think she understood “coherent” completely, but she could tell by the look on my face I was half-joking, and she smiled. 

I went to say something.

“Yeah,  sometimes I -”

Juliana stood up from her chair and interrupted.

“Hold on,” she said.

Julianna got up and walked down the hall, disappearing into her bedroom. She emerged a few moments later carrying a bottle of wine and a large blanket dragging on the ground behind her. She had fuzzy slippers on.

“We had our coffee. Now, wine on the balcony.” She motioned upwards.

She was smiling, aware that she was doing something sort of cliche but undeniably cute. There was no argument from me. It was a crisp night, but we had a blanket. Plus, the wine would warm us up. The stairs led to a small door opening up to the roof. Not really a balcony, per se, but it overlooked one of the most stunning neighborhoods in Rome. 

We walked up to the edge, Julianna laid down the blanket and I popped the wine, as she played music from her favorite playlist on a bluetooth speaker. 

“We aren’t supposed to be up here,” she said. 

I agreed. “It’s definitely not as safe as an actual balcony, but this exceeded my expectations.”

She turned her head to the left, looking out onto the street below , and lit a Lucky Strike.

“I don't know why I am here. I could have joined University anywhere in Europe, but the University here gave me academic scholarship. I don’t know why.”

“You’re bringing in diversity, for one.” I said. “ You don’t like it here?” I asked.

She seemed somber. “I really don’t.” 

She looked out over the edge of the roof with a disappointed look on her face. It was the first time I had heard anyone say they didn’t enjoy their time in Rome - one of the most travelled and sought after destinations in the world. I wanted to ask why she felt that way, but her face said it all.

 She looked over at me, suddenly more serious.

“I feel more alone here than I do anywhere. And I have lived in Dublin. Just me.”

“And I assume Dublin wasn’t any better?” I asked.

“Actually I love Dublin, the Irish are friendly. They like everyone. Not just other Irish. I have more friends there. The Italians, they are...difficult for me.”

I agreed with the part about the Italians. For all the warmth and love and charity the Italians are capable of, they don’t necessarily give it up to all foreigners.

“But even now, we sound like the Italians. We are judging a culture of people in one sentence. Aren't people more complex than that?”

I explained what I meant by “more complex than that.”

“I don't want any more complex,” she said, accentuating the word I used. “I think people are hard enough to understand.”

Just then I became conscious of the fact that Juliana was opening herself up to me. I hoped she didn’t notice. I didn't want her to get self conscious. It's a miraculous moment when this happens during the early stages of meeting someone. At least it is for people like Julianna and I. 

“I feel we are all just as different as we are the same,” I pondered. “And in the end we all just eat, drink, fuck and repeat. And if we aren’t fucking, we wont repeat.” I chuckled at my own idiotic statement. I was losing my inhibitions from the wine. 

Julianna looked over at me. She ran her fingers through my hair and down onto my neck and pulled me in closer. 

“Stop thinking and look at me,” she said. A women has never said anything like that to me.

I felt her desire for me, in the way she positioned her body against mine. I wanted all of her suddenly. My mind started jumping to conclusions. I shut it down. 

We turned off the music, polished off the bottle of wine, and staggered down the balcony steps down toward her front door.

“It's late, come inside. Be quiet.”

Julianna locked the door behind us. 

She whispered to me - ”Go into my bedroom. I trust you. I’ll be right there.”

I looked at her and smiled genuinely, like I hadn’t in a while. The smiling muscles in my face felt foreign to me. Like someone had tugged them with a string. 

I watched Julianna disappear into the bathroom.

I laid down, checked both phones. No notifications. Good, I was happy right here. I didn’t need any distractions. Julianna would be here in a moment. Was this what romantic contentment was? 

I heard Julianna push the door open, I looked up at her from my phone. Both of us smiled. She playfully jumped on the bed next to me.

“Sorry I took so long. Enough time to steal my panties?”

“I usually go for a bra,” I responded.

Julianna rolled her eyes, and climbed on top of me on the bed.

“I know what you must have heard about Brazilian women,” she said.

“No idea,” I responded, playing dumb.

“We blow your mind in bed,” she said, coyly. 

She started to remove her bra slowly. I grabbed her by the waist, looking up at her.

“Heard that about the men, actually.”

Julianna looked inquisitively at me, then she snorted at my stupid joke. Still, I could sense how much she wanted me. And I wanted her. I reached up with my right hand and held her by the nape of her neck. I ran my fingers along her collarbone, and then brushed them along her lips. She let her bra drop down onto my face and tugged down on my belt loops.

Afterwards, we laid out in bed with the window open. Julianna's makeup was smokey, her eyes tired. I watched sweat trickle down her back as we waited for the heaviness of sleep to set in. Cool wind blew on us as we laid quietly. In the morning, I wanted to let her know. 

She walked back with me to the train station that morning, I watched her as she smoked a cigarette. She walked slowly, just ahead of me. She asked if I would like a coffee, I replied yes, and we made our way to the station. I saw her struggle to get the required Euros from her purse, I said it wasn’t a problem and I paid for the cappuccino. 

I could sense that she still struggled with her Italian and felt uncomfortable ordering from the cashier. I could now see she was frazzled, and clearly frustrated when carrying herself throughout this city. It was obvious she expressed a strong desire to leave the eternal city, and I would have to be leaving as well. 

I looked at Julianna closely as she walked quietly down the street. She seemed uneasy, walking cautiously. I saw how she was now that we were out in daylight, no longer making conversation inside the walls of her apartment or high up on her roof, safe from the buzz of Rome. On the street we were no longer shielded from the vibrations of the city - the city we both were a part of, yet apart from.

After Julianna kissed me and I took my seat on the tram -leaving her for the first and last time- I looked out the window and watched the ancient city pass me by. The sun was visible from just over the horizon, even on the outskirts of the city, through an opening of trees. I looked out at it in contemplation, the way I get when I’m far from home and fully entranced in the moment. Suddenly it became obvious that time, on a dimensional scale, was no longer a romantic identifier. 

In the years after we met, there would be times I’d catch a glimpse of Julianna in other people. It was not in the way their face was shaped, or the color of their eyes, but in the subtle way someone might look at me when they struggled for the right word to use. These moments would act as time capsules, and they served me well. I could use these moments to immortalize her. I sometimes remind myself she is walking around without the knowledge that I occupy this place in my mind for her. I came to terms with all this walking alongside Julianna on the same cobblestones streets that claimed her stiletto.

This isn’t an homage to the impression she made on me. This isn’t about fate. Being with Julianna opened a backdoor in my mind that led down a corridor with twists and bends and ended at a dusty crawlspace - a place I hadn't explored in a long time and yet it was as fresh as childhood. All this was magnified by the lingering feeling that this was all just a miraculous flash in the pan. For us to reunite, a hadron collider would have to get to work smashing molecules at nearly the speed of light, reformatting the matter of the universe.