Dead End

1.11.2025

What does it mean to behold?

As last semester rolled on, I discovered a new source of insecurity in my intellectual capabilities, springing from this odd, paralyzing difficulty in having something “new” to say. This was especially relevant in my Jane Austen course last semester, granted I was no English major. Nonetheless, when a classmate would casually throw in some highly sophisticated analytical remark to our group discussion on subtleties of her prose, I couldn’t help but feel the slow churn of jealous inadequacy, as I had simply nothing to say.

A few days ago, this bubbling frustration, catalyzed by obsessive compulsive self-comparison, led me to find myself reading the eloquent blog posts of a distant digital acquaintance within my age, and at the end of every sentence ask myself, “could I have come up with something like this?” Sometimes yes but often no, I felt staggeringly behind– in my writing and intellectual capabilities, in my self-cultivation, and (due to my internal global stable explanatory style thanks Andrew Ward), in life. 

Today, our program visited Borgo di Tragliata. I was out until three last night for my birthday, and woke up at 7:30, fueled by jet lag anxiety, which I feel like nobody talks about. It was the best birthday I’ve had so far. I had gone out to a jazz bar and club with a shining new group of friends I met a few days ago. I feel as if they adopted me, and I couldn’t be more elated– I always had issues with friend groups, and assumed I would be flying solo for the entirety of this program. Though it may be too early to tell, this one grants a particularly special sense of belonging, most ostensibly through the similar style of fashion a lot of us seem to adopt. I never had a big group of friends who I felt dressed somewhat similar to the way I do.

Speaking of dress. Today was a little chilly, and supposed to drizzle. I wore a sheer cream blouse and woven reddish-brown midi skirt I had just thrifted, under my brown leather jacket. My katniss boots (also brown leather, almost-knee-length) were the natural choice of footwear. I accessorized with a leather belt over the blouse (new for me), bronze accent necklace and silver pendant. Now it really felt like armor.

We all met at a piazza two minutes away from Candia (and I mean all 200 something of us, six buses worth of American university students). The bus ride was around an hour. Fueled by my anxiety and excitement, still processing my prior night out, and the jet lag, and the lack of sleep, I listened to Lorde’s Green Light. I know. An influx of creative ideas began buzzing around my head, for writing and film and sculpture and movement. I visualized cleavage and gastrulation as the beginning of a vignette film. I choreographed a partnered dance of two lovers possessed by movement. I thought fondly of Leonardo, Raphael, and Michelangelo. I recounted the Confucian Analects, and the necessary dedication to self-cultivation for a truly liberated mind. I tried to imagine the woman I want to become. The feeling of inspiration was palpable, manifest through my throbbing limbs, eager grin, and an awfully achy stomach.

Upon arriving, we began with an aperitivo. There were supple meats and unusual cheeses, fine cut squares of artisan pizza, an arrangement of fresh juice, and fried cheese balls. I socialized beautifully. I found Gianni, my program leader, surrounded by the dean, alumni assistants, and student life coordinators. They asked about my mention of Raffaella Carra, and I explained how I had discovered her on The White Lotus’s sound track, immediately looked her up, fell in love with her music, and binge watched her music videos. To prove it, I performed the Tuca Tuca dance on Gianni, which he immediately recognized, and happily reciprocated. They cheered me on as I was showered in the warmth of cultural validation.

We went in for lunch, which was a proper four course Italian meal, with helpings of white and red wine. Though initially entering with the aforementioned group, we were separated because of the seating arrangements (or lack thereof). I found myself at a table of 10, seven of which I did not know, and did not expect to interact with. We began pouring the wine, half-jokingly swirling it in the glasses, curious in our naivete. I remembered what it looked like at my big family dinners when the adults poured their wine, how automatically and nonchalantly it supplemented their culinary agendas, like overlooked yet necessary supporting actors. Here, we laughed with humility, practiced holding the stem and orienting our noses within the glass, making faces as we sipped, and I was reminded of how lovely it is to be young, and unseasoned by age.

To my (un)surprise, I had more in common with the strangers than I had initially assumed. Nearly everyone at the table was an art major, three of which are in my sketchbook class. We took turns sharing our art, and my folder of paintings sparked discourse on the Academy. One other student told me this is the exact art he wants to make, and is what he came to Rome for. I saw this as a chance to give my mini spiel on the contrapositive pedagogies of academic vs. contemporary art schools. My audience seemed pleasantly impressed, so we created a group chat. I was proud, grateful, and overwhelmed. 

Afterwards it was tiramisu, during which my group and I reconvened outside before we were all left to explore the property. The group went one way, and I began to follow, before I realized that I should spend some time on my own. Being with the group kept me in autopilot, it was pleasant not to have to make decisions for myself, until it wasn’t. I walked down the villa’s steps, passing the animal farm, and began to follow an isolated path delineated by tractor marks. Nobody was ahead of me, but there were three boys 20 feet behind that I struggled to shake off. I could tell they were too close when their recitation of engineering major requirements crystallized from a distant drone.

 I walked contemplatively, snapping photos of an empty basin, bicycle overgrown with weeds, and water tower in the distant hill. I found a porcupine quill and carried it with me. I reached the end of the path, which seemed to dissolve into sand and tall grasses. I saw horses in the near distance. I wanted to go see them, but the closer I walked, the taller the grass, and the more obstructed my view. A few minutes later, the triad caught up with me. “I don’t wanna walk on that,” they said, and they turned around, resuming the same conversation. 

Relieved in my solitude and unsure what to do with myself, I stood still. The recent drizzle dampened my boots, providing ample adhesion for the sand to cake underneath. I didn’t mind– we had been through worse. I found ant hills at my feet, and squatted down to see how deep I could still delineate their form. I stood back up and returned to the terminus, gazing at the lines that disappeared into their bends. I closed my eyes. I heard insects buzz and bird calls, the thisling of trees and bushes, and the faint hum of conversation at the top of the hill, back at the villa. The scent of petrichor and mud swirling in and out of the breeze carried some unidentifiable fly species above my head. 

It was almost three, and I had to make it back to the buses by 3:15. I broke the stillness, and slowly walked back. I wiped my boots on the carpeted grass, returning the sand to the ground. There was nothing new for me to see, nothing different I could offer, I was only able to behold. My heart rate finally returned to a resting beat, as I absorbed the vibrant traces of life bustling within this dead end.